My breath hitches.
Crap. Am I supposed to say something? Thank him for the song? I don’t know what the protocol is here, and judging by the look on Nick’s face, neither does he. We’re like two awkward teens on a first date, both totally unsure and afraid to make the first move.
The lead singer of the band clears his throat and from the corner of my eye, I see him give Nick a thumbs up. Then the guitarist appears out of nowhere, arms extended. Relief washes over Nick’s face as he offloads the balloons and flowers.
Their encouragement seems to shake something loose in him, because he steps forward, closing the distance between us.
“Scarlett, I know I fu—” Nick glances out at the crowd, a muscle in his jaw tensing before he turns his attention back to me. Those chocolate-brown eyes lock on mine, the gold flecks reflecting the bright lights of the lobby and shining with intensity. He looks more handsome than ever, with his dark hair disheveled and the remnants of a blush coloring his high cheekbones. “I know I screwed up. You were right, I was afraid of being hurt again and instead of trusting you like I should have, I lashed out without giving you the benefit of the doubt or even a real chance to explain. For that, I’m sorry.”
No qualifiers. No equivocations.
Who is this man and what has he done with Nick Hart?
It doesn’t matter. It’s not enough.
Nick might be sorry now, but that doesn’t mean it won’t happen again. It doesn’t mean he’s changed or that he’s ready to open his heart.
And no matter how badly I ache to be with him, I won’t settle for anything less.
I deserve a man who loves me with his whole heart. A partner who isn’t afraid to let me in. One who will let me love him at his best and at his worst, and one who will love me just as fiercely in return.
“I accept your apology.” I glance at the crowd, taking in their rapt faces, and steel my resolve. I can’t let fear of their disapproval sway me. This moment—this decision—is too important. “I know it wasn’t easy to put yourself out there, and I appreciate all that you’ve done.” I gesture to his sweater. “But this changes nothing between us.”
Nick’s face falls, that hopeful light fading from his eyes even as my stomach tangles in knots.
“The song, the flowers. It’s all very sweet, but they’re just tokens. They prove nothing.” I draw a fortifying breath. “I can’t put myself in that position again.”
In the position to have my heart broken.
He nods slowly. “I had a feeling you might say that.”
Nick turns, and I think he’s going to exit the stage, but he faces the audience. “I hope everyone is having a good time and enjoying the social.” He turns back to me as a stilted cheer echoes through the atrium. “Today is a big day for Triada, but more importantly, it’s a big day for each of us. A day to celebrate friendship, teamwork, and all of the incredible things we’ve accomplished together.” Another cheer goes up, this one far more energetic, as if the crowd is relieved we’re moving beyond romantic rejection and onto professional accolades. “I lost sight of those things somewhere along the way, but thankfully, someone very important was there to remind me.”
I arch a brow and watch as he pulls a folded sheet of paper from his pocket.
“In fact, she even made some notes, which I brought along with me today.”
He flashes the audience a sly smile and unfolds what can only be the snarky notes from our first meeting. Heat floods my cheeks. Surely he can’t mean to read them aloud?
Awkward.
“Over the years, I’ve been called a lot of names. Uptight. Arrogant. Control freak. Hartless.” Nick pauses, drinking in the uncomfortable silence. “I told myself those labels were just noise. It wasn’t until I read these notes,” he continues, waving the printout in the air, “which, by the way, include all of those colorful names, and got to know the woman who wrote them, that I realized how those words impacted my behavior and my interactions with the people around me.” He cups a hand to his mouth and stage-whispers, “It wasn’t a good look.”
“You can say that again,” someone shouts from the back of the crowd.
Nervous laughter ripples through the atrium, but Nick appears unfazed, as if he’d expected this reaction. My stomach clenches and it’s all I can do not to reach for him. Because despite his brave front, I know the words sting.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he says, directing the comment to me. “But I’ve made some improvements to your notes.”
Improvements?My pulse flutters and I try to remember exactly what I wrote that first day.
Nothing good. The words hadn’t been meant for Nick—or anyone else.
“It’s time to make some changes,” he announces. “When my brothers and I started Triada, we had big dreams. For the company and for the people who make it such an incredible place to work. Which is why we’re getting back to our roots. Going forward, there will be less talking and more listening. We’re expanding the suggestion box program with the goal of implementing at least one suggestion per month, starting with the installation of sleeping pods for those who need a relaxing midday break.”
My jaw hits the stage. “That was my idea.”
“And it was a damn good one.” Nick grins. “I’m sorry it took me so long to realize it.”
