"Brooks, let go or I will enact Clause 9 and leave you here to explain to your mother why your fiancée vanished in the middle of the night."
He hesitates. He glares at me, his jaw tightening. For a second, I think he's going to fight me for it. I think he's going to use that venture capitalist arrogance to steamroll right over me.
But then, the pain wins. He flinches, a spasm of agony crossing his face, and his grip on the laptop loosens.
I pull it away. Before snapping it shut, I catch a glimpse of the screen. An email from his father, the subject line reading, "Tomorrow's Discussion." I close the laptop and place it on the dresser across the room, far out of his reach. "Tyrant," he mutters, leaning his head back against the headboard.
"Fixer," I correct.
I walk into the kitchenette. I open the freezer. Empty, except for a bottle of vodka and, thank God, a gel ice pack. I grab it, wrapping it in a tea towel I find on the counter. I grab a glass of water, and the bottle of Tylenol I saw on the bathroom counter earlier.
I return to the bed.
"Sit up," I say.
Brooks cracks one eye open. "Are you going to smother me with that towel?"
"Tempting, but no. It's ice."
He groans but pushes himself up a little higher on the pillows. I hand him the water and two pills.
"Take them."
He takes them without arguing, swallowing the water in one gulp. He hands the glass back to me.
"Turn your head," I instruct.
He turns slightly, exposing the bruised side of his temple. I gently press the ice pack against the swelling.
He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth.
"Too cold?" I ask, pulling back slightly.
"No," he exhales, his shoulders dropping about three inches. "No, it's... good."
I stand there by the side of the bed, holding the ice against his head. My hip is brushing against the mattress. His eyes are closed now, his lashes dark against his cheekbones. Without the glare of the laptop and the armor of his suit, he looks younger. Less like a force of nature, more like a man who is carrying something too heavy.
My arm starts to get tired.
"Here," I say, shifting. "Hold this."
He reaches up, his hand covering mine over the ice pack. But he doesn't take it. He just keeps his hand there, trapping mine against his temple. His skin is warm.
"Why are you doing this?" he asks quietly, his eyes still closed.
"Doing what? Preventing swelling?"
"Helping me," he says. "You hate me. I blackmailed you. Most people would let me suffer."
"I'm protecting my investment," I say, forcing lightness into my voice. "If you don't recover, you can't charm the board. If you can't charm the board, the vote goes sideways. If it goes sideways, you sue me. It's a simple flowchart, Brooks."
He opens his eyes. They are dark, intelligent, and currently focused on me with an intensity that makes me want to step back.
"You're lying," he says softly.
"I'm a professional liar. It's part of the job description."
"You're doing it because you can't help it," he murmurs. "You see a mess, you have to clean it up. Even if the mess is me."
