I can’t make sense of this, whatever this is. Why would he be here? In London—in this office? Short of this man being Matt’s doppelgänger.
“Ladies and gents, if I could have your attention.”
As Nigel speaks, Arthur touches my elbow as though to say we should take our seats. But my mouth isn’t the only thing that isn’t working, my feet having somehow turned to Jell-O.
Matt isn’t in finance. He doesn’t work for a private equity company in the heart of London, because that would mean—
“While I’m sure there’s no need for an introduction ...” Nigel’s mouth continues to work as he casts his gaze over the room, a pinch in his brow evident as it bumps over me. “... Oliver Deubel, Fin DeWitt, and Matías Romero ...”
There. Matías. Not the same name. Except ...Half Spanish, half Irish.
From the other side of the room, the man’s eyes lift from his phone as, like a counterweight, his hand lowers. Seconds and milliseconds seem to slow as he blinks, his lashes long and thick. Then the inevitable. Our eyes meet, his widening with disbelief. Lips lifting with warmth and recognition.
Meanwhile, I feel like I’ve been plunged into an icy-cold pool. I press my hand to my mouth as the power of speech and motion comes back to me in a rush. Which is just as well, as my stomach revolts and I become aware that I’m almost certainly about to vomit.
Chapter 15
Ryan
It’s not a ploy, cunning or otherwise, to avoid a scene, as the soles of my shoes feel suddenly slick against the industrial carpeting. Palm pressed to my mouth, I move toward the door while my brain belatedly lodges the minutiae of Matt’s reaction.
Confusion. Doubt. The jolt of his body like he’d stuck a fork in a toaster. Doubt. Then maybe delight?
At the door, I yank on the chrome handle that’s almost as tall as me, the stupidly heavy glass door too slow to open for my liking. I sprint from the meeting room, knowing I’m going to be so pissed. I’ll have an awful lot of words to say, and some of them very unpleasant, but right now, I have more pressing matters to deal with.
“Ryan?”
I register Martine’s frown, but don’t stop. I will not demean myself—I willnotbarf in an office made of glass.
I make it to the bathroom not a moment too soon and seem to be in the stall for the longest time, given the meager contents of my stomach.
“You okay in here?”
The door tentatively opens, Martine appearing around the edge of it.
“All over but the dry heaving.” I swipe toilet paper from the dispenser and pat my sweaty head, feeling all kinds of sorry for myself. “That was ...”It couldn’t have been him. No way.Vomitingandhallucinating. What vile ailment are those symptoms of?
“Food poisoning?” Martine offers. “Maybe a bug?”
I press my lips together because I just don’t know.
“Try not to die, anyway.” She opens the door wider.
“Can I choose to?” I lean back against the sleek stall wall.
“I can think of better places to haunt.”
I try to smile, at least until she reaches for my wrist.
“Come on, out you get,” she says as though talking to a little kid.
“I don’t want to,” I answer, sounding like one.
“No need to be embarrassed. Unless your reluctance is something to do with a certain dark-haired stud.”
Deny, deny, deny.
“He shot out of the meeting room hot on your heels, sweets.”
