CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
HANK
“Approved answers!” I whisper-hiss at Angie as I read over the list on my phone. “An entire legal department came together to script us approved answers. This is far more serious than I understood.”
My sister is helping me as I haul my exhausted, confused butt to the press conference, and we’re walking down the corridor of a generic office building. Even after two nights of recovery, I’m still disoriented by civilization.
“Presumptuous of them,” she says as she straightens her tie, “considering no one asked you about it.”
“Honestly, it’s a bit relieving to have a script,” I mumble as I scroll. “They want us to say we were trying to help a bird that was injured on the raft, and that Elliot slipped and released the catch by mistake. Then I jumped in to save him.”
“And why does any of that matter?”
“I guess it’s a story. Wholesome, unlike the hostage-taking rumors.”
“Maybe it makes people like you because everyone likes birds,” she adds. “Well, nearly everyone. What’s the explanation for why you didn’t notice the dock?”
“We are to make no mention of the dock.” I scoff as I continue reading. “We’re supposed to find a way to praise the pristine natural beauty of the baronet’s home? That’s absurd.”
“Are any of the approved answers true?”
“We kept each other alive with ingenuity and teamwork,”I read. “That’s technically true.”
“Ingenuity, teamwork, and a little butt stuff.”
I groan under my breath. Yesterday, I confessed to her that I had been sleeping with Elliot on the island, and ever since talking it out, I’ve been self-consciously eager to see him. When I try to sort my emotions, though, I get flustered. Overwhelmed and a bit hysterical, which only makes sense, considering I spent the better part of this month on the edge of death.
I need to ignore sentimental or romantic notions. Elliot doesn’t resemble what I’m looking for in a partner, and he’s certainly not looking to me for a relationship, either. We’ve been clear about our intentions and our boundaries. End of story.
On top of everything else, the press conference is the last thing I want to be doing today. But when your boss calls and says you’re needed, and you’ve already caused a national media scandal to the company’s detriment, it’s hard to say no.
Not to mention the residual guilt from having slept with his son.
I rub my hand over my smooth face, grateful to have regained my comforts, at least. I’m in a simple gray suit, meant to be worn but not noticed, and I’m sporting my favorite tie, the green one the shade of a mature Oregon Boxwood leaf.
Hopefully, I’m put together enough to distract from the weird red spots on my neck and the scratches under my right eye.
Then I turn, and I see him.
It’s Elliot.
He’s walking toward me, and hopeful light fills his expression, his smile widening. He’s still got his beard, untrimmed, but he’s put on a nice shirt and trousers, worn with a pink scarf that hangs like a tie. Behind him, there’s a pretty woman his age, dressed in a lacy black skirt and a white top. Taylor, I assume.
“Your face!” Elliot says. He wiggles his hands in my direction as he approaches. “How did I forget about that face!”
I chuckle, embarrassed, and Elliot pulls me into a hug. It’s warm, and I feel an urge to hold him closer, brush my lips over his, but I quickly squash the instinct.
As we stand close, the connection from the island stirs beneath the surface, an energy that hasn’t faded.
He must feel me tense, because he eases back the rest of the way. “Angie!” he says suddenly, turning to my sister without skipping a beat. “You must be Angie.”
“Hi, Elliot.”
“Hug?” Elliot asks, and Angie hesitates, then nods.
“Sure.”
Elliot gives her a loose hug. “It’s so cool to meet you,” he says, and she pats his back as he releases her.
