“I’m good, thanks.”

Creighton glances at the doctor and then back at me. “A moment, if you would.” Dr. Wylie nods and steps out of the room, and Creighton closes the door. “He’s checking you out, and I don’t care what arguments you give me.”

“It’s not necessary.”

Creighton shoves his hands through his dark hair. “You fucking collapsed in the middle of MoMA. Don’t tell me it’s not necessary.”

“I’m fine.”

“You obviously aren’t fine. And if you can’t tell me what the fuck happened, Dr. Wylie is checking you out.”

Tell him what happened? I don’t have a fucking clue what happened, so it’s not like I can give Creighton the explanation he’s looking for. And I’m sure as hell not ready to tell him about my encounter with his other ex-wife. So I guess the doctor is checking me out.

“Fine. It’s not like anything I say is going to make a difference. You might as well send him in.”

I sit on the end of the bed, knowing I’m acting like a spoiled brat, but I want to get this over with so I can go to bed. I just need sleep and the dawn of a new day to see things clearly. I need to put some time and space between me and the things Annika said tonight. Her name burns on my tongue, and I’m dying to confront him.

Why didn’t he tell me about her? Was she the one who got away? I shake my head, trying unsuccessfully to dislodge the thoughts.

“What is going on, Holly? This isn’t like you at all.”

My head snaps up. “All of a sudden you know me so well?” Too bad I can’t say the same about him.

His face twists into a frustrated, bemused expression. It’s like he’s looking at me and there’s a sign above my head that says Unbalanced woman. Treat with more caution than homemade dynamite.

Just when I think he’s going to let my jab pass without comment, he says quietly, as if to himself and not to me, “I thought I did. Maybe I was wrong.”

I feel a pang in my chest, but refuse to acknowledge it.

“Send him in then. I just want to go to bed.”

Creighton’s dark gaze burns into me. “If that’s what you want. But don’t think that means this subject is closed for good. You scared the shit out of me.”

“And almost embarrassed you too,” I add.

He just shakes his head, brow furrowed. “I’ll send in Dr. Wylie. I’ve got some calls to make, so don’t wait up.”

Creighton apparently lied, because Dr. Wylie just left, and he’s hovering in the doorway. I can’t read him. I don’t want to read him. I just want to close my eyes and forget about everything that happened tonight, but that’s not in the cards.

Creighton crosses the room and sits on the edge of the bed. His suit jacket is gone, and his shirt is open at the collar, exposing his corded neck. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and his hands grip his knees.

He studies me for long moments before asking, “You want to tell me what the hell happened tonight?”

“Not particularly.”

“Then I’ll rephrase. Tell me what the fuck happened tonight.”

He’s losing patience with me. I should care more, but I’m not the one with ex-wives popping out of the woodwork.

“Or what?” I counter.

He releases one knee and brings his arm up, his hand shoving through his hair.

“What the hell is going on with you? Something happened. Because all of a sudden you’re not . . . Holly.”

Fuck it. If he wants to push, I’ll tell him.

“I met someone tonight.”

His face is expressionless when he says, “Go on.”

I pull my knees up and wrap my arms around them, the same way I used to when I sat on Gran’s bed to tell her about school.

“Why didn’t you tell me I’m number three?” I ask, my voice completely devoid of emotion.

Creighton goes very still. “Who told you about Annika?”

“What I want to know is why you didn’t.”

“Who told you?” he repeats, his tone hard.

I drop my arms and shove myself up the bed so I’m leaning against the headboard, arms crossed in front of me.

“Annika told me about Annika.”

Creighton lifts his other hand and rubs the side of his face. “Fuck.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I agree with you. This conversation is best saved for tomorrow.”

Oh, hell no.

“I don’t think so. You’re the one who wanted to know. So now you know. Why didn’t you tell me? You told me about Shaw—why not Annika?”

He rises up from the bed and begins pacing the room. His back is to me when he says, “Because it wasn’t important.”

I blink, trying to comprehend what he just said. She was his wife. How is it possible that wasn’t important?

“It sounds pretty fucking important to me.”

He turns and paces back toward me. His mouth is pressed into a thin, tense line. “I was young and stupid. It doesn’t matter anymore. It has absolutely no bearing on our marriage.”

I’m processing his words and not liking them one bit. How can a marriage not matter. You don’t marry someone who doesn’t matter . . . unless you’re marrying the woman you had a one-night stand with but can’t find again.

“Is that what you’re going to tell wife number four about me? That it was just some stupid stunt and was fun for a while, but it doesn’t matter anymore?”

“What are you talking about, Holly?”

“You just told me that you married a woman, presumably loved her, and now she’s not even worth a mention. I’m just trying to figure out how women rate in your life after they’ve outlived their usefulness to you.”

“You’re being unreasonable,” he growls. “It was a long time ago. I didn’t love her. It was a whim.”

I cluck my tongue. “Good to know she and I have more in common than I thought.”

His jaw is clenched so tight, I’m almost positive he’s going to start breaking teeth. Finally, he bites out, “You have nothing in common with Annika. Not one fucking thing.”

All the blood drains from my face, and I’m freezing, even though I’m surrounded by a warm pile of blankets.