Table of Contents

Title Page

Description

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Epilogue

Thank you

Play Thing

One Hot Daddy

Copyright

About the Author

She’s Mine

A BILLIONAIRE SECOND CHANCE ROMANCE

KIRA BLAKELY

Finally, a second chance.

Yeah I’m rich, but it doesn’t fucking matter if I’m empty inside.

Harper is the only woman who has ever filled this crater in my chest and she just walked into my resort after 10 years.

One look from her still makes me hard in two seconds flat.

In high school, I followed Harper around like a dog wanting a bone.

But I was too much of a dick to treat her the way she deserved, and now her guard is up.

She can hate me all she wants. We’re drawn together like magnets.

And my instincts to possess her are fucking savage.

This time, she's mine.

Chapter 1

Harper

Shimmering tarmac filled the window’s view as I felt the roller-coaster drop from sky to terra firma at the Miami International Airport. I’d been practicing my deep breathing as I lost count of how many times we’d circled out over the Atlantic, waiting our permission to land. By the time the plane taxied to the jet bridge, I’d managed to relax my knees and give myself permission to contemplate a future again. Each time, I swore I’d never fly again, and yet, there I was.

I let the others disembark first; it just seemed easier. Reaching into the overhead, I pulled down my Louis Vuitton knock-off carry-on bag. I checked the tag for the fourth time—Harper Filkins—yes, that was me. With wobbly knees, I guided myself toward the exit, grabbing seat backs to steady my drunken sailor gait. How do I get myself into these situations?

I wanted to deny knowing myself as I heard my voice ask the attendant at the door, “Miami, right?” He nodded slowly, eyes wide, as though acknowledging an idiot. I felt the urge to dig in my pocket for a bus token. I’m really losing it. I knew where I was, but it wasn’t sinking in.

The airport terminal was a thick stir-fry of languages and colors. Vivid hair, huge hoop earrings and Hawaiian print shirts swallowed my attention. I moved down the vaguely familiar concourse with the general current of bodies. As hoped, they led me eventually to the luggage carousel. Mine was easy to spot; knock-offs seldom survived the baggage handlers. Sure enough, my new JC Penny pink lace panties were peeking out of the mangled zipper. I quickly grabbed the bag, tucked in my unmentionables and surveyed the crowd to catch who might have seen them. No one seemed interested, and I felt a moment’s disappointment that maybe I’d wasted the last of my available credit on the Penny’s card.

My less-than-ideal financial situation was responsible for my circumstance. The alternative to accepting the nanny position with the Bonhams had been starvation while sleeping in a cardboard box. The adage, “location, location, location,” seemed particularly appropriate, considering my box would have graced downtown Cleveland. I mused that being lost in the Bermuda Triangle had its benefits, when faced with Cleveland.

I had a degree in computer science and had done some freelance programming after college. Then came the job; the one I figured would net me six figures long term. That had all gone to hell when Cleve-Mobile’s CEO, Steve Tabbott, flew off to an island somewhere with the company checkbook in his pocket. He’d made it for almost a month without being caught. When the paychecks began to bounce, people questioned his prolonged vacation. That and when the power was shut off due to non-payment. Laptop batteries only last so long.

Steve and I had become good friends, very good friends. People gave me the stink eye until they realized I was going out the door with them.

I followed daylight and was eventually shoved onto the sidewalk next to the passenger pick-up lane. Scanning the curb, I spotted a limo with its driver wearing a bored expression. He was leaning against the front bumper, ankles crossed and calmly holding a small blackboard with my name on it. I managed a half-hearted wave and headed toward it.

The rear passenger door burst open unexpectedly and a woman with too-black hair popped out, frantically gesturing. “Harper! Harper! Hurry! We’ve already been told to move on!” she shouted, gesturing for me to move faster. I felt like I was reporting for a prison term as I smiled and reached her. “Oh, so glad you’re here! We’ve been driving in circles, haven’t we, Fred?” Fred must have been the driver.

“I know the feeling,” I muttered and the slender arms with bangle bracelets grabbed at me. There was nothing to do but climb in. As hard as I might pray, there was no way the fates would let her be anyone other than my new employer.

“I hope you don’t mind that we picked you up. How lucky we are that you’d just decided to move back to Miami! Imagine the coincidence!”

I could imagine it very easily. Cleve-Mobil had given me the confidence to take a lease on an expensive apartment, max out my credit cards and I was still paying off my degree. That’s when Steve had decided to see the world. Over-extended, I was combing the job boards when I spotted a nanny position in my hometown. The job felt wrong, but the location was comforting and they were financing the whole thing. I talked myself into applying and the result was sitting next to me in a designer sundress, heels that could harpoon a whale and so much perfume that my eyes were watering. I recognized new money when I saw it. They were flashy, loud, and squandered Ben Franklins like salt on popcorn.

The driver, Fred, loaded my bags in the trunk and soon we were off, skimming the highway on our way to the Keys. Bernadette was chattering as if calling a horse race.

“Dougie, he’s eight and a little high-strung. Not in a bad way,” she threw in and watched my reaction from the corner of her eye. “He tends to overreact a little bit, and we’ve consulted with the doctors. They tell us just to let him have what he wants; he’ll get over it in time.”

What the hell have I gotten myself into?

“Then there’s Katie. She is six, very smart. She takes after her father. She is our explorer, always asking questions and her middle name should be ‘Why.’”

I took a deep breath to combat the rising panic. Maybe the younger kid I could work with.

“You and your family live permanently at Utopia?” I asked, referring the very exclusive resort to which we were now headed.

She nodded. “Ripley inherited some money from some old-maid aunt in England. We had no idea she was loaded…” She quickly snapped her mouth shut. It was obvious she’d left off, “Or we would have gone to visit her years earlier.”

“How wonderful it must be to live in such a beautiful place,” I commented, hoping it sounded like a compliment.

She picked up the strand of black beads collaring her neck. They were the size of golf balls and made her look like Wilma Flintstone. Nodding in agreement, she continued, “Well, Ripley likes to take little trips and wants me along. We think it’s better the children have a more permanent home,” she pointed out as if keeping children in a hotel room indefinitely gave them roots. Perhaps I could understand why they had behavioral issues.

“Now, you do understand I don’t have a teaching certificate,” I told her firmly. I think I almost wanted to get rejected at the last minute. After all, I was back in my hometown. Surely there was another job for me somewhere.

“Oh, yeah. I’ll just hire a tutor,” she threw in casually, as if she’d just decided to order in pizza for dinner.

I said nothing more and soon we were pulling up to the entrance of Utopia. The architecture was reminiscent of Rome; fluted columns supporting a broad, low roof behind which stood fifty floors of Atlantic-view rooms and condos. I’d Googled the place after I’d gotten the job and couldn’t believe my luck. It was a resort in every sense of the word. Two golf courses, five restaurants, a spa, tennis courts, water park, marina and even a small landing strip for private jets. Then there was the private beach.

I’d gotten it into my head to build a dating site and pictured tending two young, well-behaved, low-maintenance children while I shoved my toes in the sand and wrote code every day. My picture already needed revision.

Bernadette had a hold on my arm again and was dragging me through the revolving door into the lobby. I swore I saw her posture change, forcing her breasts forward and sucking in her gut. A moment later, I understood why.

“Brayden!” she shrieked in an overly loud voice, as if she was hailing a taxi. “Braden! Here! Come here!” she screamed even more loudly. She began waving furiously. “I want you to meet someone.”

I wanted to melt into the marble floor. A very tall man with coppery hair was making his way toward us. I kept my eyes low, hoping people might not realize we were together.

I saw his shoes first. Italian leather draped by the lower cuff of impeccably tailored slacks. Moving upward, I noted the gold Rolex on the deeply tanned wrist. The suit jacket hung smoothly and led me to the silk tie. The crisp, white shirt hugged a sexy Adam’s apple that fueled the most deliciously low voice. I was already feeling a dampness in my panties when I took the proffered hand and finally looked upward to his face.

Jesus Christ! His topaz eyes, set on either side of his perfect nose uncorked memories of clambakes and sneaking home without a bra because it had been swept out with the tide.

“Brayden!” I blurted in shock.

There was the slightest hesitation. “Harper?”

I held my breath and then let his scent waft over me. I knew this man. I remembered his kisses and the way his bottom, full lip sucked at my bared breasts. I remembered my legs opening of their own volition and then my conscience kicking in. I had imagined the shocked voice of my mother as she hysterically screamed for me to close them and immediately go home. It had all been in my mind: her voice, the sensual reactions. Not this, though. This was the man I’d never forgotten. He was the standard against which no one compared.

Bernadette was nodding like a bobble-head doll. “You two know each other?” she asked, struggling to put the scene together.

I nodded, but couldn’t talk.

“Brayden owns Utopia. He and my husband have been friends for a long time,” Bernadette said for credibility’s sake.

“Welcome back, Harper.” That voice had given me wet dreams since I’d moved away.

All I could do was smile and nod like the ex-girlfriend I was. All I knew was that I’d finally been pardoned by the fates.

I was home—in every sense of the word.

Chapter 2

Brayden

It all came rushing back to me. As soon as I saw that hair, I knew who she was. It was that shade of ash-blonde that women spent hundreds to get, but there was no way you could buy that cloud of natural curls. Harper had always been built like a buxom pixie. It was the first reason I’d been attracted to her in high school, but her personality soon magnified anything physical.

Harper was an enigma, half sunshine and half scientist. She could aggravate the piss out of me with her stubbornness. Maybe it was the challenge of dealing with her that made me so hot for her. I knew she didn’t do it on purpose; she never broke character. I knew because I’d tried. I took a lesson from psychology class in high school and tried to find a middle ground. She wasn’t one for middle anything; she wanted to win. The problem was that I did, too.

“Well, if it isn’t Brayden. What was your last name again? I seem to have forgotten.” She was smirking, and I could see that if anything, the old Harper had perfected the art of occupied disinterest.

“Campbell, Brayden Campbell,” Bernadette supplied obliviously.

Why won’t that horrid woman go away and let me talk to Harper?

“Oh, yes, Mr. Campbell. It’s been a few years,” Harper said, nodding with a smirk on that familiar face.

I could already feel the hardening in my pants. I’d never gotten into her pants, not after two years of dating in high school. I did all the things I thought I was supposed to: class ring, proms, homecoming, buying her flowers. It never got me to home plate and Jesus, but I’d wanted her. I’d had to sit in the back of the room in any class we shared just so no one would notice my woody.

I’d finally had all I could take of it. After all, I was the man, right? I balled Mary Ann Whittaker in the girls’ bathroom and took her to our senior homecoming. I knew Harper had taken it for granted that I’d invite her, and when I didn’t, she took pity on some loser just so she could have a date to shove in my face.

I remembered the look on her face that night. The gym was decorated with some corny, outdated Harry Potter theme. There were cardboard stand-ups of wizards and pitifully not-creepy ghosts and monsters everywhere. You couldn’t even dance without knocking them over. Black and dark gray crepe paper hung in strips from the ceiling so it felt like you were continually walking through curtains. It had been a royal pain.

I’d just bent to pick up yet another stand-up of Dumbledore when this tiny body came flying at me through the crepe paper strips—green eyes flashing fire and a string of unladylike curses raining down on me. I’d had to pick her up off the floor to get her to quit kicking me. I’m not sure what happened to Mary Ann Whittaker, but I carried Harper outside and plopped her in the damp, nighttime grass.

“Calm down!” I’d told her.

“To hell with you!” she shot back, not seeming to care who overheard. I was a senior so I didn’t give a shit what people thought, but she still had two more years to go. “What the fuck are you doing with that cow?” she’d demanded, springing to her feet and taking up a fighting stance with her feet spread wide and that hair all wild around her head. Whatever she’d spent at the beauty shop had been wasted.

“Harper, look. Things weren’t going anywhere with you, you know? I’ve got, well, needs.” I tried to explain it to her and at that moment, I hated all women.

“You dumped me because you can’t fuck me?” she’d screamed and I saw others gathering at the open door. I grabbed her hand and dragged her to my car. I had to pick her up again to stuff her inside, but she’d calmed down some by the time we reached the beach.

“Oh, no, you don’t. Not our place,” she growled, eyeing the stretch of sand that led to our little grotto in the side of a dune. We’d spent so many nights there, but never did the deed. I’d gotten her bra off and my hands couldn’t stop pumping those magnificent tits. But she never let me in.

“You’ve got a problem, you know that?” I’d told her.

“Me? You’re like a dick in size thirteen gym shoes. You think I don’t notice? You think I don’t see it right there in class?” she’d accused.

“Jesus, Harper, that’s what guys do! Girls know that. I mean, what the hell? You spend hours getting prettied up and then freak out if a guy lays a hand on you. What the hell?”

“It doesn’t work like that,” she’d muttered, crossing her arms over her bountiful chest.

“Really? Then perhaps you’ll be so kind as to tell me how it does work.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“Don’t change… oh, shit, Harper. Do what you want. You will anyway. Hit me, cuss at me, kick me in the balls. In fact, please kick me in the balls. I need pain right now to get rid of this ache.”

Her eyes had shot to my crotch, and she could see I was turned on. She shook her head, like I was being some crass caveman or something. What does she expect?

Instead, something kind of unexpected came out of her mouth. “I can’t, don’t you see that?” she’d asked me, her tone sort of pitiful.

“I guess not,” I said, crossing my arms. It was my turn to wear that stance.

She got out of the car and ran down the beach, headed to our spot. Naturally, I followed her. I mean, shit, I was hard and emotions were running high. Maybe this would be the night.

She was huddled in the shallow, carved-out spot in the dune. The winds changed its shape continually, but somehow, it had always been just deep enough for our two bodies. I plopped down next to her and ripped off the bow tie of my rented tux, tossing it toward the waves. “Okay, so tell me.”

She didn’t say anything for a few minutes. We both needed to let our blood cool. I guess we sensed it was one of those “last time” kind of conversations.

That was the first time I noticed what she was wearing. Harper never did things conventionally. Her dress was more of a two-piece thing, all filmy and her slender middle was bare. It looked like something out of I Dream of Jeannie. Her tits were spilling out of the top, and I knew an ocean’s worth of cold water couldn’t help me then. Her voice brought me back.

“I can’t do it,” she was saying.

“Why?”

“Because.”

It was going to be one of those conversations. “Why not, Harper? Everyone does it.”

“Not me.”

“I noticed.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? You and Miss Cow got it on already, I suppose?”

I didn’t say a word. In later years, I tried to remember that silence was the worst thing you could not say to a woman. It condemned you to instant guilt.

She rolled to her knees and confronted me. “You ass! You did, didn’t you?”

I was a dead man. They would find my body the next morning, still in my tieless tux and assume I’d gotten drunk and drowned. Maybe I’d have a leg missing, like in the old, original Jaws. Harper would wear something odd, like a sombrero covered with flowers, and people would think she had gone mad with grief. She’d get away with it, though. She always did. “Well, god damn it! I’m no saint, Harper. I’m a senior, almost ready to start college! You sure as hell can’t expect me to take a vow of god-damned abstinence! It’s not healthy to store it all up!”

“I thought guys, well, you know, had ways?”

It took me a second to figure what she was talking about. “You mean to fuck another girl or to jack off?”

She’d just stared at me. The words were out and then I could tell she was surprised. Maybe she gets it? Was she finally seeing it from my point of view? Shit! Was that even possible?

“I can’t fall in love with you because you’re leaving,” she’d said, almost in a whisper, which might have been louder if it hadn’t been for the sound of the waves. “I won’t have a fighting chance. You’ll go to college and find someone, or a dozen someones, and I’ll be left here holding the broken heart.”

“Oh, shit, Harper, is that what this has been all about? I’m not leaving you!”

“Oh, really? What about Miss Cow?”

She’d had me there. The condoms in my wallet were a dead giveaway. I’d hoped that when that shark took off my leg, he’d take the wallet, too. That would have been embarrassing.

That was when she must have cold-cocked me, because when I came to, Harper was on her knees before me. Her top was missing and my face was filled with nipples and breasts. “Does Miss Cow offer these?” she’d asked, cupping her breasts and holding them out to me in offering. I hadn’t been unconscious. I think my mind just blocked what it couldn’t believe was happening.

I’d pulled her toward me and fallen into those incredible gifts. I’d gotten little tastes before, but nothing like the full-out offering she was giving me then. I’d fed on her, sucking the nipples until they looked ready to burst, even in the moonlight. I’d ripped off my tux jacket, followed by the pin-tucked girly shirt I’d hated. I’d wanted to feel her skin against mine. Jesus, but she’d felt good.

I’d spotted those gauzy pants while looking over her shoulder. It would have been so easy to rip them off and finally get what I’d wanted since the day I’d seen her, a fresh-faced pixie walking into the gym with the ninth-grade girls’ gym class. I knew what she would taste like. It was killing me and there was just one god-damned sheer curtain between me, and that.

“Harper…” I’d begun, and she sprang to her feet, out of my reach, those beautiful tits high and proud.

“I knew you’d go there, you ass. You’ve only got one thing on your mind,” she’d accused me. “You can’t stay true to me at college, and I’m not some whore toy you can play with until you go away!” She’d rotated in the sand before me and began her best stomping toward the car.

I’d cussed, pulled myself together, and caught up to her. “Where’s your top?” I’d asked.

“I threw it toward the water,” she shouted and I hesitated, deliberating whether it was better to hunt down her top or stay with her. I’d decided on the latter and put the tux jacket over her naked shoulders and chest, all the while dreading my dad’s anger since he’d have to pay for the whole tux. Women were just too much trouble.

Harper hadn’t spoken to me as I took her home, wearing my jacket as she flounced into her house. She’d never spoken to me again… until now.

All those memories had flitted through my head in what seemed like an hour, but had only been a few moments. I’d never gotten her out of my head. I’d always regretted that last night. She was like that song you couldn’t get out of your brain, playing over and over until you thought you would go mad. I never found anyone like her again. Never.

Now, there she was, that impudent pixie face having filled out to that of a well-chiseled, beautiful woman. She was daring me, waiting for what I would say. I knew she wanted an apology. I couldn’t do that, not there in the lobby of the resort I’d fought off hell to own. Certainly, not in front of a woman who looked like a harpy and was apparently Harper’s boss. I shuddered at the thought.

I answered her finally. “Yes, Harper, it has been a long time, a very long time. You look wonderful. What if we meet in the Cabana bar at ten and catch up?”

I saw her head begin to turn, as if she was going to ask Bernadette for permission. She caught herself just in time and never even gave the black-haired woman a look. “I’d love to,” she said, and they moved away, blending in with the crowded lobby.

Chapter 3

Harper

Bernadette had returned to chattering, but I was completely preoccupied with the shock of having run into Brayden again after all these years. I’d been sixteen the last time I spoke to him, or saw him, for that matter. I’m not sure he knew I was there on graduation day. The main ceremony was held in the football stadium, and I didn’t want him to know that I cared enough to be there. I’d dressed down for the occasion, wearing jeans and a jacket over my t-shirt. I’d even French-braided my hair and shoved it under a narrow-brimmed sunhat, the kind the tourists wore. I waited at the gate until there was a large family group going in and blended into the middle of them. I hadn’t applauded or shouted his name when he was called to the stage. It was not an easy thing for me to remain anonymous; it was not my natural habitat.

I never asked anyone about him, not wanting to let on that I missed him in case it got back to him. I knew he wanted me to regret not staying with him but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. So, I stayed alone. Once I got to college up north, naturally no one knew him, or me. Anonymity had become second nature to me, and it was another reason I’d chosen computer science. I just didn’t seem to fit in with other people for some reason.

There had been a few dates through college, but nothing that lasted long enough to write home about. Then came college graduation and the eventual job at Cleve-Mobil, and my relationship with the founder, Steve Tabbott.

Steve had been a nerd the day his mother finally pushed him out. He was void of real emotion, and I think that was one of the reasons he appealed to me. He was a nothing, a void in the space where a body should have been. Making love with him was like not making love at all. I never loved him, and I never wanted to. I’d only opened myself to real emotion that one time, with Brayden, and I remembered where I’d landed. I reasoned that if being alone with someone was just as painful as being alone without someone, why go through the pain? Just choose alone.

Bernadette’s voice broke through my reverie.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” I asked her. “I’m a little nervous that the kids won’t like me, and I think I was getting a little panicky.”

She bought it, although it wasn’t that far from the truth. “I was saying that the children are looking forward to meeting you. Dougie, especially. I told him you knew a lot about computers, and he’d like you to teach him how to hack the government.” Her voice was blasé, and I wondered if she had any idea what she was talking about. Probably not, I decided, unless she wanted to get rid of her kid for a few years.

“I’m not a hacker,” I told her simply, hoping she’d get it without pushing me.

“Oh, no? Well, that’s a shame. He was so looking forward to it. You mustn’t get too upset if he decides to throw a fit, promise? Remember, the doctor says he’ll outgrow it. Now, Katie, she’s probably not going to take that at face value. She’ll want to learn how, and until you give in, well, there’s no telling how much she’ll bug you about it. But just stand your ground, okay? You don’t have to give in, unless it’s easier. Your job isn’t counting on it.”

I knew she was trying to give me some sense of relief but she was making it worse by the moment. We’d reached the wing where their individual rooms were located. We stopped at room 1006. “This is yours.” She tapped on the door and handed me a key card. “The kids are in our suite, room 1000. Here’s your key card for those rooms. I expect you to take good care of it. There are a lot of people who would love to get their hands on it.”

I felt my temper flare at her condescension. She was inferring I was irresponsible and that didn’t set well with me. I couldn’t afford anger at that moment, so I took the cards and nodded, without comment.

“Why don’t you go in and get unpacked? We’ll be taking dinner as room service today. Dinner is at seven. We’ll see you then.”

Bernadette’s eyes looked upward as though making sure she’d gotten through her rehearsed speech. I’d always found this sort of insecurity in people who weren’t terribly bright, which gave me a foreshadow of what I would see when I met her kids. I hoped I could get through this job. There really weren’t a lot of options immediately on hand. It would take me a couple of weeks to find something else, but what I really wanted was to code my website. That meant finding a job that gave me the freedom to do just that. Otherwise, being a nanny would have been out of the question.

I opened the door and drew in a breath. I felt as though I’d entered a different world. All the furnishings were clear Plexiglas or very, very pale shades of pastel. It was a room filled with feminine touches and I felt a little pride that Brayden was behind all that. There was a queen-sized bed with a soft floral spread, a small kitchenette, a desk that would be ideal for writing and a small sofa and chair group. A sliding door opened onto a balcony and I looked down to the beach and waves below. It was simply gorgeous.

I quickly put away my sparse wardrobe, while keeping an eye on the clock. I didn’t want to be late and get off on the wrong foot. I knocked on their suite door five minutes early. I wasn’t comfortable simply walking in, yet.

Bernadette opened it, and her face relaxed with relief. Clearly, I was needed. She motioned me in and a short man with an elaborate, comb-over hairstyle stood behind her. His eyes traveled the length of me and ended up back on my breasts. I already had him pegged. “This is Ripley,” Bernadette said.

“Nice to meet you,” he said to me in a tone that bordered on salacious. “I hope to get to know you better.”

I shivered with immediate disgust and was floored that Bernadette seemed to be oblivious to his conduct. Maybe she was used to it. Heck, for all I knew, maybe she endorsed it so he’d leave her alone. I couldn’t say I’d blame her. He was repulsive.

“Bernadette, who is that?” asked a small voice just on the other side of the doorway.

“Come here, Katie,” Bernadette urged the girl. “This is your new nanny, Harper.”

They call their parents by their first names?

“I don’t like her,” announced a boy I assumed was Dougie as he marched into the room.

“Why is your name Harper?” Katie wanted to know.

I motioned to Katie to come into the room where I could talk to her without the wall between us. “My mother loved Mockingbird.”

“What’s that?”

“Never mind, I’ll read it to you sometime.” Katie’s jaw was slack. “Scratch that, we’ll watch the movie,” I improvised and turned my attention to Dougie.

“Hello, Dougie. How do you know you don’t like me if you haven’t met me?” I asked, putting him on the spot.

“Your hair sucks, and your boobs are too big. You look like you’re gonna tip over,” he said boldly and waited for my response. I wouldn’t give him the opportunity to gloat over his brazen comment.

“I see,” I said, carefully wording what I was about to say. “I’d say that’s a very wise attitude for a child of eight.” I heard Ripley snort over my shoulder but chose to ignore him. I didn’t address Dougie’s actual comment, thereby leaving him with something to think about.

“Katie, come here and count to one hundred by fours,” Bernadette ordered, anxious to show off her star pupil of a child.

“Four, eight, twelve, sixteen, twenty, twenty-four…” began Katie and I steeled myself for the dog and pony show that was obviously going to be my primary source of entertainment.

I interrupted, “My goodness, Bernadette, you were right. She really is bright.”

Katie nodded and grinned with satisfaction.

Dinner was announced just then and the kids slammed one another in the chest with an arm and ran for the table.

“Children…” Bernadette chided them in a bored tone and looked to me. “They’re your responsibility now.”

I smiled and followed the brats into the dining area of the condo. An Asian-looking man nodded at me and muttered his name was Chin. He stood nearby in a white jacket, waiting for everyone to be seated. Then he clapped his hands and a collection of servants appeared through a swinging door, each carrying a platter or bowl of food, some of which smelled better than the rest. He oversaw the theatrics and then hung back against the wall as the family began their demands.

Ripley was presiding, handing the bowls first to Bernadette, who gingerly took one spoon of each, and then on to Dougie. The boy’s reaction was less favorable. He climbed up onto his knees so he could peer into the bowls and platters across the table. “I’m not eating this!” he shrieked, and Bernadette rolled her eyes and looked at me to take charge. “It smells awful, and I’ll puke all over the table if you try and make me!” The boy’s overly long, fuzzy red hair bounced a little to emphasize his displeasure.

I wasn’t prepared for this mess. I’d been raised with at least a few manners, especially when it came to food. “Okay,” I said calmly, taking the bowl from Bernadette to spoon some onto Katie’s plate and my own. No matter how bad it tasted, I had obligated myself to eat it now. Shit!

Dougie watched, apparently a little thrown off by my calm and unobliging response. “I want ice cream!” he shrieked, still on his knees. Chin flinched, ready to do the kid’s bidding, but I looked him straight in the eyes and calmly shook my head.

When Chin didn’t move, Dougie tried again. “I said,” he threatened, whirling around in his chair to look directly at Chin, “get me ice cream.”

I had to give Chin credit. His face remained expressionless, and yet I could see the glitter of satisfaction in his eyes that for once, the little brat wasn’t getting his way. He did not move.

Dougie began chanting and pounding his spoon on the table. “I want ice cream, I want ice cream…”

Bernadette’s hand slapped the table in aggravation, and she looked at me. “Give him what he wants. Remember what I told you?”

I slowly folded my napkin and lay it next to my plate. “Bernadette, may I have a word?” I stood and walked toward the next room. She had no choice but to follow me. I knew she would; she was used to following orders.

She was rolling her eyes as though I was dense. “Remember? I told you just to keep peace and give him what he wants.”

“I do remember. I also disagree with the doctor. And, since the doctor isn’t here to witness this, and you put me in charge, I’m going to do this my way. He’ll eventually get hungry enough to stop the games, and then we’ll all be able to enjoy our meal.”

Bernadette was taken aback by my boldness, and I could see calculations going on in her mind. She was weighing my value as an old friend of Brayden’s against a quiet meal of eating that barely edible garbage waiting in the next room. She decided Brayden was worth it, and I wondered why. Another clue, another reaction worth remembering.

We returned to the dining room where Dougie had temporarily gone mute so he could hear the verdict. “Dougie, since you won’t be eating dinner this evening, there’s no need for you to be at the table,” I told him in a measured tone. “Please go to your room, and I’ll be there once I’ve finished.”

His mouth dropped open, and he immediately looked to his mother for backup, but there was none coming. She quietly dabbed at her spoonful of everything while Ripley’s face glowed with pleasure. I had the feeling he’d wanted to do that for some time. What did all these people hold over one another’s heads? Katie was giggling, and Dougie’s face flushed even redder, if that was possible.

“I’m not going,” he announced and crossed his arms over his chest.

I folded my napkin again and laid it next to my plate, scooting back my chair. I looked to Chin and said, “Would you mind having my dinner kept for me, and I’ll eat it once Dougie is in bed?”

He nodded and immediately bowed to me; a sign of respect.

I walked around to Dougie’s side of the table and took him by the hand. I wasn’t much taller than he was, but I certainly could handle myself. “Katie, we’re going to my room and you’re welcomed to join us when you’re done eating,” I added and despite his resistance, Dougie was dragged behind me as we went to my room.

I turned a chair to face a corner and led him to it. “Sit there until you can behave like an adult, since you want to be one,” I said and backed him into it. He sat down, wondering at my behavior and plotting his revenge. I sat on the sofa, picked up my laptop and began working on my website.

Dougie began a sing song in a very loud, very flat voice, “You’re so ugly, you’re so ugly.”

I ignored him. He tried singing louder, shouting the words. I continued to ignore him. I had a website to entertain myself; therefore, the distinct advantage. My lack of reaction was beginning to bore him, as I knew he was being fed by the power of response. There was a knock at the door, and I opened it to see Bernadette with Katie. Bernadette looked over my shoulder and her brows rose as she spotted Dougie facing the corner. Her hands came up in a worrisome clutch, and I shook my head in a conspiratorial warning. “Come in, Katie. I was just about to play a computer game and thought you’d like to take turns?”

Dougie’s head spun around and that’s when I discovered his favorite thing in the whole world to do. He loved computer games.

Katie nodded and skipped past me. I smiled at Bernadette as I closed the door gently in her face and turned to my charges. Katie already had my laptop in her hands. “No, no, no, you don’t. That is mine, and you are not permitted to touch it until I hand it to you. And, Dougie, you face the corner or you’ll never get a turn.”

Within a half hour, the kids were sitting on either side of me, taking turns neatly. There was a tap at the door and Chin entered, a tray in hand for Dougie and myself with our dinners re-warmed. I caught a glimpse of Bernadette behind Chin, but she kept to herself.

At eight-thirty, I closed the laptop and herded my charges toward baths and bed. I promised to show them how to code their own game if they promptly went to sleep. Like children on Christmas Eve, they were on their best behavior.

Adjourning to my room, I grabbed a quick shower and prepared to head downstairs to the Cabana bar to meet Brayden. All the while I was dressing, I was reliving our past and wondering if he’d changed. Even when we went together, we were different. Both wild, but in different ways. I dabbed a touch of my precious cologne between my breasts and told myself it was just good hygiene. I wore the low-cut white blouse with the pearl-stud earrings because the blouse was at the front of my closet. Yeah, right.

Brayden had two older brothers, Cory and Collin. I didn’t know much about Cory, as he was several years older, but Collin was known to be trouble. Better looking than he deserved, he used women and wiped his feet on the last as he headed for the next. No one trusted him and yet his charm and good looks overcame many an objection. My parents had warned me to be cautious. They thought Collin and Brayden were two limbs of the same tree.

I remembered their warning and added one of my own. I couldn’t afford to get my heart broken again. It had hurt too badly the last time, and this time, I had nowhere to go, no one to fall back on.

I mentally repeated the warning to myself as the elevator door opened and Brayden stood there, checking his watch as he waited for me. His eyes twinkled and glowed in his tanned face. I knew I was in trouble.

Chapter 4

Brayden

Although she was under-dressed by money standards, Harper looked magnificent to me. She was a little pale, not having been home long enough to acquire her tan yet. She wore a low-cut blouse and I got an eyeful, which was exactly the revival elixir I’d been hoping for. Her girls had always been my ultimate fascination and the standard by which the other women had been judged. Harper had them, hands down. Or, hands on, depending on how I chose to picture them.

“You look fabulous,” I told her and her skin was pale enough that I detected her blush. “You make me want to bend you back and kiss you right here in the lobby.”

“Don’t hold anything back, Bray, just speak your mind, why don’t you?”

She’d been the only one I ever let get away with calling me “Bray.” It reminded me too much of a mule. Collin tried it once and even though he was older and bigger than I was, I’d punched him in the nose and he’d backed off.

“I can see you still haven’t gotten in touch with your inner self,” I observed as I guided her toward the Cabana, my hand at the small of her back. She was considerably shorter, and I had to stoop a bit to keep it there.

“And I can hear you still delight in tormenting me,” she popped back. Her head turned, and I caught a glimpse of those fiery green eyes. If she’d turned much more, she would have seen my crotch and I would have lost all advantage. Shit, but she could make me hard.

I signaled Bert, the maître d, to take us to my table. I made a mental note to have a couple of tables removed, to leave more space in between. Harper was navigating them like a wave over sand, but I was feeling clumsy. Maybe it was her graceful body that gave me that impression. One thing was for sure. My obsession for her hadn’t diminished with time. If anything, I wanted her more than ever before.

We sat with goblets of a rosé I’d been saving for a special occasion. Bert had set up a privacy screen. Too many people wandered over to say hello so they could claim a close relationship. I’d made a lot of friends over the years and most of them were wealthy or influential. Politics, entertainment, big business, tech; there was someone for everything I needed.

“So, you own all this?” Harper was watching me, and I knew she knew who I was at my core. There was no need to try to impress her.

I nodded and tried to look humble, but it wasn’t a look I did well. Women liked power and that had become my signature look.

“How did you pull that off?” she asked in a voice that made me feel like I was in high school again.

“I started small,” I said and we both choked a bit on our wine. I’d always teased her about being petite and had suggested I might be too big for her, sexually speaking. Those were the days when I was young and stupid, but she was a virgin, so she believed me. My offhand comment echoed in our memories. I tried to recover my fumbled words and started again.

“A friend I met after high school was a partner in flipping a house. He hired me on and taught me a lot about the business. I finally put enough cash together to flip my own, and it just got bigger from there. Rinse and repeat, as they say.”

“Do you still flip?”

I tried to ignore her double entendre and recognized that she’d lost much of her innocence since I’d seen her last.

“Do you?” I came back at her.

“No, I still like boys.”

I felt like an idiot and that was one place where I couldn’t afford that look. “C’mon, Harper. Are we going to be tit for tat all evening? Take your best shot. Tell me what an ass I was and how sorry I should be for moving on.”

“Don’t have to. You just said it quite well.”

I decided to change the subject. “So, how did you come by the job of nanny to someone like Bernadette? She doesn’t have as much class as you do in your little finger.”

She laughed, and it sounded like bells. I remembered that laugh so well. “I wouldn’t know about her, but I do know that I needed a job, fast, and hers got me back home. Enough said.”

“Hey, Harper, I was sorry to hear about your mom.” She nodded her thanks. “And your dad?” She just shrugged. That was enough said on that topic. I’d never cared for her dad much and after her mother died, the general gossip was that when Harper was out of state, he’d become a drunk and disappeared.

“How about your family?” she asked politely.

“Mom and Dad are fine, living in California.”

“California? Why not stay here where it’s warmer?”

“I don’t know. I guess maybe they needed to just be away.”

“From…?”

I looked down, arranging my words. I didn’t want to tell her everything. Not yet. It was still too soon.

“Is it Collin?” she asked, sensing that the bad boy had grown unrulier with age.

“Well, hell, he never was an angel. He pokes his head in when he needs something. In fact, he texted the other day and said he’d be coming for a visit in the next day or two.”

“You won’t mind if I say I could do without seeing him?” She was trying to look sympathetic but talking about Collin was like talking about her father. There were some people better left undiscussed.

“No, I don’t particularly look forward to seeing him myself, if you want the truth. But you never know and after Cory…”

She sat up straight. Her hand slid across the table and her brow furrowed. I had flashbacks of that tiny hand and its soft, agile fingers that had fondled me. I snapped back as she asked, “What about Cory?”

I could tell she hadn’t heard, but she had always been ultra-sensitive and knew me well.

“Cory married Sylvia Barnham, do you remember her?”

She nodded. “Sort of.”

“They were skiing, Aspen, four years ago. Freak accident, the cable sheered and their lift chair fell. Both died on impact.”

“Oh, my god, Brayden! I never heard! I’m so, so sorry.”

I nodded and my heart was heavy. “Like I said, you just never know.”

“I remember Cory as being very sweet.”

“As opposed to me or Collin?” I was trying to lighten the mood.

“Both of you,” she said without hesitation.

“You ever going to let me out of that doghouse?”

“Nope.”

We both smiled at that, and she looked out the heavily-tinted windows toward the water. “It’s a nice life you’ve made for yourself here, Brayden.”

“Thanks. It could have been better.”

“How’s that?”

“With you.”

“You going to start that again? Look, Brayden, you were the one who walked away. Don’t forget that.”

“You’re hardly likely to let me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She was getting prickly. The past was not a subject we could handle well – at least not yet.

“Nothing,” I said and my gaze drifted to her open neckline. I could feel that soft flesh sandwiched around my dick, and I wanted to make a deposit between them. I looked up and she could see the desire on my face. It wasn’t making her happy, that much I could see.

“You men are all alike,” she said, denouncing the male sex as a whole.

“You men? Or just me?”

“All of you. That smarmy little Ripley has his eyes on me already. I’m not sure Bernadette is aware or grateful, but she’s not doing anything to reel him in.”

“Has he said anything?”

“Just some slimy little remark about wanting to get to know me better. Bernadette just about wet her pants when she discovered you and I had known each other. I get the idea she thinks you could help Ripley’s career if you took an interest.”

“Ha!” I blurted. “The world would be better off with a few less Ripleys in it. Anyway, I don’t know anything about the guy and if he was in a position to be in business with me, believe me, I’d know about him.”

“When did you get to be so arrogant?” she asked plainly and my own words echoed in my head. She had a point.

“Sorry. Just keep your distance from that asshole. He thinks he’s got the world by the tail. I don’t even think he earned his money.”

“She says he inherited from a distant aunt.”

“See there? He’s got no integrity,” I summarized him with my least flattering observation.

“And you do?” She was staring at me straight on, her body stiff and unfriendly in her reminder of the ass I’d been.

I turned the tables. “I suppose you’ve had your share of men in your life.” It was a conclusion I’d made, and I knew I’d intended it to hurt her.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Why should I? Men can’t be trusted. I’ll do better on my own,” she declared and I felt as though she’d thrust a knife into my chest. The atmosphere that had so recently been warm and friendly had turned icy and distant. I didn’t like that new feeling and wanted away from it. I was glad we’d gotten to the bottom of the wine bottle.

I signaled Bert, who came and moved the privacy screen. I stood up and went to pull out her seat but she’d beaten me to it. She was smoothing out the creases in her skirt and as I towered over that low-cut blouse, I felt a warning buzzer go off in my head. This one could have me if she wanted to. It wouldn’t take more than a crook of her tiny, white finger and I’d be at her knees, my hands parting that sweet pussy I’d dreamed about for so long.

I walked to the elevator with her and when we emerged onto her floor, I stayed with her as we approached her room. I tried to wait until she was safely inside and then walk away, cool and unconcerned, but I couldn’t do it.

“Damnit, Harper!” I pulled her against me and she didn’t pull away. She leaned into my chest, just as she’d done so many years earlier. I could smell the skin I remembered so well and then I kissed her, kissed the lips I’d remembered and felt the round body that filled me in all the right places. It was difficult to breathe without wanting her. I was having trouble maintaining perspective. “What if I come in so we can chat a little more?”

She knew what I was asking. Her face was flushed, and her lips were swollen and rosy-ringed from my kiss. I knew, no, I begged the fates to tell me she was on the verge of taking me into her room.

I was wrong. She whispered, but in a terse tone, “I said no then, and I’m saying no now. I’m worth so much more than that.”

“It’s not like that,” I rasped, but she had already slid her key card through the lock. The door opened, and then she closed it in my face. The warmth of the moment was sucked from the energy around me. I felt abandoned, but there was no one who could take that away except the one woman with those emerald eyes and breasts upon which I longed to sleep. I looked like a rejected fool, standing in the hall of my own resort.

“Damn! I fucked it up again!” I said aloud to myself and headed toward the elevator. I turned once when I thought I heard a click. I could have sworn it had come from her door but I must have heard it wrong. There was no one there. There was just empty space—more than enough to drown my heart.

Chapter 5

Harper

I was awakened from my dreams with a shriek only inches from my ear.

“What on earth?” I cried out, sitting upright. Dougie was hunched on the chair from the previous day, but not facing the corner. “What are you doing in my room?” I demanded. “You’ve scared the crap out of me and now my head feels ready to split. What are you doing here?”

“Bernadette and Ripley always feel like that when they’ve been drunk all night, too. It’s morning,” he said in a matter-of-fact voice. “You’re on duty. Get up, and stop being lazy.”

What had happened to the tamed boy I’d put to bed the previous night?

My door opened and in walked Katie.

“I want to play computer games,” she informed me.

I was struggling to wake up properly. I’d been dreaming of Brayden, and the memory of his kiss still had the potency to send a shiver through me. The two living horrors in my room were intent on sucking the life from me. They sensed I wanted some time and opportunity to code, and their mission was to prevent that. More than that, I wanted to sit on Brayden’s lap and be petted and hear how sorry he was for throwing me aside. It was too much to bear, and I began to cry.

“This is too hard,” I muttered and punched my pillow as tears formed in my eyes.

“Don’t cry,” sympathized Katie.

Dougie was less generous. “Stop crying, you stupid baby. Bernadette sent us to get you for breakfast. Find something decent to wear and come on,” he said over his shoulder as he left. I allowed myself to wonder briefly if I could plead insanity if I was tried as a murderess.

Sighing, I threw back the covers and flipped on the shower to warm up while I brushed my teeth. When I left the bathroom, I found Katie still waiting on my bed. I really needed my privacy. “What do you want?” I asked her and her face crumbled. “What’s wrong?” I asked her, pulling on panties and a bra and trying to brush my hair at the same time.

“I’m bored,” she whined and I rolled my eyes.

“You’re privileged. You need to have a hobby or some sort of a chore. I’ll tell you what. Your new job every day is to make your bed and straighten your room.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why?”

“Bernadette has people to do that,” she pointed out.

“Maybe so, but you’re not learning to be responsible or how to have a chore that gives you a sense of accomplishment. That’s really important for how you see life from here on.”

“What do you do?”

Her questions were always pointed, always annoying. She badly needed a lesson in subtlety and empathy. “You mean besides watching you and Dougie?”

She nodded.

“Well, I’m building a website.”

“So, you’re on the computer?” Somehow it sounded over-simplified when she said it.

“Well, I suppose so, yes.”

“You call that working? I do that every day.” She moved to sit in the center of my bed, kicking the blankets with the intent of pushing them into a heap on the floor. I decided she would make my bed each day as well, but knew there was staff who came in to do that.

I pushed out a huge sigh and pulled on sandals. “Katie, you’re making me crazy. Let’s go to breakfast and we can talk about this later.”

“When?”

“When I say, okay?” My frustration level was almost maxed out and I could feel the cold rush of panic beginning in my stomach. I didn’t want anyone to know I had those episodes. They made me look weak.

I motioned for the girl to precede me from the room, and I followed her into the primary suite, where we joined the others for breakfast.

Ripley was reading a paper. No Kindle addict there, I realized. I watched him from the corner of my eye and noticed he wasn’t the least bit interested in what he was reading. It was all a performance that made him feel like the head of the family. It also allowed him to shield his face from the others as he ogled my chest. My face was burning with anger.

“Excuse me, Ripley, Bernadette mentioned that you were interested in getting to know Brayden Campbell?” I threw out the bait and sat back to wait. It didn’t take long.

The paper dropped, and I saw an older version of Dougie’s face on Ripley. His lower lip opened, and he reminded me of Pavlov’s dog, waiting for his reward. “Why, yes! I would very much like that!” he blurted, much to my satisfaction. He’d given himself away. He was no more an old friend of Brayden’s than the man in the moon. He lacked the intelligence and initiative to do anything other than cling to people he thought were successful. It was pitiful to see, but I enjoyed it nevertheless.

Bernadette almost dropped her cup of coffee as her mouth opened to protest, but a look from him silenced her immediately. Oh, my god! She was worse than him! She was wearing some awful green caftan and it had the effect of making her look like a black-haired bullfrog humped up on a rock, waiting for a fly. But I hadn’t finished with Ripley quite yet.

“I had drinks with Brayden last evening,” I continued as I picked up a slice of toast and slowly spread butter on it. “In fact, he asked me about you.”

“Oh? Really? What did he say?” Ripley was ready to wet his pants.

I pursed my lips and frowned slightly, if dramatically. “Oh, Brayden doesn’t talk business to me. He holds his cards close to his chest.”

Ripley’s face flashed toward Bernadette, a look of I told you so all over it.

She smiled with encouragement and pride. “Of course, Brayden wouldn’t discuss business with a nanny,” she threw in, her tone condescending. If I’d been hot before that, she’d just lit the match.

“Well, that may be so.” I threw her a weakened fly. “But I’ve known him long enough to say that when Brayden is intrigued by something or someone, he begins to ask around—you know, sort of see what others think of them? I’ve seen that before, just before he made a major move.”

“Oh, really?” Ripley was beside himself.

“Yes. If you’re interested at all, I’d stay close to him. Really close. He’s always been one to include his friends in a spontaneous moment, and they’ve always come out the better for it.” I took a small bite of my toast and leaned forward conspiratorially. “He’s a genius, you know. Has an IQ over 165.”

Ripley nodded with enthusiasm. “Oh, I wouldn’t doubt that. I could tell immediately he was one of us.”

I almost blew my bite of toast across the table at that comment but I forced myself to nod in agreement and even make my eyes adoringly large.

Bernadette’s arrogance was in full swing. With delicate arches of her wrists, she reached outward to shake the folds of her caftan sleeves as though she wore a royal robe. Her chin went up and she lifted her coffee mug with her pinkie arched outward. The mug handle wasn’t designed for that and she dropped it, the coffee cascading over her caftan. She hastily reached for her napkin, as well as Ripley’s. There was no power on the planet that could have forced her from the table during that self-adoring, self-important conversation.

I couldn’t stand it another second. I had to escape before I burst out laughing. “Well, I’m taking the children to the beach,” I announced, pushing back my chair as I stood. I motioned to the brats. “As I said, Brayden doesn’t ask about people casually. If you can spare the time, I’d make the most of it. He could learn a lot from you, you know.”

Ripley’s head was nodding like a bobble-head doll and I left the room, having sealed the deal for the arrogant Mr. Campbell. He needed a lesson in what it meant to underestimate me.

* * *

Wearing the red bathing suit I’d had since high school and with my laptop in the case flung over my shoulder, I shooed the Bonham brats onto the beach. Each had been tasked with carrying their life jackets; Dougie with my beach chair and Katie, the small cooler that held juice boxes. I chose my moments of revenge.

I’d finally decided on a spot when Dougie threw down my chair. “If you want it somewhere else, move it yourself.”

I narrowed my eyes in my best imitation of a prison matron and pointed to the chair. “Open it out and put on your life jacket.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but the call of the water was too strong. He decided to do as I said, but I suspected he’d get back at me sometime later. Katie set the cooler next to the chair as she obediently put on her life jacket.

“Don’t go in above your waist,” I told them both and settled into the sand to set up my laptop and prop myself up into the beach chair. Naturally, Dougie immediately went in the water neck high. I set my laptop into the case to avoid blowing sand and went after him. Having grown up in Florida, I was a pretty fair swimmer and he recognized he was out of his league. I dragged him ashore by the back of his lifejacket and plopped him down onto the hot sand. “Sit there until you can learn to follow orders.”

“You think you’re so smart, don’t you?” he shot back. “Too bad you’re so pathetic that your bathing suit has a hole in the butt.”

I stopped and fought the impulse to run my hand over my bottom, but I knew he was lying.

“Geez, when did you get that? 1960?”

The kid had a talent for making me hate him, I had to give him that. He read me well and went on. “Yeah, right over your asshole. You probably farted too hard and it blew right through.”

I tried to ignore him but he kept his eyes on my butt and it was making me crazy. I opened the cooler and took out a juice box, slowly looking at the back label so the colorful pictures of fresh fruit were in his direction. I poked the little straw through the foil spout and sipped it slowly, watching Katie as she scooped holes at the water’s edge and then watched the waves wash them away.

“I want one of those,” Dougie finally said.

I ignored him.

He stood up and came toward me. “I said, you stupid nanny, I want one!” he shouted. There was no one within hearing. I had almost finished mine and now held it out to him.

“Here you go.”

He slapped it out of my hand and the juice made a red stain as it drained onto the hot sand. “I want my own.”

“You will apologize.”

“For what?”

“For everything you’ve done that was rude, mean or lying since breakfast.”

“What if I don’t?”

“Then I will heave these two remaining juices into the ocean,” I threatened, picking them up and cocking back my arm.

He tilted his head, calculating whether I was mean enough to do just that. He must have decided I was, and I let out a small sigh of relief. He hadn’t called my bluff.

“I’m sorry.” He hung his head with drama.

“Be more specific,” I ordered, still in my matron’s persona.

“I’m sorry for punching Katie in the hallway and for calling you pathetic.”

“That’s it? Haven’t you forgotten another little detail?”

“Like what?” He was being stubborn.

“Like what you said about my bathing suit bottom?”

He shrugged. “I wasn’t lying.”

My hand flew to the back of my suit as I frantically felt for a hole in my bottoms. He grinned and while I was off guard, he ran toward me and grabbed the remaining two juice boxes out of my hand. He ran toward Katie, holding one out to her.

“Dougie!” I shouted, angry with myself for being duped.

“Yes?” he called out in a sing-song as he hurled one of the boxes into the ocean and quickly popped the spout on the other and drank it down. He dropped the empty carton at his feet and, with a smirk, headed toward me.

Katie had stood up as she watched the juice box sail over her head into the waves. She walked toward me now and looked up, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand. “You really are stupid, aren’t you?” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. I couldn’t argue with her. She peeled off her life jacket, let it fall to the sand and began walking back toward Utopia. Dougie dropped his jacket and followed her.

“You two come back here and carry your life jackets, cooler and chair!” I shouted after them.

Dougie kept walking but held up his middle finger over his head at me. There was nothing left for me to do but run and collect everything, including my laptop, and follow them like a pack mule.

As we came closer to Utopia, I noticed a crowd of people in front of the entrance. They’d gathered around a limousine. The door of the resort opened and Brayden sailed out, motioning to his security detail to hold back the crowd. He personally opened the limousine door and handed out a gorgeous woman in a black dress, her Louis Vuitton shoes making her legs appear like a ballerina’s. I could hear her bell-like laughter at whatever Brayden said as he ushered her inside on his arm.

Dougie stopped long enough to turn and look at me. “I’ll bet she doesn’t have a hole in her ass,” he pronounced and continued inside.

God, I hated my life.

Chapter 6

Brayden

Emily Davis, the well-known ballet dancer, was due at any minute. I was watching her limo pull up through the door when I spotted Harper and her two charges trudging toward the Utopia entrance. Harper looked adorable, if a little dated, in a faded red bikini, but she was carrying two orange life jackets, a purple cooler, a lime-green beach chair and a computer case. The kids’ arms were empty but they wore expressions of arrogance as they approached. I felt for Harper and hoped she chose another entrance. Emily was liable to be a showstopper and Harper would feel, well, dowdy. It broke my heart.

True to what I’d expected, Emily was wearing a mini black number and her famous legs were in full display. She was nothing but presentation and while I played the part, I hated it. Harper had paused, and I hoped the kids would give her a break. Naturally, they didn’t, and she was forced to follow them into the hotel lobby in our wake.

I deposited the stunning Ms. Davis among her fans in the tea room and excused myself. I rang Harper’s room.

“Hello?” she answered and I could hear the misery in her voice.

“This is room service calling. Anything I can bring up for you? Me?” I joked.

“Brayden, I’m not in the mood.”

“I’m sorry. I saw you come back from the beach and I don’t blame you. Why don’t you drown the little freaks?”

“Don’t think it hasn’t crossed my mind, except that I know the boy would drag me under with him,” she said dryly and I was glad to hear her sense of humor was returning.

“Say, I have some responsibilities to see to for a new guest.”

“Yeah, I saw her.”

“Well, I was calling to ask you to meet me for drinks again tonight at the Cabana. I’d like to do a reset on our last talk—it didn’t go the way I’d planned.”

“If you’re thinking you’ll get me into bed this time, don’t bother, Brayden.”

“Not at all. It felt so good to be with you again last night, Harper. I hadn’t realized how much I missed you. C’mon and be a sport and just meet me to talk?”

There was a pause before she agreed. “Same time?” she asked.

“I’ll come up to your room and get you,” I suggested and she agreed before we hung up. Now I had something to look forward to that would make my day spent waiting on a prima ballerina bearable.

I was headed back to the tea room when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned and looked down to see Ripley Bonham standing there, an expectant look on his face. “May I help you?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” he replied, and I couldn’t get the image of a worm out of my mind.

I shook my head. “I’m sorry?”

“I thought you might like me to help you with your special guest? I know you’re busy and these are my people. I could take her off your hands.”

What the hell is this stupid fuck talking about?

“You’ve got me at a disadvantage, Ripley. Are you a personal friend of Ms. Davis?”

He looked downward and scuffed the point of his shoe against the patterned carpet. “I know of her, of course.”

The last thing I was going to do was hand off Emily Davis, one of the up and coming stars in the world of ballet, to a knucklehead wannabe like Bonham. Emily had a fan base of some of the wealthiest and most snobbish arts aficionados in the world and would be the perfect drawing card for the kind of guests I wanted. People unlike Ripley Bonham. I held my temper, though. I didn’t want a scene.

“Ripley, I appreciate your offer but her schedule is already set by her people and my job is just to make her comfortable during her stay with us. If it looks like help is needed, I’ll be sure to drop your name,” I offered.

He nodded with excitement. “Very well! I’ll be on call, you know where to find me!” He was drooling, the ass.

He stayed behind me as I entered the tea room, and I nodded to one of my security detail to get rid of him. They understood completely and escorted him like a king out to the pool where an overflow of like admirers posed and waited to be introduced like so many peacocks holding champagne flutes. How does Harper put up with his shit?

Just thinking of her made me want to drop everything, including the lovely Ms. Davis, and spirit her away to a shared afternoon at our spot at the beach. I wondered what I was doing in that life. How did Harper manage to keep such a hold on me, considering she’d never graced my bed? I imagined that I got a whiff of her cologne and turned quickly to see if she was in the crowd behind me. She wasn’t. It was probably the last place she’d be; just not her style. Nor mine, to be truthful.

Emily Davis was holding court from her table in the tea room. Nearby, there was a linen-covered table with a tea service and crystal platters of finger sandwiches, fruit and petit fours. Women seemed to like those things. Colorful little pretties that looked elegant when you nibbled on them but had no calories. Give me a prime rib and baked potato anytime.

A potted palm was strategically positioned just behind her and with her magnificently long legs crossed at the knee, she was a photo op from almost any angle. She knew how to play the game, or perhaps it was her handlers who had it in hand. Either way, she was probably originally a cowgirl from Oklahoma who won some local talent contest and her life turned into a fairy tale at that point. I didn’t care, she wasn’t my style. I was into ringlets and jade eyes and breasts that I could bury my dick between. Speaking of… I had to get Harper off my mind or Ms. Ballerina would be getting an eyeful.

The afternoon dragged. Twice, Ripley Bonham showed up next to me like a salivating dog. I glared at my security guy, and he spoke into his shoulder mic before quickly herding Bonham into another holding pen. The man was like flypaper! Is he fucking insane? Maybe even dangerous?

Finally, her limo reappeared and the ballerina was whisked off to her performance in downtown Miami. At least I was free of the responsibility for her for the time being. I went up to the condo I used when not going home and showered and changed into something a little more casual.

I caught sight of myself in the mirror as I shaved. My eyes looked lively, and I wondered what had made the difference? I didn’t need to wonder. She was waiting for me upstairs at that very moment.

I tapped on Harper’s door, and she opened it. She was wearing a pair of black leather pants and a pink and black striped tunic with a low neck. When I looked at her, I felt a sense of overwhelming relief, like I’d come home to where I belonged. She was smiling in welcome and it made me feel even better. I wanted to pick her up and carry her, like a teddy bear, so I could feel her warm flesh against me and wrap my arms around her without ever letting go. She made me feel so… well, so me.

As she closed her door, I turned and saw the weasel Bonham peering out his door at us. He’d opened it an inch, not to investigate strange noises from the hallway, but to spy on me; on us. I felt the urge to kick his door completely open and knock his block off. As I held Harper’s hand down the hallway, I asked myself just why in the hell I even let the guy in the place? I had all the money I needed. I certainly didn’t need him, and he was a nobody. A body taking up rooms that could be given over to better people. But he would take Harper with him, and then I couldn’t keep an eye on her. It didn’t sit well, and I was moody as we went downstairs. Harper kept looking up at me with doubt in her eyes. I squeezed her shoulder in reassurance. This seemed to satisfy her, at least until we were seated in the Cabana.

“So, what’s up?” she asked immediately as Bert disappeared to get our drinks.

“What do you mean?”

She tilted her head and called my bullshit without a word.

“That Bonham guy,” I began. “I don’t know how you can work for him.”

Bert set her drink before her, and she stirred the Manhattan with the sword-pierced cherry before raising it to her lips and licking the droplet from her finger. I felt my own sword spring upward hard and I shifted, trying to arrange it and still sit comfortably on the padded chair.

“You do what you have to do,” she explained and I got it.

“He’s been on my back all day like a fly on cow dung, and I don’t know what the hell his problem is.”

She kept her eyes low and had gone back to stirring her drink with the small red straw mixer. She said nothing.

“What are the kids like?”

“Exactly like the parents,” she filled in and it was pretty much as I’d expected.

“Harper, look at me. Is this what you want to be doing for the next forty years?”

“Of course not!” Her vehemence surprised me. Her eyes had turned moss green as tears pooled in them. I didn’t get what had just happened, but I knew it wasn’t good.

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh, Brayden, I’ve gotten myself in a mess. I should be off in a dark closet by myself somewhere.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Oh, never mind.”

“Hey,” I said and reached for her hand. She didn’t pull it away. I held it with one hand and stroked the back with my other index finger. “It’s me, Brayden, remember? Tell me.”

She wagged her head from one side to the other, and I could feel that she was getting upset. “So, I graduated with a degree in computer science and got this job, right out of the chute at Cleve-Mobil, a guy named Steve Tabbott.”

My gut tightened. I prepared myself for what I was afraid to hear.

“I did some coding but it was boring stuff. Nothing challenging. Tabbott asked me out, and I dated him a few times but it was like being with the king of nerds. He had no sensitivity whatsoever. He had numbers for blood. We were kind of an item and that was fine until he absconded with the company funds and left everyone hanging. I became Bonnie to his Clyde even though I had nothing to do with it, and I got dumped the same as everyone else. Well, tech is a close environment. Everyone knows everyone. So, without my knowing anything about it, he managed to ruin my reputation. I couldn’t find a job anywhere in Cleveland and I lost everything. I was on the job boards online and saw the nanny job back here at home. They were footing the expenses, and I could stay here at your awesome resort. Course, back then, I didn’t know you owned it. So, one thing led to another and here I am, nanny to two of the worst kids who could have ever been created. I wasn’t even terribly crazy about kids to begin with but I thought I could sort of just keep an eye on them and with the rest of my time, I’d code an online dating site.”

I nodded. “And that’s not working out?”

“Are you kidding? Have you seen that family? They are just one freaking hot mess!”

I continued to stroke her hand as I listened. “I get the idea. So, tell me about your website.”

“You sure you’re really interested?”

“I wouldn’t have asked, Harper, dear. If it fascinates you, it must be worth hearing about.”

“Geez, Bray, that’s a really nice thing to say.” She smiled and touched her finger to her lip and kissed it, then planted that kiss on the back of my hand.

I continued stroking hers. I don’t know if it was getting to her, but it was definitely getting to me. “So, how did you come up with the idea?”

“Okay, so I’ve had friends who tried the dating sites and they’re so lame. They’re hangouts for perverts and scammers, for the most part. Lots of people get catfished. I’m sure there are nice people on there, too, but for the most part they play the role of victim. I wanted to do something different, something safe and original. Most importantly, I wanted to do something that worked.”

I loved the way her eyes lit up as she spoke. It was clear she was really excited by her concept.

“So, my site has a pay-to-play concept, but it’s per connection. You can look at the photos and profiles others post all day for free. But if you contact them or look to see their personal video, then you pay a small fee. This way, people are encouraged to put videos up that show them in real life, in their home or work environments, with their friends – you get the idea. And if someone is willing to pay to see your video or contact you, then it’s a boost to your ego and you’re more likely to put your best foot forward. Naturally, the people paying are serious about what they’re doing.”

I watched the animation on her face and wondered about her incentive in doing this. How often had she been on dating sites? The thought made me jealous. I didn’t like the idea of other guys paying to ogle my girl. Whoa! When had she become my girl? “Tell me more.”

“Huh! I’m surprised you’re interested in this. Okay, well, everyone is assigned an email address via the site and there are private phone lines set up for security. There’s chat, naturally. But there’s one feature I’m really excited about.”

“And that is…?”

“With the subscriber’s permission, they turn on their computer camera and over a series of days, when they log in and go through pictures, the camera films their reactions. It uses AI to discern raised eyebrows, smiles, widening of the eyes, nervous gestures, aroused gestures, etc. It stores this data and compares the subscriber’s preferences or dislikes against the database of subscribers. Using this information, it matches people and gives them an automatic introduction. At that point, they can have an online date via camera. Again, it’s all perfectly safe.”

“Sounds like a winner, Harper. I’m impressed.”

“Oh, there’s more.”

“More? Virtual sex?”

“Oh, no, no… that is strictly forbidden, and they acknowledge they’re being filmed when they agree to the camera service, so they’re monitored to prevent that. What they want to do on their own is their business. We can’t stop that. No, the real information comes in the advertiser products that will line one side of the page. We’ll track the eye and click through reaction of those ads and then have even more information to help advertisers target their customers.”

“So it’s Big Brother?”

“Oh, don’t be naïve, Bray, Big Brother is everywhere already. You’re probably being filmed at this very moment.”

“I know I am, silly. They’re my cameras.”

“Did you get permission from your guests?”

I laughed. “Did you notice that little plaque by the door that advised people that security systems were in use?”

“But that’s not obviously stating it.”

“Makes the lawyers happy. That’s all I care about.”

She nodded. “Makes sense. I’m going to have to get really chummy with lawyers after a certain point, I’m sure. First, I’m going to write the code, and later, I’ll look into the administrative side of things.”

“Maybe that’s something I could help you with?”

“Aw, Bray, you’re too busy for something like this. Geez, look at all you do.”

I moved my finger so I was stroking her palm then. “It’s not about being busy; it’s about making priorities.”

She nodded and looked down at her hand. “I suppose that’s true,” she said, her voice trailing off. I knew I was getting to her and it was making me feel pretty damned good at the same time. I closed my eyes and imagined that the skin I was stroking was at the top of her inner thigh, at the perimeter of her pubic mound. I was completely hard and aching as I thought about her that way. None of the others had ever done that for me. She was the sought-after treasure I’d never gotten. Harper was my drug of choice, and I was willing to bet she didn’t even realize it.

“May I tell you something I don’t think you know?” I asked her.

“Sure. Go ahead.”

Her eyelids were drooping, and I knew she was probably rubbery-legged with relaxation. “I have an admission to make, and you need to understand that this has nothing to do with me trying to sleep with you.”

“Oh?” That last part made her sit straight up, and I could see her inhaling, getting ready to tell me off again.

“Hold on, hear me out. Will you?”

Exasperated, she nodded.

“I want you to know that I really screwed up when we were in school. I was all sprouting bones and hormones. I did what I thought all guys were supposed to do but I was way off base. The girls I dated after you? They were all easy, had no class, no substance. You were it for me. You were gorgeous, intelligent, ambitious, loving and compassionate and could handle yourself in any situation. When I think about what I settled for, it makes me sick. I should have never let you get away, Harper.”

She stared at me. “If I’m not mistaken, I think I just heard an apology?”

“Yes, indeed, you did.”

A tear dropped onto her cheek. “Thank you for that. I needed to hear that.”

I felt something strange well up inside of me. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but at that moment, it was more important that Harper be happy and fulfilled than me.

I couldn’t stand the separation between us any longer. I stood up and pulled her to her feet. “Come here, my girl.” I dragged her from the Cabana and toward my office. I opened the door, flipped on a small lamp and pulled her inside, kicking the door closed behind her.

I slid one hand up beneath her cascading curls and pulled her head back so I could find her mouth. I tasted her, inhaled her scent and I felt her familiar body accept mine. She fit me perfectly as I lifted her petite body and molded it against me. Her arms went around my neck and she kissed me back, her tongue diving in and challenging my own with swordplay. I collapsed backward onto my office sofa and she clung to me. Her buttons surrendered themselves, and I laid back the fabric to expose her burgeoning breasts. Reaching for the back fastening, she suddenly pushed my hands away. “Don’t!”

“Stay with me? Please, Harper? You’re not the girl in high school. You’re a grown woman who is extraordinarily beautiful and desirable. You know we need one another. Don’t push me away. Please.”

She wasn’t angry; she was scared. I believe she was afraid of the woman inside herself. She pushed me away and rebuttoned her blouse. She scrambled up from my lap and paused at my door. “I’m sorry,” she whispered and disappeared through the door.

Chapter 7

Harper

The Bonham children were beating at my door. I’d taken the precaution of activating the safety lock, as well as shoving a chair against the door. There was no way they could get in, unless I let them in. I wasn’t ready to do that. After all, it was 6:30 in the morning and the sun wasn’t even decently up yet. They gave up and left and I rolled over, thinking about Brayden.

He had matured. As much as I wanted to crucify him over and over for throwing me away, I had to admit that my carefully-nurtured prejudice was growing thin. He’d had no idea how close I’d come to giving in the night before. If he had, he’d never have let me go.

I had to ask myself if it was truly Brayden who held such an attraction or was I awakening as a woman and learning that I had value and was desired? Was I finally discovering the possibilities of what life could be like with a partner who loved and wanted your body? Was that such a horrible thing? I knew my mother and father had grown apart. He’d always been a heavy drinker and when he’d stayed out past three in the morning, she knew he would be coming home mean and wanting trouble. She’d lock the doors and windows, bring Stephanie and I into her room with her and we’d pile furniture against the door. Sometimes Dad had broken a window or found a way into the house itself, but he’d never made it into their bedroom. The next morning, we’d find him on the porch or the couch, the stench of vomit and piss wafting from his person.

I had learned early in life that sex was a bad thing. It made otherwise good people become bad. My dad had been proof of that. Sure, he was drunk when he came in, but he wanted to touch my mother, and she wanted no part of him. That’s why he’d gotten mad; that’s what drove him to leave again that night and not come home until he could barely see straight.

Their dynamic had a huge effect on me, and I think on Stephanie, as well. While she had been less popular in school, she’d observed all the good girl protocols and as far as I knew, graduated a virgin.

For me, it had been a little harder. There was something about me that seemed to attract the guys in school. I’d heard their catcalls as I passed where they sat on the window ledge opposite the cafeteria. They congregated like crows on a telephone wire and the girls who wanted to be seen knew that was where they should walk. It happened to begin just outside the girls’ bathroom so a fresh layer of lipstick and heavily brushed hair always bolstered courage to make the walk.

I’d avoided this as often as I could. Brayden had been my excuse for two years. None of the guys wanted problems with him, so they’d kept their mouths shut or muttered beneath their breaths when they thought I couldn’t hear them. But I heard them, I just didn’t tell Bray what they said.

Now he had come back into my life. I’d grown up enough to understand that whatever my parents went through, there was no shame in sharing your body with someone you loved. I just never expected to have Bray back in my life. I realized that sounded foolish since I’d come back to the scene of my childhood; drawn like a magnet as I voiced an outcry of denial. I wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all Bray. He knew I could have left the moment I’d discovered he owned Utopia. I could have worked at McDonalds or bunked in with an old girlfriend. But I didn’t. In the same way the girls had gone down the walk, I was parading in front of the love of my life, and yet this time, I was desperately hoping he’d say something that would turn back time and give me a reason to stay. The Bonhams had become those nasty boys I wanted silenced.

The phone on my nightstand rang. I was sure it was Bernadette, demanding that I present myself immediately for breakfast. I had begun to hate the tone of her voice and as for Ripley, well, the only people I hated more than him were his children. That seemed to be an awful thing to say about kids. But, I was being honest with myself.

“Hello?” I said in my not-so-cheery good morning voice.

“Harper?”

“Bray!” It was hard to keep the delight out of my voice.

“Did I wake you?”

“No. As a matter of fact, I was lying here thinking about you.”

“You were? Was it good or bad thinking?”

“Do you remember the walk? You know, that ledge opposite the cafeteria where the boys sat and watched the girls walk by?”

He chuckled. “Oh, yes, I remember. I also remember not seeing you there very often.”

“I know,” I admitted, looking down at the pale pink sleepshirt I was wearing. Slowly I was picking up my tan again. “You were my protector, you know.”

“Me? How?”

“No one wanted to mess with Brayden Campbell. So, they left me alone.”

“No kidding. Huh. Never realized that. Well, this Brayden Campbell would like to take you to breakfast.”

“Aw, I can’t, I’m sorry. Bernadette is pretty strict about having the family breakfast together. In fact, I thought it was her when you called. But I’m glad it wasn’t.” I was letting him know that my thoughts about him were changing. I felt as though I was walking on thin ice—dangerous and yet thrilling all at once.

“That’s too bad. Well, I’ve got a busy day ahead so I’m not able to make plans just yet, but I’ll be in touch. Okay?”

“Sure. I’ll see you around.”

I heard the line click and knew he’d gone on to his day and it was about time I did the same. I showered and dressed in a denim mini with a pale pink t-shirt and pink sandals. It was an outfit I loved because it let me wear a skirt and still be casual and comfortable. I was hoping to get in some coding time today.

Breakfast was like visiting the set of the Addams’ Family. Morticia, otherwise known as Bernadette, announced that the children were scheduled for interviews and a tour of a private school she’d chosen in the city for them the upcoming fall. She would be accompanying them, a fact that gave me overwhelming joy. Both kids were less thrilled, knowing that it meant dressing up and being paraded around like purebred dogs, when at best, they were mongrels. I had a suspicion that the kids knew their parents were phony, pretentious and grasping. Kids seemed to have the cleanest radar about human behavior, perhaps because they had yet to learn the art of guile. Their mother had it down pat.

That left me with time to myself, and I went back to my room and changed into my red bikini; this time with a terry robe cover-up. I grabbed my laptop and headed downstairs, watching through the window as Bernadette appeared with two glowering children and climbed into a waiting limousine. Ripley was nowhere in sight.

The pool was a gorgeous area, characterized by a series of waterfalls that created grottos of heated water for deep muscle relaxation and intimate conversation. The open pool was actually a series of five pools, linked by these waterfall grottos. Each had an in-water bar where guests could rest on stools and be served their favorite beverage, as well as a limited selection of appetizers. One pool was reserved for children, decorated by brightly-colored cartoon characters as slides and an in-water carousel, putt-putt water golf and volleyball. The children were not permitted in the adjoining pools, allowing the adults to have a less hectic, more intimate environment.

I had dragged a lounge chair beneath the shade of a large umbrella, giving me the ability to see the laptop screen easily. Talking about the website to Bray had re-instituted my excitement and the code was rolling off my fingers at an accelerated pace. I had the bare bones of the backend functionality done by noon and closed the laptop to take in some sun and ordered lunch from a passing waiter. He brought my fruit salad and chicken sandwich promptly, and I sipped the iced tea with a spring of mint slowly. After eating, I reclined the chair flat and put on my sunglasses.

I picked up my phone and went through my contacts. Strange, but I only had my sister, Stephanie, left in the world and yet I didn’t know her phone number. I scrolled down to find it and tapped.

“Steph? It’s me. Can you talk for a few?”

“Well, look what the cat dragged in. I thought I might have to put out a reward for you,” Steph snipped at me.

“Oh, don’t be like that. I told you I was moving home but it took some doing. I wasn’t exactly floating with money and opportunities.”

“Okay, okay, so are you back now?”

“Yes. I got a job as a nanny.”

“No shit? You? Oh, that’s rich. Hang on…” There was a bell tinkling over the line and then I heard Steph say, “Hi, how are you today? Have a seat and I’ll be right with you.” A little more shuffling noise and then she was back to me. “Look I have to go, my one o’clock is here.”

“Can you meet me for lunch on Thursday?”

“Let me see… okay, sure, where?”

“Utopia. It’s on me, just ask for me at the front desk.”

“My, my, you sure know how to nanny, don’t you?”

“I’ll see you on Thursday?”

“See you then.”

She disconnected, and I relaxed back in the chair. It had been good to hear her voice, and I was looking forward to catching up. As my big sister, she’d taken it upon herself to take my mother’s place. I knew I would catch some disapproval from her at first, but it was worth it. She was all the family I had.

I closed my eyes, remembering some of our childhood. We’d not been as close as we could have, the difference in our ages emphasized by Steph’s motherly attitude, but still, we’d had fun times.

I had almost dozed off when a shadow fell over me. I opened my eyes. It was Ripley. I felt myself stiffen.

“Can I help you with something, Ripley?”

He smiled that smarmy way he had and pulled up a chair next to mine. “I’ve been looking for you.” He looked down the length of me, his eyes pausing at my breasts and crotch. I recoiled, sat up and pulled my towel over me.

“Is something wrong? Are the kids back early?” I asked, giving him the benefit of doubt.

“No. No, it’s just you and I.”

I pulled the towel tighter and higher. “Well, not really, Ripley. There are a lot of people around us. What is it then?”

“I was thinking that maybe you needed a bigger salary.” His hand reached toward me, and he began stroking my thigh.

“Don’t do that, Ripley. Keep your hands to yourself.”

“I thought you and I might work out a side arrangement.” He continued to stroke my thigh, and I slid off the chair away from him and stood up.

“Ripley, you hired me to watch your children. That’s it. I’m not for hire in any other way, do you hear me?”

“I think if you gave it some thought, let’s say maybe a thousand more a week? You must have some bills or want to put some away for your future?”

“Ripley, stop this! Even if I were available, it would be out of the question.”

“Available? Who are you seeing?”

I looked around, trying to buy time to come up with a good answer. At last, I settled for one that was vague. “You know, I’ve been having drinks and am old friends with Brayden.”

He smiled, but I could tell that had some effect. “Okay, have it your way. But the kids will be starting school soon and I thought you’d like to stay on full time, no?”

“Not in the way you’re suggesting.”

“Well, you give it some thought. Not sure I could see my way clear to giving you a room here. After all, what would be the purpose?”

“I’m going in now, Ripley. I’m going to do you a favor and not tell Bernadette of this conversation,” I threatened without subtlety.

“Go ahead, tell her. She’s probably already thought of it herself.”

I shuddered visibly, trying to shake off the creepy feeling he gave me. I picked up my laptop and headed quickly back for Utopia and the sanctuary of my room.

Chapter 8

Brayden

I’d been left a note by the maintenance supervisor that some issues with the pool filters had popped up and he wanted permission to shut the pools down for two days to make updates. The pools were a major feature and I had headed toward the equipment building to have a look for myself when I spotted Harper’s slender body in that pitiful old bikini on a lounge chair. I could hear her on the phone with someone and hung back just to listen to the musical lilt of her voice, though I couldn’t make out the words.

I watched as Ripley approached her and by her body language, she was not happy. That’s when I saw him touching her leg and moved closer so I could listen in. I didn’t want to make an unnecessary scene if I could keep from it, but the man was clearly over the line and one step away from dragging her away caveman style. I saw red as I heard him threaten her with his hideous proposition and just when I was about to step in, I saw her leave.

I took care of the pool equipment inspection and headed immediately to the ballroom where they were preparing for a fashion show function for socialites from Miami. A yearly event, it generally packed the rooms and restaurants and Utopia had become synonymous with its success. If ever there was an environment boiling over with ego and attempted domination, it was fashion. The entire event carried a backstage atmosphere of a carnival side show and yet, one by one, models emerged onto the runway with grace and a look of complete disinterest, thereby transferring all personality to the garment and away from the model herself.

My cell vibrated in my pocket. It was the front desk notifying me there was someone who insisted on seeing me. I responded that I’d be there as soon as I could.

Utopia was growing beyond what I’d ever imagined. I had based my business plan on roughly fifty percent average occupancy, but the current reality was ninety percent and higher on a regular basis. I was considering expansion but the tourism industry wasn’t what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. One thing was for sure; I needed help. I wanted a responsible, owner-perspective assistant I could trust with not just financial aspects, but with the privacy and sensitive issues that occurred in running such a resort. There was only one person I could imagine in that role – Harper. I told myself I just wanted her with me and I was exaggerating her qualifications. Realistically, I knew she could handle it.

I put out a few more petty fires on my way to the front desk. I considered calling Harper but wasn’t sure if I could spend any time with her at all. I recalled the images of Ripley fondling her leg and the slow burn I’d been trying to ignore was becoming hotter by the moment. Spontaneously, I tapped her direct cell number and she answered immediately.

“Crazy day here,” I opened the conversation.

“I sort of know what you mean, but probably in a different sense,” she commiserated.

“I know, I saw.”

“You…?”

“I was on my way to the equipment shed at the pool when I saw him touching you.”

“He’s a creep.”

“He’s dangerous, Harper. Stupid, desperate people always are. They lose their sense of reason to get what they want. I don’t like you being around him. Where are the kids?”

“With their mother, visiting a school. They’ll be back before long.”

“Can you meet me for an iced tea? I haven’t had lunch and miss you.”

There was a pause. “I suppose I could, but I can’t stay long. When the kids come back, I know they’ll be ready to explode. They’re not very good at prolonged good behavior.”

“Meet me in the front lobby. There’s someone there asking for me and I’ll wait for you there.”

“See you in a couple of minutes, then,” she agreed and disconnected.

I checked my watch and headed up front. I heard the voice even before I saw the owner.

My brother, Collin.

Gail, at the front desk, gave me a wry, apologetic look and pointed the tip of her pen toward a seating arrangement by the window. I drew a deep breath and quickly looked around to see if Harper had come down yet. I contemplated turning around and leaving—to let the lion pace his cage before I acknowledged him. I knew my brother, however. He would make it his business to time the reunion when it would prove the most embarrassing to me. I couldn’t give him that control. I could, however, give him a smaller, more private audience.

Turning to speak to Gail, I saw Harper headed my way. I didn’t know whether to hug her or ask her to go back to her room.

“Hi,” I whispered in her ear. “I’m in a fix. My brother, Collin, is here and holding court over there by the window. I know he’ll say something intended to embarrass me.”

“Okay, no big deal. He’s always been a bit of an ass, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“I don’t, and I agree,” I admitted.

Harper took my arm and propelled me toward Collin. “We’re not hiding and certainly not on your turf,” she stated and I was more or less at her command.

Collin’s back was toward us. Harper pulled me close and then released my arm and stepped around to face him.

“I thought I recognized that voice. Hello, there, Collin. How nice to see you again!” Harper was in her cocky, I-dare-you-to-ignore-me stance. If I had any doubts about her competence before that, they had disappeared now.

Collin’s head tilted upward and his overly-loud laugh was cut short. “You look familiar, sweet thing, but I’m not sure who you are.”

Harper laughed, overly-loudly as if to mock him. “Oh, no? Your brother and I were an item for two years, Collin. I haven’t changed that much.”

“Harper.”

“Now you’ve got it, buddy,” she said, reaching down to slap his thigh. “I thought you were in prison,” she threw at him. An uncomfortable silence enveloped the small group and a couple of people stood and walked away. She had, in one sentence, effectively broken up his audience and disarmed his opportunity to embarrass his younger brother.

Collin sat there, watching people look elsewhere and quietly rise to walk away. He looked up at Harper who stood looking down at him. “Now, Harper, honey, why would you say that to me? That wasn’t very nice and I seem to remember you were a pretty nice little piece at one time.” Collin lifted his hand and took a sip from his glass. I knew it was a sign of danger; he was buying time before he exploded.

I pulled Harper back, out of the line of fire and stepped around in her place.

“Hello, brother.”

“Well, what do you know. You decided not to hide behind your girl, I see?”

“She has better things to do,” I said coolly and glanced quickly at Harper, warning her away with a look. She nodded and sauntered off toward the elevator. I looked at Collin. “Why don’t we go into my office to talk? If I stay out here, someone will bring me a problem.” I thought it sounded plausible and Collin chose to believe me. He shrugged, set down his drink and rose to his feet. I’d finally passed him and was now two inches taller than he was; a fact that seemed to perturb him so I took advantage of it. I looked down at him and nodded over my shoulder. “This way.”

We went into my office and I felt my phone vibrate. I motioned him into a chair and checked the message. It was from Harper. I tried my best. Good luck. Oh, and mention that his fly is open. ~Harper

I just about choked to keep from laughing and looked at Collin’s pants. She was right. I didn’t say a word about it. “Nice to see you again, brother. What brings you to town?”

He sat sideways in the wingback and put his gym shoes on my desk. I handed him another drink from the mini bar in my office and joined him.

Pointing a finger at me, he started the story. There was always a story. It generally began with, “I hate to…” and ended up with me giving him money and a ticket out of town, sometimes after the bail had been paid. I took a drink and shut out his voice until he got to the part where he needed something.

I held up my hand. “No need, Collin. What do you need?” I headed off his closing statement.

“Now is that any way to talk to your big brother? The man who taught you how to defend yourself? Picked you up and dusted you off when the bullies came after you?”

“Which bullies? You mean the ones you sent my way with orders to kick the shit out of me?”

“All of them.”

“Collin, what do you need? I have to get back to work.”

“A place to stay and a chance to maybe help you out a bit, bro,” he said, the liquor smoothing his voice into a plaintive whine.

“No problem. Let me leave you a key at the front desk. Why don’t you go into the tearoom and order lunch? Tell them to put it on my account.” I walked to the door and held it open for him, but he didn’t budge. “Is there something else?”

“So, when did you and Harper hook up again?”

I shook my head. “We’re not hooked up, so let it go.”

“No kidding?” He emptied his drink and stood. A smirk twisted his lips as he said, “Then you won’t mind if I sniff around?”

It killed me and I wouldn’t allow it, but I knew if I told him he couldn’t, he would do it on purpose. “Sniff away,” I told him.

“Well, thanks, bro,” he mocked me and saluted as he left.

The second I closed the door, I texted Harper.

Collin is headed your way. Stay clear. It’s easier than telling him no because he’ll just see that as a challenge. ~Brayden

The response came within seconds.

Thanks a lot. I’ll see if I can find a street person to return the favor.

I loved her sense of humor. Jesus! Just texting with her made me hard. I hated the position I was in. I knew she was still a bit sticky about the old days and any whiff of repeat behavior and she’d disappear for life. It was only coincidence that had brought her into my gin joint, as Bogey would say.

I had a meeting coming up and thought I’d get some fresh air first. Grabbing an iced lemonade from the tea room, I pushed the door open against the heavy, humid air of the outdoor pool area. It was popular this time of day, particularly for the snowbirds from the upper half of the country. They were recognizable by the vivid red burn of their skin. If they’d come prepared to stay for three days, they wanted a year’s worth of tan in those three days. They would pay their dermatologist later, most likely.

I spotted Harper coming out another set of doors with the kids in tow. The boy’s mouth was open and, from the expression on his face, I could tell he was complaining. The little girl kept shoving her glasses up the bridge of her nose, something that appeared to be more of a nervous habit than a necessity. Harper was nodding and carrying her laptop. I felt badly for her. She was trapped. She wanted to be entrepreneurial but couldn’t afford the time it took to get her business off the ground. She was wearing the same tired bikini. I imagined for a moment what a new wardrobe could do to showcase her gorgeous body and face. I was afraid if I offered, I’d spook her again. I knew I was going to change her life, I just wasn’t sure how to manage it yet.

I checked my watch and saw I only had five minutes to get to my meeting. The woman was the president of a large writer’s group in New York City. They were scouting locations for their upcoming annual meeting, and I knew we were at the top of their list.

I headed indoors and Gail was trying to get my attention. She motioned with her eyes to a very attractive, middle-aged woman in a designer, two-piece suit. I knew she was my appointment and that she was from the north. No one in their right Floridian mind would wear such a heavy suit in this weather.

I approached and greeted her, holding out my hand. We spoke briefly but the noise in the lobby precluded a serious discussion. She asked if I minded coming to her room, mentioning that she had details of their needed accommodations on a white board there. She was staying on the first floor so it was nearby and wouldn’t take long. I nodded and followed her as requested. Just as the door was closing behind me, I saw Harper coming back in with the kids, her hair wet and flat against her head. I had a pretty good idea why they were headed back inside and what the boy was in for when they got upstairs, especially when I saw Ripley meet them with a perturbed look on his face. Shaking my head thoughtfully, I went into the meeting. I would talk to Harper later that evening if she could get away. Something had to change.

Chapter 9

Harper

I could feel myself falling into the doldrums and that didn’t feel natural. I’d always had some anxiety issues but once the stressor had passed, I bounced back. I knew what was behind my feelings. It was the sense of having nothing to look forward to.

Building my website had been a dream for some time. I’d planned and made notes and even written snippets of code to be implemented—when I got time. It was those four words that imprisoned me while I was in Cleveland. It had almost been a relief to lose my job. No more excuses to not go into business for myself. I thought subconsciously I may have even chosen the nanny job just because I knew I’d be so miserable that I’d finally be motivated to finally build the site.

Well, I’d been right about one thing. I was miserable. Especially when I looked at Brayden. I asked myself why I hadn’t given in to him while in high school. I loved him then, wanted him as much as he wanted me. My mother’s puritanical supervision and guilt-floggings had left indelible impressions on my visions of self-worth. There was no way to know whether I might have had a future with Brayden, but that could be something I would never know. What I did know was that I dreamed of him now. I knew I had nothing to offer him. I was a boring computer programmer with a so-so body and a Salvation Army wardrobe. I lacked the polish and social connections that would complement him and the world in which he moved.

My internal musings were doing nothing to help my mood, so I bundled the kids into bathing suits and flip flops the next morning and headed for the beach. They had a ton of energy after their outing to the school, and I couldn’t think of a better place to let them run it off than in the deep sands and water of the Atlantic.

We got an early start because I had lunch scheduled with Steph that day. I was looking forward to seeing her. It had been a long time.

Dougie was full of piss, just as I’d expected. He’d refused to eat his breakfast earlier that morning so that he could legitimately whine about being hungry as soon as his feet hit the sand. I’d outwitted him, though. I’d packed a box of energy bars and bottles of water. These were emergency sustenance and unfortunately for him, the only thing available on the beach. He made faces and began howling. His face screwed up and noises seemed to emit from every orifice of his body. He suddenly went silent, and I followed his surprised look to see that Ripley had followed us. Damn!

“Go play in the water!” he shouted and the kids trudged obligingly in the direction of the surf. It only made my job harder as I had to contend with watching them in the water, while keeping Ripley’s hands at a safe distance. I decided to follow them in. Leaving my laptop sandwiched in its case and between layers of towels, I prayed no one was watching and waded into the waves toward Dougie, the more volatile of the two kids. Ripley was right behind me.

Katie was gingerly bouncing in the shallower water toward us. Ripley held up a silver dollar and shouted, “First one to find it gets ice cream and a trip to the candy store!” He held it high over his head and then whipped it like a Frisbee into the surf. I knew he was creating a diversion for something children should not be involved with and chose to follow them for safety. My own.

Ripley was behind me, chugging through the water to keep up. I was working my knees like crazy to stay ahead but knew I’d lost the race when a hand came up between my legs and fastened onto my pussy.

“Hey!” I objected loudly. The kids never looked around. The surf was loud, and they were both picturing the aisles of the candy store.

“You like that?” came his voice over my shoulder and into my ear.

“Take your hands off me, Ripley.”

His hand let go but his finger lifted the leg band of my bikini bottom and he penetrated me with it. His nail was rough and scratched, especially since I tensed like a prisoner watching the guillotine descend. “Ripley! Get away from me!” I screamed at him and turned to slap his face. I knew as soon as I’d done it that I’d gone over the line. The kids didn’t have a clue what he was doing to me, but I’d just struck their father and even wolves have a loyalty to their pack.

“You think you’ve got Brayden eating from the palm of your hand, you cunning bitch,” he snarled at me.

I didn’t say a word but was in a fighting stance. If he was going to take me down, he was going down with me. I didn’t care if I had to drown the asshole.

“You don’t believe me, right? For your information, I just watched him go into the private room of a very, very tasty morsel in a fashionable suit. He didn’t see me watching but I saw him when I came down to meet you and the kids. He’s got more than one pussy twirling on his dick-go-round. So, if you think you’ll get help from him, you’ve got another one coming. He won’t give up a paying customer like me for the likes of you. He didn’t do it years ago, and he won’t do it again.”

How does he know?

“You lay one more hand on me and I’ll file charges of sexual assault against you, Ripley. Don’t think I won’t. I may not be a big deal around here like you, but I’m a hometown gal and I know people. You’ll be lucky to leave here alive.”

The kids were quiet, and I glanced at them quickly and saw their mouths agape at what I was saying to their father. They were both smart enough to realize that I was on the offense and they’d not heard that from me prior to then. In fact, I was managing to intimidate myself a little at the same time.

I turned my back to him while he was still in stunned mode and motioned the kids to the shore. They marched without a single word of argument. I gathered our beach things and pointed toward Utopia. They just kept on going. I never looked back. I was too afraid of what I might see.

My stomach was churning. Was Ripley lying about seeing Brayden with another woman in her room? He’d just talked to me, just spent time with me. Why would he do that? Was he pathological and couldn’t help himself? I had no way of knowing but I did know that he was capable of doing what Ripley had suggested. I’d seen him do it before. There I was, just like back in high school. I wanted to sleep with him but had this little girl view of the world that said it would be naughty and I’d get caught. I was no longer sixteen, though, and there was no one to catch me. I was only accountable to myself. Not even Stephanie had to know.

That reminded me of the time and I began walking faster, urging the kids ahead of me. I didn’t hear a word from them and there was no sound of Ripley behind me. I hope he drowns. He deserved it. I could still feel the sting his fingernail had left on the soft inner flesh of my pussy. I wanted to vomit all over the sand. Instead, I pulled out my phone and dialed room service. I ordered two lunch trays brought up for the kids and hung up. “When we get back, you two are having lunch in your rooms and then taking a nap. If you’re good and do as you’re told, I’ll have a surprise for you later this evening.”

I didn’t specify the nature of the surprise and they didn’t ask. I think they were both a little in shock of my behavior. I wondered if I’d put my hands around Ripley’s neck and held him under the water, whether either of the kids would have come to try to stop me. I doubted it. Their entire family was eaten with selfish greed and manipulation of one another to get what they wanted. Ripley’s death would have only left Bernadette to contend with. It would have been the two of them against one. I didn’t doubt they hadn’t thought that through at some point. I knew I had.

We got back into the Utopia and I kept one hand on the herd I was moving upstairs. They never said a word and once we reached their floor, they went silently and immediately into their suite and I went into my room. I felt frozen, in shock, unsure where I stood or what my options were. Had Brayden betrayed me once again?

I’d been sexually assaulted by my boss. It was obvious that was the beginning of the end.

With all the beauty around me—the elegant room, its furnishing, the beautiful view from the balcony and the happiness that spewed from the visitors—I still felt dead inside.

I heard room service knock at the Bonhams’ door and peeked out long enough to make sure someone answered. I knew Bernadette was home and heard her twangy voice at their door, so I closed mine and set about getting ready for lunch.

* * *

I found Stephanie in the tea room waiting for me. If I hugged her a little too long, it was because I needed someone to hold onto me for a minute. My head was swimming from the events at the beach, and I had no idea where I was going to be once I returned upstairs and Ripley had come back. He was capable, and likely, to say anything that made him look good and me look bad.

I sat down and sipped the iced tea she had waiting for me. “What is it?” she asked without the preamble of niceties most conversations involved.

“I hate my job,” I said simply.

“We all do from time to time. You had to get out of college and into the real world eventually. Well, this is it, little sister. Get used to it.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That big sister thing you do to me. Please, I know you mean well, but I’m at the bottom of my luck barrel and I just can’t take much more interference right now.”

“Jesus! You’ve got it bad. This is more than your job. Tell me what’s got you so worked up?”

I was saved by the waiter coming for our order and when he left, I tore the paper off a fresh straw and stabbed my ice cubes. “I just got felt up by my boss.” I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the actual extent of his assault.

“Whaaaaat?” She sat up, alarmed. “Where is this guy?”

“Back down, sister dear. I can handle it. He’s just a weasel with too much money and too little brain. Anyway, it’s just a temporary job until I get my website up and running. I’m done working for someone else,” I told her with some degree of confidence—I hoped.

“So, what brought you home in the first place?”

I told her of the Cleveland fiasco and my finding the nanny job on the message boards. I was pretty sure I’d told her this before but Steph had a way of asking me the same question multiple times, as if she was trying to catch me in a lie. I had no idea what there was to lie about but it seemed to feed the mother part of her.

“I won’t say it.” She waved her hand and tucked her linen napkin onto her blue gingham-covered lap. She looked cool and fresh in a sea of red-faced, perspiring tourists. I was proud of her.

“Please don’t.” I really didn’t want to hear any more criticism than I was already leveling against myself.

“There you are!” came a strident voice behind us. I turned and there stood Bernadette, the kids like matching Dobermans standing on either side of her. “You’re supposed to be watching the kids!”

I felt my face flush in deep embarrassment. “I ordered lunch for them and came down here to have my own,” I tried to explain and wanted to cut my own tongue out. I knew Steph was taking it all in.

“You’re not at liberty to have lunch whenever and wherever you like without asking permission first,” she squealed in a loud voice that called people to stare. I wanted to die where I was sitting.

“Dougie, Katie, pull a chair out here at the table and have a seat. As soon as I’ve finished, I’ll take you up for the nap you were supposed to be taking.” I couldn’t look at Bernadette or I knew I’d lose it and claw her eyes out. If it weren’t for the fact that my bank balance was overdrawn, I’d have finished her off with a fork pinning that hideous hair to the carpet. The kids knew it was a pivotal moment and kept their silence. For once, I was proud of them, even if I deliberately misinterpreted their behavior.

“If you’re putting them down for a nap, keep it quiet. I’m going up to lie down and I don’t want to tell you twice to do your job. You’re on a thin rope, my girl,” Bernadette finished off the embarrassing scene as she turned and left.

“Whew!” exhaled Steph. “Don’t say another word. I get what you’ve got going on, and I’m not piling on. How do you stand it?”

I nodded slightly and pointed to the kids with my eyes and signaled Steph to hold back. I didn’t need any more trouble. My options were null at the moment.

Steph ignored me. “I mean, where does that bitch get off talking to you like that?” Her voice was raised, and she began pushing her chair back. I knew where she was headed and grabbed her skirt.

“Sit down and be quiet, please? Don’t add to the mess? Please, Steph? C’mon. Sit down and tell me about your job. Do you have a good customer following? Are you happy? Dating anyone? You look super, by the way.”

The only way to back Steph off was to re-direct the attention on her. I knew this trick because it had worked since we were little girls. It was sort of perverse, feeding her ego, but it worked. At that moment, I needed some pressure off. But, I was out of luck.

“Well, well, look who I’ve found.” I looked up to see Brayden towering over me. He was smiling like a Cheshire cat. I was trying to remember if I was mad at him or whether I’d decided to overlook the possibility that he was seeing other women while flirting with me again. I was too confused and tired to care at that moment. If it could get worse, it did. Collin stood at his side.

“Hello,” I said, keeping it simple. I needn’t have worried. Steph’s attention had moved away from championing me to feeding on Collin’s good looks. From all appearances, he didn’t mind the attention one bit.

Brayden put a hand on my shoulder and leaned low to whisper an invitation to drinks later. I forced myself not to tense. Anxiety was beginning to escalate my reactions to even the most mundane contact. His hand made me shudder, but it wasn’t in a bad way. Not at all. A sword of desire entered where he touched me and shot downward. I felt overcome and looked downward so he couldn’t see the tears in my eyes. Between Ripley’s assault and my suspicions about Brayden, I could feel myself drawing inward.

I nodded to Brayden, and his hand brushed my cheek in a caress. The kids were wide-eyed, having just witnessed their father’s advances on me. Clearly, they had no idea what was going on and what was allowable.

Collin had pulled an empty chair from an adjoining table to sit next to Steph. They were deep in conversation, and I could tell by the hysterically silly quality of Steph’s laugh that she was on a flirting high. Collin’s hand was on her arm, drawing an imaginary line from her wrist to her upper arm. Even from my seat, I could see her goosebumps. Why can’t I let my guard down like she does?

I pushed my chair back. “I’m sorry, Steph, but I have to get these kids upstairs for a nap.”

She barely looked up. Her face was glowing and Collin was equally involved. I felt as though I was interfering. “I’ll see you later,” I said quietly and dropped money on the table as I herded the children out of the tea room.

Brayden followed us. “Is everything okay?” he asked, his voice filled with concern. I don’t suppose it was that hard to tell that I was upset about something. He just wasn’t sure what.

“Yes.” I stopped in my tracks. “No, it isn’t, I won’t lie.”

“What is it?” His hand came forward and latched onto my arm.

I pushed him away. “I don’t know, Brayden. I just don’t know. Look, I have to get these kids upstairs. Bernadette just dressed me down in front of everyone in the tea room, and Ripley is putting moves on me.”

“Whaaaaat?” His face flushed and the muscle in his jaw began to jerk. I’d seen that look before, many years earlier. He’d been confronted by another football player in the hallway at school. He couldn’t risk expulsion then, and he couldn’t risk a scene now. I gave him a knowing look and turned to enter the elevator. As the doors were closing, I saw him standing, his stance wide, and a very angry look on his face.

Dougie and Katie were silent as the elevator rose to their floor. I was grateful and it felt as though we’d struck a pact between us. Perhaps the kids weren’t innately as bad as I’d thought. Maybe it was their parents’ opinions and insinuations I was seeing. It didn’t matter. The whole thing was a royal mess.

I wanted to believe that Ripley was lying and that Brayden’s possible association with someone was innocent. Everything that came out of Ripley’s mouth was foul or lies. I trusted Brayden more than I trusted Ripley; there was that.

The doors parted and the kids headed toward their rooms. I saw them through to their individual rooms and told them to nap and I’d see them a little later. I headed for my own room; I needed a nap probably more than they did.

I washed my face and ran a brush through my hair. The stimulation of the bristles felt good against my scalp. It was a self-nurturing action and made me feel better. I’d expected Steph to be a little outraged at what I’d confessed but I hadn’t expected her to drop the entire matter when Collin showed up at the table. She was fickler than I’d realized.

I pulled back the comforter spread and puffed up the pillows. Sliding off my slacks, I laid down on the bed in a t-shirt and panties and flipped off the light. I’d left the drapes closed earlier and the dimness was comforting. I was just drifting off when there was a sharp rap on the door. I got up and peered through the peep hole. It was Ripley.

“I’m napping. What did you need?”

“Open the door,” he blurted in a voice that told me he’d been drinking. I peered out the hole again and could see him wavering on his feet, a glass with what was probably whiskey in his hand. “Open up!” he shouted and beat on the door with his fist.

I began to panic. Swinging around, I grabbed my slacks from the chair and quickly slipped into them. When I turned around, my door was open and Ripley was watching me dress. I hadn’t even heard him use his key card to my room.

“Please leave.” I made sure my words were clear and authoritative. I wanted no misunderstanding.

“No.”

In one of those insane moments when you’re in trouble and you can’t focus on it, I almost laughed as I realized Ripley looked like one of those children’s punching bags, weighted clowns. His feet were stiff, and he seemed to wave as though standing in a high wind.

I tried to push past him, to get into the hall so we weren’t in a locked room together. His fingers slid into the waist of my slacks, holding me back and pulling me against him and his rigid penis. It wasn’t that he was well-endowed, but that he’d pulled me against his groin and there was no mistaking the hard bulge I felt. “Ripley, let me go!”

“No.”

“Get your filthy hands off me, you conceited asshole!” I screamed as loudly as I could and dragged him with me into the hallway where I knew security cameras were monitoring 24/7.

Their suite door opened, and Bernadette stood in the doorway. She had a sleep mask pushed up over her forehead, so it was obvious she’d been napping. “What’s going on here?” she demanded, frowning and crossing her arms.

“Your husband is trying to rape me!” I shouted. I was past reason, past caution and most of all, no longer afraid of what was sure to happen.

“She’s lying, of course,” Ripley muttered half-heartedly. He knew Bernadette would do nothing; she never had.

“Fire her.” Bernadette had become judge and jury and the verdict was in.

With a half-smile across his drunken face, he sputtered, “You’re fired. Pack your things and be out in a half hour.” He seemed satisfied with his power and headed toward Bernadette, who backed up and let him in. As he passed her, he lifted her blouse to reveal she was naked beneath. “I came up to join you in your nap,” he told her and she smiled.

“I know…” She nodded and the door shut behind them.

I threw my hands into the air. I had no idea where I was going to go or what I was going to live on. Maybe the YWCA had a bunk for me? I supposed I could sell my laptop. I pulled out my luggage and piled the clothes into them, not bothering to fold or even sort the dirty from the clean. I saved out a soft cotton skirt and t-shirt top that matched, but otherwise, it all went in, willy nilly. I threw my toothbrush on top and zipped it shut.

Dragging it all down the hallway, I stabbed at the elevator button and heard a noise behind me. I turned to see Dougie and Katie standing in their doorway, their hands in the air as a goodbye wave. In that moment, I felt pity for them. It didn’t last long. I stepped into the elevator and between tears, I took a deep breath of relief.

When I reached the lobby, I went to the counter and asked if they could hang on to my luggage while I went to look for Brayden. Agreeably, they took it and put it in their office and then pointed to his office. On my way to see him, I peeked into the tea room, but Steph had already gone. I felt sad and lonely.

I tapped on Brayden’s office door but he was already in the process of opening it. Evidently, the front desk had announced me. He pulled me by the hand into his office and shut the door. Wrapping his arms around me, he pushed my head against his chest, his hand at the back of my head. He held me like that while I sobbed into his chest, my makeup staining his crisp, white shirt.

He backed up and pulled me onto his lap as he fell backward on the sofa. “Shhhh…” he whispered. “Cry it out and then tell me what’s happened.”

“You have to ask?” I stuttered in my sobs.

“Not really, but I thought you might want to talk about it.”

“He fired me. That dickhead on an asshole had the nerve to fire me.”

“That’s pretty much what I knew was coming. If it’s any comfort, you’re not the first and you won’t be the last. Let me guess. He put the moves on you?”

I nodded, burying my misery against his muscular chest. At that moment, I didn’t care if he’d been with another woman or was even married. I needed him and he was there for me. I didn’t want to tell him the extent of Ripley’s offenses—I had a feeling Brayden wouldn’t be able to overlook it. He didn’t need the trouble, and there was certainly nothing for me to salvage from the situation.

It felt so good to be in his arms, to be comforted and coddled. I’d never had that before. I’d never realized Brayden was even capable of that kind of empathy. I knew I liked it.

His hand went to my chin and lifted it, turning it toward himself. He kissed me. Softly. With warm sensitivity. His index finger petted beneath my chin and the other hand held my head firmly so I couldn’t pull away. I had no intention of pulling away, ever.

“Okay, got it out?” he asked me in a tone of resolution.

I nodded.

“Good. Now, let’s talk about what happens from here.”

I reached for a tissue and dabbed at my eyes and nose. “I just came to say goodbye.”

“Are you going somewhere?”

I nodded.

“Where?”

“I have no idea, but don’t worry, I’m resourceful. I’ll probably bunk in with Steph on her floor for a while.”

“I don’t think so.” He sat back and his hand smoothed my thigh gently. It was so unlike what Ripley had done to me. This was soothing and loving and God help me, so exciting. I felt a wet rush in my panties and didn’t dare breathe because it might make him stop.

“You think Steph will turn me away?”

“Well,” he laughed, “I don’t know her very well but right now I think she’s entertaining my big brother so she probably wouldn’t even answer the door. Collin has a way of getting women to that point rather quickly.”

“Damn!”

“Tsk, tsk, don’t fret.” He leaned his forehead toward mine until they touched, his nose just a half inch from mine. I could feel his breath on my upper lip. I fought the impulse to grab his head and kiss him. I knew it would be my undoing. I wasn’t ready for that; not yet. “You are not going to sleep on the beach or go dumpster diving for food.”

I cocked my head, wondering what was coming next.

“I’m offering you a job.”

I began to shake my head. “No, Brayden, I can’t take any handouts from you.”

“Now, did I say it was a handout?” he chided me, wiping the tears from below my eyes with the cuff of his shirt. “Look, Harper, I’ve overwhelmed here. This has all grown too fast. I never have a moment off. I need an assistant and have been considering asking you to take the job for the last few days but I was afraid to ask you.”

My head jerked up. His beautiful eyes glowed with a warmth that was different than I’d ever seen. I knew there was emotion and caring; and maybe even a bit of insecurity there. It made him vulnerable to ask me. The scales had tipped. When did that happen?

“I know you think I’m after sex with you and I was afraid if I asked you, you’d leap to that conclusion and disappear.”

“Oh.” I nodded. “And the thought of that bothered you?”

“Of course! What did you think?”

“I guess I hadn’t.”

“So, will you be my assistant?” He was so close to me and I wanted to close my eyes, crawl into his arms and let the world go on about its business. Yet, here he was, opening his arms and inviting me into his business. Could I handle being that close to him every day? I realized then that I couldn’t not be that close to him. I wanted to be attached to him at the hip.

I nodded.

“Now there are a few conditions that go with the job.”

I steeled myself—maybe it had been too good to be true. “What sort of conditions?”

“First thing is that you are to spend at least four hours every day working on your website. You have smarts and ambition, and I won’t squash that. There will be plenty of time left for your other duties.”

I wanted to hug him, but not yet. Not until I heard the other conditions.

“The second is that you will live at my home, and I have a reason for asking that. I don’t want to tell you now, but it’s not what you think.”

Part of my heart was screaming for him to tell me that I had to sleep in his bed. The other part was screaming that he couldn’t make me do it, that I had value apart from being a sexual fascination for him. One side of my brain didn’t trust the other. That was when I realized that my lack of trust had nothing to do with Brayden. It was all inside of me. I didn’t trust my father. I didn’t trust myself.

“I can’t say completely that I agree because I don’t know what I’m agreeing to.”

“I realize that. Just keep the option open for now, agreed?”

I nodded. “Thank you, Brayden. I’m in a tough spot, and I hope this isn’t a pity offer.”

“Oh,” he laughed, “I guarantee you it’s not based on pity. That’s the last thing. I think I have more faith in you than you do in yourself.”

I nodded. “That might be true; I won’t deny it. So, all the conditions on the table, right?”

“Right,” he said. “Come with me. Let’s take a ride.”

I was puzzled. “My luggage is in the office behind the desk.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“You seem pretty sure of yourself.”

“Always have been. That’s why you love me!” he laughed and then his face froze.

He’d said the word and it felt like it had come from my own mouth. For a moment, I wasn’t even sure who had said it. It just felt right. We stared at one another for a split second and then both looked to the floor. Without looking up, he walked to the door, his head tilted downward as he turned the doorknob. He held his hand out. I took it. He squeezed my hand quickly and pulled me forward as he walked out.

We left Utopia at the front entrance, the heat slapping us in the face. I thought he was headed to the garages where I supposed he kept his car.

Instead, he headed toward the marina. “Let’s go home,” he said and handed me aboard a red, shiny cabin cruiser. It was state of the art and a man emerged from the cabin.

“Harper, this is Captain Bob. You can trust him with your life. Captain, take us home.”

Chapter 10

Brayden

“Where are you taking me?” Harper asked as we left the dock, the prow lifting out of the water until we leveled off, skipping above the waves. There was a look of uncertainty and a little fear in her eyes, and I put my arm around her to quell those nerves. I knew she’d never been great with uncertainty, and I wanted her to know that she was safe with me.

I pulled her into the cabin and handed her a glass of wine. “Sit down, Harper, and let’s talk.”

She took the glass, questions in her eyes. I didn’t blame her. I wasn’t giving her much to go on.

“You see that land out there?” I pointed out the porthole. She nodded. “That’s my island.”

She gulped. “That’s your island?”

“Yes, it’s called Vermilion Key, and I bought it a few years back. I know you probably thought I lived at Utopia, but things can get overwhelming there. I needed somewhere I could call my own, where I could get away.”

She nodded and leaned back, getting more comfortable that what I was telling her was not life-changing, but simply common sense.

“So, I bought the Key and had the property developed. I built a house, and I call it Red Sapphire.”

“Interesting name.”

I laughed. “After the first sunset, you’ll know why. The sky glows like it’s on fire, a blazing red. It earned its own name.”

She held out her glass for a refill. “Isn’t it a little inconvenient to live on an island?”

“It can be a challenge from time to time, but the isolation feeds your soul. You’ll see. You’ll love it, I promise. I’ve got all the modern conveniences; there’s nothing primitive about Red Sapphire. In fact, I think you’ll find it’s actually fairly nice. Now, few, and I mean very few people know about it. A couple of my top employees, in case of emergency. My attorney, a very few others. In fact, Collin doesn’t even know about it. I don’t want him showing up there. I need him to stay on the big island and leave me alone. In fact, he’s one of the reasons I bought it.”

“Why is Collin such an unwanted person?”

“Oh, God, Harper, I have no idea what all he’s involved in. You know him—he’s always been wild. He walks the line between legal and not, and I think he crosses it more often than he’d like anyone to know. He’s always on the down and out, needing money or a place to stay. So, whatever he’s doing, it’s not working for him, that’s for sure.”

She reached forward and patted the back of my hand. The touch felt like a fiery brand, and I knew we both felt it. Her hand jerked, but she didn’t pull it back. It was as if we were connected by some mystical energy that had grown over the years we’d known each other. I coughed and realized I’d forgotten what we were even talking about. It made for an awkward silence but the room was filled with that touch.

“So, anyway,” I continued, “there is more that I need to tell you. This part is hard.”

I knew I had her attention. She probably thought I was going to spring a wife or two on her. “You remember my brother, Cory?”

“Yes, and I’m so sorry about that. It must be very hard for you.”

“Life goes on,” I said, looking out into space. I’d learned not to think too much about it. If one could have a favorite brother, Cory had been that for me. Collin was my brother, and I’d always have his back, but he knew it and wouldn’t be inclined to return the favor. Cory had been different. He and I had been very similar in personality; we looked at life in much the same way. “Anyway, there’s something I didn’t mention when I told you about him. He and Sylvia had a daughter. Her name is Meghan, and she’s ten. She lives with me at Red Sapphire. There’s staff always on duty there and she has someone who comes to home school her, but she basically lives there on her own. I don’t get over there as often as I’d like.”

“Really?” she asked, surprised at my secret.

“Harper, Collin does not know about her. Cory and Collin were at odds, and he never told Collin they had a daughter. They didn’t want Collin’s influence over her, and you know how Collin can be.”

She nodded. “Go on.”

“So, this is why I’d like you to live on the island. First of all, I do want your help as an assistant. It won’t mean spending much time at the resort, unless you’d like to. I would like to ask that you accompany me as hostess for the many events and dinners booked there. That will take me off the eligibility roster, thank god, but I also happen to enjoy your company. So, mostly you’ll stay at Red Sapphire. I think you need some peace and quiet to work on your site, Meghan would love some feminine company and me, well, I want you nearby. I’m sorry, but I can’t put it any better way.”

She opened her mouth but I held up my hand to hush her. “Let me go on. You’ve been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. There is no one I trust more than you. You’re already like family. I’d like Meghan to know she has a woman in her corner, someone she can go to with that girl-stuff talk. A friend and sort of big sister. You never know; you might really like her. I happen to think she’s a great kid.”

Harper was studying my face.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m just thinking.”

“About…?”

“I guess I’m surprised that you trust me to enter your life and to be a part of your business. That sounds like you’re not planning to run me off anytime soon.”

“Hell, no! Does that bother you?”

“Not in the least,” she said, grinning, and got up from her seat and came toward me. Reaching up, she pulled down my head and gave me a warm, lengthy kiss. Her touch shot right through me again.

“You’re not going to leave me, are you?” I tried to keep my voice level, but she’d left before.

“Not unless you give me a reason to. But there’s one thing I want clear.”

“Fair enough. What’s that?” I was afraid of what she might say. I was floating in the depths of her eyes and the fact that we were discussing an arrangement that would keep her nearby was all I could think of.

“I want you to want me for my brain and not because I never gave in when we were together before and you see this as some sort of conquest.”

“Oh, honey. Is that what you think?”

“You hurt me badly, Bray.”

“I know I did. Do you think I’m cruel enough to do that to you twice?”

“Are you?”

I drew my breath in at that. She still didn’t trust my intentions, or even me, as a man. The part that involved me, I understood. I’d heard about her old man after her mother died, so maybe I was starting to see some of the root of her insecurity. “I just want to be with you, in whatever context you’ll let that to be,” I told her softly.

She kissed me again and that time, I held her tightly and longer than normal; just because it felt good. There was a lump in my throat and I recognized emotion in myself I’d never felt before then.

“I think you need to understand something, honey. You were everything to me at one time. When you continued to reject me, I thought I’d lost interest and moved on. I am beginning to see that just maybe I saw your rejection as hurtful and had to put that hurt away. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

She nodded. “More than that, Bray, I’m beginning to see that you’ve got a deeper soul than I ever gave you credit for.”

“Oh, shit, don’t be getting all emotional or tagging me with touchy-feely qualities. I can still be an asshole. That’s just men in general.” I was embarrassed by the tension and wanted to make the conversation lighter.

“Maybe so,” she agreed. “But you’ll be my asshole.”

I had to laugh aloud at that and with a new understanding between us, we went topside as the sound of the motors had revved down, telling me that we were approaching the Vermilion Key dock.

Meghan was bouncing down the walkway toward the dock. I knew she’d heard my boat and the distinctive red signaled it was safe for her to come down and greet me. I liked to think she was anxious to see me, but knowing how pre-teens could be, I thought it far more likely that she was bored and wanted to see if I’d brought her anything.

“Uncle Brayden!” she called as she waved.

Captain Bob brought the boat alongside the dock, and I leapt off to tie it to the cleats. I hugged Meghan, grinning at her excitement.

Just as I’d thought, her first question was, “Did you bring me anything?”

“I sure did, but not what you might think. Harper, come here, would you?” She appeared at the side as Captain Bob helped her over and she came to stand on the dock next to me, a big smile on her face. “Harper, this is Meghan, my niece. Meghan, I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine, Harper Filkins.”

Harper laughed. “Can we go with my being a long-time friend? Nice to meet you, Meghan. I can see the family resemblance.” I liked that. It made Meghan feel instantly included, something she got very little of.

“Oh, so you’re that Harper.” Meghan grinned. “Love your hair,” she added in a typical pre-teen gawking admiration.

“There’s more than one?” Harper asked. “And personally, I think your hair is beautiful. I see you were lucky enough to inherit the Campbell copper color.”

“Thanks. No, you’re the only Harper here, but you’ll find out,” Meghan teased, a pleased look on her face. I knew Meghan was dying to show her what she meant so I herded us toward the house.

“Oh, Bray, it’s gorgeous!” Harper complimented me as she saw the house. I’d had it designed by an architect from Hawaii and it was, despite the massive amounts of glass that made up wall windows, created to withstand hurricanes, unless the entire island went underwater. It was low-roofed and spread out with over eight thousand square feet. The foyer opened with an artisan water feature and recessed lighting that highlighted three-dimensional wall art carved from sandstone. Harper looked up at the skylight and her pace slowed, as if taking in a museum. The home had several wings with a total of six bedrooms and seven baths. Indoor garden planters were filled with tropical blooms, and I’d asked for as much light as possible to filter throughout the house. I liked the sense of being outdoors.

I had matching five-hundred-gallon saltwater aquariums set into one wall, a coffered mahogany ceiling and a black grand piano rested on the stone-tiled floor in the gallery we used as our living area. Additional carved sandstone commanded the master bed wall as a headboard opposite a window wall and view of the rest of the island. The home occupied the highest point so the views were spectacular all 360 degrees. The baths all featured separate showers and soaking tubs and the bedrooms each had cherry cabinets in their walk-in closets. I’d had them add an in-home projection theatre and an interesting workout room with woven bamboo ceiling and cabinet accents.

The same stone that lay throughout the home continued out the glass walls to form a patio around a diamond-shaped pool. Cushioned banquettes lay both in the open sun and were slid beneath the pillar-supported roof.

Meghan was watching Harper’s face as we walked through the rooms. I knew she felt like a proud hostess, and I let her have that job. I don’t think Harper was prepared for what she saw. I was the bad boy who had made good, and I don’t think she any idea of the level of “good” I’d achieved. I was as proud as Meghan, to tell the truth. Neither Harper nor I had grown up with much in the way of money as kids. I’d made some early mistakes as I’d bought into the house-flipping craze, but I learned quickly. Like a game of Monopoly, I kept trading up, reinvesting every dollar I’d made. The result lay around us, and now she was here to make it perfect.

“I just don’t know what to say.” Harper was effusively generous in her comments. “It’s like something out of a dream.

“There’s more,” Meghan chimed in, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

“More?”

“Well, there’s actually lots more if you count the stables, tennis court, golf course and all that stuff, but what I meant is for you.”

Harper looked at me quickly, a questioning look on her face.

“But you didn’t even know I was coming, Meghan,” she said, astonished.

“Ohhhh, news travels more quickly than you might think around here,” the girl answered with a giggle.

“Evidently.”

“Why don’t you show her, Megs?” I invited and she clapped her hands together and then took Harper by the hand, dragging her out the opened wall door to the pool area. I was glad Meghan was around. She made the whole thing less intimidating from Harper’s point of view.

“See?” Meghan was pointing.

Harper looked and then at me. “What is it?”

“It’s where you get to work!”

“What?”

“C’mon.” Meghan dragged her. “It’s the guest cottage but now it belongs to you! See?” The young girl pointed to the heavily-cushioned wicker furniture on its covered porch and then opened the pastel-painted door.

Harper looked back at me, and I nodded encouragingly. “It’s okay. Megs is right. It’s what we’ve laughingly referred to as the guest cottage but since we never have guests, it has sat empty. With Meg’s excellent instinct for design, I let her fix it up for you. Your own little place, so to speak, although you’re free to do anything to change it that you like, naturally. That was Meg’s idea, by the way.”

Harper walked into the 2,000-square foot cottage and the first thing that struck someone entering was the height of the ceiling. It was tall enough to house an entire second floor, but I’d had it built with windows so it felt as though it was open to the sky. There was an open room centrally located, furnished with pale, white-washed furniture covered with pastel cushions. Like-colored rugs were randomly placed atop the bamboo floor and a state-of-the-art kitchen with all white appliances and a breakfast bar sat to one side. Even the cottage had its own guest suite but the master was the largest and had the most spectacular view of the ocean and that vantage of the island. It also had its own back patio and hot tub. It wasn’t my taste because it was essentially feminine, but when it came to Harper, I couldn’t think of a more perfect atmosphere.

She drew in her breath when she saw her office. I’d brought in a special designer for that. There was an L-shaped, white-washed desk with a floral-covered office chair. One wall held a matching floral sofa with cushions and was banked by end tables with fabric-covered lamps. The desk held an adjustable computer caddy that could be raised or lowered at the touch of a button. I’d been told that for people who spent many hours at a computer, it provided a comfortable option to avoid eye, back and wrist strain. Meghan’s contribution had been the choice of computer with large, high-resolution double screens, printer, external drives and all the fripperies like pencil holders women loved to have on their desks.

Harper literally fell into the chair and she spun about slowly. When she faced me, there were tears on her face and those gorgeous eyes were iridescent with the moisture. “I can’t believe my eyes. Brayden, Meghan, this is too much. Just too much. It’s like you’ve made my whole life’s worth of dreams come true all in one moment.”

“Do you like it?” Megs asked, her face consumed by the biggest smile I think I’d ever seen.

“Are you serious?”

I grinned. “I’m glad. And now, Miss Meghan, if you’ll go back to the house and inform Mrs. Sims that we’d like dinner out by the pool in about thirty minutes, we’ll join you there.” Meghan nodded and hugged us both. “Don’t forget to wash your hands,” I threw in, not because she had dirty hands, but because it seemed like the parental kind of thing to say. She skipped out the door and disappeared into the main house.

“Now then, my girl, let’s talk about locking this in. Will you accept my invitation to work for me, but more importantly to live here with us at Red Sapphire?”

“Is that it? Are there any more conditions?”

“Well, just a small one, but it’s no deal breaker. As my hostess, you’ll need a wardrobe and a few things. Meghan has offered to accompany you to the mainland, and I’d like you to meet with a personal shopper to help you pick some things out. It’s not that you can’t do it on your own, but she knows the shops. And especially the ones that have no doors to the street. She can pick out whatever you tell her, or you can do it yourself. Then I want you to know I’ve opened an account in your name. In that desk drawer behind you, you’ll find a checkbook, debit card, and a variety of credit cards. Their statements will be paid as a business expense by Utopia, but you’re to use them for whatever you like. Oh, and that set of keys on the ring? That’s to your car, which is parked at Utopia, obviously. You have the parking garage next to mine. So, what do you say?”

“It’s too much.”

I was stunned into silence. Where had I fucked up this time? “No, seriously, honey. You’ll need every bit of this, and I know you’re not in a position yet to get it for yourself. If it makes you feel better, when you make your first million or so, you can pay me back. But it would make me very happy if you’d just look at this as what you deserve and what I want to give you.”

“Brayden, it feels wrong. Things don’t come this easily to me!”

“No, no, honey. You never had them, but that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve them. They’re yours. This is yours. Take it all and anything else you want.”

She didn’t look convinced.

I pulled her over to sit by me on the sofa. “Harper, honey, listen. All this,” I said, sweeping my arm wide to refer to Red Sapphire, “means nothing to me alone. Sure, it’s a good home for Meghan except that she’s lonely. I’m lonely, if you want me to say it. I’m not asking anything from you except as we talked about on the way here. You’re not obligated to anything,” I said, emphasizing that last word to overcome her feeling used.

“But, you might meet someone, you might want to bring her home and here I’d be,” she objected.

“Are you serious? Honey, it’s right there in front of you! I don’t want anyone else. You and I were meant to be together from the start, years ago when you pushed me away as I tried to get your bra off. It was just a matter of timing, that’s it!”

She still had suspicion in her eyes. Finally, she nodded. Her hair, cascading over her shoulders in the bright light of the cottage, made her look like an angel. An angel who had finally found her way home. “I give. Yes, I’ll work with you and live here with you and Meghan. But remember what we said.”

“I remember. It’s all in your hands,” I promised her. “By the way, I’m guessing you understand that I’ve given you this place because it not only allows you to protect your privacy, but just seems more appropriate with a young, impressionable girl around. I have to take care with her, honey. I’m all she has, except Collin, and she doesn’t know about him. And he has no idea about her.”

“I think it’s the perfect solution. I have absolutely no problem with it whatsoever,” she agreed.

She hunched her shoulders upward with delight and sprang up from the sofa, looking around and touching things as though she was in a dream. I don’t think I’d ever felt more satisfied with myself—that I could make her feel that way. I’d had the place fixed for her earlier, knowing I’d get her there, eventually.

“Shall we go have dinner?”

She nodded and with a last look around, she led the way out the door, stopping to close it gently after I’d passed through. We walked leisurely toward the table set up by the pool. Megs was already there, patiently waiting with a Shirley Temple in her hand, topped by a paper umbrella. “So?”

I nodded. “She’s staying,” I affirmed.

“Oh, Harper, thank you! I hoped you would!” Meghan ran to hug her.

Chapter 11

Harper

I felt like Cinderella. That was the only way I could think to describe it. It felt unreal, but in a good way. Then, as is typical with me, I began to poke holes in it. I couldn’t let it be perfect—I didn’t deserve perfect. I’d always wanted a fly in the ointment so I could own it. I needed to own imperfection.

You’re being a fool, I told myself and instantly felt ungrateful. Here was this lovely child, who looked so much like my precious Brayden but had green eyes. What were the odds? She could have been our child, to look at her.

Brayden was different, and I recognized immediately why. Growing up and yes, even at Utopia, he was Brayden, the boy/man who was destined to be a screw-up and failure. He’d been on the defensive and in the same way I was hedging myself against disappointment by trying to poke holes in reality, he was doing the same thing. While at work, he couldn’t let himself get too full of himself. He had to stay on his toes, be vigilant and trust no one—not even me, when it came down to it. Here at his home, he was sure of himself and it was his personal paradise. I was very glad he’d decided to include me in it. Now came the question of whether I could keep from ruining it for him.

I knew what he wanted. He wanted me. I wanted him, too. I just wasn’t quite ready to let him know that.

We had perfectly grilled steak with new potatoes and a garden salad for dinner. Dessert was strawberry shortcake. I noticed Meghan grew quiet as she feasted on the real whipped cream and powdered sugar confection. She was a sweets eater, just like me. I’d have to be careful. With a chef cooking, I could balloon up like a puffer fish.

“I’ve never worked with a personal shopper,” I brought up, feeling a little insecure. “They’re used to working with rich people who don’t look at price tags.”

Brayden laughed aloud. “You don’t have to worry. Where she will take you, there are no price tags. It’s a painless pleasure and Megs here will be happy to show you the ropes. Won’t you, Megs?”

She nodded, her nose tipped with powdered sugar. “I love to shop for clothes,” she said quickly and got back to her dessert.

“You gals will have a blast. I’ll have Captain Bob run me over, and he’ll come back and be at your disposal. Or, you can ride with me and then take your car.”

“Ohhh, I’d like that,” I burst out. “I’d love to see what it looks like. It’s been a long time since I had a car.”

“It’s baby blue,” Meghan supplied and then looked guiltily at Brayden. “Sorry,” she muttered. “I wasn’t supposed to say, was I?”

“I’m sure Harper will forgive you. She’s good at forgiving,” he said, and I knew what he meant by that.

We had coffee by the pool and were treated to the most breathtaking crimson sunset. “That’s where it got its name,” Brayden told me, and I knew he was referring the island name as well as that of the house.

“Meghan, about that time, honey,” he said.

She nodded and came over to give me a hug. “I’m happy you’re here now. Goodnight.” She turned to go into the house and called over her shoulder, “And yes, I’ll brush my teeth.”

Brayden looked peaceful and content. He brought about that same feeling for me. “This is truly paradise,” I commented.

“I’m glad you think so. I will agree, now that you’re here.”

He was growing sentimental in his old age.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. More than welcomed, in fact. Actually, you’re doing me a bigger favor than I could ever hope to return.”

“That cottage and office is a dream come true. How did you know?”

“Well, besides the very techy ten-year-old who is at this moment hopefully brushing her teeth, you aren’t a total enigma, you know. You’re a computer nerd, right?”

I threw a cushion at him and he laughed. “Well, aren’t you?” he repeated.

“Yeah,” I admitted. “I guess you could call me that. Do you think I’m silly for building a website?”

He was thoughtful. “No, not really. It’s what you do and the more experience you have at it, the better and in demand you will become. I’d love to have you do some projects for Utopia, too. I was thinking of automating more of the internal processes. I’d like the employees to be better in synch, without me having to run them down and keep an eye on them. Is that something you could help me with at some point?”

“Are you kidding? Of course! I’d love to,” I told him.

“And you never know… there are a lot of business people who stay at Utopia. You might make some excellent contacts. Just promise to work remote and not leave me.” His words were level but I could feel the plea behind them.

“I won’t,” I said softly and with those hushed words, the sun dropped below the horizon suddenly and there was nothing more than a few golden, latent rays pouring over the waves.

“Question?” I asked.

“Sure.”

“Why don’t you want Collin to know about Meghan or Red Sapphire?”

“I’m sort of surprised you need to ask. You know what he’s like. Vindictive, selfish and jealous. Oh, he puts on a good face but he’d very much like to strip me of everything I’ve worked for. He thinks it’s his entitlement as older brother. It wouldn’t have been like that with Cory. He was one of the most generous men I’d ever known. But Collin, he’s so different. It’s like he had different parents. No, Collin will not be coming here.”

“What if he finds out? I mean, don’t people wonder where you go when you leave Utopia via boat?”

“Did you wonder?”

I thought about it a moment. “No, not really. For one thing, I never saw you leave by boat and if I had, I think I’d just have assumed you were going to another Key or to the mainland somewhere.”

“There you go. Collin thinks I live at Utopia. If he sees me leave, he assumes the same as you do – that I’m off on business or a date. He won’t think twice about it.”

We were silent then, relaxing side by side on a double-wide lounge chair. I put my hand onto his and he took it. He squeezed it and sighed deeply. I knew he wanted more. The heat of his hand over mine was making me feel safe, and sleepy. Had our lounge chair been in a bedroom, I’m not sure I could have held out. The biggest gift he gave me that evening was to hold himself back. I could see his need, within inches of my hand. I wanted to slide my hand inside his waistband and reach downward until I could fasten my hand around its steely hardness. I wondered what it would feel like inside of me. Could he make me vaginally orgasm? I’d never gotten there with Steve. Well, that wasn’t fair because Steve hadn’t achieved anything to speak of. He’d been mechanical and analytical, considering sex to be something akin to brushing your teeth. A preliminary to get out of the way before you got down to the really good stuff, which I had no idea what that would have been for him.

I had the impression that it wouldn’t be that way with Bray. There was no way a man could be armed with the weapon I could see outlined against the moon and not know how to use it. Would he expect more of me? I started to freak a little as I considered this. Was he used to women who knew their way around a man’s body? Who knew when and where to touch? Would he teach me what he liked?

Suddenly filled with insecurity, I felt awkward, especially when I could still see his erection so near my hand. I remembered back to that time, so many years before, when we’d been on the beach at night. He’d been hard and erect then. I remembered my fascination then and how I’d snaked a finger up the inside of his bathing suit leg and touched it. I could still hear his gasp as he lost control and exploded, right into his trunks. He’d begged me to rub it, to give him a prolonged pleasure. I’d been so shocked all I could do was jerk my hand back and stand up, staring at him. He’d gotten a little mad at me that night, even if he’d lied and said he wasn’t. He’d run into the surf to rinse himself and I’d stood helplessly at the shoreline, watching him. I remember seeing his profile against the low moon that night. His erection, still evident, had quickly flattened out as the cold water got to him. He’d whooped and hollered, splashing in the waves. He wanted me to come in with him, but I’d stood there and shook my head. “No, I’m scared,” I’d told him.

I laughed.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

I rolled away from him onto my hip, my face flushed. I could feel the heat. “Was just remembering something.”

He rolled to spoon me, his arm over me and pulling me back against him. “Oh? Something with me in it?” he asked against my ear.

I nodded.

“Tell me.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You might not think it as funny as I did.”

“Take a chance.”

“Maybe another time.” I shook my head.

He sighed with exasperation. “It’s getting late, and I have an early meeting. Let me walk you home?”

I nodded and rolled to my feet. Bray held his hand out to me, and I put mine into his as we strolled back to the guest cottage.

“Can we not call it the guest cottage anymore?” I asked.

“Sure, but why?”

I hesitated but finally got my courage up and said, “Because I don’t want to just be a guest.”

He stopped and turned me toward him, lifting my chin to kiss me. I could feel his erection against my tummy and again, I got the crazy urge to fold to my knees, pull him out of his pants and fasten my mouth over him. As if he knew what I was thinking, he pushed his groin into me and reached down with his free hand to gently rub me. “Agh!” he released his breath in frustration. “God, but I want you so bad.”

I said nothing.

“Do you feel it, too?”

I still said nothing.

“You do, don’t you? I know you do. “

I held very still, afraid to move or speak.

“Oh, honey, just let me touch you, please?”

I held frozen.

“Honey, don’t move, just stand there and I want to touch you. I won’t ask any more than that, I swear. Just let me give you this one final gift?”

I was motionless and he took my silence for approval. I didn’t argue.

He slowly dropped to his knees and lifted the cotton skirt I’d put on that morning. I closed my eyes as his hands touched my inner thighs, pushing my legs apart. We were standing on the walkway, framed against the low moon. Palm fronds blocked the view from the house so I knew we were completely alone—at the edge of the world.

His hands slid upward and fastened into the waistband of my panties, easing them downward. My skirt was lying over his head, tenting his face against my now naked pussy.

“Sweet Jesus!” he moaned in a low sound.

I was hyperaware of him, of his hands touching me. His finger pressed into the crescent of my now-moist pussy, pushing upward into me. The next sensation was of his tongue, licking my swollen nub and then drawing it in between his lips to suck on it gently. The slow, even rhythm stole the strength from my knees, and I collapsed onto the lawn next to the walkway.

I heard the sound from Bray that told me that was exactly where he wanted me. He pushed my skirt up over me now and pushed my knees further apart. I could still see his head as he lowered his mouth and fastened it upon me. He began a slow sucking rhythm, slowly and excruciatingly increasing the intensity and speed. My hips rocked forward and backward on their own. I’d left my conscious mind and my body was drawn to his face, seeking that hot elixir of womanly waters that spilled from my brain into my pussy. I felt it rising and he sensed it. Just as I was about to crest, he pulled his face back and inserted one finger inside me and used the other to rub my clit furiously. I know I called out his name as it hit me; it shot through me over and over and over. When the spasms had subsided, he rolled to the side of me and pulled me atop him, wrapping his arms around me and holding me flatly against him. I lay there in a stupor of ultimate completion.

When my head cleared somewhat, I felt guilty. I reached to touch him, to return it but he whispered, “No! Not here and not now. When you’re ready, you’ll let me know. This was for you. A gift to tell you how happy I am that you’re here and how much I want to make your life unbelievably wonderful.”

My heart melted at his words. “You have,” I whispered.

We lay there, my heart still racing as he stroked my back. Then he rolled to his knees and stood up. He bent and picked me up, carrying me like a child into the cottage. He strode straight into the master bedroom, pulled back the spread with one hand and lowered me onto the mattress. Bending, he kissed me tenderly and without another sound, left.

I lay there in a stupor. The only sound was the whop, whop of the overhead ceiling fan and the call of the waves, luring me into their blue arms. I rolled over and went to sleep.

* * *

I awakened the next morning to a gentle tapping on my door. “Come in?”

There were two grinning faces in the opening. Meghan was peering over Mrs. Sims’ shoulder as she stood, awaiting my invitation to come in while holding a tray full of breakfast.

“I hope you don’t care,” piped up Meghan. “I asked Mrs. Sims to put both our breakfasts on a tray and bring them in to your room. I thought we might eat together. Uncle Brayden already left for work earlier this morning and Captain Bob is back and waiting for us.”

“Waiting for us?”

“Uncle Brayden said we, that is you and I, were going shopping and you’re getting a new wardrobe. Gosh, don’t tell me that’s not true because I was really looking forward to it.”

I smiled. “Of course, we can go shopping. Anyway, you might need a few things, too, don’t you think?”

“Oh, yes!”

Mrs. Sims was smiling and setting up our breakfast on a small table by the window. Meghan pulled up two high-back wicker chairs and I grabbed for my brush in my purse before joining her. There was a bowl of fresh fruit: mango, banana, peaches, oranges, grapes and kiwi. Each piece was decoratively cut and looked absolutely delicious! I lifted a silver lid off a platter and found a selection of small pieces of sweet ham tinged with brown sugar at the edges, link sausage and bacon. Another platter revealed scrambled eggs and a bowl with white linen wrapped within it held fresh biscuits. I could smell the coffee in the small decanter set before my plate and tasted a little orange juice before digging in to the fruit. “Do you always eat like this?” I asked.

“Is there something else you’d rather have?” Mrs. Sims asked in a quiet but cheerful voice.

“Just not used to so much. It looks delicious, Mrs. Sims. I’m sure it’s perfect.”

Mrs. Sims nodded, and I could see she was pleased. She left us to chat.

“So, Meghan, where do you suggest we start today?”

“Well, hmmm… Uncle Brayden said there’s a lady who is supposed to shop for you. We’re meeting her at Utopia and then going in to Miami Beach. I think we’re going to start at the Design District and then do the Aventura Mall. There are lots of little shops, and I’ll just bet that lady knows them all. Uncle Brayden always does things with the best. We’re sort of lucky to live with him—at least I am.”

“I think you’re right. We are both lucky to live with him. So, you like shopping, I take it?”

Meghan nodded, munching her fruit. “Uncle Brayden says I have Paris in my blood. He’s going to take me shopping there for my sixteenth birthday and maybe, when I get old enough for college, he’s going to get me into one there and I can learn design. I love clothes.”

I rolled my eyes. “Fashion was never one of my strengths, I’m afraid. I’m good as long as I’m comfortable.”

“That’s the difference between good design and just designers showing off,” she said with an air of knowledge. “The best design is very comfortable to wear.”

“I’m really glad to be having you along, Meghan. I think you know what you’re talking about.”

“I’d better,” she answered, rolling her eyes. “If I’m going to make my living doing it, I’d better know what I’m talking about, right?”

I laughed and nodded. “You say Captain Bob is waiting for us?” I looked at the small clock on the nightstand. “What time is he expecting us?”

“Oh, he’ll just wait. It’s sort of his job to wait. Harper, have you ever ridden in a taxi? That looks so exciting to me!”

I grinned. “Yes, I’ve ridden in a few in my life, and I can promise you that having your own boat and captain waiting for you is even better than an old taxi.”

Meghan frowned. “I think people always want to have what they don’t already have.”

“I think you’re right,” I agreed. “Tell you what. If you’re finished, why don’t you give me fifteen minutes to get ready and I’ll meet you at the dock?”

She nodded, snatched another biscuit from the linen folds and scampered out of the room. I hit the shower, decided on a pair of casual khaki slacks and a t-shirt. I put on my walking shoes. Dressy gowns or not, I wanted to be comfortable looking for them.

Captain Bob saluted as he welcomed me aboard. Meghan was already ensconced in a swivel side chair, a life preserver hugging her torso. “I’m really excited,” she told me, and I could have told that by the light in her beautiful green eyes.

When we made port at Utopia, I wanted to go inside and tell Brayden hello, but Meghan shook her head. “He told me when he left that he had a busy day planned. Might be better to wait until he comes home tonight. Besides, then you’ll have things to show him.”

I wondered at the feminine wiles already developed in this small minx of a girl. I had a feeling, Brayden or not, she would go a long way on her own.

“Aren’t you excited about your new car?” she asked, and I could tell she was desperate to show it to me. I was excited, but it felt extravagant for Brayden to have given me such a gift. I decided it was an advance on salary and if anything happened, I’d return it to him immediately. I still hadn’t brought myself to the point of being as casual about money as he had.

“I can hardly wait! Do you know which door it’s behind?”

She skipped to the door next to where I’d seen Brayden keep his own car. “This one!” She pointed repeatedly, and it was like being with a child at Christmas. Her enthusiasm was contagious and I was loving it. I pulled out the keyring Brayden had given me and selected the key that was smallest and didn’t look like an ignition key. I plugged it into the lock panel next to the garage door and turned it. Instantly, the door began to rise and there, with its grille facing me and a giant white bow with ribbon cascading from its roof, sat a baby blue Mercedes Benz convertible. I gasped.

“Do you love it? Do you just simply love it?” Meghan was dancing around in her excitement. “Get in and see if you fit!”

If I fit? I motioned her to the passenger door and I tapped the key fob to unlock its doors. I climbed in beneath the wheel and sat there, my mouth agape at the instrument panel before me. I’d never sat in a Mercedes before and while the cockpit of a plane has the ability to make a girl hard with desire for all of its buttons and switches, this baby belonged to me! I was beside myself with anticipation and I knew from its reputation that a Mercedes was known for more than its cockpit, so to speak. To answer Meghan’s earlier question, I most definitely did fit behind the wheel. The wheel was leather-bound and as I put the key into the ignition and turned it, the motor found its voice and I felt like I was sitting with the power of a rocket beneath me.

“Put the top down!” Meghan pleaded. I bent forward, searching the controls for the switch, but she’d beaten me to it. I heard a soft whir and the car top lifted and then folded into the trunk. She tapped the sound system and music surrounded us. I reached down and shifted the car into drive. I was right. The car drove like a dream and I fought the desire to press the gas pedal all the way to the floor.

“Where to?” I asked her and she pointed north. That seemed perfectly logical and off we went.

It turned out to be a wonderful day. We met with the personal shopper Brayden had engaged and sat on tufted powder-blue chairs as clothing options were paraded before us. The shopper, Margie, was professional and therefore exactly what Brayden had ordered. Her tastes were a galaxy away from mine, so while I tried to follow her lead, and did in a number of selections, I also followed my own heart and sense of style in others. I don’t think I’d ever had a poor sense of style so much as a poor pocketbook. That was no longer the issue.

Once we’d parted from Margie, we took in some trendier stores so Meghan could do a little shopping of her own. She was approaching that age when she was developing a sense of self, including personal style. It was all about self-expression and from what I could tell, she was well beyond her years.

“I think we need a mani/pedi,” Meghan suggested.

“Lead the way!”

As a teenager, girlfriends and I had given one another manicures, but I’d never had a salon pedicure before. Meghan had, and she seemed innately comfortable in the salon setting. Although she and I were separated by a generation, I discovered she was highly intelligent and mature for her age, and I genuinely enjoyed her company. She was fun; giving me a younger perspective. I think for her, I had a nice mix of youth that let us relate to one another, and yet enough age on my part to be an authority figure. I wondered which of us needed one another more.

“Tell me more about how you grew up,” she urged. I didn’t think she was ready to know more about the seedier aspects, so I touched lightly on who my parents and sister were and how I’d come to know Brayden.

“I’ll bet he was a real jerk in high school,” she commented, to my surprise.

“Meghan! Why would you say that?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Maybe because he can be a jerk once in a while now.”

“You shouldn’t talk about your uncle like that,” I chided her.

“I notice you didn’t deny it, though.”

What was I supposed to say to that? I decided on the least explosive and said, “Let’s get some ice cream!”

I could tell by the look in her eyes that she didn’t buy my subterfuge. “It doesn’t matter,” she summarized. “Sometimes it’s good to have a jerk on your side.”

I marveled at the wisdom in one so young. I also agreed.

Chapter 12

Brayden

I’d thought I was happy. I’d convinced myself that work was what I was meant for and to build resorts, all along the coast, was how I would spend my life. I was wrong, so very, very wrong.

My cell vibrated. I put away the image of Harper, naked and waiting for me in bed, and forced myself back to reality. “Yes?”

“We need you for a number of things. Could you stop by the front desk when you have time?” Gail asked.

“No problem,” I pretended and gave myself a few more moments of dreaming about Harper. Her green eyes were like dark whirlpools in the Atlantic; light and swirling at the surface but the deeper one got, the darker the color and the sense of inviting isolation. I was hard, too hard to make an appearance, so I pulled up a spreadsheet and forced myself to look at some numbers for diversion. We were doing very well; not much negative diversion there. I was about to close it out when something caught my eye. It was a figure in bright bold red, in our liquor purchasing column. How had I overlooked this the day before when I’d gone over last month’s stats? Well, it wasn’t really a question of how I’d missed it. That much was obvious. Recently, I’d been unable to think of anyone other than Harper and where she was or how I was going to involve her in my life. I swallowed hard and remembered that I had a business to take care of. I didn’t depend on Utopia for income. I had plenty to last me several lifetimes. I just didn’t like the idea of having holes in my boat. I wasn’t about to be called on the carpet by my own attorneys and auditors.

Snapping my head back to the present, I immediately left my office and headed to the front desk. Then, my bookkeeping department and I were going to have a little talk.

* * *

I could tell by the look on Gail’s face that she was dreading whatever she had to tell me. Steeling myself, I attempted a smile to give her confidence.

“Hi, boss.”

“Gail… so, what’s up?”

She inhaled deeply for courage. “Okay, first thing is the party from Switzerland is complaining that we don’t offer mineral baths. They’ve booked eight rooms for a month, so thought you might like to deal with them. Second, there seems to be some issue with liquor shipments and accounting keeps looking for you. Third, the heater is out in the pool and even though it’s still eighty-five degrees, some of the guests are claiming to be chilled. Last, the man who says he’s your brother is in the Cabana and has had too much to drink. He’s insulting guests and they’re leaving. I called security but they won’t touch him without your approval, since he’s your brother and all.”

Her nose was scrunched as if preparing for a bomb to explode. I switched into my ultimate efficiency mode and took it off her shoulders. Gail acted as more of a concierge than in guest booking. “Okay, see where you can find the nearest spa offering mineral baths and have the limo shuttle take our Swiss guests there for a visit on us. Please call maintenance on the pool and tell them I said I want it fixed yesterday, but in the meantime, post a small, but conspicuous sign out there that says we’re letting the natural elements maintain the pool temperatures for the short-term due to the seasonal heat. Call accounting and tell them I’m on my way in thirty minutes, to sit tight. Then call security and ask them to escort my brother to my office.”

She nodded and stepped back into the office to carry out my orders. I stopped by the tearoom to pick up two cups of strong coffee and went back to my office to wait on Collin. I didn’t have to wait long.

I made a mental note to get a secretary, or maybe move Gail to a desk area outside my office door as Collin unceremoniously barged in. The security escorts looked uncomfortable, but I nodded my thanks and they seemed grateful to leave.

Collin wasn’t alone. Harper’s sister, Stephanie, was hanging on his arm.

“So, brother, you finally decided to show up for work, have you?” Collin blustered, and Stephanie affixed a non-committal face. I wondered what she was after. I didn’t have to wait long.

“Collin, Stephanie, have a seat. Here, I’ve gotten you a cup of coffee,” I said, holding one out to Collin and then proffering the second to Stephanie, who shook her head.

“Don’t want coffee.” Collin’s headshake was slow and cockeyed, demonstrating just how badly he needed it. “Want money.”

He’d come straight to the point, and I cussed inwardly at myself for hoping it would be uncharacteristically something else.

“You don’t beat around the bush, do you?” I asked.

Collin looked at Stephanie and the two burst into laughter. I could feel myself flush as I realized their little double entendre. This was out of hand. I could argue with two drunks or hand over some cash and get rid of both of them. Pulling out my personal checkbook, I looked Collin straight in the eyes. “I hope you’re sober enough to understand what I’m about to say, brother dear, because I won’t repeat myself. I’m going to give you a check right now, and once a month for the next eleven months you’ll get one just like it. On that twelfth month, one year from today, you’re on your own. No more money from me, no more staying at Utopia except as a paying guest and starting today, this minute, do your drinking somewhere else. Leave my guests alone. You continue to harass my guests and the checks end immediately. I’m serious, Collin. This is it.”

“I’m serious, Collin,” he mimicked me in a feminine voice. “And just what are you planning to do to enforce that, little brother?” He was trying to bully me. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed that I’d grown up in the meantime.

I drew back the check I’d been holding out to him. “Okay, then we can stop it now.” I put my checkbook back into my inner pocket.

“I wouldn’t do that, bro,” he snarled, suddenly dead sober. Collin had always been able to snap out of a drunken state, valid or not, within an eyeblink.

“I gave you the rules.”

“Give me the damned check. Don’t want to hang out at this pansy-assed joint any more than I have to.” He snapped it from my fingers and looked toward Stephanie, pulling out the top of her tube top and looking down at her pancake tits. “Hmmm… Looks like Steph here and I might spend a little time in the room,” he commented, knowing fully well it would make my skin crawl. Housekeeping had already been placing subtle comments with Gail that they’d cleaned up non-stop parties and residual vomit from Collin’s room.

He rolled to his feet, pulling her with him and headed to the office door. Opening it, he turned back toward me. “By the way, bro… you’re laying them a little young these days, aren’t you?”

I was puzzled. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, just that I saw you gave Harper a pretty little convertible and she brought a young chickee with her to ride in it. The way I see it, you’ve got your dick in Harper and the young one is lickin’ your ass so you can get off.”

I froze. As I realized he was talking about Meghan, a cold, white sheet of absolute hatred descended over me. I couldn’t even think straight but luckily, I’d developed a poker face over the years at school and fell into that now. “Whatever,” I said casually and pulled out some paperwork from my drawer to divert the intense rage I was trying to submerge. There was no way Collin could learn about Meghan, or the fact that the two most important people in my life were living on a nearby island. I knew he didn’t know about that—he’d have added it to the stinger he served me.

Collin saw he’d missed the target so he pulled Stephanie’s top down to her waist, bent and sucked one of her meager tits. Smacking his lips loudly, he said, “C’mon, Stephie. Thank God I’ve got the better of the sisters.”

They stumbled out and I prayed Stephanie had the good sense to pull up her shirt before they got into the lobby. That didn’t measure up, however, to the seething anger and fear I was feeling. Collin was spying on me and now Harper, it appeared. If he’d been close enough, he would have seen how much Meghan resembled Cory and the worst thing imaginable would have become my daily nightmare. I immediately made arrangements to have Harper’s car garaged at a nearby facility that also had boat dock access. I had to protect Meghan.

I dealt with the details on my list, including the balance in the liquor order. Something was very wrong. Our supplier had cut us off due to lack of payment, which was completely unbelievable. The supplier was showing as having delivered more than twice the liquor we acknowledged receiving. Where had the rest gone? I authorized immediate payment to the supplier and assigned one of my bookkeepers to track down the missing shipments. I dreaded discovering the culprit. My employees were valued and loyal.

* * *

Captain Bob was waiting at the dock for me when I got down to the marina. He seemed in a cheerful mood, whistling as he untied lines and adjusted his cap in the brisk winds.

“Did they go into town?” I asked.

He nodded. “Brought them here this morning and took them back about an hour ago.”

“What do you think? Did they look like they were getting along?”

“Not really my place to say, but they looked chummy to me,” was his friendly, if guarded, response.

I wondered if she had liked her car. I wasn’t sure how she could have been disappointed, but with women, you never knew. I’d never bought one a car before, but this one was different. This one was a keeper. This one, I wanted to get home to.

We motored out over rising waves. “Could be in for a blow,” Captain Bob warned me. “Barometer’s dropping and the water’s getting choppy. I’d like to put her into the boathouse until it blows over.”

“No problem. We’ve got everything we need, but you might check with Mrs. Sims before you do it. She’s not as fond of storms as we are,” I added and he knew exactly what I was talking about. If it hadn’t been for the simplicity of the responsibilities, paired with a lucrative salary, I don’t think I could have gotten her out there. She preferred her feet to be planted on ground that wasn’t susceptible to the whims of the Atlantic.

We docked and I leapt off the boat and quickened my step to get up to the house. I was anxious to hear how the day had gone.

“Uncle Brayden!” Meghan was running toward me, a contagious smile across her face. She suddenly looked like a young woman as she came closer, and I realized she was favoring her mother more as she matured. The resemblance washed over me in a fresh rush of emotion over the loss of my brother. Somewhere in the back of my head, my conscience fought the awful wish that Collin had been the brother to lose, if I’d had to lose one over the other. Cory had been so filled with the good things in life. People loved him and his daughter stood there next to me, looking so like her lovely mother. I loved Meghan as if she were my own. I considered that perhaps someday I might have a child of my own. Nevertheless, Meghan would always be my oldest daughter. I’d never let her get set aside.

I kissed the top of her head. “Well, somebody is looking pretty cheerful. Did you get some goodies today?”

“Of course. Harper was great, Uncle Brayden. We had a blast. Got our nails done and our toes—everything. But I can’t tell you anymore.” She stopped suddenly, covering her mouth with her hand. “I know Harper will want to tell you about it herself.”

“Does Mrs. Sims have dinner ready?”

“Oh, yeah. She’s been cooking all morning and afternoon. She says there’s a big blow coming and she wants to go to Largo, or maybe the mainland if she can get that far. She’s been waiting for Captain Bob to bring you over so he can take her back.”

I frowned. “I don’t know about that. Captain Bob is already waiting to put the boat under the roof. He seemed to agree with Mrs. Sims.”

“Oh, boy, she’s not going to like that at all.”

“That convinced, is she?”

“Seemed like it to me. There’s more.”

“What?”

“She wants me to go with her.”

“What? Why?”

“She says it’s too dangerous to stay.”

“What?”

“Uncle Brayden, Mrs. Sims has, well, you know, visions of things that are going to happen in the future. Did you know that?”

We were walking toward the house. “Yes, I’ve heard rumors to that effect. But she’s just being silly.”

“I don’t think so. I’ve seen things come true that she predicted.”

“You have?”

She nodded, lacing her hand under my arm. “We don’t like to tell you about it. You’re such a skeptic.”

“I am, am I? That’s a pretty big word for you.”

“I know what it means,” she assured me.

“I’m sure you do. So, what is it that she sees this time?”

“She said it’s not safe for me to be here and that I’m to go home with her where I’ll be fine.”

“I see. How about me? Or Harper?”

“I don’t think she sees anything bad for you. Just me. You can stay here. Unless you’re afraid, then I guess you should go to Utopia.”

“I see. Well, why don’t you run up to your room for a bit? I’ll come get you for dinner.”

“Don’t holler at her, Uncle Brayden. She means well,” she said as she turned to head toward her room.

“Where is Harper, Meghan?”

“She’s out on the pool patio with an iced tea. I think she has some things to tell you, and maybe even show you.”

“Thank you.” I headed directly for the patio. Mrs. Sims could wait.

Harper’s head was all I could see as I approached from the doors. She swiveled around to see who was coming. “Hello!”

“I missed you today,” I said, kissing the top of her shiny head.

“Brayden! I’m so glad you’re home!”

Those were words I’d waited a lifetime to hear. “Miss me, too?”

She hesitated, as if admitting that would somehow commit her to more than she was willing to agree to. “Meghan and I had a ball today. You know, you’d never guess she was just a kid. She’s terribly smart and mature. We talked for the most part like equals!”

I took the seat opposite her as Mrs. Sims entered the patio and brought me a cold beer. “I have to speak with you immediately, Mr. Brayden,” she told me in an urgent tone. I’d been hoping to put off this conversation until it was too late for her to act upon it, but I could tell she wasn’t about to be put off.

“Excuse me a second, Harper,” I said and turned my full attention to Mrs. Sims. “I hear you think we’re in for a blow.”

“It’s coming, and tonight. It’s not safe here and I want to go to the mainland.” Her comment was a statement and not a question. She was not asking permission, except for perhaps asking Captain Bob to provide transportation and to take Meghan with her.

I didn’t want to make fun of her “visions” as she called them, but I had to ask, “What about Harper or me?”

She shook her head. “Nooooo… you okay, and Ms. Harper, too. I had a bad feeling, Mr. Brayden. Please let me take the little one with me and don’t hold me back. It can’t hurt to be on the safety side.”

Brayden looked at Harper, who was conspicuously looking at the concrete. “Okay, Mrs. Sims. Be on your safety side,” I said, using her word. “Tell Captain Bob I said to take you and Meghan in, but take your phone and have her take hers. Where will you be staying?”

“With my sister. She’s got a big house on the mainland, north of Miami.”

I nodded. “Okay, out of respect for you, Mrs. Sims. But please keep in touch and leave the address and your sister’s phone number on the kitchen counter.”

Mrs. Sims stepped quickly to pack and get started.

“I’m a little surprised,” commented Harper softly.

“Why is that?”

“You’re pretty protective over Meghan. If someone had asked me, I’d have said you’d never let her go.”

I nodded, looking out over the water. “Mrs. Sims might sound a little superstitious, but she’s not a stupid or unkind woman. Something has her spooked, even if there’s no storm coming, which according to my phone radar, there isn’t. But, she’s the closest thing Meghan has had to a mother these past few years. If she feels the need to be cautious, I’ll go along with that. You want to join them?”

She coughed a little laugh. “To sit in Mrs. Sims’ sister’s basement like rats in a sinking ship with nothing but decade-old canned peaches and the annual Christmas tree? Nope. They can have it all to themselves. Besides, I trust you.”

I snapped up at that remark. What an odd thing for her to say. “You trust me that there’s no storm, or to stay here alone with me?”

“Oh, I figure the storm might come, but not that bad. As for the second part, as a matter of fact, yes, I’m coming to.”

I had to let that double entendre pass by or risk losing her newly gained trust.

“We’re leaving now, Uncle Brayden,” Meghan called from the doorway of the opened slider. I could hear the excitement in her voice. Poor kid – even the prospect of a spider-filled basement with a stranger was exciting to her. I’d have to get her out more often. She was not much more than a prisoner here.

“Okay, sweetie, come give me a hug.” Her slim arms clamped around my head from the back.

“Bye, Harper, see you tomorrow.”

“Ask Mrs. Sims to come back a minute, would you?”

“I’m right here,” Mrs. Sims assured me.

“Meghan, go out and wait with Captain Bob, please.”

She left and I turned to face Mrs. Sims, holding out a set of keys. “I think you remember which garage is mine, don’t you? I want you to take my car to your sister’s. The tank is full. Also, here is some cash. If your sister’s house is ‘too full’ or whatever, find a nice hotel and stay put. Meghan’s not used to staying away from home, and I’d like it if you have options. Nothing against your sister, mind you, but it pays to have a backup plan. And please tell Captain Bob to find a marina on the mainland and stay there?”

She nodded and snatched the keys from my hand as she left. I could see the disapproval in her pale blue eyes, but would have to risk her being miffed in favor of Meghan feeling comfortable.

“That was thoughtful. You’re a good uncle to Meghan. She’s lucky to have you.”

I looked to see if she was mocking me, but her face was gentle and thoughtful. Harper wasn’t capable of malice, even if she thought she was.

We heard the boat motor start and then sat companionably, looking out over the water as it left the dock.

“You look peaceful. May I interrupt?” Harper asked.

I turned my attention to her. “Of course.”

“Thank you.”

It took me a moment to realize what she meant. “You liked?”

“I loved. I don’t have words big enough to convey it. It’s not the material things, Bray, it’s that you were thoughtful enough to make sure I was taken care of. No one has ever done that for me before. No one.”

“I like taking care of you.”

“Why is that? Why now?”

I shrugged. “I suppose you could say that I didn’t have the means before. Now I do and it makes me feel good to look after you.”

“You’re not trying to bribe me?”

Sitting forward in the chair, I looked at her with curiosity. “Bribe you to do or say what?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” To my immense surprise, there was a tear on her cheek. “What do you want from me?”

“You’re getting upset for no good reason, Harper. You know how I feel about you. In my mind, we’re still those kids in high school; fresh with enthusiasm and curious about the world. I want you close to me, in whatever fashion you’re comfortable with.”

“Sorry.” Her voice was small and she slumped, as if defeated.

“About…?”

She looked up, her green eyes drilling into mine. “About not trusting you – about assuming you have another objective.”

I couldn’t let those words hang there. “I won’t say that I don’t have a fantasy about being with you, in that way. I’d be insincere and lying if I said I didn’t. You know, Harper, there aren’t many people in the world I can let get close to me. People always want something. My influence, money, contacts—they always have a reason to try and make me like them. So, I keep them at a distance, even my own brother. You don’t. You see me as the Brayden in high school who was a screw-up and tried to get your bra off under the moon.”

She nodded slowly. “You’re right, I do.”

“Ironically, that means I can trust you. You’ve become one of me and mine. And that means I look after you.” We both knew we were talking about more than cars and wardrobes.

She was nodding, and I felt a sense of relief that she wasn’t arguing with me. At least I had that much.

“There’s something we need to talk about.”

“And that is?”

“It was a choppy day today, lots of small problems but one rather big one. At least personally speaking. Collin and your sister seem to have formed a sort of partnership.”

“Oh?”

I stood up and slid off my tie, tossing it on the patio table. Putting my hands in my pockets, I looked out over the water; a restful vista for a troubled mind.

“Collin’s always had an instinct for finding people’s weaknesses and using them to get what he wants. He found an easy target in me when we were kids because I was the youngest. Cory, not so much. Cory could play the game as well as Collin, but didn’t have the mean inclination.”

“And you’re suggesting that Stephanie somehow enters into this?”

I nodded. “I’m afraid so. Please, Harper, you can’t let this be interpreted as a bad quality about your sister. Collin is a master at this, a sociopath. The women find him irresistible, and they’ll do anything he asks. Stephanie is like a tool for him.”

She was smiling. “You don’t have to worry. I know exactly who my sister is and isn’t. To tell you the truth, I could see it early on and I’ve been worried something like this would develop. So, what did he do?”

“He saw you, and Meghan, come to Utopia and get into your car. He’s suggesting some barbaric things about Meghan, not knowing who she is. He knows, of course, that you and I have history.”

Harper nodded. “I can just about imagine what he’s saying.”

“Well, the less said about that the better, but I’ve had your car moved and Captain Bob will drop you there from now on. I can’t afford to let Collin see you two together and get curious.”

“So, what if he sees Meghan coming in with Mrs. Sims?”

“Captain Bob will be taking them to the new garage I leased for the car. Collin won’t see a thing.”

“Okay, well, it’s not a big deal, then. Surely Collin will get tired of things and move on at some point.”

“I’ve bribed him to leave.”

“Are you serious?”

“Oh, yes, quite serious, but I’ve given him a year’s notice. I’m paying him an allowance for the next year and after that, he’s on his own.”

“So, what does this have to do with Stephanie?”

“I was hoping you might have an opinion on that. You know your sister better than I do. Why would she stick with someone who behaves like an ass?”

Harper shrugged and was thoughtful. “I’ve been away from Steph for years, you know. We kept in touch from time to time on the phone, but this was the first time I’d come back here and she never came to Cleveland to see me. Collin’s good looking and her type has always been the bad boy. She’s struggling to get by and I guess she figures Collin’s her best shot at a perceived security. She’s also got low self-esteem, Bray. I think Mom gave her the idea that I somehow turned out better because I left here and went to college while she stuck around and went to beauty school. Moms can be really good at pitting sisters against one another. I guess she wanted Steph to aim higher and thought if she used me as the example… well, you get the idea.”

“I get it.”

“So, I’m guessing she’ll be around until Collin gives her a reason not to.”

“He’s evil, Harper. I don’t want him around.”

“Then why did you give him free room and board for a year?”

“Because if I hadn’t, he’d have gotten suspicious about why I wanted him gone, and that would pretty much guarantee he’d stick around. Right now, he thinks I don’t care if he stays, so I’m hoping he’ll leave out of boredom. Damn, but I hate playing these silly games!”

“Me, too.”

“So, this brings me to a separate, but slightly related question.”

“Oh?” Her eyes were filled with compassion and interests.

“You and I.”

“What about us?”

“That’s pretty much the question. You have to know how I feel about you. Why do you keep pushing me away?”

She was playing with the ends of her hair, wrapping them around her finger. “I don’t know.”

“I think you do, but I think you’re scared to talk about it.”

“Scared? Me? Why would I be scared of you?”

“I didn’t say you were scared of me, per se, but I think that refusing to talk about it means you don’t have to deal with it. You get to just coast through things and not deal with the confrontation of your past and how it relates to the present.”

“Did you get a degree in psychology, Bray?” She wasn’t looking at me, and I knew she was trying to hide the emotions I might see in her face.

“Don’t need one. I know you pretty well. So, spill it.”

“Sure you can take it?”

“I’m a big guy. I can take a lot.”

“Well, then… Okay, think back to when we were dating in school. My mother told me over and over to save myself. The old ‘why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free’ thing?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that a time or two.”

“So, I was convinced you were trying to get the milk.”

“I can see that, Harper,” I agreed with a nod. “But so were most of the guys. You can’t single me out for that. Anyway, we’re not in high school anymore.”

“No, we’re not. But I still want to be more than milk.”

“Damnit, Harper, is that what you think? Do you really think I’m just looking for tail?”

“Well, you don’t have to put it in quite those vulgar words.”

“Do you have any idea how frustrating you can be?”

She stood up suddenly. “I’m going inside. Mrs. Sims left dinner for us in the fridge and I’m hungry. I won’t talk to you when you’re in this frame of mind. You get riled and unreasonable and pretty soon, all hell breaks loose.” She headed for the sliding door.

“Harper… Harper… don’t run away again. Come back and let’s talk about this.” I turned my head, but she had already gone inside.

Chapter 13

Harper

I was headed full steam for the kitchen. I didn’t want to talk about the old days and relationships and all that confusing, embarrassing and possibly conflictive stuff. Why couldn’t life just be simple for a change?

I heard him coming in behind me. “Harper, come and talk to me.”

I didn’t want to.

“Harper?”

I knew what was wrong, what was bugging me. I knew very well that the high chool version of Harper had been embarrassed to be out with a boy because she didn’t know what was expected or how to deal with their advances. That Harper lacked the social skills because her mother’s words echoed in her head. She knew the guys wanted her, wanted her petite but buxom form. She got the whistles, she overheard the chuckles and bets between the boys at school. Who would get her first? She wasn’t like the other girls, though. They seemed to know how to keep the balance between being liked and popular, and being ‘loose.’ That Harper just wanted to be accepted the way she was and not have to wonder whether a boy liked her for her brains or just for the sex. She’d hated that thought.

Then I began panicking. I could feel that cold rush of sick dread cascading down over my head. Brayden was pursuing me and there was nowhere to hide. Nowhere to run. I was cornered and I’d literally put myself on an island with no way to get to my perceived safe place. Safe place—that’s what I’d called it. It was my sanctuary where no one could get to me, put me on the spot, force me to compare myself to others. I felt like an outcast, a failure from society in general. I didn’t like the feeling—not one bit.

“Harper, what’s wrong? You look pale and you’re breathing fast.”

“Leave me alone!”

“What? What’s gotten into you?”

“Don’t want to talk about it.”

“Harper, for god’s sake, you’re acting like a kid. I’m trying to talk to you, to tell you how I feel about you and that I want you in my life. Why are you running away from me?”

“Leave me alone!” I slammed the door to the refrigerator and was trying to walk wide of him to get out the door and back to my cottage. There, at least, I could lock the door and keep him out; him and all the boys who wanted my body and then would leave me flat and alone. Like he had in high school and like Steve Tabbott had in Cleveland. Men used women. Used them and cast them aside as if they’d lost their value.

I’d gotten around him by circling through the great room and was out a side door. I was headed at a good clip for the cottage, the wind having risen in the past few minutes and it seemed to match the hysteria that was pumping adrenalin through me. I looked over the water and was shocked to see the sky had grown suddenly dark and the wind was beating waves against the bases of palm trees along the beach. Where had that come from so quickly? I moved faster along the walkway and then screamed as I was lifted into the air.

That was no wind. I struggled and realized there was a pair of muscled arms, like bands of steel fastened around me. Brayden!

“Let me down!”

“Quiet!”

How dare he order me that way! “Let me down, I said!”

“Or what? You’re going to run? Where? Into that water that’s all too willing to swallow you up, pretty little neck and blonde ringlets? If you’re lucky, they’ll find your body on some beach in the morning, but more likely you’ll be missing a leg or arm, courtesy of a shark. No, Harper, be quiet and we’re going back to the house.”

I fought his grasp, beating those arms, but it only served to make them stronger and more determined to hold on to me. He threw me over his shoulder and flung open the sliding door at the patio, slamming it shut and locking it. It began to rain then, not a gentle sea mist inserted in breezes, but a tormenting pounding of giant drops hammering at the glass. From his shoulder, I could see the waves had swelled and now I had the sensation that the ocean was higher than we were. I panicked more as I feared it may swallow us.

He took the stairs two at a time as he carried me up to his master bedroom. There, he flung me to the mattress and pinned my wrists with his hands. His coppery eyes were glowing, and his tanned face was wet from the rain. “Now! We’re going to get to the bottom of this, once and for all.”

“But the storm! We’re going to drown!”

“Then we’ll drown together but at least I’m going to get this out of you. I don’t know where you got it into your head that I want to ravish you and leave you like some half-eaten breakfast tray on the floor in the hotel hallway.”

“Isn’t that what you do to all your women?” I threw back at him, cocking my eyebrow with sarcasm.

“What are you talking about?” His voice was loud enough to be heard above the wind that was angrily trying to break the floor-to-ceiling windows about us. The room was an eerie green, and I sensed the storm had taken on a live form, angry and resentful of our disrespect. It would try to break us. The vengeful storm and the determined, powerful man above me began to meld together in my mind. I tried to roll away, but his hands were like a vise.

“You! Oh, I know all about it. Ripley saw you go into that woman’s room at Utopia. He told me all about it. And to think I had begun to trust you. You’re like some weird collector, taking the women who throw themselves at you but still wanting to break the real, worthy women, like me, who don’t want to be your plaything!”

His face was twisted with anger and confusion. Then, as though the sun had come out, it relaxed. “Ripley told you? That foul little weasel? And you’d take what he says over trusting me? Bit of a double standard, don’t you think?”

I was tired. So, so tired. All the years of trying to forget Brayden, his betrayal and to bury my embarrassment at becoming a thief’s bedwarmer had taken their toll. Survival was hard, especially when you’re carrying the burden of years and refuse to put any of it down.

I began to cry. Not just silent tears but deep, aching sobs from somewhere deep in my gut. Brayden’s expression of anger softened and his vise hands slid beneath me to hold me against his chest.

The storm fought to get in at us while the storm inside me fought to get out, of me and of the us that Brayden and I had become, so long before.

“Hush, now,” he whispered, his mouth over my ear, blocking out the wind while his breath was warm and moist and carried words meant only for me. “I’m here and I won’t let anything happen to you, do you hear? You belong to me—now and forever and I’m not letting go.”

His cheek pressed into mine, forcefully nudging my face so that he could kiss me. It was a kiss unlike any I’d ever experienced. The awkward, gawky boy had matured into a powerful, possessive man and his lips claimed me without permission or regret. His hand circled around and held my head in his palm as he forced my lips into submission.

Somewhere in that maelstrom, the carefully-tended resentment and isolation I’d felt melted away. I was in his arms, again. It was like the first time on the beach and the nights we’d sneaked out to frolic in the surf while the world slept and prepared for their humdrum lives. We were young and had nothing but future ahead of us.

Brayden’s kisses covered my lips, my face and my neck. I was drawn into them like a thirsty woman seeking water. My body relaxed and molded itself against him. I wanted to crawl inside his skin and stay there so he could never again leave me behind.

The howling winds seemed to catch us up and feed a momentum of lust. I felt his hands tearing at my clothes and it never occurred to me to resist. He’d broken down the walls of my resistance and my mind was consumed with wanting to feel his skin against mine.

Lightning flashed and illuminated our naked bodies. In the dim light, punctuated by brilliants from the sky, I made out the outlines of a wolf, inscribed into the flesh of his shoulder. It was his Irish heritage, his badge of independence. Jesus, but it made me gush. I could feel the hot fluids gathering at the apex of my thighs and pussy. Bray seemed to sense this and his hands went there, pushing my legs apart and using his strong thumbs to press into and claim the flesh there. Suddenly, he expelled an animal growl of delight. “Oh, my god, you feel just like I knew you would. You’re so wet and I’m going to take you now, sweet, sweet Harper. You’re to lie there and close your eyes. I can feel that you want me as badly as I want you.”

He’d gently pushed me down onto my back as he’d parted my legs. Now he rose above me and in a flash, I saw him poised and ready to penetrate me for the first time. This was the moment I’d dreamed of and yet feared for so long. His body was magnificent; muscled and sculpted like that of a warrior. His weapon was all male and while my body rose upward to capture it, I feared its enormous size.

His muscled flesh descended onto me then. He entered me and filled me completely, the throbbing pulsing against the walls of my own needy flesh. I had become the prey to the wolf that capped his shoulder and yet I was willingly so. I brought my ankles together and locked them, trying to hold him inside of me, but his will was stronger as he moved over me, thrusting deeply and then withdrawing with an excruciating slowness. I strained upward to hold him in, tears of emotional possession streaming onto the blanket beneath me.

Brayden felt it, too. I could tell. I felt his domination, his desire to own me. I’d become his match, his companion and his possession all in this one act. I reveled in it. This was the boy-man who’d held the key to the secrets we’d shared and to my gentle, tentative heart.

“You’re mine now,” he growled again and I knew it was more an affirmation to himself than to me. “Say it!” he ordered me. “Say it!”

“Yes, yes, I’m yours,” I whimpered willingly as the languorous heat was building within me. I strained, the very spot that sent currents through me straining to be coaxed into explosion by his powerful sword of female decimation. I’d lost the power to resist. I wanted only his hard flesh inside me and for him to never stop.

The burst came then, so long pent up. It shot through me like molten lightning, making me shudder as I gave in to it. Pulsing and spasming, I entered another reality where ecstasy welcomed me with open arms. Brayden held me as I convulsed with the fire, driving hard to find his own so we could cross into that other world together. I heard something crash and it seemed so naturally a part of what I was feeling. The world had gone insane, and I was willingly held in its grip.

At last Brayden cried out, stiffened and then collapsed on the bed next to me. My heart was hammering as I fought to restore my breathing. I felt bereft, the loss of his heat and power left me feeling vulnerable and yet, at the same time, fulfilled. I craved him but wanted to experience the aftermath of sensations he’d introduced inside my body. The air was misty with scents; his sweat and mine mingled with our animal juices. He held me against his chest, and I could feel the blood still pounding from his heart. His voice, deep and vibrating from low in his throat, caressed my senses with gentle Irish words, musical and strangely possessive.

I did not want him to move.

I wasn’t prepared for when he did, rising to sit at the edge of the bed before turning the knob of the bedside lamp that was unresponsive.

“Damn! The power’s out,” he cursed and pulled open the drawer. In the storm’s shards of lightning, I could see he held a flashlight. He turned it on and went to his closet, pulling out jeans and sturdy shoes hurriedly. “Stay here and don’t come down. I know there’s glass.”

“Okay,” I agreed, pulling the covers up to my chin and feeling like a rescued damsel in distress. I was shivering, but it wasn’t from cold. It was from passion spent.

Chapter 14

Brayden

I took my time getting down the stairs. My knees were actually a little weak – not from the concern of what I’d find downstairs, but from the realization that I’d just made love to the woman I’d wanted my entire life. Our joining was just like that storm; unexpected and filled with power.

I shined the flashlight enough to see a clear path and headed for the utility room behind the kitchen. I couldn’t understand why the generator hadn’t automatically kicked in, but found my answer as I rounded the doorway of the utility room and saw the trunk of a giant palm lying on the generator and then penetrating the wall. Further searching revealed that yet another palm had taken out one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, its rain-drenched fronds splayed over the back of the sofa. There was nothing to be done for it, certainly not in the darkness and without a chainsaw or sheets of plywood to hold out the elements. I decided to let the gods settle down before man’s work began.

Picking my way through the debris, I went back up to Harper.

“A couple of palms, one through the wall and one through a plate glass window. One took out the generator so looks like we’ll be dark until daylight. It sounds like it’s calming down, so we should just get some sleep.”

“Where did it come from, Bray? It was perfectly nice one minute and then only minutes later and all hell had broken loose. I’ve never seen a storm come that fast.”

“I know. But, remember, they come from the west and we were facing east on the patio. We were also having a bit of a heated discussion and it sneaked up on us. Are you okay?”

She snickered. “Okay? I feel wonderful.”

“Yes, you did,” I teased her. “Okay, I think we’ll be fine up here. Slide over here and let’s get some sleep.” I dropped my clothes and slid into the covers. She obliged without arguing, for once, and I knew we’d reached a turning point. She laid her head on my shoulder and her fingers traced what she could see of my tat in the remaining flashes of lightning as the storm retreated.

“I never knew you had this,” she whispered as her fingers on my skin were making me hard again.

“Got it when Cory died. My way of remembering him. He used to tell me all the old Irish folk tales and wolves were always involved—at least in his.”

“I’m seeing a side of Brayden I never knew existed.”

“And I felt the inside of Harper I hoped I might experience someday, and I don’t mean this,” I said, cupping my hand over her damp, swollen pussy. “I think I finally tapped into that place where you go to hide, honey. And now that I’ve been there, I’m not going away, so get used to it, okay?”

She snuggled closer, and I felt her head nod on my shoulder. “Promise?”

I was shocked at the voice of the little girl who asked the unnecessary question. Oh, I’d found her hiding place, all right. It belonged to me now, and I’d make sure no one ever hurt her again. “I swear,” I whispered and kissed the tangled mass of curls that fell like waves of silk down her smooth, voluptuous body. Damn! I’m a lucky man!

* * *

Nature had a way of mocking us and the blue skies and placid waves the next morning were proof of that. I surveyed Vermilion Key as best as I could from my vantage at the bedroom window. In addition to the customary palm fronds that dotted the beach, I could see the boathouse had a tree lying over it and there were any number of things in the pool; including furniture, limbs and debris that had washed up from the ocean. Mrs. Sims had been correct. It had been a bad storm.

Then I turned and looked at Harper, who was still sleeping next to the indent my body had left in the blankets. She looked like a small, fragile child and I felt the urge to scoop her up and tell her everything would be okay because I would see to it. I knew she’d experienced more than one storm the previous night—I could feel it in her body as she responded to my touch.

An odd feeling came over me then. All the years since I’d known her, she had been the goal; the thing I couldn’t have and therefore wanted more than anything. I’d met women in the past who had become goals, but only for the space of an evening. Once acquired, they lost their value and I was on to the next challenge.

This time it was different. Harper felt more like I’d been on a long, restless trip where nothing and no one could quite fill in the missing pieces. She was my missing piece. Harper had felt like finally getting home. I had no urge to leave. If anything, I wanted to plant roots so deep that no one and nothing could ever pull me free again. I never wanted to enter that drifting space again. It had become almost a phobic reaction.

I grabbed my cell and went downstairs so I wouldn’t disturb Harper. There was a lot of broken glass downstairs, and she’d probably be better off just sleeping in until I could get things back in shape.

I called Meghan’s cell. “Hello?” she answered, her normal and bouncy self.

“Hi, sweetie. Everything okay there?”

“Oh, heck, yeah. It was a big to do about nothing, but I learned how to make potato pancakes from Mrs. Sims’ sister. They’re really cool, Uncle Brayden. You top them with all kinds of things, kind of like a blintz. Mine were perfect… naturally,” she boasted, and I could imagine her teasing face.

“Well, good. Take your time coming back, will you? Tell Mrs. Sims that we’ve had some damage here, lots of things broken and no power. If you don’t want to stay at her sister’s, then ask her to move to a hotel. Just keep in touch. My phone charge won’t last forever, but I need to stick around and supervise. I’ll have some spare charged batteries brought over until the power is restored.”

“Sure thing, Uncle Brayden. Don’t worry about us. I’m having the time of my life. There are some cool girls living next door and I’ve been invited to watch horror movies with them tonight, but I thought I’d be gone. I’m going to run over and say that I can come after all. Love ya!”

She disconnected and I was struck by her happiness in having girls her own age to spend time with. It wasn’t fair to her to hold her captive on Vermilion Key. She deserved to have a whole life.

I checked in with the resort and learned their damage was minimal and had already been dealt with. I asked them to send staff to take care of the damage at Vermilion Key. “Bring me a half dozen charged batteries that will work with my phone and have the kitchens prepare two days’ worth of meals. No power here, so we can’t refrigerate. I can build a fire in the barbecue, though, so tell Chef to package in foil. More importantly, get someone out here immediately to fix the power.”

I gave them a few more sundry instructions and then signed off, wanting to conserve my phone battery. Picking my way through shards of glass, I opened the refrigerator to retrieve something we might eat in the meantime. It was still cold inside, but this would be the last time I’d trust it. I’d have it restocked when my crew arrived.

I grabbed some fruit from the Moroccan bowl on the counter and a bottle of champagne. No power, no pump for the water.

Balancing my armload, I took the steps as quietly as possible. Harper was still asleep, her back to me. I climbed back into the bed, arranged the food as attractively as I could and blew in her ear. After all, this was our first morning after and I wanted it nice for her. “How about a little nourishment?” I whispered, leaning over her to kiss her cheek.

Harper came up like she’d been bitten. She had a look of almost terror on her face and something akin to anger as she looked at me. She was still half asleep as far as I could tell so I waited for her to wake up. “You would think you’d let me recover a minute – for God’s sake, Bray!”

I jerked back in surprise. “What the hell? Harper, wake up! Recover? What are you talking about?”

She looked at me then and seemed puzzled, if not even surprised. Her hand shot into the blankets between us as if she was searching for something. Her lips parted with a look of victory as her arm shot up into the air. She was holding a banana I’d brought up. “Oh.”

“What?”

She looked away quickly. “Nothing.”

“No way. You can’t have a reaction like that and not explain yourself. What’s wrong?”

She let her hair fall forward to cover most of her face and then looked at me sidelong, flushed and obviously embarrassed. “I thought… I thought that thing sticking into my bottom was… you.”

“Me?” Then I realized what she was talking about. “No, sweetheart, I may be hard but I don’t require peeling, not to mention I sure hope you’d react a little better if it had been me!”

We both burst into giggles, and she threw a pillow at my groin.

“Hey! I brought up food, and you’re going to smash it!”

She picked up the banana and turned to face me. She tossed her hair over one shoulder and lifted the banana to her mouth, licking the tip. With red-tipped nails, she turned the fruit slowly, running her fingertip over it as if looking for that sensitive spot that would make it burst open on its own.

Something molten shot into my groin, and I was finding it difficult to sit still. With the tip of her finger, she first stroked the fruit and then formed a circle with her index finger and thumb, forming a collar. She slowly pumped the banana through the finger collar and as it came to her mouth, she used her teeth to nip at it, easing the peel downward in sections. Soon there was nothing left but the raw fruit and this she held high overhead and then opened her mouth like a sword-swallower and eased the banana into its depths.

Like a fourteen-year-old in the shower, I spilled my seed, then and there. I wanted that mouth on me, but the illusion was almost stronger than the reality. I lay back on the pillow and closed my eyes, psychosomatically feeling her lips and mouth on me. I watched from behind barely-opened eyelids and this added a distorted haze that took me into her, if only in my mind. When she licked the flesh of the fruit, her tongue was stroking me. I’d never experienced anything so erotic in my life and I knew subconsciously I never would again, unless it was Harper with me.

She laughed, a wicked sound. Breaking my spell, she reached over and tickled me, chomping the banana quickly until it was gone. “Never underestimate me, Bray. You’ll live to regret it.”

I didn’t doubt her one bit.

I reached to touch her, wanting to pleasure her, but she pulled away. “No,” she said in a tone of finality.

“Why? Turnabout is fair play,” I pleaded, knowing I would get just as much pleasure from it as she would.

“I’m not like you,” she said.

I sat up. “What do you mean ‘not like me?’”

She made an exasperated sound. “You’re more experienced, you know things. I– I’ve not been with people like you have.”

“Baby, you don’t need to worry. I’m glad you’re the way you are. I want to show you things.”

“Like what? Kinky things?”

“No, well, not at first, at least.”

She didn’t like that response and was off the bed in a flash and headed into the bathroom. I decided to let it go for the moment. I could hear the sounds of boat motors and knew my crews were on their way. I got up and tapped on the door. “I’ve got clean-up crews coming, so don’t come downstairs naked or anything,” I warned her.

I heard something hit the door. I hoped she’d hadn’t thrown the antique vase that sat on the edge of the tub. Shrugging, I laughed and headed downstairs to meet the boats.

Chapter 15

Harper

I watched from the window as long as I could, but eventually, the cleaners had come upstairs and there was no way around it. I had to go outside, so I headed for the guest cottage where I was staying. I hoped no one had noticed. What is wrong with me? I had this crazy feeling I was supposed to be kept under wraps. I felt like a kept woman who wasn’t good enough for the boss to marry, but he’d sleep with her because she was a conquest from the old days he’d finally managed to bed.

Why did I think like that? I knew it was in my head, but it felt more like it was in my veins; a component of my blood making me Type A or B, except that I was a Type S, for slut. I knew one thing for sure—it made me feel like crap.

Other than being without power, the cottage was for the most part exactly as I’d left it. There was some dirt on the window exterior, but one of Brayden’s people had that soon removed. I’d pulled out some garbage bags and was emptying the contents of the refrigerator into them when there was a knock at the door. I opened it to find a pleasant young woman in a pale blue work jumper. Like a fly on honey, she was in my refrigerator, dumping the contents. She washed it thoroughly and, as she left with the bags, she flipped the switch for the ceiling fan over the table. “That way you’ll know when the power is back,” she explained and gave me a pseudo salute as she closed the door behind her.

I went into my bedroom and looked at the array of brightly-colored clothing strewn across my bed. My original plan had been to bring Brayden in and show him what I’d bought. Things had gone another direction, though, so I busied myself hanging up my new things in the closet. I knew, without a doubt, I’d only had to open the door and waggle a finger and someone would have been in my room doing it for me. It seemed that Brayden had the whole world conditioned to respond to a waggled finger. Even me.

I hated myself in this mood. It was like some kind of dark cloud of depression. I seemed determined to see the worst in everything. There I was, in paradise, and I could still find fault. I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to be around me in this mood.

I heard a subtle noise and walked into the next room to see the fan blade circling. The power had come back on. I looked out and saw that this had only heightened the activity outdoors. Like a murder of crows descending on carrion, the disruption disappeared and the entire island was left looking untouched. Another knock at my door brought in the same young woman, except this time she was trailed by several young men with boxes. She opened my refrigerator, restocked it in almost the exact way I’d left it, tapped the brim of her hat and left. Was I living in a movie?

I securely locked my door and headed into my shower. I didn’t want to emerge to find someone vacuuming my floor as I stood by naked and waited for them to finish. My vanity was covered with colors and powders Meghan and I had purchased at the cosmetic counters. I played a bit with the concoction, at least until my hair had dried into its normal confusion of ringlets.

I pulled a one-piece shorts jumper from the closet and layered it over a lilac blue t-shirt. It seemed like a good idea to wear shoes, so I threw on some multi-colored thongs and headed out.

I found Brayden central to the activity. There were men on the roof of the boathouse, hammers wildly beating a progressing rhythm. A coconut palm was lying nearby, neatly chopped into small, manageable chunks that I knew would soon disappear. Even its coconut fruit was piled liked so many cannonballs ready to be fired at the enemy. In Brayden’s case, disorder was his enemy.

He saw me, smiled and came over, lifting me off my feet in a giant bear hug topped with a kiss. “Power’s back on,” he said, setting me down.

“Yes, your little gal who cleaned my refrigerator left the fan on to cue me.”

“I do like efficiency,” he mused as he watched the men on the boathouse.

“Apparently,” I commented dryly and he gave me a startled look.

“Did they disrupt you somehow?” I knew he was being sincere and stored my mockery away in that lonely dark place of my brain where I go when I’m feeling out of place.

I shook my head. “Anything I can do to help?”

“Nope. Just find somewhere to perch and if you see something that needs fixing or clean-up, let one of my people know.”

His people? What is he, like a king or something? What the hell is the matter with me? I’m acting like a royal bitch and this isn’t me, at all.

“Have you talked to Meghan?” I asked, although I already knew his answer. He was a watchful wolf, if nothing else.

“She’s fine and no damage there. Told me she’s met some girls next door and they’re going to watch horror movies tonight. I think she’s lonely, Harper. What do you think?”

“Of course, she is. She’s been stuck out here with her uncle and an old lady who has a highly superstitious mind. She’s at that age when friends are everything. I should know. I was that age once.”

He looked down at me. “Indeed, you were. I seem to remember. And you are just as ripe and luscious now as you were back then. If these people weren’t here… well, I’ll leave that to your imagination.” He smiled and gave me a pat on the butt to push me toward the lounge chairs around the pool.

That’s when I knew what was wrong. I hadn’t been able to put a finger on it until that very moment. He was being too nice and too own-ery. Everything in sight, including me now, belonged to him. He liked control, liked knowing the numbers in each column. I was that last piece he couldn’t have, but now that had been resolved. I was owned!

I hated that feeling! It made me think of my father and how he’d taken it for granted that my mother would never leave him, never desert him. She had paid for the pleasure in his life by donating her own. I’d sworn no man would ever treat me like that and there I was, in the guest house with my license and registration in his glove box. He owned me.

I threw myself onto a lounge chair and crossed my arms over my chest in disgust at myself. That’s when I stopped and looked around. I was being a pain, a real brat. No better than Dougie when he threw a fit. Brayden had worked hard for what he had. He was providing good jobs for a great many people and he had asked nothing of me. I’d given it, freely. In fact, I’d practically put a bow on it and served myself on a platter. How could I fault him for that?

I couldn’t and I knew better. I was embarrassed and looked around to see who might have witnessed my little hissy fit. No one paid attention to me and that was when I had my aha moment.

No one was watching. No one cared. Why not? Because the wealthier you are, the more invisible you become. You can afford to pay people to look the other way. It was sort of like having your gyno exam and knowing that the doctor was not putting moves on you. He looked at pussies all day long! I was nothing more than another pussy!

I felt this enormous sense of relief. It was almost as if an embodied spirit had been trapped inside me and now rose out and above me and then poof! It was gone. I drew in a deep breath and started looking around. I’d clung to the notion that people were watching and judging my entire life. I wanted to be a little naughty, to be get into trouble just a tiny bit. It could be fun. I’d always been held back by the notion that someone wouldn’t approve and there would be hell to pay. I was literally a tight ass!

Armed with my newfound enlightenment, I began to plot how I would exploit this new sense of freedom. My eyes fell on Brayden. Who better to try it out on?

That’s when karma entered the picture. My phone dinged with a reminder. Oh, my god. It was Brayden’s birthday! How could I have forgotten? Well, technically, I hadn’t, since I’d had the presence of mind at some point to add it to my calendar, thank God and Apple Computer.

I tapped out Meghan’s phone number. She picked up right away. “Harper! Wow! I heard you got the big storm!” Her voice was animated, and she was very excited with life at that moment.

“Boy, did we. I’m sitting here right now watching Brayden supervise his army to get it all cleaned up. Thank god the power is back on.”

“I’m not coming home just yet, you know,” she reminded me. “Uncle Brayden wants us to stay away until everything is fixed. But that’s okay, because Missy lives next door and her friends, Deb and Mousy—don’t you just love that name? Well, anyway, they’re all hanging out next door, and I’m invited tonight to watch old horror movies with them. I know it’s just an excuse to try on makeup and talk about boys, but what the heck, right?”

I could hear the joy in her voice. “I’m really excited for you, Meghan, but listen. Did you remember that today is Brayden’s birthday?”

There was a pause at the other end. “Oh, shoot! With the excitement of the storm and all, no, I forgot all about it. What am I going to do?”

“Hey, don’t sweat it. I’ve got it covered. Just do me a favor and DO NOT, and I repeat, DO NOT text or call him. I want him to think we’ve all forgotten about it. Tell Mrs. Sims the same thing. You can pick up a gift on your way home whenever you come back, but for now, I’ve got this one. Okay?”

“More than okay, Harper. Somehow I think he’s going to like your gift better than anything I could bring home anyway.”

“Meghan!”

“What?” she feigned innocence. “I’m just saying…”

“Enough of that. Okay, now remember, mum is the word.”

“Got it. Have fun, Harper.”

I got up and headed to the guest cottage. I spied the young woman who had been hanging around my place and waggled my finger. It worked, she responded immediately. I was sort of getting into this finger-wagging thing.

“What’s your name?” I asked her.

“Joy. How can I help?”

“Well, Joy, follow me.”

"Yes, ma’am,” she responded and followed me inside the cottage.

“Joy, this might seem like an odd question, but are you wearing other clothes under that jumpsuit?”

“Well, yes, my normal street clothes.”

“Here. I need your jumpsuit.”

“Ma’am?”

“Oh, don’t worry. You won’t get into trouble. I just need to use it for part of a costume and there’s no stores here as you can see.”

“Oh, there are more in the boat, ma’am. We carry extra in case we get spills or dirty, you see.”

I held out a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill. “Will you get me one?”

She grinned and took the bill from my fingertips. “No problem. I’ll be right back.” She stopped and pulled a plastic garbage bag from beneath my sink and left. A few minutes later, she was back and pulled the jumpsuit out of the bag, handing it to me. “Shall I hang this in your closet?”

Just like I’d thought – they were like flies.

Chapter 16

Brayden

Cleaning up took all day, and I was as tired as if I’d done the physical work myself. At least things were back to normal and Meghan and Mrs. Sims could return whenever they were ready.

I looked around for Harper, but couldn’t spot her. I was filthy and sweaty, so I headed off to my room to shower. I knew Harper hadn’t gotten much sleep either and figured she’d gone to take a nap at the cottage. I felt the urge to follow her there, but resisted. I stunk like a skunk, and I imagined she wouldn’t be terribly happy with being disturbed regardless.

My bedroom, just like all my resort rooms, had been restored to perfection. The bed was crisply made, its white sheets tucked and folded back exactly the way I liked them. I looked forward to having a short nap myself and dropped my clothes where I was standing before turning on the shower. The water felt great and I turned the temp up hot and let it pelt down on my shoulders. After the shower, I filled the whirlpool tub and let the jets massage my back and upper arms. I wanted to be really relaxed for my evening with Harper.

I toweled dry and walked naked into the bedroom. I stopped short. Evidently one of the crews had left a worker behind because she was dusting my furniture. Her back was to me so I had a chance to back up quickly into the bathroom and grab a towel to put around my waist. I re-entered the bedroom and she was still there, bent low and wiping the top of the cold air returns. She was wearing the blue outfit that identified the crew, including the cap that protected her hair. She turned slightly and I could see she was wearing earbuds, which I assumed were connected to a phone or other music player in her pocket.

“Hello?” I tried to get her attention. I didn’t want to touch her first because I knew it would startle her and make her jump. “Hello,” I tried again, but she was swinging her hips to the music and apparently didn’t hear me. I stood there, assuming she would eventually turn and see me. Instead, she went into dance moves with her hips thrust backward toward me. Her ass was wonderful. It filled out the uniform and left little to the imagination. I wondered, with some guilt, how long Harper would be asleep. I wasn’t the least bit interested in the woman, but any man who doesn’t respond to swinging hips has something out of whack.

I leaned against the bathroom doorway and watched her dance; a mesmerizing combination of swaying hips and ballerina gestures with her long arms. They arched gracefully over her cap, the fingers beckoning to either side. Slowly, her shoulders rotated with her arms. They sped up and shook in an alluring way and then she dipped low from side to side, her long arms swinging even more widely. To my surprise, as one shoulder dipped, her uniform slid off her shoulder and I realized she had unbuttoned the entire front of it – as if she intended to step out of it. The other shoulder dipped and that part of the uniform slid, too. I was desperate to get her attention now as this had clearly gotten out of hand. I had no interest and I wasn’t even sure if she knew I was watching. If Harper caught me, everything I’d worked for to be with her would be lost.

The woman in the uniform was increasing her tempo and each dip caused the uniform to drop lower until she was literally standing naked before me, her legs spread wide as she touched each foot in turn. Now her hands went low, between her crotch, and her fingers beckoned to me from between.

“Hey, now, miss! You there!” I was desperate to get her attention and now I was fairly sure she knew what she was doing. She had obviously planned to put me in a compromising situation with Harper and then would blackmail me. There were probably cameras on me that very minute.

Suddenly, the woman stepped free from the uniform, pulled off her cap and spun about to face me. As the long ash-blonde ringlets cascaded over her shoulders, I almost collapsed with relief. It was Harper.

She pulled the earbuds from the music player that hung about her neck, and I heard the strains of Bolero fill the room. She didn’t crack a smile, but danced toward me, running her hands down her thighs and then up over her full breasts, cupping them with her hands to offer them to me.

I wasted no time but sprang forward and picked her up, laying her on the bed and spreading those beautiful legs. The magnetic music provided an accompaniment to the lashing I gave her with my tongue. Harper’s hips fought my pursuit, as hard as she tried to continue the sinuous movement the music inspired.

I was ready to explode again but this time it would not be wasted. I positioned myself so that she saw me coming into her at eye level. They grew wide as she must have suddenly realized she had taken on more than she’d anticipated. In time to the music, I penetrated her only an inch and then pulled back. I bent and kiss the sweet flesh on either side of her clit and then entered her again, but incrementally further. I hoped I could hold up to this pace without losing it; her moist warmth and vaginal muscles were gripping me tightly.

Over and over, I penetrated her until finally I was completely inside her. I grasped her ankles and rose from my knees to a full standing position, my feet widely planted. She was so petite, she weighed practically nothing and I pulled her upward until she was practically on her head and I was drilling her from above. She gasped with the sensation and I wondered briefly what it must feel like for her. I slowed and she shook her head, her wild curls plastered against her damp face as she begged me not to stop.

The end of the song was near and I dropped again to my knees and pulled her toward me so that she straddled me. I pushed, deep, and leaned forward to suck her nipples. She cried out in passion and began bucking against me. I knew I’d driven her to that peak every woman craves. I allowed myself to explode within her and as the final strains of the music ended, we fell side by side to the mattress, exhausted.

As the thick serum of passion drained away, Harper rolled toward me. “You…” she cautioned me.

“I knew it was you from the first,” I lied and prayed that she’d never find out otherwise. She seemed satisfied, and I knew that I would have never engaged if it had been another woman. That told me one thing, clearly. I would never want any woman other than the one I held in my arms.

Never again.

“Happy birthday,” she whispered.

Chapter 17

Harper

I was still reeling from the daring dance I’d given Brayden. That was so unlike me, but it felt wonderful to do something out of character and rather risqué. I was beginning to get the hang of living life on the spur of the moment without planning it to death. It felt great.

I was watching from the pool as Captain Bob came in, Meghan and Mrs. Sims aboard. Meghan ran the entire difference and hugged me. Mrs. Sims was a bit more dignified and smiled, asking what I’d like for lunch as she passed by. I told her the refrigerator had been restocked and she should make whatever suited her whim. She seemed to love that suggestion.

Meghan was chattering like chimes in a windstorm, and I could see she was exhausted. I remembered what my sleepovers had been like. “Why don’t you go grab a nap?” I suggested and she didn’t offer the least bit of resistance to my suggestion.

“I’m up for that,” she said and trotted indoors.

My cell rang. “Hi, there, sleepyhead. You were still passed out when I left this morning,” Brayden teased me.

“So? Aren’t I permitted a life of leisure?”

“Is that what you call it?” he laughed. “Well, no one gets off entirely. In fact, that’s why I’m calling. I hope you bought a long dress in all the shopping you did a few days ago. We’ve been invited to a pre-performance reception with Mario Marcianelli, the famous tenor. I pretended to know opera but I think I flunked the test and now I’m looking for you to motor over with Captain Bob this afternoon and make me look better. Can you?”

“Sure! What time, and what do I wear?”

“Cocktails are at five o’clock and while I’d love you to come nude, I’d spend all night fighting off my competition. Why don’t you just choose something long and pretty? If you need anything, come early and shop and you can dress here.”

I shook my head, thinking. “No, I’m fine. Meghan and I were very thorough in spending your money the other day.”

I heard him chuckle. “I know… the bills have started coming in.”

“Is that a complaint I hear?” I asked in a threatening tone.

“No, no, not in the least. I would have spent ten times that on you if I’d been along. Okay, see you this afternoon.” There was a pause, and I realized it was the sort of pause that couples would fill with ‘I love you’ but we hadn’t gotten that far yet. I wasn’t entirely sure just how far one had to get to say those words, but it was clear to me that Brayden wasn’t there yet.

Then the moment passed. “Bye,” I said.

“Bye.”

* * *

I decided to take my clothes and dress at Utopia. Captain Bob, as accomplished as he was, could not shield me from the wind on the trip over. I arrived quietly and checked into a comped room, laying out my gown on the bed and heading to the shower. At just before five o’clock, I called Brayden’s phone and told him to meet me in the lobby.

“I’m already in the ballroom with our guest of honor. Sweetheart, would you mind terribly meeting me here? I’ll be standing with the guest of honor, and there’s no way you can miss him.”

“Sure, no problem.”

I found the ballroom and walked toward the front of the room. Brayden was standing next to a portly man, his arm on the man’s shoulder as they both laughed. He looked up and saw me and if there was one moment in my lifetime I could preserve forever in my memory, it would have been then. His mouth fell open, his expression turned to wonder and he dropped his hand from the man’s arm and walked toward me. I smiled.

“I can’t believe that’s you,” he whispered in my ear, folding my arm beneath his. “You are absolutely stunning.”

I blushed with pleasure. I was wearing a full-length strapless gown of a pale mandarin color that was slit from the high hip downward. I knew I filled out the bodice nicely and the back dipped all the way to the base of my spine. Meghan had chosen it and immediately brought it to me. “You have to try this one,” she’d told me. “It suits your coloring perfectly.” Apparently, she was right. I’d allowed my hair to air dry, which automatically made it nothing but ringlets. The bulk of it, I had piled on top and fastened with a silver barrette, leaving a cascade to fall over my shoulder and end in the cleavage of my breasts. I was wearing silver, designer spike heels and for the first time, my head topped Brayden’s shoulder.

But it was Brayden’s reaction that made me feel like a precious princess. He introduced me to the tenor, who seemed impressed as well as he asked that I sit with him. His eyes never left my cleavage. Brayden noticed this, as well, and he politely insisted that Mr. Marcianelli keep his seats for the mayor and the head of the opera company with his wife. He appeared disappointed, but I felt a sense of relief.

Brayden escorted me to a nearby table and seated me. He took the chair next to mine, and we had just settled in when a familiar voice came over my shoulder.

“Well, look who’s here,” Collin drawled and I saw the muscle in Brayden’s cheek begin to twitch. I looked up and Stephanie was standing with him, dressed in a black pantsuit that would have been better suited to a funeral. She was wearing entirely too much makeup and next to Collin, in his black suit with satin lapels, they could have blended well in Las Vegas.

Stephanie bent and hugged me, her perfume overpowering. I covered my cough and nodded.

I looked to Brayden for some sort of cue as to how to behave. I knew he was in a bad position, as Collin could make a real ass of himself if he didn’t get his way.

“I didn’t realize you were invited,” Brayden began.

“Well, that may be true but hey, where there’s a party, there’s Collin, right?” He was already swaying on his feet from alcohol.

Brayden cleared his throat. “Well, you may as well have a seat.” He motioned to the open seats.

“Why, thank you, brother. Don’t mind if I do.” Collin pulled out a chair and sat down, leaving Stephanie standing alone. Brayden leapt to his feet and held the chair for her. I was completely embarrassed. I reached over and patted her hand.

Collin seemed to have discovered me for the first time. His eyes trained on my bosom and he didn’t flinch when Brayden coughed. I was utterly miserable. Collin had us both in an untenable position. We couldn’t be ourselves, but had to cover for his garish behavior. I was being forced to be polite when what I wanted was to tell him to go to hell. I had no choice.

Stephanie, who I know was feeling rejected, smiled at Brayden and tried to strike up a conversation about the old days when we’d been in school together. She and Brayden were the same age and had a few classes together. Brayden was polite, but cool. His attention was on his brother, trying to run interference for anything embarrassing Collin could pull.

The speeches were done, and we’d begun dinner when Collin raised his glass and screamed, “Waitress! Another round for my friends here, would you? And put it on my brother’s tab.”

Brayden stood. “C’mon, Collin, let’s have a chat outdoors.”

Collin shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere, bro. You invited us to sit down and now we’re going to eat and drink… and have a nice little chat. I can’t help but notice you’ve both been gone for a couple of days. Where have you been?”

“That’s not what we’re here to discuss,” Brayden said, trying to guide the conversation to safer territories.

“I hear there was quite a blow a little further to sea,” Collin continued. “Lots of damage. I saw the staff from here packing and hurrying out to the dock. What would cause you to send your staff somewhere when you were missing as well?”

“Enough, Collin.” Brayden was getting angry. I tried to flag his attention, but he was ignoring me. Collin, on the other hand, was not. Stephanie was miserable.

“Steph, let me show you something in the lobby,” I prevaricated, trying to cool down the situation.

“She’s not going anywhere,” Collin insisted.

“You can’t hold her hostage,” I protested, becoming angry. Anger did not become me. I’d burned more than my share of bridges because of it. I knew I was on thin ice. Stephanie had gotten herself into this mess, and she needed to find her own way out.

“Brayden, I want to leave,” I said. “Now.”

He looked at me, and I saw desperation on his features.

“Okay, I get it. You can’t leave right now.”

“No, I can’t.”

“So, that fat man up there is more important than me?”

“That’s not fair, Harper.”

“Gee, but you’re starting to sound very much like your crazy brother here,” I popped off, and I knew I’d crossed a line.

“Harper, not here. Not now.”

“Not a problem,” I said and pushed back my chair. I left the room at a leisurely pace, making people think I was only going to the ladies’ room. Once I reached the lobby, I pulled the room key from my clutch and disappeared inside. I hung up the dress, ripped the barrette from my hair and crawled into my t-shirt and panties. I threw myself on the bed, cried for a while and then flipped on the television and puffed the pillows beneath my head.

There was a knock at the door. I ignored it.

“Harper, let me in.”

“Go away.”

“No, I’m not going anywhere. You forget I own this place.”

“I get that. You own everything, don’t you, Brayden? Does that include me?”

There was a pause and the tone of his voice had changed when he said, “Harper, open this door or I will call the front desk and get the pass key. You’re humiliating yourself and me. We can have this conversation inside your room.”

I threw back the covers in disgust and padded toward the door, sliding the keychain lock and flipping the deadbolt. “Come in, it’s yours, anyway.”

Brayden came in, closing the door quietly, but firmly, behind himself.

“Why did you treat me that way, Brayden?” I thought I may as well start the fight as he would definitely be finishing it.

“You left me little choice. I thought you could see the position I was in. I had a ballroom filled with influential people who could have put this place out of business with a wave of their hand. You don’t walk out and go home on that, Harper. This resort, this place? It’s bigger than you and bigger than me. I have over three hundred employees who depend on me for their food and to provide medical care for their children. I have a responsibility that isn’t something I can be whimsical about. Do you see that?”

I nodded. I was feeling a little bitchy and knew I’d probably overreacted.

“Now, I want to say that you looked absolutely breathtaking tonight. I’ve never seen a more beautiful, more poised woman and you blew me away. I had no idea that woman was inside the girl I’ve loved for so long.”

What? Did I hear him correctly? I thought he may have spoken too loosely and I wasn’t ready for that conversation, yet, so I let it go. My heart was hammering, though. “I’m sorry,” I said and threw my arms around his neck. “I went over the line and put you in a position you hadn’t earned. Collin was bad enough, and then there was me.”

“Forgiven, now kiss me.”

I leaned toward him, moving slowly and kissed him deeply, pressing my chest into his as I climbed onto his lap. He reached forward and slid my t-shirt over my head, cupping my breasts and kissing them. I felt his hand sliding down my panties and soon I was naked and splayed across the bed. “What’s wrong with this picture?” I whispered to him.

He bent forward and kissed my pussy and shed his own clothes in record time. Brayden straddled me, kissing the length of my body with such tenderness and possessiveness that I began to think that it was just possible he meant it when he said he’d loved me. Could this be what it felt like?

When he’d found his release and given me my own, we crawled beneath the covers and slid tightly against one another, instantly falling asleep.

Chapter 18

Brayden

I was emerging from a deep sleep, the kind that takes time to sort the dream from the reality. I kept my eyes closed, letting one sense at a time take its turn. I felt peaceful and fulfilled. She was next to me; there was no mystery behind that feeling. I needed that warmth, that support. I needed someone in my corner. That was when I had the realization that I’d never really had anyone in my corner; no one other than Harper. Somehow, I knew that no matter how far apart we became, I could always go back and she’d be there for me. I guess she probably felt the same for me and that’s why this was all so comfortable—so normal.

Then I became aware of the hunger. I remembered that we’d never finished our dinner; at least I hadn’t. I had my hands full trying to corral Collin from embarrassing me. I felt sorry for Stephanie. She had hitched her caboose to the wrong train. I could tell she was jealous of Harper. Who wouldn’t be? She was beautiful, intelligent, had a great sense of humor and a spirit for fun. Stephanie would do better to hang close to Harper, not compete with her. It was certainly what was appealing to me; that spirit of fun.

I had some tough decisions to make. I could tell that Collin wasn’t going to go away—not ever, and no matter what kind of deals I made. He knew it. We both did. My bribing him with a year on me had only delayed the next battle. When that time came, he’d show up, make an ass of himself and I’d be back to shielding him. I wished I hated him. But Campbells couldn’t do that. Kin stuck together and the black sheep always came out on top.

I texted my chef and asked him to send up a special breakfast for Harper and myself. She was beginning to stir next to me.

“Hey, sleepyhead. Did you sleep well?”

“I think so, from what I remember, that is.”

“Me, too. I guess it was that late-night recreation.” I grinned, patting her bottom. “I’d like to put in a standing order, if you don’t mind.”

She rolled over. “Hmmm… we’ll have to talk about that.” She was in her playful mood; the one I liked the best. This was the girl from high school, the one who was up for anything.

“Well, pull yourself together because Chef is sending us up a breakfast cart.”

“Oops!” She rolled out of the bed, and I heard the bathroom door close as there came a knock.

I answered the door and found a tall young man in a monogrammed jacket with a cart laden with covered dishes. “Hello. Jeremy, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Campbell. Good morning to you.”

“Thank you, Jeremy. Has Chef sent up something palatable?”

“Oh, yes, sir. I watched him prepare it and if you don’t want it, I’ll be glad to help you out,” he joked.

“Well, Jeremy, when you go back, tell Chef I said he is to fix you a special lunch; anything you like, on me.”

“Oh, sir, couldn’t do that, sir.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, sir, it would make the others jealous. Preferential treatment, you understand. Make them feel bad and they’d get back at me, in little ways.”

I nodded. “Jeremy, thank you for breakfast and thank you for the wisdom. You may have just given me an answer to a problem.”

Harper emerged as I shut the door behind Jeremy. “What problem is that?” she asked, toweling her hair. She’d taken a shower and was standing naked, her skin glowing from the sun and her magnificent hair like a halo about her. I closed the distance between us and took each breast into my mouth.

“None, now,” I murmured, running my hands over her soft skin.

“Bray, stop now. We’re both hungry and a perfectly beautiful meal is sitting right there and you must have work to do. Someone to supervise or some detail to see to.”

“You make me sound like a workaholic.”

“Well? If the shoe fits.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Oh, Bray, come on. You have more money than you could ever spend and yet you still come here every day and work longer hours and harder than anyone on your payroll. Why is that? You must be getting something out of it.”

She had a point and it added to the realization I’d had upon waking.

“Okay, assuming there’s a shred of truth in that, what would you do if you were me?”

“I don’t know. That’s for everyone to decide for themselves. Knit stockings or serve food at the homeless shelter or study the mating habits of a snail; I don’t care. I don’t have your money, but I’m choosing to do something that makes me happy.”

“And that is?”

She looked at me like I’d missed the entire premise of a movie. “Haven’t you been listening?”

“You’ve never been really impassioned, it was easy to miss.”

She lowered her voice into an even tone one might use with a young child. “I’m going to build a dating website. I’ve explained it to you before,” she enunciated with exaggeration.

“Oh, that.”

“Yeah, oh, that. Did you think I was going to spend the rest of my life living in your guest cottage?”

“Hadn’t really thought about it.”

She suddenly went quiet and then it occurred to me that I probably shouldn’t have said that. “Well, you know, Harper, I want you to figure out what you want.”

“No problem. I want to build my website but if that interferes with what you need me to do, let me know and I’ll move along. I need something with a future.”

The words hung between us like icicles on a polar day. Our minds were screaming the words but would not let us speak them. So, it stopped and turned a corner.

“Are you coming back or just staying here today?” she asked me.

“I’ve got a change of clothes here, unless you’d like me to go with you home.”

“Nope. I’m fine. I need to get some things done anyway.”

We finished our meal with the news on the television. It was a barrier to verbal mistakes and we both appreciated that. I had no idea what to say or where we stood. The larger problem was my brother and until that was resolved, I really couldn’t make future plans. I just hoped she could live with that. God, but I hoped she could live with that.

I walked Harper down to the dock and put her safely into Captain Bob’s capable hands before returning to my office. I texted Collin and asked if he had a minute to stop in. I knew he’d probably been up all night so there was a good chance I wouldn’t hear from him until the afternoon, which actually gave me more time to think about how I was going to word my proposition.

The bus boy, Jeremy, had innocently presented a point of view I’d not yet considered. Was it possible that Collin was acting out because he felt like a failure? As my elder brother, it would have made more sense that he’d be helping me out, instead of the other way around. I couldn’t spend my life running interference between him and my own reputation and there had to be something out there that would be a greater incentive to him than screwing with my life. Was Collin feeling left out? Worthless? Were people giving him a hard time because he’d never amounted to much?

Did I trust Collin? That was the kernel of the bigger question. How far would he go to ruin me before he could grasp the idea that using me as a base, he could exceed anything I’d accomplished to date?

Collin, alerted that there might be something in it for him, rose from his bed, dressed roughly and was in my office a short time later. He was curious; that much I could see. I thought I could also spot a bit of desperation. It served to cement my intent and I invited him to have a seat.

“This will help,” I told him, handing him a Scotch on the rocks. Collin was a functioning alcoholic. No matter how drunk he got, he still managed to be up to no good. I hoped I had the ability to change all that.

“Thanks, bro, you read my mind,” he said, his voice gravelly and low. He wore a thick, gold ring on the pinkie of his right hand. It was a star sapphire he’d won in a poker game from a man who had gone all in with the only possession of value he had; the ring he wore was one of five, each belonging to his brothers. The brothers were all dead and he, alone, still wore the ring. Collin took it, along with the honor that went with it. He considered it a souvenir of stupidity. Damn, but I wished I could hate my brother.

“So, Collin,” I began, sitting down in my chair and leaning back, crossing one leg over the other. “I don’t think it comes as any surprise that you made a nuisance of yourself last night.”

“Did I?” It was a rhetorical question.

“You’re no fool. You know what you’re doing, and I’m so busy playing guard against you that I’m losing opportunities that could help the both of us.”

“In what way would that be, bro?”

I let the question hang there a moment, letting his imagination fuel what I was about to propose.

“So, here’s the deal, Collin. There’s nothing I’ve done to get to where I am that you can’t do equally as well.” I gave the devil a short noose and he nodded, sliding his head neatly through it.

“I’ve had some investors approach me to expand Utopia and build some closely identical facilities in various places around the world.”

“You don’t say,” he commented, sipping his Scotch.

“I knew it was too big an undertaking for me alone. That’s when I thought of you.”

He scoffed at me, shifting in his chair and setting his glass on my paperwork, intentionally creating a wet ring. “Don’t bullshit me, bro.”

“I’m not. It’s a legit deal.”

“Not what I’m talking about, and you know it,” he scoffed at me. “How stupid do you think I am?”

I sat up and looked him straight in the eyes. “Quite the opposite, bro,” I emphasized his vernacular. “You’re one of the most intelligent men I know and that’s why I’m talking to you. You want the truth? The no-bullshit truth? Okay, here it is. You’re an asshole. And what’s more, you know and you work hard at it. Does that make you stupid? You tell me. You can use what God gave you in that head and your looks and your ability to charm the pants off anyone in your path, or you can continue to be an asshole and see where that gets you. So, you tell me, Collin. Are you up to the challenge of using your talents for something that lets people know what you’re capable of?”

I knew my voice was loud and Collin might take exception to that, but the time had come to deal with him man to man. The question was only whether he’d rise to the challenge.

“Calm down, Brayden,” he growled. He hadn’t called me by my first name in years. He sighed; a sign that a change was in the offing. “So, what the fuck is it that you want me to do?”

“Let’s get this straight. There is an offer on the table to me, and I’m inclined to pass on it. I think you can pull it off, and I’m handing the ace to you. You can keep it, or you can pass on it. It doesn’t matter to me because I have no skin in this game. It’s all about the investors.”

“What kind of investors are we talking?”

“What the hell? You want a list?” I was growing frustrated and not entirely sure this was worth it. “Look, they’re people with money who have stayed here and who travel. They’d like to see a place similar to this in other countries.”

“Like where?”

“They’re talking Paris.”

“France?”

“There’s another?”

“Don’t get smart. When?”

“They’re ready to go as soon as I give them a thumbs up.”

“Who would I report to, them or you?”

“Initially me, because it’s supposed to be like Utopia so it only makes sense for me to lay the groundwork. As soon as you’re comfortable with the process, you’re on your own and only report to them.”

“What’s in this for me?”

What was up with him? He had nothing, someone was offering him a helluva job and he was getting all sanctimonious. “That’s between you and the investors. If I had to guess, I’d say salary and bonuses based on profits, maybe an ownership percentage, I don’t know.”

Collin stood up and went to the window, his back to me. “Is part of the deal that I leave you alone?”

I knew that question was coming. “You won’t want to be here. You’ll have a life of your own.” It was the best response I could come up with that would preserve his ego and still make the point.

“Can I ask you something?” His voice was serious and yet sort of sensitive.

“Ask.”

He turned from the window to look at me directly. “Why have you never told me you live on an island?”

I wasn’t ready for that one. I couldn’t tell him the truth.

“I like my privacy, and you can see me here anytime.”

“You just didn’t want to contaminate your precious little house.”

“Not true. It’s not a big place, there’s only the one house and it just happens to be where I live part-time. I also live here, you know.”

“Bullshit!”

“Collin…” My tone was warning him.

“Never mind. Save it. I get the picture. Tell your investors that I’ll take their damned job, and I’ll make you look like a boy scout.” Collin strode to the door and left, slamming it behind him.

I considered the meeting successful. He knew there were no investors, that it was all me. He wanted to salvage enough pride and pretend, and I let him. The end was that Collin was leaving the country, and I knew him well enough to know he’d try to kick my ass and beat me at my own game. That was exactly what I wanted.

All thanks to Jeremy, the bus boy.

Chapter 19

Harper

I was feeling completely off balance. I guess in my little girl mind, there was a logical progression of how a relationship moved forward. I’d believed that you became friends, then confessed that you liked each other, dated for a while and maybe were exclusive, then came kissing and sex, then the proposal and the marriage. I guess I’d fallen off a hay wagon because obviously things didn’t work that way.

I’d thought that Brayden was making overtures to keep me in his life, and yet the words weren’t there. I guess I’d just become another one in the long line of women he’d most likely been with over the years since I’d seen him. I’d been reading too much into his gesture to have me stay at the guest cottage. I was there as a companion to Meghan. He’d said that she was lonely and needed people around her. What was I thinking?

There was nothing I could do but back off and concentrate on building my business. I had everything I needed; my laptop, my knowledge, a place to stay and a dear little friend in Meghan.

We were growing closer with each day. The day after the tenor’s reception, she was waiting on the dock for me, waving wildly. “I’m so glad you’re back,” she prattled on. “I had more I wanted to tell you about the new friends I made by Mrs. Sims’ sister’s. They do each other’s hair, put on makeup, and talked about boys the whole time.”

“I think you already have a marvelous sense of style, honey. They should be learning from you.”

“Oh, I know. Really, I think I do have a knack for it, but I didn’t want to be a show-off or anything, you know?”

“Good thinking. They’ll figure it out on their own.”

“So, I was wondering, do you think Uncle Brayden might let me invite them over for a sleep-over sometime?”

I had to curb my smile at the image of Brayden surrounded by a group of giggling young girls with curlers and vivid violet eye shadow. “Well, gee, honey, I don’t know. He might let you invite them to Utopia and have your sleep over there, though. You might try that first.”

“Good idea, Harper. I hadn’t thought about that. That might be extra cool because of the pool and tea room and everything. I’ll bet Chef would make us some cupcakes with pastel frosting and sprinkles.”

“He might do just that, but before you start making out invitations, I suggest you talk to your uncle. And don’t be surprised if he doesn’t jump on it right away. He’s got a lot on his mind right now.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing wrong, exactly. Just a lot of responsibility and special events scheduled.”

We were sitting by the pool and Mrs. Sims brought us out two lemonades and a bowl of chips. “Ohhh, I love this,” Meghan said, digging in. “You know, Harper, I like spending time with you. You’re not really like most moms; you’re lots of fun.”

I didn’t know how to answer that but opted to simply say, “You’re easy to be fun around, honey.”

“Thanks! Hey, would you like to hit some tennis balls with me?”

I was a little tired from the night before, but we were on a good conversation roll and I didn’t want to slow that momentum. “Sure. Let me go and get changed. I’ll meet you on the court in about twenty minutes.”

“Okay,” she agreed and sipped her lemonade as I headed toward the cottage. It felt good to be back there and I dropped my bags on the bed and went in to brush my teeth and pull my hair into a ponytail. I found some shorts and a t-shirt in a drawer and dug socks out for my sneakers. I hoped they had an extra racquet since that wasn’t something I owned.

Heading toward the tennis court, I noticed someone standing with their back to me, talking to Meghan. I looked around for a sign that Brayden had come back or that Captain Bob was on the dock, but no one else was around.

As I drew closer, the voice sounded familiar. “Meghan?” I called and they both turned around. It was Collin!

“Collin, we weren’t expecting you,” I stuttered.

“Oh? I was just having a chat with Meghan here.”

“Is Brayden here with you?”

“No, he’s busy working. So, Meghan,” he said, turning toward the girl, “how is it you came to live here?”

“Meghan…” I interrupted but the girl was too well-mannered. She looked up at Collin and said, “Uncle Brayden took me in when my parents were killed.”

“Is that so?” He spun around and gave me a look that frightened me.

“Meghan, please go up to the house and ask Mrs. Sims to come down here. I need to speak with her immediately.”

Meghan looked surprised, but obeyed me and started skipping up the incline toward the house.

“What brings you here, Collin?”

“I believe you know.”

I shook my head. “Not really.”

“I find that fascinating since it appears that my brother has adopted my niece without so much as letting me know she exists.” His face was stormy. I wasn’t sure whether it was appropriate, but I was a little afraid of him at that moment.

“I really don’t know a lot about it. You know, Collin, you should have let Brayden bring you over. This is his house, and I know he would have liked to be the one to show you around.”

“Yeah, I know about how much I’d see with him. That’s why I came on my own. Wasn’t too hard to find, since I had a guide.” He pointed out someone standing down by the dock.

I could tell from where I was that they wore one of Brayden’s employees’ uniforms. It likely had the embroidered script ‘U’ on the pocket, but that didn’t matter. Whomever it was probably recognized that Collin was Brayden’s brother and when asked to bring Collin to Vermillion Key, he would never dream that he was being manipulated. Brayden was right about one thing. Collin was not stupid, but he was very good at finding out what he wanted to know.

I took a different tack. “Why don’t you come up to the house and have a drink by the pool? It’s really a steamer today. You can see most all the island from there, and that saves you walking around. I’ll do my best to give you a pointing tour.”

He didn’t seem to have any problem with that, and he seemed bothered. He wasn’t gloating as I might have expected. Something was on his mind; perhaps the idea that his late brother was still alive in Meghan. In any regard, he nodded. I motioned in the direction of the house and moved to walk behind him up the incline. His attention was on the luxurious details of the grounds, not on me. I pulled out my cell and quickly texted Brayden. COLLIN HERE AT THE HOUSE. KNOWS ABOUT MEGHAN. COME QUICKLY.

I watched the way he moved as he walked. He may have had a drink or two, but he didn’t appear to be drunk. Probably the best thing I could do was to keep his attention diverted.

We’d reached the pool patio, and Meghan came out with Mrs. Sims. The older woman had a concerned look on her face. I had no idea if she knew anything about Collin, but it wouldn’t take much to recognize that he was related to Brayden and she certainly knew that the island was off limits to others. I hoped she’d pick up on the fact that Collin represented some danger.

I hated this feeling; being trapped. Collin would pick up on that. Bullies could smell fear, and it empowered them. I’d known him all my life and still wanted away from him. I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket and knew Brayden was texting back.

“Mrs. Sims, would you mind preparing lunch for us and serve it here on the patio? We have an unexpected guest with us. This is Mr. Brayden’s brother, Collin.” As I spoke, I gave her a hard look, hoping she would pick up on the danger. Her expression did not change an iota. She was either a very good actress, or it went right over her head.

“Certainly, Miss Harper. I was just telling Meghan that she’d made a mess of videos in the media room and she’s to put them back, in alphabetical order,” she turned to give Meghan a look, “before she can play tennis or join you here for lunch.” She glared at Meghan, who slowly slunk inside.

“Nice to meet you, Uncle Collin,” Meghan mewled as though she hoped he might intervene and commute the sentence.

I knew she would be fascinated by meeting her father’s other brother and yet she would be clueless how much danger that could represent. Collin was unpredictable and had it in for Brayden. He would cause trouble; there could be no doubt about that.

I nodded and quickly changed the conversation before Collin could say anything more. “You didn’t bring Stephanie with you?”

“No,” was his curt response.

“Darn. I’ve been afraid to ask her to visit, Brayden being so protective of things, and would have liked if she could see it.”

“Why?”

I looked up at him. “Excuse me?”

“Why is he protective? Who is he afraid of?”

I shrugged, taking a sip from my drink. “You should know that better than I. He’s your brother. He just seems sometimes almost paranoid. I write it off to the fact that he has so many employees and that someone could become disgruntled. This is a remote place, you know.”

He nodded. I hoped I was making logical sense. His next question took my breath.

“Why are you here?”

I hesitated. I knew I couldn’t lie; he was too smart for that. The best I could do was slant things and sometimes the truth was the best way to do that.

I looked down at the paving stones. “I’m beginning to ask myself that same question. I mean, you remember we were an item back in high school and I thought he was wanting to rekindle that. I’m not so sure, now, though.”

“Why not?”

“He’s not opening up to me. One minute, I’m his girlfriend and the next I feel like I’ve been hired as a companion to the girl.” I deliberately did not name her as that suggested a closely-knit group of which he was not a part—a fact that would further anger him.

Mrs. Sims emerged at that moment, a tray in her hands. There were only two place settings, which told me exactly what I wanted to know. She had picked up on the danger and had sent Meghan off on a chore so she would be out of the way.

Collin stood up. “Where’s the can?” he asked, and I pointed to the pool cabana.

“Right in there.”

He nodded and headed toward it as Mrs. Sims was laying the plates and glasses. As soon as he was out of hearing, she whispered, “Have you contacted Mr. Brayden?”

I nodded and slipped my phone out of my pocket. ON MY WAY. “Yes, he’s coming. Keep Meghan upstairs, no matter what. I’ll handle Collin.”

“I know,” she muttered under her breath as Collin emerged from the cabana and headed back toward me.

“Mrs. Sims, would you send something to drink down to Collin’s guide there on the dock?” She nodded and understood that the only person she could summon to take it down would be Captain Bob.

I sat back, content that I’d done all I could for the moment. Now, I just had to wait. I picked a topic that I hoped wouldn’t rev him up. “Has Brayden told you about the website I’m building?” I asked as Mrs. Sims reappeared with large bowls of salad and a platter of sandwiches. She nodded briefly to me and I relaxed a bit.

“No.”

“Well, you’ll probably find it kind of funny considering that I was pretty much a wallflower in school, but I’m building a new kind of dating website.”

“Okay.”

He clearly wasn’t interested but was using his energy to survey the island from this elevated vantage. I let him do it.

“Oh, that’s right. I promised you a tour. Well, let’s see. That building over there,” I pointed to where I was staying, “is the guest house. That’s where I’m staying.”

His eyebrows went up at that. I suppose he imagined that I would be rooming at the big house with Brayden.

“Why?”

I raised my eyebrows and lifted my chin, letting him know I didn’t understand his question.

He sighed, not sure if I was as stupid as I appeared, or whether I was pretending. “Why are you living there?”

I shrugged again. “You’d have to ask Brayden that. That’s where he put my things.”

I pointed out a few other interesting points and then talked about the red sunsets that had given the Key its name. “You know, it’s hard to believe that Cuba is only about eighty miles from here,” I said, pointing. I knew I was sounding like a tour guide, and a silly one at that since Collin had grown up here, just as I had.

I switched to the topic of whatever happened to… the conversation old classmates had. He was fairly uncooperative but it did trigger some reminiscences about his high school exploits, most of which should have landed him in prison. He regaled me with these, one after the other, and I wondered how I was supposed to respond. Should I laugh? Be in awe?

From the corner of my eye, I could see Captain Bob lurking in the shadows next to the sliding door. He was not in uniform, but sitting in a rattan chair, holding a magazine. I supposed that Mrs. Sims had given him some alternate role in case Collin should see him.

That was when I heard the motor and saw a large cabin cruiser approaching the dock. Finally! Collin heard it, too, and put down his fork with a clatter. He shoved his plate aside angrily and stood up, striding toward the boat and Brayden.

I felt a knot of fear in my gut, at least until I could see that Brayden was not alone. There were men with him, men in suits that bulged. They fanned out behind him but there was no mistaking their fitness in their walk and that their heads were looking from left to right, gauging the situation as they approached. I stood up and hurried inside, locking the slider.

Captain Bob had already been alerted and was standing, watching the approaching people from a window. He was holding a revolver in his hand.

I went to find Mrs. Sims. She was in the kitchen, and she was holding a gun in her hand as well. “Where’s Meghan?” I asked.

“Go to the media room and tell her to take you to the panic room. She knows. Don’t come out until you see one of us motion to you on the monitors. Lock the door; she’ll show you how. You’ll be able to hear us.”

Alarmed, I ran toward the stairs going down and Meghan was standing in the doorway of the media room, a frightened look on her face. She knew enough to take precautions but was confused whether she should go into hiding on her own.

“Panic room?” I asked briefly and she nodded, grabbed my hand and pulled me into the media room. The room was very dark and the floor slanted, like in a full theatre. She tugged me toward the projection screen and slid around behind it, tapping something on the wall and a door swung open.

We entered the panic room and locked the door.

I’d never been in anything like that. It was the stuff of movies. The closest thing I could describe was a sort of bunker with panels of blinking switches and a set of monitors that allowed us to see all over the island and in every room of the house. Isn’t this reacting just a little bit? After all, there was only Collin, and Brayden had brought what looked like a deployment from the Secret Service. But, I understood that Brayden couldn’t handle things as coolly if he had to worry about where Meghan was, so I was content to have a seat and watch the show. Meghan seemed unconcerned.

“Have you been in here before?” I asked.

She nodded casually. “Oh, sure, lots of times. Uncle Brayden always brings me in here, or Mrs. Sims, when a big blow is coming in. According to him, the whole island could go underwater and we’d be all cozy and watertight, like a submarine.” She pulled out her cell phone, settled onto a bunk and began whatever it was that teenage girls do on phones. I could hear a tinkle of music, so I assumed she was playing a game.

I spotted the screen that showed the patio and the yard leading down to the docks. Collin was walking casually, if not jauntily, toward Brayden with his hands in his pockets. He must have been walking very slowly because it had taken a couple of minutes for Meghan and me to get down to the room. The men with Brayden had fanned out and were intently watching Collin. I could see Brayden’s mouth moving, but couldn’t hear what was being said. I saw Collin shrug, but his hands stayed in his pockets. One of Brayden’s men had circled around while he was talking and now approached Collin from the rear. As I watched, the man put a hand on Collin’s shoulder and began searching him. I was more than a little shocked to see him pull a gun from Collin’s pocket. What the fuck?

I was glad Meghan was involved in her phone and not watching. I was careful not to make any sounds. A beeping began on the console and I saw Captain Bob’s face up close in the monitor. He was signaling me to open the door.

“How do I let him in?” I asked aloud.

Captain Bob, himself, answered me. “The green button next to the door. Just flip the switch.”

I opened the door and waited for him to enter. He shook his head. “No, just came to retrieve you two. Meghan, your uncle would like you to go on up to your room for a while and Miss Harper, you can do as you please.”

I glanced back up at the monitors and saw the group, including Collin and Brayden, reboarding the cruiser. “I guess I’m going down to the guest cottage. I think I’d like a nap,” I told Captain Bob and he nodded. I hugged Meghan as we parted at the top of the stairs.

She was halfway up the stairs when she called to me. “Harper?”

“Yes, honey?”

“Was that man really my uncle?”

I paused briefly, not sure how much I should say. This didn’t involve me and Brayden had obviously told her something all these years. I didn’t want to make him out to be a liar to his own niece. She would only understand that he lied, but not why. Brayden would have to deal with this when he got back. I decided to try and walk around it.

“It’s a complicated situation, honey. I don’t know very much about it at all. What do you say let’s wait for Brayden to come home and we’ll all talk about it?”

She looked upset and doubtful. She shook her head. “It wasn’t fair for Uncle Brayden not to tell me the truth. He’s my family, too, you know.”

I sat down on the bottom step of the stairway and motioned for her to join me. She came and plopped down. “Honey, you know how there are things that happen in your life and when you were younger, you didn’t understand it? Then, that something happens and now you’re older and you suddenly understand the same thing?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“That will happen to you more and more as you grow older. And this is one of those things. But, and this is the important part, when you really know you’re growing up is when you are very sure you’ve asked all the right questions and gotten all the possible information before drawing a conclusion. This is what I’m trying to tell you. You trust your Uncle Brayden, right?”

“I guess so, but I don’t know why he didn’t just tell me.”

“If you trust him, you will wait for him to tell you why. That’s all I’m saying. Not only will he tell you, but then you can ask him questions. He’s the only person in the world who can tell you why he did what he did, or didn’t do. Would that be fair?”

She thought a few seconds and then nodded. “I guess that makes sense.”

I patted her shoulder. “I knew you would understand. Now, why don’t you do as he asked and go on up to your room. I’ll ask Mrs. Sims to bring you something to eat and I’m sure you’ve got some friends to text with. He’ll be back and then you and I will both ask him questions. Fair enough?”

She nodded again and stood up. “Harper?”

“Yes, honey?”

“I’m really glad you’re here.”

“I’m glad I’m here, too.”

Meghan continued up to her room, and I stood up and went in search of Mrs. Sims. I almost ran into her in the doorway of the kitchen. Her hands held a tray.

“Meghan?” I asked and she nodded. I gave her sort of a side hug and left for the cottage.

For now, my world had returned to normal. I had a whole ton of questions for Brayden, but it was, for the most part, normal.

Chapter 20

Brayden

Collin was standing next to the captain on the boat’s bridge. I was sitting in a side chair, pondering exactly what I was going to say. I decided to save it until we had some privacy.

We came into the Utopia dock and Collin was already at the dockside of the boat, ready to jump out. “Hey, Collin,” I called to him.

He was slow to look around, but eventually swung about to face me. “What do you want?”

“Why don’t you stick around and lets you and I have a talk?”

He looked at the captain and the security detail I’d brought with me. “Give me back my weapon. I’ve got a permit.”

They looked to me, and I nodded.

“Alrighty then, let’s do that.”

I nodded to the others and they filed off the boat and headed toward Utopia. One of the security guys walked about thirty paces, turned and stood, folding his arms across his chest. I let him stay.

“So, you want to tell me why you never told me about the girl?” Collin’s voice wasn’t friendly.

“Just exactly what were you going to do with her, Collin? You don’t have a home, you’re always off on an adventure and there’s a string of women in your past so long it would make a parade. She was just a little girl who lost her mom and dad. She needed, if anything, stability. I was the only one who could give her that. Ask yourself, did you really want to be saddled with a little girl to take care of?”

“Don’t bullshit me. You got something out of the deal. Maybe a nice little life insurance policy?”

I rolled my eyes, hardly able to believe what I was hearing. “You think I took her for money? Really? Have you looked around? Do I strike you as someone who needs money? Anyway, it was barely enough to bury them. I’ve been her support from the beginning.”

Collin was thoughtful. “I still think you should have told me.”

“Fuck, Collin, you’ve never been the warm and fuzzy type. I did what I thought was best for the girl.”

“Yeah, right.”

“So, why did you go out there?”

He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. “I knew you were holding out on me, and I wanted to see what it was. Before I leave town, I need to know who is holding which cards.”

“What you saw there and here, is mine. This morning, you sat in my office and I handed you the tools to make your own. What’s up with that, now? Just going to walk away from it?”

“Who’s walking away? Fuck, no. I’m taking it because it’s mine by right.”

I swallowed my words that threatened to choke me. “All right, if that’s how you want to think about it, makes no difference to me.”

“So? Where’s my ticket and the money to start with? I’ll have expenses, you know.”

I sighed inside but didn’t let him see it. I knew he was trying to start something with me and I wasn’t going to let him pull it. “Go on up to Cabana. I’ll be there in thirty minutes and have it for you.”

He nodded, dropped his cigarette onto the mahogany deck and ground it with the heel of his shoe. It was just one more in your face directed at me. I wanted to push him overboard but I was so close to getting rid of him. I let it go.

When he hit the dock, I leaned over the edge and puked my guts out into the water.

* * *

I spotted Collin at his usual table. He always liked the corner because his back was to the wall, the exit was immediately to his right and he could see everything and everyone who came into the lounge.

As I walked toward him, he jabbed at a young redhead with balloon knockers who was perched next to him. She looked at me, got up and moved away. Shit, he’s brought hookers into Utopia. I felt like I was part of some old Western scene where the sheriff approached and the bad guys scattered. Why did this all feel so lethal? This guy was my brother.

“Get your chores done, bro?” he greeted me.

I sat down and waved at the bartender, who sent over my favorite glass of Chardonnay. It was cool and tart on my tongue, and I tried to relax despite the hammering of my heart. I was about to place the biggest bet of my lifetime and the stakes were high; higher than I could possibly protect.

I reached into my inside pocket and placed an envelope on the table between us. Collin reached for it. “Not so fast,” I said, placing my hand over it. “We have a few things to agree to before. Call it an employment agreement, and it favors you more than me, actually.”

“What kind of agreement?”

I opened the envelope and withdrew a document, smoothing it out so I could read excerpts to him. I motioned with my finger and my attorney, Melborne, joined us from where he’d been waiting at another table.

“Collin, may I present Mr. Dean Melborne, my attorney and yours to ask any questions. Mr. Melborne, my brother, Collin Campbell.”

Collin’s face flushed. I knew he was angry and that was exactly what I wanted to see. It told me he was desperate and men in desperation often made mistakes. He badly needed what was in that envelope; there was no question of that.

Melborne sat and nodded toward Collin, but I lifted the document and summarized certain passages. “Collin, this document agrees that you are to be a twenty percent stockholder and manager-in-training of a new resort, to be called LaPetite. It will be located in Paris and the property has already been scouted and purchased. You and your staff will be accommodated at a nearby hotel and offices have been rented until such time as the resort is completed enough to provide what you need. The team of investors I represent will be seventy percent stockholders and have no representation other than me. I have to sign off on anything, including design, purchases, salaries, branding and marketing. When, at such time as I feel is appropriate, you are capable of handling these details, my supervision will end and you will become general manager. This point is to be determined by the investors. Also, at that time, your equity will increase to forty percent and the resort shall be self-supporting with no further backing by the investors.”

“Sounds fine,” he said anxiously. “I’m going to need some seed money for myself to get settled.”

“I know. This envelope contains a check from the investment company made out to you in the amount of five hundred thousand dollars. It’s expected that you guarantee to be on site in Paris fifty weeks out of the year and once the resort is complete, you will reside there and be on hand for the day to day operations. If you do not fulfill this participatory condition, your involvement with the resort will cease immediately, you will be expected to repay the five hundred thousand and you will agree to surrender any and all interests in the enterprise entirely. Can you agree to this? Do you have any questions of Melborne here?”

Collin was so intent on getting the money and getting out, he pulled the document from my hands, scribbled his signature, grabbed the envelope and got up to go. He never said another word.

Collin was gone. I looked at Melborne. “Do you think this will work?”

He ran a hand through his close-cropped gray hair and sighed. “I wouldn’t take odds but it’s the best we could come up with.”

“Okay.” I exhaled and stood to leave. “I’m going home.”

Chapter 21

Harper

I awoke to the sensation of lips tasting the side of my neck. It felt delicious, and I shuddered with its sensual touch. There were fingers opening the nightshirt I’d slid into before I had lain down and with each button came a waft of cool air and the touch of fingers sketching circles on my skin. I kept my eyes closed. It seemed to make all the sensations so much more potent. I could feel his weight over me, pressing in the mattress on either side of me. I knew I’d been relaxed in my sleep but he felt much heavier. “Brayden, I love it when you’re like this,” I murmured and he chuckled.

It wasn’t Brayden’s voice and my eyes flew open. It was Collin!

I tried to scream, but the hand over my mouth barely allowed me to breathe.

“Aw, now don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m not here to hurt you. If I had time, I’d show you that you got yourself the wrong brother. But I’m just here to help you sleep. So, you just lie there. A little pinch now and then you’ll fall back asleep. Don’t you worry now, Harper, honey.”

I tried to push him off me but he was more than twice my weight and I couldn’t move. I saw him look down at my arm and then I felt the needle. The room started fading and that was it.

Chapter 22

Brayden

It was the annual Keys Children’s Charity and I’d long lobbied to have the crowning dinner and event to be held at Utopia. It had been a major coup to beat out the various Golden Coast hotels and convention centers and bring it to Utopia. I’d asked Harper the day before to be sure and be ready. With all the excitement, I wondered if she’d remembered. I texted her cell, but there was no response. I tried to call and it went to voicemail. I imagined she was in the shower and waited before trying again. In the meantime, the dignitaries were arriving in a string of black limos. It was definitely a red-carpet event and the paparazzi were in a frenzy, snapping publicity photos. Overall, it was an excellent opportunity for Utopia to be known worldwide. These were the people who formed the core blood of the resort industry.

Linda Thomalin, the grande dame of the entire affair was wobbling toward me. The woman had to top three hundred pounds but they were well-packed into a plus-size set of shapewear. Even so, she should have skipped the red stiletto heels, as her weight drove each step into the carpet like a spike on a railroad track.

“Oh, Mr. Campbell, this is simply marvelous. I’m so glad we decided to hold the event here at Utopia this year,” she said, using that affected accent that seemed to come over new money when their bank account hit the first ten million. She was wearing a floor-length red-sequined gown, far too flagrant for her shape or for good taste, but she was the decision maker, and I had to overlook the rest of her deficits.

“We’re very glad to host, Mrs. Thomalin. It has long been a sought-after prize. We hope the committee will decide to make this an ongoing tradition.”

“Yes, yes, we’ll see,” she piped up in an overly loud voice that matched the rest of her. She waved her fingers at me and moved on to socialize. It was a relief. I tried Harper’s number again. No response. A nightmare of cold dread slid down my spine. There was no way she’d been in the shower this long, and certainly not since she should have already been here. I would give her ten more minutes and then I was going in. I texted Captain Bob to make sure he was standing by at Vermillion. He didn’t answer, either.

Then I knew something was wrong. Very, very wrong. I found a couple of assistant managers I could trust and turned things over to them as I raced to the dock. I used the resort cabin cruiser, blocking guests as they arrived in their own boats. Within a few minutes, I was speeding to Vermillion.

I continued to text Captain Bob, Mrs. Sims and Meghan without response. Harper wasn’t answering anything. I felt chilled despite the heat of the evening and barely tied up the boat as I arrived at my dock.

Racing for the house, I threw open the slider and found no one. I took two stairs at a time up to Meghan’s room, but it was empty.

Bounding downstairs, I thought my heart would explode with the panic coursing through my veins. I tore open the door to the cottage and rounded the corner. Emotion overcame me at what I saw.

Harper was on the bed, but not moving. I fell to my knees at her side and felt for a pulse. Thank God, she’s just asleep! I shook her. “Harper! Harper, honey, wake up!”

She didn’t respond, but continued her even breathing. My mind was racing. Where were the others? Scooping her into my arms, I jogged for the boat and put her on the bed in the main cabin. Back on the lawn, I stood stock still, forcing my swirling panic to rationalize a plan. Grabbing my cell, I called my security detail and ordered them to get to Vermillion on the double and find Mrs. Sims and Captain Bob. I knew there was no reason to look for Meghan. She was not on the island. It had to be Collin—or at least I hoped.

Back at Utopia, I had Harper taken to my special suite and ordered the doctor to see to her. Security was already at Vermillion, and I was waiting for an update. I tried calling Collin’s phone, but didn’t expect him to answer. He didn’t. I’d grabbed Harper’s phone and found Stephanie’s number.

“Hello?”

“Stephanie?”

“Yeah. Who’s this?”

“Brayden. Is Collin with you?”

“Yeah, right. That bastard cleaned out my purse and took a hike. If you see him, kill him for me, will you?”

“Stephanie, look, I don’t have much time. I think Collin is behind something pretty bad. I need your help. Have you ever noticed him having any association with unusual people – like maybe men who come by for a few minutes and then leave? Does he come and go for short periods of time? Anyone?”

“Sure. I thought he had other women. I got pissed and told him not to come back, but he ignored me and broke in the door when I didn’t let him in. You know he’s got a gun, right, Brayden?”

“Yeah, I know. When was the last time you saw or heard from him?”

“Oh, shit, let me think. I guess it was day before yesterday. Tell you the truth, I thought I might finally be rid of him and was sort of glad. He can be a real ass.”

“Do you have any idea where he meets people or any phone numbers? Did he ever use your phone?”

“Oh, yeah, all the time. He said his phone was broke and he’d give me their number.”

“Stephanie, are you at the apartment?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sending a car for you immediately. I want you here at Utopia and bring that phone. We need every phone number he might have called in or out. Your sister needs you, Steph. If I’m not mistaken, Collin has had her drugged and she’s with the doctor now. The car should be there in about five minutes. Be outside and ready, please.”

“Jesus, Brayden! What’s going on?”

“Just be ready.” I disconnected and sent the car for her. Checking in with the doctor, there was still no change with Harper. The doctor said she was stable but had been drugged heavily and would come out of it on her own. I ordered him to stay by her side and left word at the front desk to send Stephanie to my office.

She was there in fifteen minutes. She tapped on the door and I jerked it open, holding out my hand. “Give me your phone,” I ordered and snatched it from her.

“Jesus, Brayden, what the hell is going on?”

“I don’t have time right now to explain it all, Steph, but I think Collin is in over his head. And he may be taking us all down with him. Please, go out to the front desk and I’ll have someone take you up to my suite where Harper is. Make yourself at home, order food, drink, whatever. I have a serious situation on my hands, and you can be the biggest help if you look after your sister for me.”

Her mouth was hanging open but she snapped it shut and nodded. I could see then what Collin had seen in her. She totally lacked individual motivation; she responded best to orders. I imagined he had run her to the ground.

I left orders at the front desk and sat down with Steph’s phone, typing a list of the phone numbers in her recent calls directory that were obviously unusual. If he was doing what I thought, these people would not use phones that could be tracked. Their numbers, including area codes, would be random.

I berated myself. I should have anticipated this could happen.

I knew Collin was in over his head. Damn! I knew better. Collin was attracted to anything that was anti-social, illegal and immoral. It was his signature personality. I hated to admit it, but my brother was a sociopath. His need to live on the fringes had driven him to excess. Drink, smoking, drugs and gambling. It was the last that was getting to him first. I knew he was out there placing bets when he had no money to back it up. He’d come to me often enough to “borrow” money to get himself bailed out. He’d started small and the longer he did it, the bigger the thrill he craved. It was an addiction and his poison was the danger, not the money. I’d had suspicions for some time that he’d gotten himself in the hole with the Mafia. Perhaps even the Russian Mafia. That was what had me scared.

I’d given him money and known while I was doing it that it was like giving a bottle of Scotch to an alcoholic. I’d hoped that either Collin would see the opportunities open to him and change his course or that he’d take the big fall and have to go into hiding, which would keep him out of my hair. I felt like an asshole, but I had people to protect. He didn’t. He didn’t even see himself worthy of his own protection. You can’t save someone who wants to commit suicide; not if they truly want to do it. All you can do is close your eyes and look away.

I had to find Meghan and I knew Collin, or one of his people, had her. I was far more scared of the latter. I didn’t think Collin would let anything happen to Meghan, but he couldn’t guarantee that from the people he owed money.

I held in my hand the phone number of the person who had Meghan. The only question was, which one was it and how would they make their move? It was coming. I was scared shitless.

My cell buzzed. My answer had come.

“Hey, there, bro,” came the voice I hated and loved.

“Where is she?”

“Who?”

“You know who, god damn you, Collin.”

“The girl? Sure. She’s right here next to me, aren’t you, darlin’?”

“Let me talk to her!”

“Sure.”

“Hello?” Her voice sounded normal, even excited.

“Meghan? Are you okay?”

“Sure, why wouldn’t I be? Uncle Collin and I are headed for Paris, just like you said. I can’t wait. Thank you so much for saying I can go.”

“Meghan, listen to me. I want you to keep in touch with me, no matter what, okay? You have my email and my phone numbers. I’ll see you soon, sweetheart. Now give the phone back to Uncle Collin.”

“So, bro?”

“What do you want?”

“I’ll be in touch. We’re about to head over the water and be out of cell range. Hang in there.” The line went dead.

I stood there with the phone in my hand and wanted to throw it across the room, but I knew it was the only connection I had to Meghan.

I touched a number. “I want the jet ready to go. Paris. I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” I ordered our pilot.

A text was coming through. It was from my security detail. BOTH FOUND ALIVE BUT UNCONSCIOUS IN GARDEN SHED

I had more answers now. Everyone was, for the moment, safe. I had to get to Paris ahead of Collin. It was my only chance. I checked the flights departing from Miami. The only flight out to Paris had a short layover in LaGuardia. I was in luck.

I was in the car on my way to the airport. I sent Harper a text. I HAVE TO GO. TAKE CARE. I’LL BE IN TOUCH.

Chapter 23

Harper

My first sense was pain. My head was aching and not like a normal headache, but like someone was pounding a spike into it. The atmosphere of the room felt unfamiliar. I took a minute to adjust before I tried opening my eyes.

There was a strange man sitting in a chair at the side of the bed. It wasn’t my bed. I squinted from the pain and raised my hand to block the light from a lamp at my side.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Harper? Honey, are you okay?” It was Steph’s voice and I finally made out that she was sitting in the dark corner of the room.

“Steph? Where am I? What’s going on?”

The man took my wrist, and he checked my pulse. “Are you feeling any pain?”

“Who are you?”

Steph intervened. “He’s a doctor, honey. Brayden found you passed out at your little cottage. He thinks someone drugged you.”

“Collin.”

“What? Collin what?”

I stopped there. If she didn’t know, I wasn’t going to fill in the details. “Brayden?”

She got up and crossed the room, holding out my phone to me. It hurt like hell but I read the message. He’s left me again. Did he catch Collin on top of me? I had no idea what happened after that needle went into my arm. Maybe Brayden came in and found him. Maybe Collin raped me. I wanted to puke. Whatever happened, it was bad enough that Brayden had thrown me out of his life.

The doctor stood, packing up his case. He looked at Steph and said, “She’ll be fine. Sleepy for a while, yet, but otherwise, fine.” With that, he left.

I looked at Steph. “Please leave.”

“What? Leave? Why?”

“I need to be alone.”

“But you shouldn’t be alone. I came to sit with you.”

“Tell them at the desk to give you another room, Steph. I need to be alone for a while. You heard the doctor, I’ll be fine.”

She shrugged, picked up her purse and slung it over her shoulder. At the door, she turned and asked, “What do I tell Brayden?”

“Whatever you want. He’s dead to me. Take him if you want him.”

Steph’s eyebrows raised. “Really?”

I turned over and put my back to her. I heard the door close.

I cried for a while and then, with resolve, put Brayden out of my mind. Just as I’d expected, I was back to being on my own. He’d found someone or something more important and left with nothing more than a text. If Collin had been involved, he should have known me better than to think I’d have anything to do with that son of a bitch. I was angry now and that drove away the tears.

I managed to sleep again, trying to regain my equilibrium. I rolled out of the bed and even though I was still dizzy, I showered to wake myself up. I was still wearing the sleepshirt and it gave me the creeps so I looked into the closet and realized it was Brayden’s. I found a t-shirt and slid it on over my jeans. Somehow my purse was in the room; I imagined that Brayden had grabbed it on his way to get me off his property. I slipped downstairs and out into the pre-dawn air. Staff was carrying cleaning equipment in and out of the ballroom, and I vaguely remembered Brayden mentioning a charity event. I was supposed to have been there. Oh, well.

There were taxis waiting for guests who had stayed over to leave. I convinced one to take me to the garages where my car was kept. I found a restaurant and had a long breakfast, trying to shake off the remaining effects of the drug. After stop at the bank and then a moderate shopping spree to get clothes and some luggage, I had a plan. Soon, I was on my way north, to Cleveland. There was plenty of cash in my purse and I had the credit cards and checks Brayden had given me. Let him think of it as my fee for sleeping with him. He wanted me to be a whore? No problem. It was probably what I did best.

Chapter 24

Brayden

There were advantages to owning your own jet. You didn’t have to wait in line for tickets, for take-off and you didn’t have to stop for a layover in New York. We touched down at Charles De Galle just as the sun was rising. I went directly to the terminal where Collin’s plane would land.

I watched him come through the gate with Meghan tripping along behind him. They still needed to go through Customs, so I had to time this well. I tailed them like the wolf on my shoulder.

They finally emerged onto the concourse, bound for the exit. I came up behind them and was about to grab Meghan’s hand when someone seized me from behind.

I tried to turn but burly arms held me back. There was a man with sunglasses on either side of me and their expressions were not welcoming. I tried to calmly shake loose, but they weren’t having it. I couldn’t afford to alert the security—I would lose track of Meghan.

It was too late. I turned back. Collin was pulling her into a taxi and I’d lost them. The arms let go then and I was left standing alone and watching the taxi pull away.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

All that, only to lose them a finger’s breadth away. I was re-strategizing and the only way to go was forward. I claimed a taxi and ordered it to take me to a hotel. The only thing I could do was wait.

I was in my room, my gut churning from the tension. My cell buzzed.

“That was close, bro,” he said, snickering. “Lucky for me I had a few friends backing me up.”

“What do you want?” I wasn’t wasting any more time.

There was a hesitation on the line. “It’s not me, it’s them.”

“Damn you, Collin! That’s what I figured. You couldn’t take the golden offer I made you and just disappear? You had to get Meghan involved? You dirty fucker!”

“Sorry, but it’s a me-or-her situation, bro.”

“How deep are you in?”

“Deep.”

“What do they want?”

“You’re not going to like it, bro.”

“How much?!”

“Utopia.”

“What? Are you fucking kidding me? How the hell did you let it go that far, Collin? You’ve always been selfish and stupid, for the record. Now you’ve brought in an innocent child and lost something that didn’t even belong to you.”

“What’s the answer, bro? They’re in a hurry.”

I had no options but I knew the priority. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could jeopardize Meghan’s health. “Take it. But so help me God, if I ever see you again, you’re dead. Bring her back to the airport and I’ll sign the papers.”

“See you there in three hours.”

The line went dead, and I barely made the bathroom before I puked. I laid on the bed, my stomach churning and tried to rationalize any way out of it. I was out of options. It didn’t have anything to do with Utopia. I didn’t need it and had even considered selling it now that Harper was in my life. I sure as hell didn’t need any money. I just… wanted… out.

Three hours later, I was signing a document that cost me a lifetime’s work and I didn’t blink an eye. Meghan and I were back on my jet and in the air in under a half hour. I called Harper from the jet, but she didn’t answer. My next call was the front desk, who reported they’d seen her leave just before dawn. I was trying not to panic, but I put in a call to one of my contacts at the Miami police department and gave them a description of her car. A few hours later, we landed. They’d found her and were holding her, so we diverted to Cleveland.

Chapter 25

Harper

For the first six hundred miles, I berated myself for having gotten involved with Brayden. The next six hundred miles were sad and lonely feeling. I was on the outskirts of Cleveland when the flashing red lights behind me demanded I pull over. I was exhausted and might have been weaving as I drove.

“May I see your license and registration, please?”

“Was I speeding?”

“Your license and registration, ma’am?”

I handed them over.

“Please exit the car, Miss. Face the car and put your hands on the roof.”

“What? What for? What did I do?”

“This vehicle has been reported as stolen, and you’re being charged with car theft and transporting stolen goods over several state lines.”

The bastard!

I’d never been in a jail cell before, and certainly not on the inside. There were two other women in the holding cell and neither one wanted anything to do with me. I was scared and panicking, hoping I could start up a conversation and figure out what to do next. Aren’t I allowed a phone call or something?

They called my name and an officer unlocked the door, pulling me out by the arm before he slammed it shut. I was escorted through a couple of locked doors and then my cuffs were removed. Someone handed me my purse and a paper to sign. I didn’t care what it said, I just wanted out.

There was a man waiting in the front area. “I’m Brayden’s attorney. Just follow me,” he said bluntly, and I had no choice but to do exactly as he told me. We drove to a small airport, and he motioned for me to precede him up the steps of a small, private jet. Inside, I found Brayden.

“Harper?” he called, coming to take me in his arms.

I fought him off. “Get away from me, you bastard! Who do you think you are?”

“I’m the man who loves you.”

“Yeah, right. I saw how much you loved me when you left me unconscious on a bed and went carousing again.”

He was shaking his head. “No, you’re not understanding. You don’t know what happened, Harper. Look, sit down and buckle in. Let me explain, if I can even remember it all. It’s been a helluva couple of days.”

I sat as requested and he buckled me in, but I wasn’t giving in that easily. “Where is Collin?” I wanted to know where my enemy was.

“I can’t give you a definite location, but he’s somewhere in France.” He went on to tell me all that had transpired from the moment I’d awakened to find Collin straddling me.

“Is Meghan okay?” I asked quickly.

He nodded. “She’s pretty confused and I know she will suffer some trauma from all this. She isn’t sure who is who, but I have plans to fix all that.”

“What kind of plans?”

“I want you to marry me, Harper. You know you love me, and I love you. I want us to take Meghan and move. Somewhere, anywhere, I don’t care. You can build your website business, and I will sit nearby adoring you. Will you marry me, Harper?”

Here was the man who literally had occupied my dreams from high school and he wanted me to marry him. It was everything I’d ever wanted and thought I would never get.

I nodded. “Yes.”

Epilogue

Harper

I became Mrs. Brayden Campbell just two weeks later. Meghan was my maid of honor and Stephanie my only bridesmaid. We were married on Vermillion Key, at sunset, and I wore a crimson gown that blended with the sunset behind us. The hundred or so guests dined on lobster and caviar, magnums of champagne and we made the society pages as the hottest ticket in the wedding schedule. We had a certain operatic tenor sing “Ave Maria” and Mrs. Sims and Captain Bob sat in the front row as the groom’s family.

My least favorite guest, Ripley, pressed a fat envelope into my hand and then turned to Brayden and asked if there was any chance he could buy Utopia.

“It’s not mine to sell, Ripley, but I happen to know the guys who own it. They really aren’t very good in the hospitality business, so I think if you make them a really good offer, they’ll probably take it.”

“Really?” he replied, unable to believe his timing and good luck.

“Sure thing,” Brayden said, patting him on the back. “Tell you what. Check in at the front desk and ask to speak to the new owners. In fact, tell them I sent you.”

Ripley drifted away, his dreams of grandeur already filling his head.

“That was mean, Bray,” I told him, “but his just dessert.”

Brayden laughed and hugged Meghan.

I asked, “Do you think Collin will ever show up again?”

Brayden shook his head. “Not if his life depended on it, and it probably does. Anyway, who cares what he does. This family is moving to California, and we’re going to build another house on another ocean. I thought we might let Meghan name this one. What do you say, Megs?”

“Sure, but you have to promise that I get a car like Harper’s as soon as I get my license. That will be my fee for getting you two together.”

We both looked at her.

“Well, you sure did a lousy job of it on your own. Somebody had to pull this thing together,” she said, making a joke of the entire kidnapping adventure. I thought she had a great sense of humor and a healthy perspective of what she’d been through.

“And you, Mrs. Campbell?” Brayden turned to me. “Will you love me forever?”

“Only if I get a new car, too. Mine is still sitting in that police impound lot in Ohio.”

“You shall have whatever you like, my sweetheart. As long as I have you.”

I want to say a special thank you for being a loyal reader. This book is dedicated to you! People probably always say this, but thank you, I love you, seriously. I’ve included my latest best-selling novel, Play Thing, A Billionaire romance, 266 pages. Enjoy!

Play Thing

*Amazon Top 40 Best-seller, 4.6 stars, 330 reviews!*

One look, and I was fucked!

My jackass of a business rival agreed to help fund my newest venture... but only if I can make a woman truly fall in love with me.

Women are toys in my billionaire dollar world, and I have no time for love.

Regardless, my new assistant, Abigail, is the perfect candidate.

It should be easy. A sweet word here. A caress there.

At least, I think it will be... until I see her coming down the stairs dressed like a goddess. Who knew she was hiding such perfect curves and such confidence.

Sure I want to sleep with her, but I didn't plan on actually falling in love.

If she finds out our relationship is based on a wager, it could ruin us and my business.

Well, fuck business.

Deal or no deal, her ass is mine.

I want my cake... and her.

And I'm going to eat them both!

Chapter 1

Abby

What will my new boss be like?

The question runs through my head as I drive to Harrison, twenty-five miles out from bustling Manhattan, my fingers tapping the steering wheel to the rhythm of “Seasons of Love” from Rent drifting from my four-year-old speakers at almost full volume.

Given the light traffic, I should get to Mr. Herbert’s address in less than fifteen minutes. Already, the sky-rise buildings are far behind me and the less imposing trees taking their place to give me a better view of blue skies and windswept clouds. I’m early, and that’s how I like to be. Better to have enough time to floss and clean my keyboard than to run late and risk leaving an important document behind. Or worse: go to work without brushing my teeth.

But what if Mr. Herbert doesn’t like me appearing ahead of schedule?

I try to remember what I’ve learned about him on the Internet.

Grant Ainsworth Herbert, aged thirty-one. American father; long deceased. British mother; died of cancer a year ago. Born in New York. Raised in his grandparents’ home in London. Went to MIT. Got his MBA from Oxford four years ago.

Well, there was nothing to indicate punctuality or a dislike for it. There wasn’t a lot of information regarding his preferences, in fact, except for one – women.

Grant Herbert likes women – a lot.

I even read that he slept with the British ambassador’s ex-wife and an actress, whose engagement to the lead singer of a band was called off as a result.

Are the rumors true? I don’t know. I don’t believe everything I read. But if they are, no problem. Thanks to my former employer, Nathan Landers, I’m an expert at dealing with egotistical playboys. Let them play, and don’t get in their way. And if Grant Herbert tries to make a move on me? I’ll leave my palm print on his cheek. Boss or no boss, I don’t take shit from any man.

Not that I’m expecting Mr. Herbert to make any move on me, of course. Based on what I’ve read, he goes after either the stunning ones or the wealthy ones. I’m neither. I’m plain, which is exactly how I choose to be. And while I have a bit saved up in my bank account thanks to Mr. Landers’ generosity, I’m by no means a millionaire. Well, I plan to be, but right now, I’m just an ordinary, hard-working glorified secretary.

So, no problem.

Unless…

I glance at the penny-sized face of my silver watch. What if I’m too early and he’s still in bed because he was with a woman all night? I don’t want to catch him in a bad mood.

Hmm. I lower the volume of the music so I can hear myself think.

Should I call ahead? No. Waking him up will put me in an even worse spot. Should I turn back? Stop my car at the side of the road and waste an hour?

In the end, I decide to just go to Mr. Herbert’s house as planned. If he’s asleep, then I’ll simply wait in the living room. And if I wake him up? Well, it’s his fault for asking me to come to his house. But just in case he’s grumpy, I’ll get him coffee.

I decide to make a quick stop at the next coffee shop I pass by and have an internal struggle over the type of coffee my new boss might prefer… or even if he prefers coffee at all. He is half-British, after all. Regardless, I head to the address feeling a little more confident. Some of that confidence evaporates, however, when I find myself in front of a huge, black, cast iron gate.

It looks just like the one in The Sound of Music . And, with a lump forming in my throat, I feel like Maria did when she first saw it.

How could Maria sing at a time like this?

A man appears behind the gate. Late forties by my estimate. Tall. Crew cut. Dimpled chin. Huge biceps. Ex-military or ex-con? I’m not sure. But right now, he sure makes an intimidating guard.

As I get out of my car and walk up to the gate, I wonder if Mr. Herbert has a bodyguard as well. Mr. Landers didn’t have one. Does this mean Mr. Herbert is richer? I read that he’s supposed to be descended from nobility. Or maybe he’s just more defenseless. Mr. Landers used to be in the military, after all, so he’s perfectly capable of defending himself.

Still, I’m not sure Mr. Landers can stand up to this guy.

“I’m Abigail Gomez,” I inform him, handing over the driver’s license from my purse. “Mr. Herbert’s expecting me.”

He looks at my ID then at me. Then he stares at my ID again.

I take a step forward, frowning. “Is something wrong?”

He touches his chin as a puzzled look spreads across his face. “Good question.”

Huh? I’m sure I look exactly like my picture on my license so that can’t be the problem. What then? Does he think I’m not like the women his boss usually expects? Well, I’m sorry if my nose isn’t sharp enough or my cheekbones aren’t well-defined, but I didn’t realize those were in the job qualifications.

“Look. I’m not here to sleep with Mr. Herbert, all right? I’m his personal assistant.”

“I see.”

“If he’s still asleep, I can wait…”

“Oh, he’s awake.” The man gives me back my ID. “You said he’s expecting you?”

I nod. “Yes.”

“Then I guess it’s all right.”

“Thanks.”

Mumbling, he walks away. I can’t hear the words so I just go back to my car. Seconds later, the gate opens and I enter.

The guard gives me a salute – yup, he’s probably a veteran. Then as I drive away, I get a glimpse of him smiling from my side view mirror.

No, not a smile. A grin. So he finds me amusing, does he?

As for me, I’m more than amused as I drive up to the house. I’m in awe.

The front lawn is immaculate, dotted by large trees hedged by trimmed shrubs. There’s a fountain on one side and a gazebo on the other, both elegantly carved out of marble. And the house? Its stone façade and tiled roof make it seem like a remnant of a bygone age, but it’s by no means on the verge of collapse. Not even close. In fact, there isn’t a single vine crawling in between the French windows, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it lasted a hundred more years.

A grand mansion.

I’m beginning to think my new boss has class, in which case I’m glad I got the most expensive cappuccino blend. It’s either class or he’s just a snob.

Well, I’ll find out soon enough.

I park my silver Toyota Camry behind the red Ford Escape in the driveway, turn off the engine, and glance at the rearview mirror where my anxious black eyes stare back at me. I close them as I take a deep breath.

Relax, Abby. You’re going to be fine. Mr. Herbert would be a fool not to see how lucky he is to have you.

Grabbing the coffee, I step out of the car and walk up the front steps, my heels clacking against the stone. In front of the wooden double doors, I stop, searching for a doorbell. None. I guess the house is as old-fashioned as it looks.

I try the iron door knocker, half-expecting a middle-aged butler to come to the door in his crisp tailcoat and pristine, white gloves. No one comes, though, and so after a few more knocks, I try opening the door.

It opens with a creak, and I reluctantly step forward.

“Hello?”

No answer.

Strange. I thought Mr. Herbert would be here, and the guard did say he was awake. Then again, the house is huge so maybe he didn’t hear me. I guess I have no choice but to look for him.

The search proves to be slow as I find myself distracted at every turn, pausing to admire something – a painting, a sculpture, a vase, a piece of furniture – every other minute. The house is stocked with the best of the old and new – antique crafts and the most expensive appliances. It’s two worlds seamlessly merged into one, and the result is simply fascinating.

I almost forget what I’m there for but when I remember, I hurry, especially as I realize the cup of coffee in my hand is getting cold.

No one likes a cold cup of coffee.

Finally, I hear sounds coming from a room at the end of a hall. Mr. Herbert’s office, maybe? As I approach, I notice that the door is ajar. Even so, I decide to knock, only to stop with my raised fist an inch from the wood when I hear a whimper.

Or is it a moan?

Against my better judgment, I take a peek, my eyes growing wide as I see Mr. Herbert standing behind his desk or, more accurately, behind a brunette bent over his desk.

I should have known he’d be with a woman.

And I should leave. It’s the proper thing to do. I can’t, though. My body seems frozen and rooted to the spot, my heart the only part of me moving, beating wildly as heat courses through my veins.

I can’t see the woman’s face, her brown hair having come loose to form a curtain over her cheeks. I can see Mr. Herbert’s face clearly, though, and I can’t help but watch. Right now, his blue eyes are half lidded, his nostrils are flaring and his square jaw is tightly clenched. As he moves, rocking the body beneath him and the desk in turn, golden strands of hair dance above his eyebrows and a bead of sweat trickles down the side of his face to land on one flushed cheek.

I swallow. My throat, bra, and panties are all feeling suddenly uncomfortable.

What the…?

“Fuck!” The crisp curse escapes his thin lips just before his features grow taut, his eyelids falling shut as he throws his head back.

With every shudder that goes through him, a wave of delicious heat washes over me, leaving my palms, nape, breasts, and sex tingling. As he goes still, my heart comes to a stop as well, my breath stolen. It’s over, but the damage has already been done. My skin is flushed, my panties wet.

I didn’t just have an orgasm, did I?

Suddenly, he opens his blue eyes and gazes directly into mine.

Shit.

The spell broken, I step back quickly only to bump into the table against the wall, causing the vase on it to wobble. I manage to keep the vase from falling – whew! – but it’s too late. I’ve already made my presence known.

“Hey.” Mr. Herbert steps out of the room, a smile on his face. “You’re Abby, right?”

Impulsively, I look at his crotch, relieved to find his pants zipped.

Wait. Why am I looking at my boss’ crotch? And why is he grinning? Isn’t he mad at me?

“Mr. Herbert, I…”

He offers me his hand. “Please call me—”

“Call me, Grant,” the brunette interrupts as she appears behind Grant, touching his arm. Casting a spiteful glance in my direction, she gives Grant a lingering kiss on the cheek then leaves, her heels clacking down the hall.

“Like she said, call me Grant.” Mr. Herbert extends his hand further.

I look at it, blinking. Why is he pretending nothing happened?

“It’s clean, I promise.”

I blush, shaking his hand. “Grant, I’m sorry I—”

“Please come inside,” he cuts me off, heading back inside his office.

I follow, stopping in the middle of the room. He goes behind his desk, the same desk he was fucking that brunette on.

I shake off the image.

Focus, Abby.

“So, you like coffee?” he asks as he sits down on the black leather chair.

I look at the cup I still have in my hand. “Actually, I brought this for you. I thought you might—”

I take a step forward to hand him the coffee but my shoe gets caught on the edge of the rug. I stumble, the cup falling out of my hand and hitting the desk, splattering on its surface and onto Grant’s shirt.

“Oh, shit.” I clasp a hand over my gaping mouth as I look at the disaster I’ve caused then quickly take the box of tissues out of my purse to undo it, straightening the cup and wiping the growing puddle on the desk. “I’m so sorry.”

What have I done? What’s wrong with me? I’ve never made mistakes like this before.

“It’s fine,” Grant tells me, standing up. “No harm done.”

No harm done? How can he say that when this desk is probably decades old? Not to mention I’ve stained his expensive shirt. I grab another tissue to wipe it.

He grabs my wrist. “Really, you don’t have to worry about it.”

I look into his eyes. Now that they’re not half-lidded, I can see just how blue they are – dark blue like the Atlantic. He is far more handsome than his pictures on the Internet, the combination of his eyes with his straight-edged nose and chiseled cheekbones enough to make my heart skip a beat.

“At least the coffee wasn’t hot,” he adds.

No. But you sure are.

Wait. What?

I jerk my wrist away and continue wiping the desk. “Not a good thing, I’m afraid. I’ve never heard of a secretary serving cold coffee.”

“Nathan’s right,” he says as he takes off his shirt. “You are a perfectionist.”

“I like getting things done as well as I can,” I correct, trying not to look at his sculpted upper body, at those broad shoulders leading down to toned arms, one of them marked with a tattoo... Trying so very hard to not look at his hardened pectorals glistening with a thin layer of sweat, bulging out over well-defined rows of abdominals that dip and curve in all the right places – trying and failing. “Any job worth doing is worth doing well, right?”

He wipes his chest with his shirt, and my throat goes dry as my eyes inadvertently follow the fabric gliding over those rippling muscles, wishing it was my hand instead. “And you like to keep things neat and orderly.”

“It’s p-part of my job,” I inform him, swallowing as I look away, continuing to wipe the desk.

I don’t know what’s harder – gathering every drop of spilled coffee or picking up the pieces of my composure.

“Is that a problem?” I ask him.

“No.” He tosses his shirt away and sits down.

I glance at him. “Aren’t you going to put on a shirt?”

“Later, maybe. Is that a problem?”

It is, but I don’t say so. I focus my attention on finishing my task. “So, what else did Mr. Landers tell you?”

“Oh, quite a bit.” He leans on his arm. “He didn’t say you were attractive, though.”

I pause. Plain old me? Attractive? There must be something wrong with his eyes.

“I’m not sure how that would matter in my job,” I tell him as I pick up the soaked pieces of tissue.

“Ah, but it matters to me.” He places his elbows on the desk. “After all, I’ll be seeing a lot of you, won’t I?”

He means he’ll be seeing you often, Abby. Stop jumping to conclusions – or delusions.

I shrug. “Well, I’m your personal assistant starting today, after all.”

“About that, have you given some thought to my request?”

“You mean about me staying here?” I carry the used pieces of tissue and the empty cup to the garbage can in the corner and drop them inside.

“I’ve read most personal assistants stay at their bosses’ homes.”

So, he’s done some reading, too, huh?

“Besides, I’ve decided to conduct my business from here at home,” Grant adds. “And sometimes, I’ll have to do it in the evenings so I think it’s best if you stay here.”

I turn to look at him. “You’re not asking me, are you?”

He sits back and taps his fingers on his desk. “It’s a part of the job, I’m afraid.”

I frown. Well, if he puts it that way, I can’t really refuse. He is my boss, after all, and he is paying me a lot, more than Mr. Landers paid me.

Actually, I’m not completely against the arrangement. I’ve already brought my things from my apartment, in fact. But given what just happened, I can’t help but have second thoughts. Should I live in the same house with the only man who’s managed to arouse and rattle me so far?

“Well?”

“All right,” I say. Regardless of what just transpired, Grant is still my boss, and I have no choice. “But on two conditions.”

“Name them.”

“One: My room shouldn’t be too close to yours. That way, I’ll have some personal space. And two: You should promise never to enter it.”

“Unless invited, of course,” Grant says.

Invited? I suddenly have an image of him and me in a bedroom, but I shake that off. I ignore the suggestion as well.

“Do you accept my conditions?” I ask, squaring my shoulders.

“Yes.”

“All right.” I take a deep breath. “If you’ll excuse me, then, I’ll go get my things.”

“I’d ask someone to help you but I’m afraid I haven’t hired maids,” Grant says. “I just moved in here a week ago.”

“That’s fine,” I tell him. “I’m perfectly capable of carrying my things. Also, I can help you hire the maids if you’d like.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

I turn on my heel.

“Oh, and Abby?”

I glance back.

He leans forward on his desk. “I look forward to having you around.”

For a moment, I think I see a spark of lust in his eyes but then it vanishes so I must have imagined it. There’s no way a man as hot and powerful as him could want someone like me. The sooner I firmly engrave that in my mind and stop imagining things, the better.

Outside the office, I heave a sigh of relief. Well, at least my new boss likes me. Still, something tells me that being Grant’s personal assistant isn’t going to be as easy as I thought.

Chapter 2

Grant

Getting Abby to fall for me is going to be easier than I thought.

Watching her sitting on a garden bench from an upstairs balcony, stretching her arms and looking completely at ease, I grin. She may have managed to regain her composure this morning. She may have put up a brave front and tried to keep her distance from me. She may appear tough and cold. But I know better. I know what I saw in her dark eyes when they first clashed with mine.

Wonder. Excitement. Desire.

Just as I expected.

Indeed, so far, everything is going according to plan.

“You’ve got that creepy look on your face again,” Roger’s voice breaks into my thoughts.

I still find it puzzling how such a large man can make such little noise. Then again, he was a spy of some sort before he came to work for my grandfather.

“What creepy look?” I ask as I sit down.

He opens the bottle of water in his hand as he leans on the wall. “I take it your first meeting went well?”

“It did.” I grab the bottle of brandy and pour myself a glass. “Better than I expected.”

“Can’t you just ask her nicely?”

“What? Just go up to her and say ‘Hey, can you fall in love with me so that I can get Lindsey Holland to put her name on my apps?’” I shake my head as I take a sip. “Sorry, but no.”

A few weeks ago, I spoke to Lindsey Holland, the country’s top female psychologist, who also happens to be my ex. I told her I was coming up with a whole line of apps designed for women and I wanted her name on them. She refused and when I persisted, she said she would only agree if I managed to make a woman fall in love with me for real. So far, I’ve sent her a few women I’ve slept with but she’s turned them all against me with her psycho-babble to prove they weren’t really in love with me. I can’t waste any more time. I have to take things more seriously. I have to find the perfect woman.

The moment I saw Abby in Nathan’s office, I knew she had potential. And as soon as I’d read her file, I knew she was the one. She’s single. She’s smart, so Lindsey won’t take her for a fool, and she hasn’t been with a man for a while, which means she’s probably waiting to be swept off her feet. That is exactly what I’m going to do. Plus, she’s a Filipina, so Lindsey should approve of her.

I look at Roger. “You like her, don’t you?”

“She isn’t like all the other women you’ve been with before.” He puts the cap back on his bottle after drinking. “She’s… strong.”

Wow. Roger was able to form that opinion even though he just got a few minutes to talk to Abby? If I didn’t know him better, I wouldn’t have believed him. But I do.

I’ve known Roger since he started working for Grandfather. I was only a teenager then. I’m not exactly sure what his background is but I know he fell in love with my mother and promised her he’d watch over me, which is why he’s here with me now. I know, too, that he’s as good a judge of character as he is skilled with a gun and a knife.

If he says Abby is strong, she must be. But it doesn’t matter.

“If you didn’t want her getting hurt, you should have kept the gate closed,” I tell him.

“I guess I’m taking a chance on her.”

I crease my eyebrows at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Anyway, you are going to hire maids, aren’t you?” Roger asks. “The house is clean right now but it won’t take long for the dust to settle. And I washed the kettle and some cups so I can make tea but the rest of the silverware still needs cleaning.”

“Abby said she’ll take care of it.”

Roger nods then leaves. Alone, I continue watching Abby, who’s still in the garden deep in thought and without a clue she’s being watched.

So she managed to impress Roger, huh? Well, I have to admit I’m fascinated by her personality as well. As for her looks... she’s attractive enough, maybe even more so because she’s trying to hide it. For example, she has her brown hair tied in a bun on the top of her head and something tells me that’s how she’s always worn it. She has full lips but she isn’t wearing lipstick. In fact, she’s barely wearing any makeup. Her gray cashmere turtleneck, black cardigan, and floral scarf expertly conceal her ample-sized breasts and slim waist while making nothing of a fashion statement. Her pencil skirt extends two inches below the knee even though I caught a glimpse of smooth legs.

Why is she hiding? Who is she hiding from?

It doesn’t matter. It makes things more interesting. In fact, heat stirs in my crotch as I anticipate setting her hair loose and unraveling all those layers of unflattering clothing.

Right. I’m going to break through those walls around her, draw her out, and win her over. I’m going to make Abby mine.

And I already have the next step planned.

***

“You want me to go out and have dinner with you?” Abby looks up at me from the plate she’s wiping on the kitchen counter, her eyes wide.

I had knocked on her bedroom door, but she wasn’t there. I searched the house only to find her in the kitchen washing the dusty dishes. I told her she didn’t have to do it but she explained how she stumbled upon them while searching for a glass and she couldn’t just leave them alone and unwashed.

“Yes,” I answer her simply.

“Because?”

“Because there’s nothing here in the kitchen,” I tell her. “I haven’t hired a cook yet.”

“I see.” Abby tucks a loose tendril of hair behind her ear. “I guess I’ll have to help you do that, too. For now, though, I can cook. I mean, there’s food in the pantry. And now, there are some clean dishes.”

She lifts the plate she’s finished wiping.

“I have no doubt you’re a good cook, but I’d rather we have dinner out. I know a good restaurant.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“I figured we could take this chance to break the ice and get to know each other better,” I explain. “So that we can work together smoothly.”

She carries some of the clean dishes to the cupboard. “So, you’re asking me as my boss?”

I carry the rest, following her. “Well, if you want to make it a date with me, that’s fine, too.”

Abby stops and falls silent, a blush coating her cheeks.

“Fine, I’ll go,” she says finally as she puts the dishes in. “But it’s not a date. It’s more like a meeting.”

Another wall up.

“Whatever you say.”

She takes the dishes from my hands. “And it better not be a fancy French restaurant because I don’t have an evening gown.”

“No.” I lean on the counter. “You can just come as you are.”

I have to admit, though, I’m suddenly curious to know how she’d look in a gown.

“Good.” She closes the cupboard. “Just give me fifteen minutes to shower and change. I don’t want to be all covered in dust.”

“Sure.” I grin. “Take all the time you need.”

***

All the women I’ve met have taken at least an hour to get ready for a dinner date. But in exactly twelve minutes, Abby comes down the stairs in an oversized maroon knit dress that looks like one of my old sweaters.

So much for hoping for a little black dress.

Well, at least it’ll be easy to remove.

Patience, Grant. Patience.

“You look great,” I compliment her, standing up with my hands in the pockets of my jacket.

“You don’t have to lie,” she answers, stopping at the bottom of the stairs. “After all, this isn’t a date.”

“Oh, is lying what people do on a date? I thought it was having fun.”

She pouts. “It’s trying hard to impress each other and pretending to have fun.”

“Really? You seem an expert on dates.”

“Hardly. Shall we go?” She tucks her purse under her arm and starts walking. “I’d like to come back early.”

“No problem.” I nod, following her to the door.

After a few steps, she pauses. “By the way, what did you say the name of the restaurant was again?”

***

Cubo.

That’s the name of the restaurant I’ve booked for the evening, one that serves Filipino fusion cuisine. I’ve read that the name is the local word for hut, the traditional dwelling, but is spelled with a C instead of a K for a modern, western twist. Well, the place does look like a modern hut; the floor made of wood and the walls made of bamboo but with large glass windows and a high ceiling.

I had read about Abby’s Filipino heritage, her parents both being Filipinos. She was even born in the Philippines but moved to the USA in her late childhood after her mother married an American.

I guess I’m hoping that by bringing Abby here, I’ll be giving her something of a homecoming and maybe bridge the gap between us quicker.

It’s all part of the plan.

As I glance at her, I realize it’s working. Abby gapes in surprise as she looks around our table.

That’s right, sweetheart. You can thank me later.

Suddenly, though, the corners of her mouth droop.

What? Isn’t she happy? Or maybe she’s just feeling homesick.

“What can I get for you?” the waiter asks.

“Oh, I’ll let my lovely companion for this evening decide,” I say, gesturing toward Abby. “She is a Filipina, after all.”

“Oh, really?” The waiter looks pleased.

Abby, however, doesn’t. She mumbles something to the waiter – something in Filipino, I assume – then to my surprise, she gets up and leaves. I mumble an apology of my own and follow her, catching up to her in the parking lot.

I grab her arm. “Abby, what’s wrong? I thought you’d love the place.”

“Because I’m a Filipina?” She whirls around, jerking her arm free. “What? Is that something Mr. Landers told you?”

“No. It was in your file.”

Fuck. I shouldn’t have said that.

“So I have a file, huh?”

I touch my forehead. “I wanted to know about you.”

“And what else did that file say, hmm?” She crosses her arms over her chest. “Well, let me guess what it didn’t say. I bet it didn’t say that I hate the Philippines.”

I blink, puzzled. What? Most of the Filipinos I’ve met can’t wait to go home.

“I haven’t been back there since I was eight, and I don’t think I ever will. I don’t have a home there.”

“But you have relatives there, don’t you? I’m sure they—”

“I haven’t heard from them in years. They might as well not exist. They don’t exist for me. That country does not exist for me. It hasn’t done anything for me.”

“But you were born there. It’s a part of you. You—”

“Don’t you think I know that?” She lifts her hands in dismay. “It’s a burden, a curse.”

Her hatred takes me by surprise. “Well, maybe you’re taking it the wrong way. Maybe you should just accept it and—”

“Don’t talk to me like you know me,” she cuts me off angrily, lifting a finger in warning. “You may have a file on me but you know nothing about me.” She pokes my chest. “Nothing.”

With that, she stomps away.

This time, I don’t stop her. I just watch her walk across the parking lot and hail a cab, knowing that it’s futile to give chase now. As much as I hate to admit it, I’ve made a mistake, and, as a result, the date turned out to be a disaster even before it could start.

Fuck.

My fists clench at my sides as I fight a strong desire to punch something. I look up at the night sky and take a deep breath.

All right. So, I underestimated her. I assumed she would love her heritage, which was a key part of my plan. Obviously I didn’t think things through well enough. Then again, I’ve never had to go through such lengths to win a woman over. Usually, they just fall into my lap and into my bed.

But I’ve learned my lesson. There’s no way in hell I’m giving up. I’ll take care of her pet peeves later. For now, I’ll just work around them and concentrate on getting her wrapped around my finger, and, hopefully, another part of me, which eagerly pulses in anticipation.

Taking a deep breath, I put my hands in my pockets and walk to my car.

Just you wait, Abby. You’ll be mine soon enough.

Chapter 3

Abby

Who does Grant think he is?

I stomp into my room and sit in front of the dresser, still fuming.

I know he’s my boss and he’s a billionaire but that doesn’t give him the right to dictate my feelings or my personal life.

So, he has a file on me, does he? What? Did he have a friend of his pull out all my records or did he pay someone to spy on me? Either would be easy for someone with as much money as him. That’s not what annoys me, though. Every employer has the right--maybe even a duty-- to keep a file on his employees. But what annoys me is that he thinks that file is all I am. Now, he thinks he knows me inside out and so he feels that he can easily wrap me around his finger and that he has the right to judge me.

Grant doesn’t know anything.

A wealthy, pampered, blue-blooded man like him can’t possibly know about all the pain and suffering I’ve been through, about all the discrimination, alienation, or the bouts of depression. I’m looking at the mirror now but he can’t possibly know all the times I’ve loathed doing so, hating what I see or the times I couldn’t even recognize my own reflection. He can’t possibly know how many tears these eyes looking back at me have shed or those they didn’t, couldn’t.

Grant can’t possibly know or understand.

I pull off my scrunchie, shaking my head to spread my hair over my shoulders. Then I leave the dresser to change my clothes before throwing myself on top of the king-sized bed, sighing as I stare at the pale blue ceiling.

Maybe it’s the way the shade of the ceiling resembles the summer sky, or maybe it’s the softness of the bed beneath me that feels like a cloud, but for some reason, my anger ebbs away. My heart and my breathing slow down.

As my mind clears, a realization sinks in – I just raised my voice at my boss. And in public, no less.

“Shit.” I sit up, placing my hands on the top of my head.

Sure, he hurt my feelings, but he’s still my boss. I should have been more civil. I should have kept my mouth shut. What if he decides to fire me?

“Ugh.” I lie back down, grabbing a pillow and placing it over my face.

What is wrong with me? First, that voyeurism and the spilled coffee this morning and now, the spat. None of this ever happened with Mr. Landers. What is it about Grant Herbert that drives me out of character?

It’s mostly his fault. Still, I wasn’t entirely on my best behavior. I let my emotions get the better of me and forgot my position. Plus, maybe I was a little too hard on him. After all, he was just trying to impress me. And as for him telling me to accept who I am, it may be unsolicited advice... but it isn’t wrong. I’ve known it for years. I just never had anyone tell it to my face or summoned the courage to do it.

Taking a deep breath, I place the pillow behind my head then turn to my side, pulling the blanket up to my shoulders.

I’ll apologize first thing in the morning.

***

“I’m sorry,” Grant says at the same time I do, his hands clasped on his desk.

Standing in front of him with my tablet in one arm, I blink.

He’s apologizing? He’s not mad? I thought for sure he was either going to fire me or pretend that nothing happened, like he did with yesterday’s morning “incident.”

“I had no right to do what I did,” he adds solemnly.

Isn’t that my line? Well, one of my lines. I had a whole speech prepared.

“It’s all right,” I tell him as I hug my tablet to my chest, improvising now. “I’m the one who acted out of turn. I shouldn’t have raised my voice. You’re still my boss, after all.”

“You can’t be calm all the time, Abby. In fact, I’d prefer it if you weren’t.”

Grant turns to his computer, and I just stand there.

Now, what? Have I been dismissed? Should I go?

“Oh, by the way, I got rid of that file.” He places his hand over the mouse.

Another surprise. “You did?”

“It didn’t tell me the important stuff.”

“Important stuff?” I ask curiously, tapping a finger on my arm.

“What you like and what you don’t like,” he answers.

My eyebrows go up. That’s what’s important?

“Well, if you want to know something about me, all you have to do is ask,” I say without thinking.

This time, Grant is the one who looks surprised, his blue eyes wide as he sits back in his chair. “I can?”

I nod. “Well, you’re the boss.”

“I have to admit I do still want to know you better.” He touches his chin. “Tell me something you don’t like. Aside from nosy bosses, Filipino restaurants, and dirt, that is.”

I grin sheepishly as I look at my shoes. “I guess I don’t like men with mustaches.”

Grant runs his finger over the skin above his lips. “It’s a good thing I don’t have one, then.”

“And I don’t like colds.”

He shrugs. “Who doesn’t?”

“Or horror movies.”

He leans forward. “So, is there something you do like?”

I take a seat. “Well, there’s one thing I really do like. Are you sure you didn’t have it in your file?”

He shakes his head.

“Musicals,” I tell him. “I especially like the ones on Broadway.”

“Really?” Grant taps his fingers on the desk. “Then let’s go catch one this Friday. I’ll let you pick the show.”

I set the tablet down on my lap. “You’re serious?”

I’ve never watched a play with anyone before. Then again, I’ve never met a man who wanted to go with me. Usually, they’d rather watch a Knicks or Yankees game. One of the men I went out with even said that theater was for gays and I’m pretty sure Grant isn’t gay.

“Of course,” he answers, standing up and going around his desk. “I used to watch at West End with my mother. And like I said…” He places his hand on the back of my chair. “I still want to get to know you better.”

As our eyes meet, I see a flicker of heat in his eyes, the same one I saw before, and a delicious shiver goes up my spine. Like before, I dismiss it, though, reminding myself that he’s just doing this so we can get along better at work.

Still, no man has ever been this nice to me before. Not even Mr. Landers.

I get up, smiling. “All right. I’ll get the tickets.”

He returns the smile with his own, making my heart skip a beat. “I’m counting on you.”

***

Truth be told, I’ve already watched all the musicals on Broadway. I can never get enough of them, though, and so I choose one of my favorites – Miss Saigon. As usual, I end up in tears as the curtain falls so I have to go to the restroom afterward to blow my nose and fix my makeup. When I’m done, I find Grant waiting for me at the lobby, staring intently at a poster.

I pause, staring at him in turn.

Damn, he’s hot.

Tonight, he’s wearing khakis and a knitted vest over a pale blue dress shirt, all of which look expensive and fit him to a tee, putting my striped slacks and pink blouse to shame. The outfit shows off his perfect figure, too, the short sleeves wrapping around his toned upper arms and the pants just tight enough to outline the curve of his firm, round butt. I wonder how his cheeks would feel against my palms.

Wait. What? First, I was looking at his crotch. Now, I’m checking out his butt and even fantasizing about touching it? What the hell is wrong with me?

“Hey.” I smile as I walk up to him. “Sorry about that. Miss Saigon always makes me cry. Then again, so do Phantom and Les Mis and Rent and A Chorus Line and…”

Grant chuckles. “I think I get the picture.”

“Yeah. Broadway shows are all tearjerkers.”

“Yet you love them.”

I shrug. “Maybe I’m a masochist?”

His eyes narrow, turning an even darker shade of blue. Out of nowhere, an image pops into my mind – one of me on the floor, Grant pinning my wrists above my head with one hand and the other between my legs, stroking, exploring…

I push the image aside as I look away, sucking in a deep breath as I suppress the shiver threatening to ascend my spine.

Breathe, Abby. Just breathe.

“Or maybe I’m just a woman.” No, that doesn’t sound right. “Or I’m just human, you know, with emotions and all. Not that I’m saying you’re not a human, just…”

I stop, realizing I’m rambling.

Once again, he’s rattled me.

“Are you hungry?” I ask quickly, hoping to dissipate the tension in the atmosphere.

“Actually, I was hoping for another chance at dinner,” Grant admits. “Tell me. Do you happen to like risotto?”

***

“This risotto is superb,” I say as I take another spoonful of the creamy mixture of rice, seafood, and spices. “The best I’ve tried so far.”

“Same here.” Grant digs into his own beef and mushroom dish. “I’ve been to Italy but nothing beats this restaurant’s risotto.”

“And the side dishes aren’t bad, either.” I take a bite out of the fried eggplant. “Mmm.”

He takes a sip of wine. “Glad you like them.”

“You know what?” I set down my fork and dab the corner of my mouth with the napkin. “We should just get the chef here to work for you.”

Grant’s eyes widen slightly. “I didn’t know you were a headhunter, too.”

“Well, I did help Mr. Landers find his new VP before I left.”

“What did he tell you exactly?” He sets down his glass. “I mean about your new job.”

“He said you needed a capable personal assistant more than he does.” I pick up my spoon. “He said he owed you a favor.”

“Which one?” He continues eating.

I chuckle. “That many favors, huh?”

“So, you left just because he told you to?”

I shrug as I eat another spoonful. “I guess I owe him a favor, too. Besides, he wouldn’t ask me to do anything that he knew wasn’t good for me. He never gets me into any trouble he can’t get me out of.”

Grant grabs his glass again. “You and Nathan sure seem close.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say…” I stop as I notice the change in his expression, his forehead creased and his gaze distant as he drinks the wine.

Why does he suddenly look annoyed? I thought he liked this restaurant. Is it someone who just walked in? I subtly look around as I get my own glass. It doesn’t seem as if anyone just arrived; everyone is busy eating or chattering at their tables. I don’t recognize anyone, either.

Is it something I said?

Something I said.

Wait. Don’t tell me Grant is… jealous of Mr. Landers? But he has no reason to be. Mr. Landers was never interested in me – on a sexual level – and Grant can’t be.

Is he?

Impossible. I’ve already established that fact. Maybe it’s just something he remembered.

“On second thought, I don’t think we should hire the chef here.” I take a sip of the wine. “I mean, just think of all the people who would miss out on life not being able to taste the perfect risotto.”

“You’re right.” Grant puts his glass down. “Anyway, I’m sure you’ll be able to hire someone good.”

I set my own glass down and wipe my lips. “Actually, the agency already sent me the CVs of their recommended candidates and there’s one I’m considering.”

I take my tablet out of my purse and show Grant the candidate’s CV.

“Her name is Marjorie. She doesn’t have any formal culinary education but she has done well at the restaurants and homes she’s worked in. I called some of them and they describe her as a hard worker and a quick learner. They also said she likes to keep to herself but that’s fine since she’ll just be staying in the kitchen.”

“Likes to keep to herself, huh?” Grant hands me back the tablet. “Sounds like you’ve found yourself a kindred soul.”

I’m not sure if that’s a compliment, so I say nothing as I put the tablet back in my purse.

Grant sits back. “She’s single, too.”

I blink, surprised that he noticed. Wait. He isn’t interested in her, is he?

“But she has a kid,” I inform him.

“Not a problem.”

He doesn’t mind if a woman has a kid?

“As long as having a kid doesn’t interfere with her job.”

Oh. Of course, that’s what he means. I suddenly feel like slapping my forehead in dismay. What was I thinking?

“I don’t think it will,” I tell him as I continue eating. “She doesn’t bring her son with her to work.”

Grant continues eating as well. “So, who’s watching him? How old is he?”

“His name is Jim and he’s seven. If I remember correctly, he’s with an aunt and an uncle. I can ask for more details tomorrow.”

“That’s fine. I was just curious.”

I can tell it’s not curiosity, though. Concern? I wonder if it has something to do with the fact that his mother was also a single mom. I wonder what his childhood was like.

“Your grandparents helped raise you, didn’t they?”

He nods. “What about you? Your mother was a single mom, too, right?”

“My relatives in the Philippines helped,” I tell him. “They didn’t do it out of the goodness of their hearts, though.”

Grant gives me a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”

“If they did, they wouldn’t have badgered my mother to send them money once she was already here in the US. She did at first but then she stopped, and they started fighting over the phone. Then the phone calls stopped altogether. When my mother…” I swallow. “…died, none of them came to her funeral.”

Grant frowns.

Oh, shit. Did I just tell Grant all that? I never meant to give him a sob story, especially not one that I haven’t told a lot of people, including Mr. Landers. Is there something in this risotto or is it the wine? Or maybe it’s still the Broadway effect?

“Sorry,” I tell him. “I guess now, you think my life is good enough to be a show on Broadway.”

Grant still says nothing.

Okay.

“Anyway, I think Marjorie will make a great personal chef,” I say, steering the conversation back to its original course. “Though, of course, you have the final say. You’re the boss, after all.”

“If you think she’ll be great, then I trust your judgment,” Grant finally says.

“All right.”

***

The rest of the evening goes smoothly. Thankfully, I manage to stop bringing up any more tragic experiences, but I think the damage has been done. Grant is more reserved.

I wonder what he’s thinking. Does he feel sorry for me, maybe? The last thing I want from him is pity.

Even the ride home is fairly silent. Then again, we’re both tired. Plus, the alcohol is starting to get to me. I know it’s only two glasses of wine, but I’ve never been good with alcohol. I can barely keep my eyes open as it is.

I manage to stay awake until we get to the mansion, though, and as much as I want to hurry to my room and bury myself under the covers, I stop at the top of the stairs, turning to Grant.

“Thank you,” I tell him. “It’s been an amazing evening.”

Grant smiles. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

I take a deep breath. “And I’m sorry I said too much. Please forget about—”

“You don’t have to apologize, Abby.” Grant takes my hand, surprising me.

My words turn into a lump in my throat. My heart skips a beat then begins to pound wildly as he places his other hand on my cheek tenderly.

What’s going on?

“I’m not going to let anyone else hurt you,” he says, his blue eyes gazing into mine.

For a moment, he just holds my gaze, those midnight blue orbs that are currently glistening with warmth drawing me in, drowning me even before his words sink in. As they disappear between closed eyelids, his lips descend on mine.

My heart stops, my body frozen in place. I’m not the least bit cold, though. The heat from his lips flows throughout my body, swirling in my breasts and between my legs.

Shit. He’s only kissing me. He’s not even using his tongue. And yet, he might as well be touching me, licking me all over. The waves of desire washing over me from his body are so strong that I have no choice but to respond and surrender.

Just when I’m about to kiss him back, though, Grant pulls away.

“Good night,” he whispers in my ear then turns on his heel.

As he walks away, I grab the edge of the nearest desk, trying to keep myself from falling as I wait for my knees to stop shaking. At the same time, I place my hand over my chest, waiting for my heart to slow down as I force air back into my lungs.

When I can finally walk and breathe, I move slowly toward my room. My mind is still in a whirl, though, as my hand moves up to my lips.

My boss just kissed me?

Chapter 4

Grant

I shouldn’t have kissed Abby, I scold myself as I step into the shower, closing my eyes as the cool water trickles down my skin.

I couldn’t help it. Tonight, I got to see different sides of her. As I sat beside her in the theater, I watched in silence and fascination as her expression changed from the excitement of a child to the awe of a star-struck fan to the crippling fear of someone who had seen the show too many times and dreaded its ending each time. Finally, to the grief of a woman who still believed in love and happy endings. It was a treat, even more so than the show. It’s a miracle I didn’t kiss her then and there.

Then during dinner, I got a glimpse of who she was and of all the pain she had been through, all the pain she’s still carrying with her, hidden beneath that tough exterior. It awoke the knight in shining armor in me.

I’m not going to let anyone else hurt you.

What’s up with that line? Well, at least, I said ‘anyone else’ because I can’t guarantee I won’t end up hurting her. In fact, I’m pretty sure I will.

All the more reason for me not to have kissed her.

That’s what half my brain is saying. The other half is saying I should have done more, that I should have taken her to my room and had sex with her. If I had, I wouldn’t be having this cold shower right now to get rid of my erection. And I know she wouldn’t have protested. Heck, she was wet and willing.

But Abby isn’t ready. She might be willing but she doesn’t want me.

And I need her to want me.

I take a deep breath. Patience.

I might have slipped but no more. I’ll pretend the kiss never happened. I’ll step back. This way, Abby will have to take the first step if she wants me.

When she wants me.

If her response to my kiss tonight is any indication, it’s only a matter of time before she’s shuddering beneath me. The mere image makes me hard again.

I frown.

Fine. Maybe I’ll give her just a little push in the right direction.

***

“I’d like you to come with me to the party this evening,” I tell Abby a few days later over the breakfast of asparagus and bacon quiche that Marjorie has prepared. “It’s a fundraiser and a lot of rich people are going to be there. I want to introduce myself to them, and hopefully they’ll remember me when my company goes public.”

“Sure.” She meets my gaze just for a second from across the long table before putting the spoon in her mouth.

Ever since that kiss, Abby has been keeping her distance. She tries to stay away from me as much as possible and whenever we’re in the same room, she barely makes eye contact, and she speaks only when spoken to, always in a professional manner.

She’s uncomfortable. Of course she is. No doubt that kiss rattled her, and since I didn’t say anything about it, she’s confused and probably debating whether it meant something.

Good. That’s exactly how I want her to feel.

“So, you don’t mind coming?” I ask, taking a sip from my glass of juice.

She shakes her head. “I’ve accompanied Mr. Landers on several occasions. I can point out some of the people you’ll want to talk to.”

Mr. Landers again. Nathan is a good friend of mine but I have to admit I’m getting a little annoyed by how frequently his name comes up in conversations. I suppose it can’t be helped since he was Abby’s former employer, but each time she mentions him I get the feeling that she’s comparing us. Not just as bosses, but as men. And I’m falling short.

“That would be helpful,” I say, setting down my glass but keeping my hand wrapped around it. “However, I’m not asking you to come as my personal assistant.”

Her eyebrows furrow. “I don’t understand.”

“At the party, you’ll stand beside me, not behind me,” I explain. “You’ll be my date.”

“Your date?” Her jaw drops.

“For the evening. I think I’ll blend in better if I have a date.”

“I understand. But surely there are other women you could ask.” She looks down at her plate, slicing the quiche. “What about that… that woman you were with when I—”

“Abby,” I interrupt. “I’m asking you. Actually, no, I’m telling you. With you by my side, I’m sure I can accomplish a great deal more.”

“Then I guess I have no choice but to accept.”

I frown. I would have liked it better if she agreed because she wants to, not because I’m her boss, but I’m hoping that will be resolved later.

One step at a time. 

“Good.” I wipe my mouth as I get out of my chair. “I’ll have the gown delivered to your room as soon as it arrives.”

Again, her eyes grow wide. “Delivered?”

I toss the napkin on the table. “I took the liberty of ordering one for you since you mentioned that you don’t have an evening gown. If you pass by my office later, I’ll give you money so you can buy shoes this afternoon and also, so you can go to a salon. I’d like you to look your best tonight.”

I leave her still dumbfounded, grinning.

I can’t wait to see how she’ll look tonight.

***

Holy shit.

The silent curse leaves me as I watch Abby come down the stairs, breathtaking in the coral gown I’ve picked for her. I knew it would look good on her and the catalog said it would suit her complexion and her figure perfectly. But this?

It’s beyond my wildest imagination.

The gown hangs from around her neck, her slender shoulders bare. The lace bodice hugs her firm breasts, showing them off for once while a slit in the middle provides a peek of cleavage. The layers of skirt flow from the empire waist to her ankles, moving gracefully with her, giving just an occasional peek of her white sandals and pedicured toenails.

And it’s not just the gown that’s perfect. Only a quarter of her hair, now shimmering black and wavy, is swept back, the rest cascading down the sides of her face. She’s wearing more makeup than usual but it’s not too heavy, her lips glossy and a delicious shade of pink, making me want to kiss them.

What the fuck have I done?

“Well?” Abby asks as she stops at the bottom of the stairs. “Do you think I look good enough?”

Good enough? All the men at the party will probably be staring at her. As for me, I want to do more than stare. I want to tear that gown off her and fuck her right here on the stairs. I know I can’t, though, at least not now, and so I do my best to restrain myself, thinking of random funny things to keep myself from getting hard even as I reach for her hand, planting a kiss on it.

“Gorgeous,” I compliment her, looking into her eyes. “The black hair suits you.”

Abby shrugs. “It’s my natural hair color, after all.”

Is that why she seems to have a newfound confidence? Indeed, I seem to be looking at a new Abby – more feminine, more sure of herself.

More exciting.

“I’m glad.” I offer her my arm and she takes it, smiling.

Something tells me she’s going to enjoy the evening more than I will.

***

I’m right.

Abby seems right at home in the grand hotel ballroom, swimming effortlessly among the sea of women in glamorous gowns and the men in tuxedos, graciously smiling at each of them. Every now and then, she stops, subtly pointing someone out or whispering some tidbit of information in my ear while I do my best to pay attention and keep my gaze from wandering to the curve of her breasts even as they press against my arm.

“The man with the gold-rimmed glasses is Edward Tucker,” she informs me. “Most of his investments are in shipping and manufacturing. Still, he seems to like gambling so maybe you can convince him to take a chance on you.”

I nod. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“And the man he’s talking to is Phil Goldman. No need to waste time trying to impress him. If his wife – that woman in the red gown – tells him to invest in something, he’ll do it.” She lowers her voice a tad more. “I hear that’s the price he has to pay for cheating on her.”

“I see.” I bring my glass of champagne to my lips.

“And that…”

Suddenly, she stops and the next thing I know, she’s running off toward a woman in a blue gown.

“Sam!” Abby places her arms around the other woman.

“Abby?” Sam looks at her in disbelief. “I hardly recognized you.”

If Sam is here, that means…

“Well, well, well, Grant.” Nathan places a hand on my shoulder. “I have to say I like what you’ve done with her.”

“I haven’t done anything,” I tell him crossly, taking another sip of champagne.

“Really?” Nathan raises his eyebrows. “I would have thought you’d have done a lot by now, especially since you practically asked for her.”

I look at Abby, who is still busy talking to her friend, Sam. Good. She didn’t hear what Nathan just said.

“I’m well aware of what you think of me. But what can I say? Abby is a real lady so I have to act like the half-baked English gentleman I am.”

Nathan chuckles. “So, you’ve finally met your match, have you?” He squeezes my shoulder. “Well, good luck.”

I frown. What on Earth does he mean?

“I’m not the same as you, Nathan. I…”

I stop talking as Abby approaches, smiling at Nathan.

“Mr. Landers,” she greets him. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Please. You no longer work for me so call me Nathan.” He takes her hand and kisses it. “And I must say you look stunning tonight. I almost regret letting you go.”

Asshole.

“Oh, stop it.” Abby blushes, making me feel even more annoyed. “Sam will get mad.”

“No, she won’t. I’m only telling the truth, after all.” He holds on to her hand. “It seems working for Grant has been good for you, but if he ever gives you a hard time, you know you can still come to me, right? After all, in all those years that you’ve worked for me, I’ve grown to think of you as—”

“I think that’s enough,” I cut him off, unable to contain myself any longer.

I grab Abby’s arm. “Shall we dance?”

“Okay.”

I whisk her away to the middle of the ballroom, ignoring Nathan’s smug grin. That bastard. He was flirting with Abby on purpose just to provoke me into a fit of jealousy, and now that he has succeeded, he’s looking awfully proud of himself.

“Is something wrong?” Abby asks, a look of concern on her face.

“Nothing,” I tell her.

To hell with Nathan and his games. I have my own.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” I add.

“Surprisingly, I am,” she confesses. “How about you?”

“It’s not too bad, especially since I have you by my side.”

She falls silent, looking away as another blush coats her cheeks. At the same time, a lump forms in my throat, another threatening to form elsewhere.

Fuck. Maybe dancing with her isn’t such a good idea, after all.

All evening, Abby has been beside me. But now, she’s closer to me than ever. Her body is practically pressed against mine. I can feel her breasts brushing against my chest, and each time, my breath catches and a heat surges beneath my skin.

I want her. I want to kiss her right now, to take her home and be entangled with her under the sheets until morning.

So, you’ve finally met your match, have you?

No. I have to stay calm, stay in control. I have to wait for her to want me.

I have to make her want me.

Just then, my gaze crosses with that of a redhead in a purple gown. She smiles at me, and I smile back.

“Do you know her?” Abby asks.

“No,” I answer. “But I think I will. If it’s all right with you, that is. Is it?”

She pauses.

Come on, Abby. Say no and I’ll stay with you. Just say the word.

“Of course.” She lets me go with a forced smile. “You’re free to do whatever you want.”

I suppress a frown. She obviously wants me to stay, and yet she’s letting me go? She’s been confident all evening. Why be shy now?

“Are you sure?” I ask her.

She hesitates for just a second. “Yes.”

Your loss.

“All right, then. I’ll see you in a bit.” I go over to the woman who’s waiting for me.

Nothing makes you want something more than seeing someone else have it.

Now what will you do, Abby?

***

“I never thought you’d get yourself drunk,” I tell Abby as I help her up the stairs of the mansion, my arm around her waist.

Yet, that is what she is, her cheeks redder than ever and her eyes barely open, her knees like jelly. She had already fallen asleep on a couch in the lobby, in fact, which was where Sam found her and why she decided to get me.

“Seriously.” I lift her up another step. “How many more glasses of champagne did you have?”

“Too many,” she answers, her voice slurred.

“Damn right,” I tell her, letting out a deep breath as we reach the top of the stairs. “You shouldn’t drink more than you can handle, you know.”

She pushes me away, leaning on the balustrade to keep her balance. “You have no right to tell me what I can and can’t do. I let you do what you want so you should let me do what I want.”

“And is this really what you want, hmm? To ruin the evening and look like a fool?”

“You’re the one who did that.” She points an unsteady finger at me. “You’re the one who ruined my evening and made me look like a fool.”

“Really?” I place my hands in my pockets. “How?”

She laughs.

“How?”

“You… went with that woman. You left me.”

So, she drowned her jealousy in champagne.

“If you didn’t want me to leave, you should have—”

“You left me!” She pushes me and then grips the front of my shirt. “You told me I looked gorgeous. You said I looked good enough. But I’m still not good enough for you, am I?”

“That’s not true,” I tell her. “If you had wanted me to stay with you, I would have. But you didn’t want that, did you? You don’t want me, do you?”

For a moment, she doesn’t answer, just looks into my eyes as she continues to grip the front of my shirt, her own black eyes teary.

Then she says the words I’ve been dying to hear all evening. “Kiss me, Grant.”

I hesitate, only because she’s drunk, and she might not remember any of this tomorrow.

“Kiss me,” she repeats louder, gripping my shirt more firmly.

Oh, to hell with it. If she can still remember what happened earlier and boss me around, she can’t be that drunk. And there’s no way I can refuse her when she’s looking at me like that, when she’s offering herself to me so willingly.

I’m just a man and right now, I’m a man who’s harder than he’s ever been.

Grasping her chin, I kiss her, my other hand pulling her closer to me so that she can feel my erection. She moans, and I slip my tongue between her lips, tasting the sweet berries from her lipstick and the bitter acidity of the champagne. The combination is exquisite.

My hand moves to Abby’s hair, my fingers becoming entangled with the ebony tendrils as I kiss her harder, my tongue going wild as it explores the uncharted softness of her mouth. In between her gasps for breath, she kisses me back with wild abandon even as she grinds her hips against mine, her passion making mine burn stronger.

Fuck.

There’s no turning back now.

Scooping Abby in my arms, I carry her to the nearest bedroom, throwing her on top of the large bed before turning on the lamp. As I remove my shoes and shrug off my jacket, she laughs, stretching her arms out to me as she kicks her sandals off.

“Grant.”

The sound of my name on her lips is like a drug, making me lose my mind even as I try to regain control of my body.

I toss my jacket on a chair. “Fuck, Abby. You’re going to drive me insane.”

She just gives another laugh, which I silence halfway through with another passionate kiss as I climb on top of her. I cup her breast, my thumb finding her nipple through the lace and pressing against it. She trembles, one hand trapping my shoulder in an almost bruising grip.

Still kissing her, I reach for the hooks behind her neck then peel her bodice down. I tear my lips away from hers, pulling back so I can enjoy the view of her breasts. They’re even more beautiful than I imagined, perfectly round and a lovely shade of pink in the center.

“Fuck, Abby. You’re beautiful.” My words come out hoarsely as I press a reverent kiss to the tender valley between those mounds of flesh.

She lets out another soft laugh. “If you’re going to start every sentence with ‘fuck,’ you might as well do it.”

“Oh, is that a challenge?” I lift my head to gaze into her eyes as I cover both her breasts with my palms.

Abby draws in a deep breath, but the look in her eyes tells me she’s not backing down. “What if it is?”

I grin as my thumbs rub against her pert nipples. “You know what? I like this feisty Abby.”

If this is how she gets when she’s drunk, I don’t mind it at all.

She gasps. “And I like this crazy Grant.”

And whose fault is that? I wonder. Indeed, I feel like a lunatic, maddened by desire, like a beast driven by hunger.

And it’s all because of this woman.

I kiss her again, addicted to the feel of her lips, intoxicated by the taste of her mouth. I’m not the one who’s drunk but I feel like I am. Abby is the most potent drink I have ever come across.

I lift her skirt, my fingers brushing over her knees and against one quivering thigh. She shudders even more. With need or with excitement? I don’t know. I only know that every shiver that goes through her goes through me, my hard cock throbbing as it strains against the fabric of its confines.

When my fingers reach the top of her thighs to touch the part of her hidden in between them, she moans, her hips rising from the bed. I feel the dampness of the cotton against my fingertips, and I feel myself leaking, my own boxers getting stained.

Fuck.

My mouth moves to her neck then to her breasts as I slip my hand beneath the damp cotton, rubbing the soft nub hidden among her curls before moving lower to slide a finger inside her. It goes in without resistance, the tight softness around my finger making me almost come then and there, so much so that I have to let go of the breast that I’m sucking and bury my head against her shoulder, drawing in a deep, ragged breath.

Why? I’ve been with many women before but none of them have ever made me feel like this.

And to think that Abby isn’t even doing anything.

Suddenly, she does something, stroking my nape with one hand and pressing her lips against my ear, her hot breath tickling the sensitive skin before the tip of her tongue darts out to trace it, sending shivers up my spine.

“Fuck!”

“Fuck me,” she whispers before playfully nipping the lobe she’s laid claim to.

I don’t need to be told a second time. God knows I can’t hold back any longer. Pulling her skirt up, I spread her legs and settle between them, fumbling with my belt and then taking my cock out of my boxers in record time.

Finally, it’s out of its cotton cage. But it’s not out that it wants. It’s in.

I want to be inside her.

With one thrust, I turn that desire into reality, gripping her thighs and grunting at how soft and tight she is, her velvety warmth clinging to my aching skin.

There’s no way I’m going to last long.

I start moving, pounding into her. Abby squeezes her eyes shut, her mouth open to let out moans and gasps as she throws her head back, her hands grabbing the sheets.

I’m close. So close.

Abby cries out, her back arching off the bed and her nails digging into my back as her body quakes beneath mine.

“Fuck!” I shout as I follow her over the edge, my own body quivering as my pace becomes erratic. I shudder to a stop as I come inside her, the force of it so intense that it leaves me completely out of breath.

Spent, I pull out and lie down beside her, staring blankly at the ceiling as I wait for the drumming in my chest to fade. When it does, I look at Abby and realize that she has fallen asleep, her head turned to one side with some strands of hair stuck to her cheeks.

Sleeping soundly, she looks so different from the fiery seductress she was earlier. She looks so innocent now.

And yet equally fascinating.

I brush the strands of hair away, stroking her still-warm cheek. As I do, I feel an unexpected burst of warmth in my chest, my heart skipping a beat.

What is this sensation?

I don’t know. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Now, the most crucial part of my plan is complete. Abby belongs to me, and soon, success will be, too.

Everything is going according to plan.

Chapter 5

Abby

Everything is a disaster. I glumly pace the garden with my arms crossed over my chest. My hair, which is still wet from my bath, is occasionally swept by the early morning breeze.

Less than an hour ago, I woke up in a dark room with my stomach churning and a splitting headache. I dashed to the bathroom to throw up and wash my face only to find that I was still wearing the coral gown I wore last night – well, sort of. It was still hanging around my waist though the bodice had come undone. As I put it back on in front of the mirror, my memories returned and I gripped the sink, gasping as I realized what I had done.

I slept with Grant.

I had sex with my boss.

The stickiness on my thighs and the sight of him still sleeping soundly on the bed I just got out of confirmed it.

Cursing silently, I ran back to my room to take a long shower. That helped relieve my headache and the sticky feeling. My thoughts remained muddled, though, and so here I am, hoping some fresh air and early sunlight will clear my mind.

All right. So I know what happened. The question is… how did it happen? How could I have allowed it to happen?

Fine. It’s because I drank too much last night. But I wouldn’t have done so if Grant hadn’t left me to be with another woman.

But he asked you if it was all right with you, didn’t he? And you said yes.

That’s because I didn’t want to sound selfish and needy. After that kiss, I was confused, especially when Grant acted like it was nothing. When he invited me to the party and told me to get all dolled up, I decided to take it as an opportunity to find out whether he was really interested in me. That’s why I took all the extra effort to look beautiful and why I managed to act confident. If I had asked Grant to stay with me, all that act would have been a waste.

Indeed, I wanted to find out how he felt, not tell him how to feel. And I did. At first, I thought he was interested in me. But I was wrong.

But he slept with you.

Because I asked him to. I don’t really remember what I said but I’m pretty sure I made the first move, the thought of which is enough to make me blush.

“Shit.”

“Let me guess,” a voice interrupts my thoughts. “You slept with Mr. Herbert.”

I turn my head, recognizing the guard. What did Grant say his name was again? Roger? I’ve been seeing him around but I haven’t really had the chance to talk to him again, not since that day I arrived.

“You should have kept that gate closed,” I tell him.

“He was that bad, huh?”

“No. It’s not that. He was…” I stop, letting my hands fall to my lap as Roger chuckles.

“I’m kidding,” he says. “I don’t really want to know the details.” He touches his dimpled chin. “I must say, though, you’re the first woman I’ve ever seen who looks miserable after sleeping with Grant.”

I sigh. “That’s because I shouldn’t have slept with him.”

“Why not?”

I slump on the bench, my hands rolling to my sides as I throw my head back and stare at the branches of the tree above me.

“Because I was drunk.”

“Not enough,” Roger says. “If you were that drunk, you wouldn’t have been able to sleep with him.”

Roger has a point.

“Because Grant doesn’t like me.”

Roger chuckles. “Believe me, Grant would never sleep with a woman he doesn’t like.”

I look at Roger with creased eyebrows. “You seem to know Grant well, don’t you?”

“Well, I’ve known him since he was in his youth,” he admits.

Really? Then he must have a good idea how Grant thinks and feels.

Wait. So, Grant likes me?

It doesn’t matter. I still shouldn’t have slept with him.

“He’s my boss.”

“Ah, that he is.”

“I’m not supposed to sleep with my boss.”

“Why not?” Roger sits on the other side of the bench.

I straighten up. “Well, because he’s my boss.”

“So? Bosses are men, too… and, more often than not, lonely men.”

“Fine.” I slap my hands on my lap. “Let’s just say I shouldn’t have slept with a man I barely knew. Or let’s say I shouldn’t have slept with a man. End of story.”

“You don’t like sleeping with men?” Roger gives me a weird look.

“Not that I swing the other way,” I clarify. “All I’m saying is that men are troublesome. I don’t need them in my life.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.” I nod, sitting back.

“Fine. Let’s go with that. It’s done, though, so what are you going to do about it?”

I shrug. “Any suggestions?”

Roger shakes his head. “Don’t ask me. I’ve never slept with a man.”

I chuckle then sit up, stretching my arms upward. “Well, I guess there’s only one thing I can do.”

“Don’t tell me you’re leaving.”

There’s a suggestion – I could resign and go back to working for Mr. Landers. But, no. That seems too drastic. Besides, I kind of like my new job.

“I’m not leaving,” I tell Roger as I stand up, stretching my arms to the sides. “I guess I’ll just have to talk to Grant, tell him I’m sorry for how I behaved last night, and that it’s all a big mistake that won’t happen again. And that we should keep things professional between us from now on. Strictly business, you know. No more of the personal stuff.”

Right. That’s all I have to do and that’s exactly what I plan on doing as soon as Grant wakes up. It’s a simple solution to a simple problem, so simple I feel like a fool for not knowing it right away and for worrying about it too much.

I clasp my hands in front of me and take a deep breath, suddenly feeling much better.

I’m sure Grant will understand.

***

“I don’t understand,” Grant says as he sits on the edge of his bed, his blue robe wrapped around him and his damp towel resting on his shoulders. “You were the one who wanted me to—”

“I know,” I cut him off, not wanting to relive the embarrassing details of last night. “That’s why I’m apologizing.”

“So, you’re sorry you asked me to fuck you?”

“I know I behaved terribly, and I’m not making any excuses,” I tell him, looking at my hands. “I just hope you’ll forgive me and forget about everything.”

Grant stands up and comes closer, his hand stretching out toward my cheek. I step back, moving out of his reach.

“And I would like it very much if we kept things strictly professional from now on,” I tell him, squaring my shoulders. “The way it should have always been, the way it was with Mr. Landers.”

“Well, I’m not Mr. Landers, am I?” he snaps, his eyes narrowing.

Shit. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that, especially after the way he acted around Mr. Landers last night.

“I think it’s for the best,” I add quickly.

He frowns. “So, now that you’ve had me, you no longer want me?”

“That’s not what I—”

“Tell me, Abby,” Grant cuts me off as he grasps my chin, forcing me to look into his eyes. “Do you really no longer want me?”

I pause, the intensity of his gaze and the proximity of his body to mine robbing me of breath. It’s almost as if the lust in those blue eyes is spilling out, washing over me while his fingertips, his slightest touch, sends waves of heat throughout my body, which remembers his all too easily, my palms, breasts, and sex tingling.

Shit.

My body still wants him, now more than ever. I still want him.

But I’m not going to give in to my desire any longer. I am all too aware of how desire can turn into need like it did last night, and I’m not going to let that happen again.

“Yes,” I lie, grabbing his hand and pushing it away. “I no longer want you.”

For a moment, Grant just stands there as if he hasn’t heard me. Then he walks to the window, laughing.

He’s laughing? Has he lost his mind?

“I’m sorry,” I say. “But I don’t see what’s funny.”

“Me,” he answers, clasping his hands behind him as he looks out the window. “Who would have thought that a man like me who’s tossed women aside all his life would ever know what it feels like to be the on the other side of the spectrum?”

The words make my gut coil with guilt. How can he find this funny?

“It’s karma, I guess,” he adds. “Serves me right.”

“So, you’re not mad?” I ask hopefully, eyebrows raised and head slightly crooked to one side.

Grant turns to me with a grin. “Why would I be mad?”

***

“He is mad,” I tell Marjorie as I sit on a stool in the kitchen, resting my cheek against the cool marble counter. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t have gone on that business trip without telling me.”

Indeed, I woke up to find that Grant had left the mansion. It was only when I got a message on my phone hours later that I learned he had gone on a “sudden and urgent business trip.”

It’s not unusual, I know. Even Mr. Landers went on a lot of unplanned business trips, and he didn’t always bring me. He always told me beforehand, though, either personally or over the phone. In fact, I almost always arranged those business trips for him.

Well, I’m not Mr. Landers, am I? Grant’s words come back to haunt me.

Right. I should stop comparing them. Grant has his own way of dealing with things. Still, I can’t help but feel that Grant left me behind on purpose.

“Maybe he wanted to take care of it himself,” Marjorie says, her back turned to me as she works the knife and chopping board on another counter.

“I’m a personal assistant,” I remind her. “I’m supposed to assist. It’s the most important part of my job.”

“Aren’t you busy enough?”

“No.” I lift my head, putting one arm up on the counter and leaning on it.

Actually, lately, all I’ve been doing is managing emails, making phone calls, and filing documents. It’s less than what I used to do for Mr. Landers.

I frown. Again, with the comparison. Will I ever be able to stop?

“Well, maybe it’s too sudden,” Marjorie suggests.

“All the more reason for him to have asked for my help,” I say. “And if you’re saying he had to hop on a plane at once, then he should have brought me with him so I could have made arrangements along the way. Or he could have called me after he got on a plane. I could have still made arrangements over the phone.”

Marjorie stops chopping. “So, he left you out completely, huh?”

“Completely,” I agree, sighing. “He didn’t even tell me where he was going or how long he’s going to be there.”

“And you didn’t ask?”

I put my other arm up on the table, my face resting on both my palms. “Like I said, he’s mad at me.”

Marjorie wipes her hands on her apron as she turns to me. “If you ask me, it sounds like he’s more hurt than mad.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Hurt?”

“You practically crushed him, didn’t you?” she reminds me. “I mean, you told him you didn’t want to sleep with him anymore. Not just that. You told him to forget you ever slept with him. It’s like breaking up with someone and telling that person you don’t want anything to do with him.”

I look at the counter, frowning. I did not think of that. Come to think of it, he did seem a little hurt yesterday when I talked to him.

“But he’s not my boyfriend, so it’s not a break-up,” I reason defensively.

“Forget the labels. It’s the feelings that are important.” Marjorie sits on the stool across me. “You had something good going on. You were both attracted to each other. And you just nipped that in the bud and burned what was left.”

“Wow.” I look at her in disbelief. “I was that big of a bitch, huh?”

And here I thought I did what was best.

“Trust me. He’s hurting.” Marjorie places her hands on the counter. “And when people are hurt, they want to be alone. I know I did. When I found out Jack didn’t want to marry me, that he no longer wanted me just because I was pregnant – and with his child no less – I ran away. I felt like the whole world was against me, you know, like no one would understand.”

I nod. “I think my mother did the same thing.”

“She was a single mom, too?”

“Not for long. But yeah, she started out the same way. I never knew my father.”

Marjorie sighs. “Some men just don’t care about anyone but themselves.”

“Believe me. I know.”

“But you know what?” She reaches for my hand. “The fact that Grant is hurting means he cares about you, maybe more than you know.”

It does?

“And you know what else?” Marjorie points a finger at me as she gets off the stool. “The fact that you feel guilty means you care about him, too, probably just as much. Heck, you might even be in love with him.”

In love?

No way. Well, I wouldn’t know because I’ve never been in love, but I’m pretty sure that’s not what I feel right now. Yes, I slept with Grant, but so have other women. Plus, I don’t do relationships. I can’t be in love.

As for the guilt, fine, I admit it. I feel guilty just as much as I feel annoyed at being left behind. In fact, I stayed up last night wondering if what I did to Grant was right. I thought it was. I thought he’d be fine with it. I’m sure he’s been through a lot of one-night stands. I didn’t expect him to be mad. Or hurt.

So, what? I should apologize? But if I do, then I’ll be telling him it’s okay for us to pick up where we left off, and I’m still not sure it is.

“It doesn’t matter how I feel. Grant is my boss.”

Marjorie lifts an eyebrow. “Is that really the problem? Or is there a bigger problem?”

I frown. Marjorie is a year younger than me, but sometimes, I feel like she’s decades older, wiser. Maybe it’s because she’s already a mother.

I rest my cheek on the counter again. “Why does everything have to be so complicated?”

“It’s not, really. Sometimes, it’s just you – you trying to make sense of things that don’t, you trying to control things you can’t, you trying to be something you’re not.”

I sigh. “You know what? Maybe you should have been a shrink or something.”

“But if I was, I wouldn’t be able to make things like this.” She puts a bowl of what looks like raspberry sorbet with chocolate shavings in front of me. “And believe me, good food is sometimes the best therapy.”

“I agree.” I pick up the spoon and taste the sorbet. “Mmm. This is heavenly.”

Marjorie smiles. “Something to forget the hell you’re going through, right?”

I take another spoonful, squeezing my shoulders at the decadent taste. “You’re an angel.”

Just then, my phone rings. Thinking it might be Grant, I quickly pick it up, only to be puzzled by the unknown number on the screen.

Who can it be?

“Hello,” I say as I press the phone to my ear. “Abigail Gomez speaking.”

“Ms. Gomez, this is Harry Jenkins, Mr. Herbert’s lawyer. We spoke just a few days ago.”

“Right.” I get off the stool. “I remember. What can I do for you, Mr. Jenkins?”

“Actually, I’ve sent you some important documents,” he says. “I’d appreciate it if you had Mr. Herbert sign them and then send them back to me right away.”

“Right away?”

“Yes. They were already supposed to be signed, but I guess he forgot. I need to them get his company listed and make sure everything is legal.”

I nod. “I understand. He’s on a business trip right now, but I’ll do my best to get a hold of him.”

“I appreciate it.”

He hangs up and I sit back on the stool, rubbing my temples.

“Something else wrong?” Marjorie asks from behind me.

“I have to talk to Grant.”

“Then do it. You talked your way into this trouble. You can talk your way out of it.”

“That’s not why I need to talk to him. I just spoke with his lawyer and he needs to sign some papers.”

“Well, there’s no reason why you can’t talk about a lot of things in one call,” Marjorie says.

I say nothing. Given the circumstances, I know I have things to say to Grant but I just don’t know what or how. I’m not even sure if he will listen.

He’ll want to know about those papers, though.

I start typing a message on my phone, deleting the first few letters several times before finally composing a few sentences.

I hope your trip is going well. Let me know when I can call you. I need to relay a message from Mr. Jenkins, your lawyer. He said it’s urgent. Thank you.

Afterward, I press send then put down my phone, taking a deep breath.

I don’t know where he is but I sure hope he gets my message.

And I sure hope he’s all right.

Chapter 6

Grant

“All right, all right. I’ll leave.”

The woman with the black hair and red lipstick whose name I can no longer remember zips up her blouse, grabs the cash I’ve thrown on the bed and leaves, her black boots stomping out of the hotel room and down the corridor.

I close the door then slump in an oversized armchair, letting out an exasperated breath. Moments later, Roger enters.

“I must say, I think you’re losing it,” Roger says, sitting in the other oversized armchair. “That’s the second woman you’ve slept with who isn’t happy about it.”

I frown. “I didn’t sleep with her.”

“Oh.”

Not that I didn’t think of it. I planned on it, in fact. That’s why I picked her up at a bar in downtown Los Angeles and brought her here to my hotel room. We were about to do it, too. Heaven knows she was wanting and ready.

The problem was me. Even though I was with another woman, I couldn’t stop thinking of the one I had left back at home – Abby.

And I thought I could. I picked a woman with the same black hair she had, the same heart-shaped face. But no. She still wasn’t Abby. Not even close.

And all I want is Abby.

Just the thought of Abby is enough to make my cock hard whereas the sight of that woman’s bare breasts couldn’t even cause the slightest buzz in my crotch.

It’s strange, really. In the past, I’ve always been able to move on from one woman to another without ever looking back. It’s usually as easy to me as going from one pair of shoes to the next. And yet, I can’t seem to do that now. I can’t seem to shake off Abby even though I’ve already slept with her, even though she was the one who asked me to forget her.

Or maybe that’s why. No woman has ever asked me to forget her before. On the contrary, they’ve begged me to call them, to remember them. They always beg for more. But Abby just slammed the door in my face, saying she doesn’t want anything more to do with me on a personal level.

For once in my life, I’ve been rejected.

And it feels like fucking shit.

“Abby is something else, isn’t she?” Roger says, pouring himself some whiskey. “I knew she was a strong woman but I didn’t think she’d actually push you away. And right after you fucked her, too.”

“And to think she was the one who asked me to.” I run my fingers through my hair. “She teased me. She reeled me in. She let me in. And then she threw me out.”

Roger chuckles, lifting his glass. “Sounds to me like she beat you at your own game.”

Frowning, I swipe the glass away from him.

“Hey!”

I ignore him as I bring the glass to my lips and gulp down its contents, hoping for the warm liquid to wash away some of my frustration but to no avail.

I set down the empty glass. “And here I thought everything was going according to plan.”

“Oh, is that what you’re frustrated about?” Roger pours himself another glass.

“What did you think it was?” I ask him.

“Nothing.” He shrugs. “Maybe it’s just my imagination.”

I say nothing as he drinks.

“Well, if that’s the case, I can’t say I’m sorry she dumped you,” he says after. “She just hurt you before you could hurt her.”

“I’m not hurt,” I tell him, rubbing my temple. “I’m just frustrated.”

“Right.”

“I need her for my plan to work and you–” I point at Roger, “—are not helping.”

“Well, if you want my advice, I’d say all you have to do is try harder.”

“You mean seduce her so she’ll sleep with me another time?” I let out a sigh. “She doesn’t want me anymore, remember? And all because I’m her boss. I can’t believe she wants me to be like Nathan. Nathan doesn’t give a fuck about his employees.”

“At least he didn’t fuck them,” Roger points out.

I glare at him. “Whose side are you on again?”

He pours me another drink. “Anyway, what I’m saying isn’t about fucking or wanting to. That’s the problem with you, you see – either you’re fucking a woman or you want to.”

“It’s never been a problem.”

Roger shakes his head. “Well, clearly, fucking isn’t all Abby wants or thinks about. So you should act the same.”

I’m feeling more confused. “You’re telling me not to want her.”

“I’m telling you there should be more than just sexual attraction.” He hands me the glass. “I’m telling you to try harder in a non-sexual way. Open up. Let her in.”

I grimace as I drink, the words even more bitter than the alcohol.

There’s a reason why I seduce women physically – I know I’m good at it. What Roger is suggesting is untried strategy, uncharted territory.

“I’ve never done that before.”

“Ah, but you almost did,” Roger reminds me.

I know exactly who he’s referring to – Lindsey, the very woman who is the root of my current problems.

“If you had only allowed her to get close to you instead of just dropping her like a hot potato, I bet you wouldn’t have to go through all this trouble now just to get her name on those apps,” Roger goes on.

I gulp down the rest of my drink. I hate to admit it, but he’s right – well, not the part where I should have allowed Lindsey to come close but the part where I got myself into this shit. Not too many of my mistakes have come back to bite me, but this one surely has. Who would have thought that shy Lindsey would end up becoming such a successful psychologist, author, and businesswoman – a role model and inspiration for all women, the very kind of woman whose app other women would like to buy?

“I can’t turn back time.” I hand the glass back to Roger.

“I’m not asking you to.” Roger puts the glass on the table. “What I’m saying is that you have a chance to learn from your mistake with an equally beautiful, strong woman. So, learn. Do better. Do what you didn’t do last time. After all, isn’t that what Lindsey wants? To know you’ve changed?”

I don’t answer.

“Listen, Grant. Abby won’t let you in unless you let her in. You say she backed down because you’re her boss. Then make her see you as a man. And no, taking off your clothes won’t achieve that.”

“And you’re sure that if I open up to her, she’ll fall for me completely?”

“No.” Roger sits back, putting his feet up on a stool as he places his arms behind his head. “But that’s a risk you’ll have to take if you want her, Lindsey Holland, and the success of your company. Either that, or just give everything up.”

I frown. So it’s all or nothing, huh? I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all, maybe as much as I don’t like the idea of baring my soul to a woman I hardly know.

True, I want Abby and I need her so that I can get Lindsey’s signature and all the profits that come with it, but am I willing to sacrifice my personal beliefs for that? Am I willing to risk losing myself?

It’s the toughest choice I’ve ever had to make.

Still frowning, I get out of the chair and walk to the closet, taking out my backpack.

“What are you doing?” Roger asks, sitting up. “Where are you going?”

I put my backpack on. “Where I usually go to think.”

***

I’ve always loved the outdoors.

I love the cool air and the feel of the ground beneath my feet. I love the sights – the leaves with their different shades of green, the brown tree trunks, the golden sunlight filtering through them, the colorful wildflowers and butterflies in the meadows and the dark tapestry of stars at night. I love the sounds – the blades of grass rustling in the breeze, the babbling brooks, the concert of animals, big and small – and the occasional silence. I even love the smell of the earth and that of the rain. All together, they create this perfect treat that serves as a respite for the lonely soul, a refreshment for the troubled mind, and a reinvigorating therapy for the weary body.

It’s just what I need.

Indeed, as I sit on a rock surrounded by trees off the beaten path to drink some water from my bottle and splash some of the rest against my sweat-drenched shirt, I already feel more at ease. Here, I can get away from all the noise and chaos of the world.

I feel like a boy again, a boy who has just sneaked out from under his governess’ nose to skip his lessons and climb trees instead, ending up with torn, dirty clothes, scraped knees and a few beatings from the cane but still feeling ridiculously happy. I feel like that boy with his blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a superhero’s cape who stole sweets from the kitchen after bedtime, to have a picnic under the stars but ends up falling asleep and catching a cold. I feel like that boy who jumped in muddy puddles in the rain, who rolled in the bed of leaves in the fall, who waded through the snow in winter.

Oh, how I wish I was still that boy.

But I’m not. I’m a man now. And I didn’t come here to the woods to play. I came here to rest, to sort my thoughts, and to escape from my worries just long enough to be able to come up with a way to deal with them.

“What should I do about Abby?”

If only the trees could answer, it would be wonderful. Then again, if they could talk, no one would probably want to come here anymore. I, for one, come to the outdoors not to be told what to do, but so I can find out what I want to do.

What do I want to do about Abby?

I don’t know. All I can think of is what I want to do to her.

I want to take Abby in my arms, to kiss her silly, to fuck her hard. I want her blushing, breathless, moaning as I explore her mouth, suck on her breasts, and plunge my fingers inside her hot, dripping sex before burying my hard cock deep inside her. I don’t care whether she’s pinned against a wall, bent over a desk, or shoved down on the carpet with her legs up in the air. I want to pound into her until I collapse, until I’m bathed in sweat and out of breath, until she shudders like she’s going to break into a million pieces and screams my name for all to hear, until I fill her with so much of my warm cum that it trickles down her quivering thighs.

“Fuck.”

Just the thought of that beckons images so vividly inside my mind, making me hard. I have to stop again, this time leaning against a tree and closing my eyes as I splash what’s left of my bottle of water on myself to calm my body down.

I don’t know what’s more frustrating – the fact that I keep getting a hard-on whenever I think of her, or the thought that I’m not going to get any chance to act on any of my fantasies unless I get her back.

I have to get Abby back.

But like Roger said: In order to get, I have to give.

And I’ve never been much of a giver. Women have always given me what I wanted, some without asking for anything in return, some in exchange for sex. Sure, some of them ask for more sex, but none of them have ever dared to ask more from me.

Except Lindsey.

She told me she loved me, and she wanted me to feel the same way. She asked me to be her boyfriend in all seriousness, and I left her without so much as a goodbye.

As much as I hate to admit it, I was fucking scared.

That’s the same way I feel right now. And just like last time, I feel like running away.

Do what you didn’t do last time.

Except this isn’t like last time. At least last time I knew how Lindsey felt. She made the first move. This time, I’ll be making the first move, and I don’t even have a clue how Abby feels. I have no assurance whatsoever that this will get her back in my arms. Am I really willing to risk everything?

“Fuck!”

I turn around to punch the tree then slide against it as I let out a deep breath of exasperation.

If only Abby could give me a sign.

***

“Grant!”

At the sound of Abby’s voice coming from a distance, I grow still inside my large tent. At first, I think it’s just my imagination – I’ve been thinking about Abby way too much and there’s no way she’d be here. When I hear the voice again, though, I rush out of my tent, my breath catching as I see Abby standing just a few feet away from me.

“Abby.”

Just the sight of her out of breath in her dark jeans and green shirt, her hair hidden under a gray cap with the rest flowing past her shoulders, is enough to send my heart pounding and heat coursing through my veins straight to my crotch. There’s nothing I want more than to pull her into my arms and fuck her inside my tent, to engrave my whole body into hers so that she’ll never stop wanting me again.

I restrain myself, though, reminding myself that it’s not about the fucking.

I can’t scare her away.

“Please sit down,” I tell her calmly, gesturing to the foldable chair while I sit on the rock in front of the fire pit, the wood still hot from the lunch I cooked earlier. “You must be tired.”

She remains standing even though she’s still panting, her hands on the straps of her backpack. “I won’t stay long.”

I frown. Not only does she not look the least bit happy to see me, she’s even in a rush to leave.

Why? Why is she mad at me? I should be the one getting mad at her after what she’s put me through.

I take a deep breath. “How did you find me?”

“With difficulty,” she answers, annoyance in her voice. “And a little bit of help from Roger.”

I look around. “Where’s Roger?”

“When your tent was in sight, he told me to go ahead. He said he didn’t want you to bite his head off.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you come out here to escape, not just from work and life but from women.”

That’s true.

“Don’t worry. Like I said, I won’t stay long. I’ll leave as soon as you sign the papers.”

“Papers?” I raise an eyebrow.

She moves her backpack to her chest and opens it, taking out a plastic folder and handing it to me. “If you had only kept your phone open, you would have known that your lawyer needs these papers signed immediately.”

I take the folder, opening it on my lap. “I don’t have a signal out here.”

“I sent a hundred messages. Some of them must have arrived before you left your hotel.”

I go through the papers. “I was busy.”

“Well, if you had brought me with you, then there wouldn’t have been a problem, would there?” She puts a hand on her hip.

So, that’s why she’s annoyed – because I left her behind.

I close the folder. “Well, I wouldn’t have left you if you hadn’t acted so mean.”

“Mean?” Her eyes grow wide. “I was just… being professional.”

I set the folder on the ground and get up, walking toward her. “If nothing happens between us because I’m your boss, that’s you being professional. If something happens even though I’m your boss and you deny it, that’s cowardice and it’s mean.”

She steps back, swallowing.

Now I’ve scared her. I didn’t mean to, but I couldn’t help it, not with that attitude of hers. Besides, if I’m going to open up to her, she should do the same.

I grasp her trembling chin. “Why don’t you just admit how you feel about me, Abby?”

Her jaw clenches. Even though she’s quivering in fear, she’s still trying to put up a brave front. She’s still doing her best to resist me.

She slaps my hand away. “How dare you presume to know how I feel. You—”

I silence her with a kiss as I pull her into my arms, unable to restrain myself any longer. The more she resists, the more I want her.

At first, her arms flay at her sides, her backpack falling to the ground. Her tongue tries to push mine out as she tries to push me away, to slip out of my grip. I can tell she isn’t really putting all her efforts into it, though, and little by little, as my tongue pushes hers back and explores her mouth with all the passion I’ve been keeping at bay, her resistance wilts and her body melts in my arms.

Fuck. I’ve missed this.

As the cap falls off her head, I run my fingers through her hair, messing up the silky tendrils as I pull her body even closer to mine, delighting in the feel of her soft breasts against my hardened chest and grinding my hard cock into that valley between her legs.

Another shudder goes through her, a moan escaping her lips as she clings to me. I grin in triumph, and as we break the kiss for air, I place my mouth near her ear, my voice hoarse as I speak.

“You can’t fight it, Abby.”

The moment I finish my sentence, I see her body immediately become tense again and I realize I should have kept my mouth busy with something other than talking.

With both hands, she pushes me away, seriously this time. As she steps back, she glares at me, her eyes like icy daggers even as they brim with tears.

Then she runs back into the woods.

“Abby!”

I start to run after her but Roger stops me, having emerged from his hiding, his gaze telling me all I need to know.

I fucked up. Bad.

And now, I wonder if I can ever make it right.

Chapter 7

Abby

No!

My mind screams as I run down the trail as fast as I can, the soil, pebbles, and leaves crunching beneath the soles of my sneakers and the wind blowing in my face.

Where am I going? I don’t know. I’m not even sure if this is the same trail I walked on with Roger earlier. The trees and shrubs all look alike as I pass them by – a green and brown blur. I just want to get away, to be alone.

Why am I running away? That’s easy. It’s because I’m scared.

Suddenly, I find myself at the top of a small slope. I run down, hoping to find safety in speed, but my foot slips. Losing my balance, I slide down and end up at the bottom of a pile of leaves.

I don’t get up. Instead, I stay still as I catch my breath, looking up at the sky that has suddenly turned gray.

Just like my body has turned from one burning with heat to one burdened by worry and fear.

It isn’t Grant exactly who scared me away. It’s what he whispered in my ear.

You can’t fight it, Abby.

It’s scary for one reason only – because it’s true.

I can’t fight the guilt gnawing at me inside out from rejecting Grant. I can’t fight the joy that bursts in my chest whenever I remember watching Miss Saigon with Grant or dancing in his arms at that party. I can’t fight the blush that coats my cheeks at the slightest recollection of how he made my body feel. And most of all, I can’t fight the desire to feel his body next to mine again – a feeling that washes over me from the top of my head to the tip of my toes at his slightest touch, just like earlier.

What is all this? Love?

Whatever it is, it makes me feel helpless and that scares the hell out of me, so much so that it has my body in a state of panic and anxiety, my chest heavy and tears spilling out of the corners of my eyes.

It scares me. Not only because I’ve never felt like this before, but more so because I never thought I’d feel this way. I promised myself I’d never feel this way.

I promised myself I’d never end up like my mother.

Just then, I feel a drop of water on my forehead, followed two seconds later by another on my chin. And another. And another. I get up, running to seek shelter under the nearest, largest tree as rain falls all around me and trickles down the leaves and splatters off the ground to the tune of its own melody.

A little rain can hardly hurt me now…

It was raining when my mother died. I don’t remember much of that day – not the words said during the funeral service in the chapel, not the guests clad in black, not the music playing as they laid her down into the earth. I clearly remember, though, that after everyone had left, I knelt in front of her open grave. As I threw in the rose that I had been gripping so tightly, I swore that I would never live like her or die like her.

For seven years, I watched her go from one man to the next. It was a cycle, really. During the first few days or weeks, sometimes months, she would go around wearing freshly styled or dyed hair, makeup, and sexy clothes, euphoric that she had a man. She was constantly doing anything and everything she could to please him – cooking, dressing up, giving him gifts, massaging his feet, squealing like a pig while she let him fuck her night after night. Anything in the hopes of keeping him from leaving. He left anyway – the second phase – and she would beat her fists against his chest and grab his thigh like a toddler, sobbing uncontrollably. I hated seeing her like that but the third phase was worse – the phase when she wallowed in self-pity, crying her eyes out every day and drowning her sorrows in alcohol every night. Sometimes, it lasted for days. Sometimes, longer than when she was with the last man. After that, she’d come to her senses. It was what I called her Phoenix Phase. I liked being with her during this phase because it was when we spent times as mother and daughter. During those days, I tried to make her feel like she was good enough and that I was enough for her. But it was never enough, and it wasn’t long before the cycle started all over again.

I swore to my mother and to myself that I would never be a victim to such a vicious cycle. A cycle, as my mother demonstrated, that could only end in ruin and death. I swore that I would never give too much of myself and definitely not give without getting as much in return. I swore that I would always be in control of how I felt.

Yet, here I am, unable to stand in front of Grant without my knees shaking or my heart racing or my palms prickling with heat, unable to resist his advances, unable to stop thinking about him. And worst of all, unable to stop wanting him even though I know he’s out of my league, even though I know how much he loves women, even though I know he probably just wants to fuck me some more.

Why does wanting Grant feel so good even though he’s bad for me? Why does he make me feel so helpless? Or what if I’m really just not as strong as I want to be? What if I’m just like my mother? What if I end up just like her?

As the rain pours, some drops finding their way through the sheets of leaves, my cheeks grow wet with tears. Tired, I close my eyes, my last thought of my mother before I drift into unconsciousness.

Help me, Mama.

***

“Mama!”

I call after her as she goes into the house, a smile on her face and her black hair with streaks of red bouncing off her shoulders. I follow her, hearing her laughter in the air as soon as I step through the door.

“Mama?”

I start looking for her, searching every room. But in each one I find a different man and no sign of her. I become more frantic as I climb up the stairs, pushing doors open, running down the hall.

Where is she?

“Aah!”

I run in the direction of her scream, kicking the door down. As soon as it tumbles, I clasp my hands over my mouth and fall on my knees on the floor, my mother in front of me, surrounded by a puddle of her own blood.

“Mama!”

I sit up as I open my eyes, my heart pounding against my chest. Softly, I hear someone telling me to calm down. Vaguely, I feel the warmth of someone’s arms wrap around me. I sit still, waiting for the nightmare to fade as my heart begins to slow down, waiting for my vision and my mind to clear.

When it does, I realize that I’m surrounded by patches of orange and blue.

“Where am I?”

“In my tent,” Grant answers. “Roger and I found you and brought you here while you were sleeping. We didn’t want you to catch a cold.”

I glance around. “Where is he now?”

“He’s left. I sent him off to deliver those documents that you wanted signed so badly.”

The documents.

“I’m the one who’s supposed to send those back.”

“It’s all right. Roger and I both decided that you need to rest. He was more than happy to finish the errand. And I promised him I’d take care of you.”

Take care of me? Suddenly, I become aware that Grant’s arms are still around me. I shake them off.

“Shh.” Grant holds me tighter. “It’s all right. You don’t have to run away from me.”

I continue struggling.

“I’m sorry for what I did earlier. I’m sorry I scared you.”

“Let me go!”

He finally releases me, and I move away from him. “You may be my boss, but you don’t own me.”

“I don’t claim to,” he answers calmly. “And I don’t want to.”

“Liar.”

“And if being your boss means you’ll be keeping your distance from me, I’d rather not be your boss.”

I feel confused. “Are you firing me?”

“I’m telling you that you have nothing to be afraid of, Abby.” He leans forward. “Especially not me.”

I move farther from him, shaking my head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t believe you. I don’t need you. And I have nothing to give you.”

“I’m not asking you to need me or to give me anything. I’m not going to take anything away from you.”

I still don’t believe him.

“I’m just asking you to want me.” Grant moves closer, taking my hand and placing it on his marbled chest over his racing heartbeat. “And to take me.”

He moves my hand lower between his legs to another hard, bulging part of him, one that quivers beneath my fingers, straining against my palm.

Then he takes his hand off mine, leaving it there on his crotch. My gaze travels back up, meeting his, my breath escaping me as I see the warmth in those blue eyes.

Warmth, not heat.

Exquisite, not overpowering. Strong but gentle. A ripple, not a wave.

Slowly but surely, it spreads through me, enveloping every cell of my body, every fiber of my being, melting the pain from my past and my fears for the future.

I’m no longer afraid.

“You don’t have to give anything up, Abby,” Grant says, his voice as warm and tender as his gaze. “Just give in. You don’t—”

I put a finger to his lips, silencing him. Then holding his gaze, I run my thumb over his lips. He parts them, letting out a deep breath as he closes his eyes. I place my hands on his cheeks and press my mouth against his, my tongue slipping into the crevice.

Grant and I have kissed before but never like this – more like a caress than a clash, our tongues tangling instead of battling. And yet, the effect seems stronger, my mind already reeling, my body already burning.

“Grant,” I gasp out his name before I kiss him harder, climbing onto his lap and moving my hands to his nape.

He, in turn, places his hands on my back, tracing my spine until his fingertips disappear into the waistband of my jeans. Pulling my shirt out, he slowly lifts the hem until it reaches my underarms. I put my arms up, tearing my mouth off his just long enough to let the cotton pass through and then kissing him again fiercely.

Madly.

Shit. His mouth feels so good.

My heart races, the warmth in my veins turning into prickling heat. My fingers get lost in his hair, gripping some of the golden locks as I press my body closer to his, rubbing my softness against his crotch even as my tongue continues to rub against his, the delicious friction sending ripples of pleasure throughout my body.

So good.

Grant’s fingers find the hooks of my bra, undoing them. I feel the cotton undergarment becoming loose, and my breasts, now full and tingling, spring free. Then I feel his hands on them, first tracing the sides before pushing me just slightly backward to cup them, his thumbs rubbing against the pert, sensitive nipples.

Shit.

I break the kiss to let out a gasp, which turns into a moan as Grant sucks on my neck, his skillful hands continuing to work their magic on my bare breasts, which are loving the attention.

Outside, drops of rain start to fall again like beads bouncing off the tent. This time, I don’t mind it. Soon enough, I fail to even notice it as Grant lowers his head to suck on one of my breasts, my moans drowning out the rain as a stronger storm brews inside me.

That tongue, that sinfully wicked tongue, sweeps across my nipple as his lips hold my breast captive, sending more shivers up my spine. As he moves to the other, his hands work on the button and zipper of my jeans, getting them open so that one can slip beneath my underwear.

As his fingers brush against the heated mound of flesh under the cotton, I grab his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin as I tremble in anticipation. That anticipation turns into thrill as he finds the sensitive bud in my nest of curls then into madness as he coaxes it into bloom.

“Shit!” I hiss, clinging to Grant as the playfulness of his tongue and the right amount of pressure from his fingers send me tumbling into a sharp, early orgasm.

Panting, I collapse against Grant’s chest, resting my head on his shoulder as he, in turn, lies down on the floor of the tent. That spike of pleasure was amazing but that’s all it is – a spike. It’s just like the slide at the end of those water rides: Intensely exciting, but over too soon and leaving you wet, breathless, and wanting more.

I want more.

I lift myself on my arms, gazing down on Grant.

He grins. “Have I ever told you that you’re beautiful?”

I make a face. “You do understand that you’re saying that while looking at my boobs.”

He chuckles. “Well, they are beautiful.” He cups one and then reaches up to stroke my cheek. “And so are you.”

Again, with the warmth, both from his eyes and his palm. My breath catches.

“Liar,” I tease even though I can tell he meant what he just said.

“Oh, you’re so sassy now that you’re on top, huh?” he teases me back.

I grin. I have to admit being on top is kind of fun.

“You know what? It’s unfair. I’m half naked and you’re not.”

“Fine. Let’s fix that.” He lifts his shirt and pulls it over his head, tossing it aside.

Now, I’m the one staring at his chest, marveling at its perfection. Indeed, his upper body is a masterpiece like one of those chiseled marble busts at a museum. I could stare at it all day, but I don’t want to. I’ve already stared at him long enough, several times before. Now is my turn to touch, to feel.

Just as I’m about to touch his chest, I catch a glimpse of the tattoo on his arm. Upon closer inspection, I realize that it’s a bald eagle, a red rose in its clutches.

“What does it mean?” I ask him as I run my thumb over the ink.

“I should think it’s obvious,” Grant answers. “The bald eagle is for America, the land of my birth. I never wanted to forget that. Also, I wanted to spite my grandfather.”

I give him a puzzled look. “He doesn’t like America?”

He shakes his head. “But not as much as he dislikes the fact that I have American blood.”

“What about the rose?”

“I had that added before my mom died. She always reminded me of a rose, and I wanted her to know that I would always remember even though she kept beating herself up for not being a better mother to me.”

“That’s sweet.”

“I also think it’s appropriate to put the rose right in the eagle’s claws since she was captivated by America.”

“Or the eagle could be your father, an American, the one who whisked her away. And now, they’re soaring together with her forever in his grasp.”

He glances at the tattoo. “I never thought of it that way.” He looks at me. “And I never thought of you as a romantic poet.”

“I watch Broadway, remember?”

“Right.”

My inspection of Grant’s tattoo done, I return to my original quest – his chest. I place my hand on his collarbone, tracing it toward the middle then running my fingers down the narrow strip of smooth skin between his pectorals. Looking at his face to observe his reaction, I follow the curve of one of them, skirting dangerously close to his nipple before circling around and touching it. He sucks in a breath, his chest rapidly rising and falling.

Biting my lower lip, I do the same to the other, holding his gaze.

Same reaction.

All right. His nipples are sensitive but not that sensitive. I’m suddenly curious to find out where his pleasure buttons are. After all, he probably knows all of mine.

I continue to explore my new playground, moving my hand lower so that I can trace the straight and curved lines of his taut abdomen.

Amazing.

“Did you always have this kind of body?” I ask curiously as I slowly approach his belly button.

“No.”

“Why have it then?”

“I like to keep fit since I spend a lot of time outdoors,” Grant says. “And because it gets the attention of…”

He stops talking, gasping as his muscles contract.

“That tickles,” he tells me when I search his eyes for an explanation.

“You mean this?” I brush my fingers around his belly button.

His body trembles. “Fuck!”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” I give him a mischievous grin. “So, what was that you were saying again?”

He hesitates. “Women like a nice body.”

“They do, do they?” I tickle him on purpose.

He laughs, squirming beneath me.

“You’re mean,” he says afterward, gasping for breath.

“Oh, I am, am I?” I threaten to tickle him again, chuckling when he puts his hands up in surrender.

Okay. So, I’ve found a ticklish spot. It’s not the kind of spot I wanted to find, though.

Just then, I notice the scar to the right of his belly button, about an inch and a half long. I touch it.

“Knife?” I ask.

Grant nods.

As curious as I am, I don’t ask what happened. I just lower my head to kiss it reverently, bothered by the thought of him being hurt.

I don’t want to see him hurt again.

As I do, my hand inadvertently brushes against his crotch and he sucks in a deep breath.

Of course. His most sensitive spot is the most obvious one.

“And what happened here?” I ask playfully, cupping the bulge.

“You know very well what happened,” he answers, his voice suddenly hoarse.

“Oh. Are you saying I did this?” I stroke him through his pants.

“Fuck!” He shudders, throwing his head back.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” I pop off the button and pull down the zipper, pressing my lips against the stain in his gray boxers. “I guess I’ll have to take responsibility then.”

I take his cock out, my mouth and sex watering at the sheer size and magnificence of it. For a moment, I just stare at it, marveling at this part of him that’s a work of art all on its own. I stick out my tongue to lick the tip as I begin stroking.

“Fuck, Abby!” Grant’s hips quake, his legs trembling beneath me.

I stop stroking and start sucking, savoring the slightly salty, slightly bittersweet, slightly sour taste of him that’s unlike anything I’ve ever had before.

“Fuck!”

His curses continue between gasps as he shudders, his fingers tugging my hair. I’ve hit the jackpot, all right.

Suddenly, he pushes me off, hands gripping my shoulders. Licking my lips, I look into his eyes, swallowing as I see the smoldering desire there.

He wants me, and that realization sends a new buzz of excitement through my body.

Grant wants me.

And I want him.

“Fuck me,” I whisper.

The next instant, I’m on the ground, Grant above me. Kissing me with lips, teeth, tongue and all, he quickly pulls down my pants and my underwear then he spreads my legs and enters me with one thrust.

There’s no restraint, no gentleness now but that’s fine. I’m not scared. I want this just as much as he does. Besides, I’m the one who made him feel like this.

I cling to him as he pounds into me, my moans and gasps combined with his grunts and the slapping of skin against skin filling the tent.

Shit.

The first time we had sex, I was drunk and I still felt the intensity of it. Now that I’m wide awake and sober, I feel the heat swirling beneath every inch of my skin all the way to my curled toes, my sex melting as his cock drives in and out, stroking every bunch of nerves hidden beneath the silky skin.

Indeed, with each thrust, he turns me inside out, robbing me of breath and speech. My fingernails dig into his shoulders. My vision blurs, my eyelids squeezing shut as tears form at the corners.

Grant moves faster and faster above me, gripping my thighs. Then he loses his rhythm and he stops, burying himself inside me, filling me to the brim. In that moment, I open my eyes, blinking away the tears so that I can see his expression, that same expression that held me in awe the first time I saw him in his office. It’s even more breathtaking now that I know I’m the one responsible for it.

Like before, it sends me over the edge. My second orgasm is like a roller coaster, knocking the breath out of my lungs as it goes on and on and on. My body trembles. My mind spins. Everything is a blur. Then the ride stops and I let my head crash down, turning it to the side as I gasp for air.

As my senses recover, I realize the rain has stopped. The storm within me has subsided as well. Yet, I’ve already been completely swept away.

“Are you all right?” Grant asks, planting a kiss on my cheek.

I look at him, smiling as I reach up to touch his cheek, my body spent but my heart spilling over with warmth.

“Grant Herbert, consider yourself wanted and taken.”

Chapter 8

Grant

Taken, huh?

I grin in amusement at the word as I sit in the foldable chair in front of the fire pit with my tumbler of coffee, Abby still asleep inside the tent, recovering from yesterday’s adventures.

I’ve been a lot of things in my life – fatherless, resented, kept away, looked down upon, forced to abide by the rules, sent to boarding school. I’ve been a son, a grandson, a rebel, a dreamer, a lover, a friend, a fighter, an orphan and recently, I’ve been the founder and CEO of a company. A boss.

I’ve been through hell and back, but I’ve never been taken.

Until now.

Well, I guess that’s what happens when you give, when you offer yourself. When you open up, someone steps in and gets cozy.

Why did I do it? Why did I decide to take that leap of faith, to put down my defenses even though I was fucking terrified?

Simple.

It’s because of Abby. And it has nothing to do with the fact that I need her for my plan or my company.

The moment I saw her again, here where I never expected to see her, I realized just how much I wanted her to be by my side – so much that I scared her away. As Roger and I searched for her, I feared the worst. When we found her fast asleep under a tree, exhausted and with cuts on her arm, I wanted to punch myself, hating myself because I drove her to this. I vowed then and there I wouldn’t hurt her. As I watched her sleeping inside my tent, I told myself that I wouldn’t lose her or leave her behind again.

No matter what the cost.

I’m not going to let her slip through my fingers again.

Fuck, Grant. You’re in love.

Am I? I wouldn’t know.

I don’t know anything about love. My father died before I could learn to read or write. My grandparents don’t seem to love each other. I’ve never seen them hug or kiss. And they definitely don’t love me. Even my mother only said she loved me after she found out she was dying. She said it a million times as if trying to make up for lost time.

Apart from her, the only person who’s ever loved me was Lindsey. And she clearly no longer feels the same way.

Did I love her? I don’t know. I cared about her, but in the end, it was not enough for me to want to stay.

And yet, here I am wanting Abby to stay by my side.

Indeed, I was the one who tried to win her over and use her for my own ends. But in the end, I was the one who got won over.

What can I say? Abby is truly an amazing woman, much more beautiful and fascinating than I expected her to be.

Speaking of the angel, she comes out of the tent, stretching her arms. Her hair is uncombed, she isn’t wearing any makeup, and she’s still in the clothes she slept in – one of my college sweaters paired with her own blue jogging pants. She looks completely breathtaking.

“What?” she asks, putting her hands on her hips as her gaze meets mine. “Never seen a girl with sleeping bag hair before?”

I grin, taking a sip from my tumbler. “I can’t say I have.”

“Right.” She puts her hands in the pockets of my sweater and walks toward me. “You’ve never brought a woman on your camping trips before.”

“No,” I confirm, getting out of my chair. “You’re the first.”

“Well, technically, you didn’t bring me.” She throws one shoulder back. “I mean, I didn’t come with you. Then again, if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be here.”

I shrug. “Does it matter?”

She sits on the chair. “Why don’t you bring women here?”

“Because I come here to think, and women usually make that impossible.”

“Then maybe I should go.” She gets up and walks away from the chair. “You know, leave you alone, so you can do your thinking.”

I put my arm around her, pulling her close. “I’m already done thinking. I’ve already made my decision.”

“And what decision is that?”

“To not let you go.” I kiss her.

Abby parts her lips and kisses me back, our tongues becoming entwined as she puts her hands on my waist. I would have liked to put both my arms around her as well, but I’m still holding my tumbler.

“Mmm.” She licks her lips as she pulls away. “Coffee.”

I frown. “And here I thought I was delicious.”

“Well, you, too. But right now, I need coffee.”

I hand her my tumbler. “I’ll make some more then.”

I put the half-filled pot of water over the fire and add another piece of wood to the flame.

“You’ve got this whole camping thing under control, don’t you?” she asks, sitting back down.

“It’s not a thing; it’s a hobby.”

“And how long have you had it?”

I shrug. “Years. When I was growing up, there was a patch of woods behind the mansion and I’d often escape there. Sometimes, I even slept there.”

Abby nods. “You sure love the outdoors.”

“How about you?” I ask her, shaking the dirt off my hands. “Have you ever gone camping?”

She shakes her head as she hands me back my tumbler. “No. My mom didn’t like it and I have to be honest – I don’t like getting dirty.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Nor do I like the idea of being in the middle of nowhere surrounded by wild animals or the idea of sleeping on the ground, knowing that bugs could crawl under you or worse, over you, at any moment.”

I take another sip of coffee. “And yet, you slept well last night.”

“Well, I was tired. And there were no bugs or wild animals. That doesn’t mean there won’t be.”

I huff. “Of course there are bugs and wild animals out here. We’re outdoors. This is their home.”

“Precisely.”

“They’re more gracious hosts, though, so you have nothing to worry about.”

She raises an eyebrow suspiciously. “Really?”

“Come on, Abby. This is the outdoors.” I gesture to our surroundings. “You should relax and have fun.”

She doesn’t answer, sighing.

I grab her hand. “You know what? That’s what we’re going to do today. We’re going to relax, and we’re going to have fun.”

This time, both her eyebrows go up. “And how exactly are we going to do that?”

I smile. “I know exactly how.”

***

“Rafting?” Abby gives me a look of horror as I hand her the paddle. “How exactly is this fun or relaxing?”

Right now, we’re on a rented orange raft in the river, our yellow life vests on.

“Come on.” I start paddling. “Where is your sense of adventure?”

She looks around anxiously. “Some people die while doing this. You know that, right?”

“More people die while driving their cars,” I point out.

Abby sighs. “Just promise me there are no alligators, sharks, or snakes in here.”

“We’re not in the Amazon, Abby.”

“Just promise me.”

“I promise,” I assure her.

“And just… tell me what to do.”

“Well, you can start by rowing.”

She reluctantly does that, dipping her paddle in the water and moving it forward and back.

“That’s it.” I smile encouragingly. “You’re doing great.”

She gives me a look of doubt. “Am I?”

I nod as I lean forward, touching her knee. “Hey, don’t worry. This river isn’t rough. It’s fine even for beginners. That’s why I brought you here.”

She still doesn’t look convinced.

“And I promise I won’t let anything bad happen to you,” I go on. “You trust me, right?”

Abby gives another sigh. “I guess I’ll have to.”

I smile.

She frowns. “Hey, you’re slacking off.”

“Sorry.”

I continue rowing, guiding the boat along as the river becomes narrower. I still can’t stop staring at her every now and then, though, watching her features as they visibly relax, admiring the way she looks in her life vest, blue shirt, and black shorts, her hair in a loose braid with some tendrils floating in the breeze.

“You’re staring at me again,” Abby says, noticing it.

“Guilty,” I admit with a grin. “I can’t help it. You just look amazing.”

She snorts. “I’m pretty sure I look my least amazing right now.”

“Not at all. You look… like you’re not trying to hide or be something you’re not, just like you were at that party.”

She looks surprised. “So, you noticed what I was trying to do, huh?”

I nod. “Is there a reason for it?”

“There is, actually.” Abby takes a deep breath as she looks into the distance. “So, I told you my mama and I left the Philippines when I was eight, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, when we came here and I started going to school, I became immediately aware that I was different. I didn’t have pale skin or pale hair or blue eyes. I spoke English but it didn’t sound the same.”

“It takes some time to get the accent.”

“So, anyway, I had a hard time fitting in and some of my classmates picked on me.”

“You were bullied?”

“Yeah.” She looks at me. “Did you know that Asians are the ones who get bullied most in school?”

“I didn’t know that,” I admit. “I thought it was only in the movies.”

“Well, it’s real,” Abby tells me, glancing away. “And it was… bad.”

I frown, imagining her being called names by a bunch of giggling kids in the school lawn, having her things shoved down the toilet or being tripped on purpose in the hallway.

“Is that why you hate being Filipino?”

She nods. “When I changed schools, I told myself I would do everything I could not to stick out. I would speak like the other kids did. I would dress like them. I wouldn’t do too well in my tests.”

“You purposely held back.”

“I just wanted to fit in, to belong. You know, become one of the herd. When I got to high school, I dyed my hair. It doesn’t matter, though. Some people still found me different. No matter how hard I tried, I was still a Filipino, after all.”

I shake my head. “It shouldn’t have mattered.”

“But it did. Even when I was applying for work, it did.”

“At least, it didn’t for Nathan.”

Now that I can say Abby is mine, it no longer bothers me to talk about him. It feels silly, actually, that it ever did. He is my friend, after all.

“Yeah.” She nods, smiling. “But I never really got over the stigma. I’d try to look boring so that no one would pay attention to me. I tried my best to hide my ethnicity.”

“Yet, you caught my attention,” I point out. “And everyone else’s at that party.”

“Yeah, that was your fault.” She glances at me. “I was trying to prove that you couldn’t mess with me.” She lets out a deep breath. “Yet, you still did.”

“I promise I’m not messing with you.” I reach for her hand. “And you know what? I promise I’m not going to let anyone else do that, either.”

I touch her cheek. “You don’t have to hide anymore, Abby.”

She stops paddling, placing her hand over mine. “Thanks, Grant. You know, I do miss the Philippines sometimes, and I do think you’re right. I should embrace who I am and start holding my head up high.”

I lift her chin. “That’s my girl.”

I lean over, kissing her. I stop, though, as I realize the raft is wobbling. I adjust, looking ahead.

“Here come the rapids,” I warn, quickly reaching for my paddle with both hands.

“I thought you said there weren’t any.” Abby starts to paddle frantically as well.

“I said this river is safe enough for beginners. I didn’t say there wouldn’t be any rapids.”

“Shit. You should have told me earlier.”

“It’s fine,” I assure her. “You’ll be fine. Trust me. Just row.”

“You row.”

I do that, doing my best to steer the raft away from the rocks and down the slopes. After a few minutes, we make it past. I let go of the breath I’m holding, looking at Abby. She’s all wet just like me, but to my surprise, she’s smiling.

“It wasn’t that bad, was it?” I ask her.

Abby nods. “Yeah. I can’t say that was relaxing but yeah, it was kind of fun. Like a water ride at an amusement park but more thrilling.”

I lift my hand to give her a high-five. “Good job.”

Now that the water is running smoothly again, I continue kissing her, more passionately with the adrenaline still pumping through my veins. I must have been too passionate, though, because I lose my balance and Abby and I both fall out of the raft.

“Fuck,” I curse, wiping my face then quickly going over to her. “Sorry about that.”

Abby shakes her head. “It’s okay. We were already wet anyway. And you know what? I kind of miss swimming in the river.”

“You used to swim in the river?” My eyes grow wide.

What with all the protests she was making earlier, I wouldn’t have guessed.

“Yeah. Just a small river, though.” She leans back, immersing her hair in the water as she floats on the surface. “Now, this is relaxing.”

She closes her eyes, and I smile.

Seriously, Abby is one heck of a woman.

“You never fail to surprise me, do you? What else don’t I know about you?”

***

“So, that’s pretty much my life,” Abby says as she places her arms behind her head, her eyes still on the stars that are shining above us.

For the past hour, as we lay on the ground beneath the night sky, she’s been giving me more details about her childhood and how she grew up, about her mother and the men her mother was with. And I’ve been more than content to listen, fascinated by her tales and changes in expression and glad to know all about her, even the sad things like how her mother was found dead in a motel room with her boyfriend when Abby was seventeen, a tragedy which, according to the police, stemmed from a lover’s quarrel gone from bad to worst.

“I’m sorry about your mother,” I tell her, reaching for one of her hands.

She shakes her head. “She had it coming, and I already lost her a long time ago.” She sighs. “My life would make a good tearjerker on Broadway, huh?”

“I’d watch it,” I tell her. “And at least now, I know why you don’t like men with mustaches.”

They remind her of her stepfather, who she largely blames for her mother’s downfall.

She turns her head to look at me. “Your mother didn’t marry again, did she?”

“No. She loved my father too much.”

“That’s good.”

“Not entirely. She loved him so much that after he died, she stopped taking care of herself and standing on her own feet. I think she might have lost her will to live when she lost him.”

“But she still had you. Didn’t she take care of you?”

“Not really. It was mostly my grandparents who raised me and the maids who looked after me.”

“And your grandfather didn’t like you?”

I shake my head. “I look too much like my father, too American. I guess when he sees me, all he sees is the mistake my mother made, the crime she committed against him.”

Abby squeezes my hand. “I guess we both had a miserable time growing up, huh?”

We do seem to have a lot in common.

“How about now?” she asks. “Does your grandfather like you now?”

I snort. “Nope. I’m still rebelling against him, after all.”

She raises an eyebrow in surprise. “You are?”

“He wanted me to take over his company but I refused. I told him I’d start my own. If not for my mother begging him to give me a chance as she was dying, he wouldn’t be giving me one. He has to see at least fifty million in profits in a year, though.”

“And if you don’t make that much?”

“I have to go back to London and do as he wants. Otherwise, he’ll make sure I don’t get a single cent of his fortune.”

“Wow. Talk about pressure.”

“Nothing would give him more pleasure than to see me fail.”

“Well, you won’t.” She lifts her head and holds my hand in both of hers. “You have good ideas, excellent apps in the making.”

“I have to sell them, though.”

She leans on her elbow. “You know what? You said something about making a line of apps for women, right?”

“Yeah. That’s one.”

“Well, why don’t we have a female celebrity to endorse them or, better yet, have her name on them? Someone famous. That will sell them more quickly, right?”

“That was precisely what I was thinking.”

Abby lies back down. “She can’t just be any celebrity, though. She has to be a role model, an inspiration. Now, let’s see. Who’s inspirational and famous?”

I wait for her answer.

“Ah. What about Lindsey Holland?”

I pause. I know we have a lot in common, but we think alike, too? I mean exactly alike?

“No.”

“Why not? She’s amazing. Every woman wants to be her.”

I sit up. “Do you?”

“I look up to her,” Abby admits. “I’ve read a few of her books, too.”

I resist the urge to slap myself in the forehead and laugh. Is this some sort of joke? All this time, I’ve been planning on convincing Lindsey to endorse my apps, of using Abby to that end. And now that I’ve started to abandon that plan because of how I feel for Abby, Abby wants to pursue it?

“Well, why not?” Abby asks.

“Because she doesn’t want to endorse our apps.”

“So, you’ve asked her?”

“Pretty much.”

Well, I haven’t exactly. I know if I did, she’d turn me down outright, so I’ve sent others to no success.

“Hmm.” Abby sits up, touching her chin. “So even you have a woman you can’t get to say yes, huh?”

“You did reject me, you know,” I remind her.

“Well, I still think she should be the one to endorse those apps. So how about I try convincing her?”

I give her a look of surprise. “You’ll do that?”

“Why not? Maybe she’ll listen to me.”

Well, if Abby was the one who came up with the idea and she wants to do it, I can’t say I don’t want her to.

“You think you can convince her?” I ask her. “It’s not going to be easy, you know.”

Abby gives me a confident smile. “I’ll give it my best shot.”

Chapter 9

Abby

“You can do this, Abby,” I tell myself, taking a deep breath as I stand across the road from Lindsey Holland’s house.

I’ve tried calling her three times, but all I get is her answering machine. I’ve left messages, of course, saying that I work for Grant Herbert and that I have an interesting proposition for her, but she hasn’t returned any of my calls. I’ve sent her about a dozen emails, too, and even tried to get in touch with her through her social media accounts to no avail. She just won’t answer. That’s why I’m here at her address now in Atlanta. After all, I can’t convince Lindsey if I can’t even talk to her.

And I promised Grant I would do my best. Not just that. I want to do this for him. I want him to prove that selfish old man he calls his grandfather wrong. I want him to be able to make his own fortune, to succeed on his own terms.

I want him to be happy.

To that end, I’ve made up my mind to do everything I can. That doesn’t mean I’m not shivering in my shoes right now, though.

Crossing the street to the dreamy two-story house with the blue roof and the white windows, it dawns on me that I am meeting Lindsey Holland in the flesh.

The Lindsey Holland.

The same Lindsey Holland who has a New York Bestselling book series telling women of all ages how to cope with just about every situation. The same Lindsey Holland who’s been on numerous talk shows speaking out against domestic abuse and shedding light on postpartum depression. The same Lindsey Holland who married a resort tycoon and opened hotels, spas, and recreational facilities designed especially for women.

The same Lindsey Holland who I looked up to for the past five years.

I stop in front of the blue front door with the silver knob and the wreath of colorful roses, my heart pounding like crazy.

What if she won’t talk to me? What if she doesn’t like me? What if she sees through me and is disappointed in me?

All of a sudden, I feel scared.

So what? Are you going to run away?

No. I’m not. I’ve come this far, and I’ve got way too much on the line.

What was that Lindsey wrote in one of her books? Put one foot in front of the other until your fears are behind you?

Well, that’s exactly what I’m going to do. I’m going to conquer my fears and hope for the best.

Taking another deep breath, I press the doorbell. No answer. I can hear children’s voices, though, so I press again and I’m about to press a third time when I hear footsteps scurrying to the door. When it opens, a woman with salt and pepper curls who looks like she’s in her late fifties stands in the doorway, wearing glasses, a luminous rosary around her neck, a floral apron over a white shirt and loose black pants and a pair of light flip-flops that look just like the ones I used to wear as a child.

A Filipino maid?

“I’m so sorry I took so long.” She adjusts her glasses. “I was cooking and taking care of the kids, and you know, I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“It’s no problem at all.” I give her a warm smile. “I’m sorry I rushed you.”

“Well, what can I help you with?”

“I’m here to discuss a business proposition with Miss Holland, actually,” I inform her. “I sent her an email to let her know I was dropping by.”

“Really? She didn’t tell me she was expecting anyone.”

“I see.” I tuck a loose tendril of hair behind my ear. “Is she home?”

“Sorry, dear, but you just missed her. Why don’t you call her?”

“I’ve been doing that, actually, but she hasn’t been answering.”

“Well, she’s awfully busy.”

“I understand.” I can feel my heart sinking but I refuse to jump ship just yet. “Would you know what time she’ll be back?”

“I’m afraid not. It depends on a lot of things.”

“Oh.”

I reach inside my purse for my business card so I can hand it over but just then, a child, about four or five, comes to the door, poking her head between the woman and the door frame.

“Who’s that, Lola?” the child asks.

Grandmother? Don’t tell me this is Lindsey’s mother. I’ve never read anything about her being from the Philippines. Then again, come to think of it, I’ve never read anything about her mother at all.

“Oh, just someone looking for your mom,” the woman says, placing a hand on the child’s shoulder.

“She’s not here,” the girl tells me.

“So your Lola told me.” I smile at her. “I guess I’m out of luck today.”

“We really must go back in,” the woman says. “I still have to finish cooking my—”

“Sinigang,” I finish the sentence for her, having caught a whiff of the tamarind soup base. “It smells good.”

The woman lifts her glasses as she looks at me in surprise. “You’re a Filipino?”

I nod, offering her my hand. “I’m Abby Gomez. Nice to meet you.”

She shakes my hand. “Well, you’re someone I don’t usually see on this doorstep.”

“Do you speak Filipino?” the girl asks. “Lola taught me a little bit.”

“Why, of course,” I tell her, kneeling in front of her. “Magandang umaga, munting prinsesa.”

“Is that good morning?”

“It sure is. ‘Good morning, little princess.’”

The girl smiles sheepishly, her body swaying from side to side.

“You know what? I don’t know what time my daughter is coming back but I’ll be waiting here until she does,” the woman says. “You’re welcome to wait with me if you like, maybe help me out a little bit. I’d appreciate that. Plus, I’d love to have someone to eat the sinigang with. The kids don’t like it, I’m afraid.”

“It’s too sour,” the girl complains.

I chuckle. “That’s what makes it good, though.”

“So?” the woman asks. “Tuloy ka?”

I stand up, smiling at the sincere invitation, at the warmth in her eyes that reminds me of my grandmother’s.

Strange. I’ve been running away from my culture this whole time, yet now, it seems like it’s just saved me. For once, it’s done me something good.

Maybe Grant’s right. Maybe I should stop trying to deny or hide it.

I take her hand, pressing it to my forehead before giving a nod. “Salamat po.”

***

The hours pass. Soon, the sun begins to set.

I’ve been waiting long, but I don’t mind at all. Lindsey’s kids, Harper and Mia, are adorable, and her mother, Linda, is very kind. She has a ton of stories, usually about growing up in the Philippines, and it seems like she’s been wanting someone new to tell them to. I listen intently, fascinated, seemingly reliving my own childhood and seeing my own country through her words.

It’s like coming home.

Finally, when it’s nearly seven, I hear the garage doors open, and look out the window to see a white car going in. Anxiously, I wait in the living room for Lindsey to come in. I’ve already been waiting almost all day, looking forward to talking to her and yet, when I see her in person, looking stunning in her brown dress and black stilettos, I feel unprepared and surprised.

She, too, looks surprised to see me, her gaze landing on me when she’s done hugging the kids.

She also looks confused.

“Mama, who’s this?” she asks her mother.

“Oh, this is Abby,” Linda answers, touching my shoulder. “Abby, meet my daughter, Lindsey.”

“Hello.” I wave shyly.

She doesn’t answer, still looking confused.

Linda goes over to her. “Abby’s been a big help. I wouldn’t have managed without her, what with my knees and all. You really should consider hiring a sitter, you know. You can afford one.”

“We’ve already talked about this, Mama.”

“Abby kept me company, too. We talked about a lot of things. She’s a Filipino, too.”

Lindsey looks at me. “Really?”

I nod. “I was born in the Philippines.”

“And why are you here?” she asks curiously.

“I’ve sent you a couple of messages,” I tell her. “I’d like to discuss something with you. A business proposition.”

“Let me guess. You want to make a series of apps for me. Or rather, you want to make me into a series of apps.”

“Oh, Lindsey, be kind,” Linda admonishes, a finger up in the air. “Abby’s been nothing but nice, and she’s been waiting for you all day. The least you can do is hear everything she’s got to say and think about it.”

Lindsey sighs. “Fine.”

“I’ll be going now.” Linda squeezes her daughter’s shoulder. “I need to rest.”

Lindsey nods, holding her mother’s hand. “Thanks for coming over, Mama.”

Linda looks at me. “It was nice meeting you, Abby.”

I shake my head. “The pleasure was all mine. Take care.”

“Drive safely,” Lindsey bids, watching as her mother goes out the door.

As soon as Linda has left, Lindsey sits down on an armchair in the living room, taking her shoes off. I remain standing.

“Sit,” she tells me. “No need to stand on my account. Besides, it seems like you’ve already made yourself at home.”

I blink. Is this Lindsey Holland? She sounded much nicer on TV.

“I’m sorry if I stepped over my bounds or caused any inconvenience. I didn’t mean to—”

“Sorry,” Lindsey cuts me off. “I didn’t mean to snap. I shouldn’t. It’s just been a long day.”

“I understand,” I tell her, sitting down. “Even the best of us have bad days. If you would rather see me at another day, I’d—”

“It’s fine.” She waves her hand. “I’m grateful that you kept my mother company and helped her out. She’s not getting any younger.”

“She was a joy to be around.”

Lindsey grins. “I bet she told you a lot of stories from the old days.”

“She did, though something tells me she hasn’t run out of them yet.”

“Oh, she never will.” Lindsey stands up and heads to the kitchen. “Have you had dinner?”

“Yes. Your mother fed me.”

“Of course she did.” Lindsey goes around the kitchen counter. “So, who sent you? Grant?”

My eyebrows crease. How did she know?

“Yes, he sent me.”

She opens the fridge. “I thought he’d given up.”

“No. And I don’t think he should. I don’t think there should be anyone else’s name on those apps but yours.”

Lindsey leans on the counter, a spoon in one hand and a pint of ice cream in the other. “Is that what he told you to tell me?”

“No. It’s my own opinion.”

“Really?” She raises an eyebrow along with her spoon.

I nod.

She eats a spoonful. “And what did he promise you in exchange for coming here and telling me your opinion?”

I feel confused by the question. “Nothing.”

“No reward?” Another spoonful. “Then maybe you’re doing it because he slept with you?”

I frown. She may be a psychologist but that doesn’t give her the right to judge my personality or presume to know it.

I stand up. “Miss Holland, with all due respect, I think you have the wrong idea about me and Grant. True, Grant may have been a jerk. He might have played around with a lot of women.”

Lindsey snorts. “You can say that again.”

“But he’s a good man,” I continue. “And a man who’s had it rough, like many of us have. I know your books are all about helping women through tough times but men have them, too. Grant’s been through a lot, and now he’s just trying to make his way on his own. I want to help him. That’s why I’m here. Not because he bribed me or blackmailed me or God-knows-what other underhanded means you can think of. Not even as his personal assistant. I’m here because I think he deserves a chance.”

Lindsey takes the spoon out of her mouth. “Wow. You really care about him, don’t you?”

“I also think everyone deserves a chance to benefit from your expertise. With these apps that Grant is developing, you’ll be able to help so many more people, men and women alike.”

“Grant just wants to use me.” Lindsey sticks her spoon into the ice cream. “He’s using you, and now he wants to use me.”

“He’s not…”

“Just like he did before.”

I pause, taken by surprise. What is Lindsey talking about?

“Ah.” Lindsey eats another spoonful of the ice cream. “Grant didn’t tell you.”

I approach the counter. “Didn’t tell me what?”

“That he and I dated. That he broke my heart.”

I stop walking, a lump in my throat. Lindsey and Grant dated? Why didn’t he tell me?

“It still hurts, you know,” Lindsey goes on. “That’s why I told him he can stick his apps up his ass.”

So that’s why. I understand her. I really do. And I feel a little betrayed that Grant kept that tiny detail from me. But my mind hasn’t changed. I still want to convince Lindsey and make things work.

“I know how you feel,” I tell her, moving forward. “I’m sorry about what Grant did to you.”

“Don’t apologize for him.”

“But you can’t live in the past forever or let pain get in the way of happiness. Just think. If you refuse to do this, yes, you might get back at Grant, but you’ll also punish yourself. Don’t think of this as Grant using you. Think of it as him trying to make it up to you, him giving you a chance to do what you do best. He’ll get the profits, but you’ll also get money and help people. It’s a win-win situation.”

She licks the spoon. “Wow. It sounds like there’s a psychologist in the kitchen. And it’s not me.”

I chuckle. “What can I say? I learned from the best.” I smile. “And others will, too.”

Lindsey says nothing, tossing the spoon into the sink and putting the ice cream back in the fridge.

“And no, Grant isn’t using me. I—”

Lindsey puts a hand up. “You’re in love with Grant. I can see that, though how he did it to a woman like you, I don’t know. I don’t want to know.”

I feel confused again. Is she jealous?

Well, if she doesn’t want to know about me and Grant, that’s fine. That’s not what I came here to tell her.

“So, you’ll do it?” I ask hopefully.

“No.” She pours herself a glass of water.

My spirits sink. “Why not?”

She carries her glass out to the patio, and I follow her.

“Do you know why I don’t hire a sitter?” Lindsey asks as she sits on the bench.

I sit beside her. “No.”

Like Linda said, she could definitely afford one, and it seems like she needs one.

“Because I wrote in about half of my books that a mother should do as much for her children as she can.”

“Yes, I remember but…”

She turns to look at me. “How many of my books did you read?”

“Four, I think,” I tell her.

“And you’ve seen me on TV?”

“Yes.”

She drinks the water. “What did you think of me then, when you were watching me and reading what I wrote?”

“That you’re amazing.”

“How so?”

“Because you seem to have everything under control.”

“You see, that’s the thing.” She takes a last sip and sets her empty glass down beside her. “I don’t have everything under control.”

To my surprise, she buries her face in her hands, breaking into a sob.

“Lindsey?”

“My husband is cheating on me. He doesn’t love me anymore. I’m too busy with work to spend time with my kids. I feel like everything is just falling apart, and none of the advice I wrote in my books helps. And I just hate myself.” She sniffs. “Everything is just a fucking mess.”

“I’m sorry to hear that you’re going through a tough time right now.” I move closer to her, rubbing her back. “But isn’t that more reason for you to accept Grant’s proposition? You’ll earn money from the apps so you can get to spend more time with your kids, and you can stand on your own two feet and show your husband you don’t need him.”

“Don’t you see? I can’t help other people because I am a mess.”

“So what if you’re a mess? You’re a model for us women, not a god. We don’t expect you to be perfect. Heck, we don’t want you to be perfect. Do you think people want to take advice from a perfect person? If what you wrote doesn’t work for you, write a new book. Share your struggles with other people and tell us what we can do about them, because I’m pretty sure you’re not the only one going through what you’re going through right now.” I grab her shoulders. “I said I admired you because you seemed to have everything in control. Well, get everything in control or seem like it. Whatever happens, you’re Lindsey Holland. Don’t forget that.”

Lindsey wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, chuckling. “You know, you could write a book of your own.”

“No.” I shake my head. “You write the books, and you continue helping people. Allow us to put your name on those apps and help us to sell them, to convince people to use them.”

“Fine. I guess I just can’t win against you.” Lindsey goes back into the kitchen, pulling out a paper towel to blow her nose. “Can anyone?”

I chuckle. “You won’t believe how many times I’ve lost.”

“Maybe that’s why you’re such a strong person now.” She holds my hand. “Grant is so lucky to have you. I hope he realizes that. And don’t you ever let him take you for granted.”

“Well, whatever happens, I can use your app and you can point me in the right direction.”

Lindsey grins.

I give her a hug, squeezing her tight. “Just hang in there. You’ll be all right.”

She squeezes me tighter, and my heart bursts with joy as I realize I had not only sealed the deal but found a good friend.

“Thank you.” She smiles as she lets go of me.

“No.” I shake my head. “Thank you.”

I have done what I came to do and more.

I’ve done it!

Chapter 10

Grant

Abby’s done it. She’s really done it.

When she first teased me over the phone about her and Lindsey becoming good friends, I had an inkling she had succeeded, but I didn’t give it much thought. Now, as I stare at the initial business documents spread out over my desk, each with Lindsey’s signature, I still can’t believe that my plan is finally going to be executed. The papers are proof, though.

Finally, everything is falling into place.

“How did you do it?” I lift my head to look at Abby, who looks extremely proud of herself.

As she should be.

“It’s a secret.” She grins, putting her arms around my neck.

I put my arms around her. “Is it now?”

She looks down, the corners of her mouth droop.

My eyebrows crease in concern as I lift her chin. “What is it?”

She looks into my eyes. “You’ve kept a secret from me, too, haven’t you?”

I tense. Did Lindsey tell Abby about our phone conversations, particularly the one where she challenged me to send her a woman who loved me? Has Abby discovered that I hired her and seduced her with the intention of sending her to Lindsey all along?

She strokes my collar, tugging on my shirt. “You didn’t tell me you and Lindsey had a thing. She’s still mad at you for breaking her heart, you know.”

Oh, that.

I let go of the breath I’ve been holding. “I know.” I stroke her cheek. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

“Why? Did you think I wouldn’t go if I knew? That I’d be jealous? Insecure?”

“I’m just… I just don’t want to lose you.”

That gleam of warmth in her eyes as she places her own hand on my cheek makes my breath catch and my heart skip a beat. “You won’t.”

Damn. What have I done to deserve her?

Unable to resist a moment longer, I kiss her, letting my lips and tongue show her just how much I’ve missed her. She moans, placing her arms around my neck once more as she kisses me back.

Without taking my mouth off hers, I sit down on my chair, my cock springing to life inside my boxers as she falls into my lap.

Fuck. I’ve missed her.

I squeeze one of her thighs, delighting in the moan that goes through her, then I slip my hand beneath the hem of her skirt, slowly crawling up the smooth skin.

Suddenly, she grabs my hand, stopping it in its tracks.

I break the kiss. “Is something wrong?”

“Don’t you have stuff to do?”

“Nothing more important than having sex with the woman I’ve missed so much.” I kiss her palm. “Besides, I do believe I should reward you.” I continue moving my hand up as I kiss her cheek. “And that we should celebrate.”

“I’ll take the reward,” she says, gasping as I plant my lips on her neck. “But as for the celebration, I think we should wait until the apps have been launched successfully.”

I kiss the other side of her neck. “But that could take a month.”

“Then we’ll celebrate after a month,” she tells me, placing her hand on my knee and letting out another gasp as I dip her to kiss the patch of skin between her collarbone, tasting some of her fruity perfume.

“That way, we’ll be sure it’s a success,” she adds.

How can she still be talking?

I have to admit she makes sense, though.

I stop devouring her, looking into her eyes with a serious expression. “Fine. We’ll celebrate when all the hard work has been done.”

“I’m sure you can do it.” She places a hand tenderly on my cheek. “And when you have, I’ll be the first to congratulate you.”

***

“Congratulations.” Nathan places a firm hand on my shoulder. “At this rate, you’re going to surpass your grandfather’s limits.”

“Thanks.” I take a sip from my celebratory glass of champagne, smiling at some of the guests glancing in my direction.

After a month of hard work, the Lindsey Holland Women’s Apps have finally taken off and so has my company. A few days ago, Lindsey Holland herself talked about them on The Ellen Show, and this morning, the apps were launched in a party honoring women at the ballroom of the St. Regis and were made available online for Android, iOS, and Windows Mobile. The last time I checked, there were already close to two million downloads in less than ten hours.

As promised, tonight I’m hosting a grand celebration in the mansion gardens with overflowing food and wine, endless music from a string quartet on Abby’s request. In attendance: My friends, some prominent businessmen, and even a few celebrities. Of course, Lindsey is here, too. Right now, she and Abby are near the fountain with their glasses of champagne, their faces lit as they engage in animated chatter.

Who would have thought those two would end up being such good friends?

“The one who got away, and the one who got you, huh?” Nathan teases as he nudges my shoulder.

“The two women who are responsible for my company’s success,” I say proudly.

Indeed, without Abby or Lindsey, today’s launching of my company’s biggest series of apps would not have even been possible. One can say they are the stars of the show, the belles of the ball.

And they sure look the part. Abby looks beautiful, wearing a strapless lime green dress with a sweetheart, crystal-studded neckline and a slit that extends up to her left thigh. Lindsey looks stunning in maroon lace, seemingly covered in a bunch of little roses.

“Gorgeous, aren’t they?” I think aloud.

Abby looks especially divine, her hair braided with tiny crystal flowers, the tip cascading down her left shoulder. And that slit – I just want to run my fingers up that leg and squeeze that thigh before moving even higher.

“Boasting, are you?” Nathan frowns.

I take another sip. “Well, if Sam was here, I’m sure she’d fit right in with them.”

“Yeah,” Nathan agrees, taking a sip from his own glass.

“Where is she again?”

“The Galapagos, I think. At least, she was the last time we spoke. I’m sure when I tell her about your company, she’ll be happy for you. She was hoping for your success, you know, so much it almost made me jealous.”

“Well, tell her I said hello.”

“No chance. But I’ll tell her about how well you and Abby seem to be doing.” He pats me on the chest and lowers his voice as he leans over. “Make sure she doesn’t slip through your fingers.”

I nod. “I’ll do my best.”

“And speaking of slipping through your fingers, here’s Lindsey now.”

True enough, Lindsey is walking toward me, Abby occupied with another guest. Nathan meets her halfway, shaking her hand, then walks away.

I smile at her as I tuck one of my hands in my pocket. “Enjoying the party?”

“You know I am.” She looks around. “So, this is your place, huh?”

“My humble abode.”

She grins. “You seem to be doing well.”

“Well, I am now, thanks to you.”

A waiter with a tray of champagne glasses passes by and I take a glass, handing it to Lindsey.

“Cheers.” I raise my glass to hers.

“Cheers.” She does the same, our glasses meeting with a clink in mid-air.

I take a final sip, setting my empty glass down on another waiter’s tray. “Thanks for doing this.”

She finishes all her champagne in one gulp, disposing of her glass as well.

“Are you sure you can handle drinking that much that quickly?” I ask her, putting my other hand in my pocket.

She raises a finger at me. “I’m Lindsey Holland, remember?”

I chuckle. “Of course.”

We start walking.

“And don’t thank me. Regardless of what you think, I didn’t do it for you.”

“I know. Abby said you were still mad at me for breaking your heart. I think she scolded me a bit for it.”

She laughs, clasping a hand over her mouth to suppress the sound. “Serves you right.”

“Did you do it for her? The two of you seem to have hit it off.”

“No, I didn’t do it just for her. I have a lot of reasons. And yes, I think we will be good friends for a long time to come. As it turns out, we have a lot of stuff in common.”

“Like me?”

She crosses her arms over her chest. “Don’t be so sure of yourself. We don’t even talk about you.”

“Ouch.”

“I’d like to talk to you about her, though. I like her, Grant. I really do.” She rubs her arm. “When I issued that challenge to you, I wasn’t really thinking straight. There was a large part of me that didn’t think you’d find a good woman to really fall in love with you. And there was that small part of me that didn’t want you to so that you could feel even a little bit of the pain I felt when you left me. But you have, and she’s not just a good woman. She’s a great woman. I don’t know if what you feel for her is as real or as strong as what she feels for you, but please don’t break her heart like you did mine.”

Just then, a harsh breeze blows. Lindsey rubs both of her arms, her shoulders bunching up as she shivers. I take my jacket off, placing it around her.

“Why, thank you, sir,” she tells me in a mocked British accent.

I make a face. “Your accent is still as bad as ever.”

She punches my arm playfully.

I rub the spot. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for what I did. And as for Abby, I promise I’ll take good care of her.”

***

“So, what were you and Lindsey talking about?” Abby asks curiously as she removes another flower pin from her hair.

She’s been at that for the past twenty minutes, ever since we came up to my bedroom after the last guest left. Frankly, I’m getting impatient as I wait on the bed, not to mention I’m getting hard just from watching her do her tedious chore, wearing only her beige corset bra, which her breasts are nearly spilling out of, and matching bikini panties.

I swear it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, and it’s just screaming for me to fuck her.

Well, I will.

As soon as she’s done with her hair.

“Nothing,” I answer, almost forgetting about her question.

“Nothing?” She looks at me with a pout, the ruby red lipstick still on her lips, begging to be wiped off with a messy kiss. “What do you mean nothing? The two of you talked for quite a while. Plus, you seemed cozy.”

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous.”

She shrugs as she turns back to the mirror, carefully removing another pin. “She is Lindsey Holland, after all. And you did sleep with her once before.” She adds the pin to the pile. “Maybe more than once.”

I sit up. “You are jealous!”

She says nothing, but her silence and the narrowed gaze she’s casting at the mirror gives her answer away.

I know what they say – jealousy is ugly. But on Abby, it looks hot. My cock twitches in agreement.

Fuck. To hell with the pins. I can’t wait any longer.

I walk over to her, standing behind her chair. “You have no reason to be jealous, Abby. I’ve never wanted anyone as much as I want you.”

I run my hands through her hair, pressing some of the tendrils to my lips.

“Really?” she asks.

“Really,” I answer, grasping her chin and kissing her.

Enough talk. I’m going to show her just how much I want her.

I move my hand to Abby’s cheek, stroking it as I claim her mouth, by far the sweetest treat I’ve had tonight. The taste of her lipstick and the champagne stoke the hunger within me, all that heat and wetness sending heat coursing through my veins and causing my cock to be in the same state.

Fuck.

I kiss her even harder, caressing her nape while I reach inside her bra to clasp one breast, freeing it from its restrictions. Abby gasps in my mouth, her nipple growing stiff as it comes in contact with the cool air in the room. I rub it, twist it gently, then tug on it, a thrill going through me as she whimpers and shivers in response. I know I should be gentler, but right now, I want her too much and the desire in my body is raging.

I want more of her.

I move my lips to her neck, sucking on the soft skin as I undo the front hooks of her corset one by one. Releasing her from the stiff garment, I cup both her breasts, stealing a glance at the mirror.

Oh, what a beautiful mess I’ve made.

The sight of Abby with her hair messy, a purple blemish on her neck, her eyes half-lidded, her red lipstick smeared around her swollen lips and her engorged breasts in my hands sends a fresh surge of heat down to my cock, turning its discomfort into ache.

Fuck.

Still, I ignore it, latching my teeth on the lobe of Abby’s ear as I play with her other nipple and reach lower to slip my hand beneath her underwear.

Lower.

She puts her hand over mine and gasps, her back arching and her hips thrusting forward, moving to the edge of the chair so I can reach her more easily. I slip in a finger, stroking her while kissing her shuddering shoulder and getting another glimpse of her reflection.

I’ve watched Abby’s face before as I brought her to the heights of pleasure, the brink of madness, captivated by her expression that is a combination of agony and ecstasy. Strangely, though, I’m more fascinated now as I watch her through the mirror, her breath coming in gasps from her parted lips, her cheeks flushed, her eyes glossed over.

I’m more fascinated. And more aroused.

Enough of the fucking mirror.

After kissing her cheek, I kneel in front of Abby, pushing the chair back. With two hands, I tug on her soaked panties, the smell of her own arousal assaulting my nostrils and sending me into another high. I toss them aside then spread her legs wider, gripping her thighs as they quiver in anticipation.

I dig in.

My nose pressed against her curls, I lick her other swollen pair of lips, tasting what I smelled earlier. Her hips jump off the chair as a shiver goes through, her thighs shaking and rebelling against my grip as she reaches for the top of my head, nails sliding over my scalp. I push my tongue deeper, tasting more and more of her.

I just can’t get enough of it, of her.

But Abby apparently has. She pushes me away, my shoulders hitting the edge of the dresser.

“I want something other than your tongue,” she whispers in my ear, nipping the lobe and sending a shiver through me.

Just when I think she’ll just sit there or lie there and let me do whatever I please, she does something that drives me over the edge and sends my plans out the window.

“As you wish.”

I follow her to the bed, taking off my robe. Abby lies across the bed, spreading her legs for me in invitation. I climb on top of her, kissing her, impressing her taste on her with my tongue before I grip her thighs and plunge in.

Oh, yes. Fucking yes.

Bending her nearly in half, I place my hands behind her knees and pound into her Abby cries out and fists the sheets in response. My knees dig into the mattress and the bed begins to creak in protest. Still, I fuck her with all I’ve got, grunting like a savage animal.

My cock loves the taste of her, too, more of that salty sweet nectar oozing out of her as she squeezes me, the sound of it adding to the ensemble that is already in play. It drives me even crazier, my cock slipping easily in and out of her as I move faster and faster.

“Fuck!” I let out the shout as I release my pent-up desire deep inside her, my body trembling.

Abby, too, trembles beneath me as her arms wrap around my back, her head coming off the bed as her lips open in a silent scream, her hips shuddering against me as she squeezes me for all I’m worth.

Then her head crashes back down, her body growing limp as she falls still and silent. I collapse on top of her, my chest heaving with hers.

“Do you still want to know what Lindsey and I talked about?” I ask Abby when I’ve caught my breath.

“Yes.”

I lift myself off her, leaning on my arms. “You, mostly.”

“Me?” Her eyes grow wide.

I sweep the tendrils out of her face. “We talked about how amazing you were, and she told me to take good care of you, which I fully intend to.”

I plant a kiss on Abby’s forehead, and she places her arms around me, smiling.

“You should have just told me that earlier.”

“Well, I have to admit you did look hot when you were jealous.”

“Oh, I did, did I?”

She pushes me off and climbs on top of me, tracing the muscles of my chest. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you but I don’t think you’ll be seeing any more of that look.” Her palm rests over my heart. “After all, you did say I have no reason to be jealous.”

“I did.”

I kiss her again, short and tenderly this time, then pull her into my arms, letting her rest her head on my chest. Stroking her hair, I smile, my heart swelling with joy I’ve never felt before. Indeed, in this moment, I am happy and with the looming success of my company, I have a feeling everything is going to be all right.

***

“We’re doing more than all right,” Abby tells me as she shows me a web article on her tablet. “Lindsey’s app is just breaking the web and breaking records.”

I glance at the article, reading just the headline – Lindsey Holland Apps Wow Women and the World – and grinning. I already know the apps are phenomenal, though. Some of the profits already in my bank account.

“We’re getting a lot of calls, too,” she adds. “People seem to want you to come up with apps for them.”

“That’s good.” I lean back in my chair. “It seems like we’re going to be busy.”

Abby sits in front of my desk. “Busy is good.”

Just then, I hear a knock on the door.

“Roger?”

He enters.

“Since when do you knock?” I ask him, swiveling my chair to face him.

“Since I caught the two of you doing something more than kissing here the last time,” Roger answers.

Abby blushes.

“Anyway, I’ve got something important to tell you,” he goes on.

“Go on,” I urge.

“It’s about your grandfather.”

I grin. “Has he heard the news?”

“Probably, though I’m certain of the fact that he’s sick.”

“Sick?” I sit up.

“Is he going to be all right?” Abby asks.

Roger shrugs. “Your grandmother says it's pneumonia.”

Pneumonia. My mother had that before, and it wasn’t good.

I stand up, my hand on my desk. “I’ll go visit him. He’s still family, after all.”

I did promise my mother I wouldn’t turn my back on my grandfather.

“And if it turns out to be nothing, I’ll just tell him the good news about my company myself.”

Abby, too, gets off her chair. “I’ll book our tickets.”

“Our?” I throw her a puzzled look.

“Of course. I’m coming with you,” Abby says. “After all, I am still your personal assistant. And besides, I’ve never been to London before.”

Chapter 11

Abby

This has got to be one of the most beautiful cities in the world. I stare out the window from the backseat of the black BMW as it passes through Westminster Bridge, taking in the views of the Thames, Westminster Palace, and the famous Big Ben against the windswept clouds of the blue London sky, the London Eye peeking in the rearview mirror.

I still can’t believe that I’m in London. I’ve always wanted to go, seduced by the Victorian romance novels I read late into the night as a teenager, by the city’s history, its music icons, its royal allure and, of course, by the magic of West End.

Now that I’m here, I can’t wait to catch a show or two, to visit the museums, to explore the palaces, watch the Changing of the Guard, stroll through Hyde Park, go shopping in Harrods and Covent Garden, ride the Eye, cruise along the Thames, eat Yorkshire pudding. Ah, there’s just so much I want to do with Grant in this grand and beautiful city.

Before we can get a chance to do any of the items on my list, though, Grant and I have to do what we came to do – visit his grandfather.

Leaning on the backseat, I glance at Grant, who’s also looking out the window. Unlike me, though, he doesn’t look the least bit thrilled. Rather, he seems deep in thought. Reminiscing, maybe? Or is he worried about his grandfather? Of course, he is. As much as he may hate his grandfather, they are family.

I place my hand over his. “Don’t worry. I’m sure your grandfather is all right.”

He turns to me. “What gave you the idea that I was thinking about him?”

“He is why we’re here,” I point out. “How much longer until we get to your house?”

“It’s not my house,” Grant answers. He glances at his watch. “We should be there in less than fifteen minutes.”

I nod. “Okay.”

The moment we pass through the black gates, I realize that it’s not just a house. It’s a mansion, more so than the one back in New York. Indeed, the structure looks three times bigger and decades older, an imposing relic of the past.

“Wow,” I say as I get out of the car, staring at the façade. “You didn’t tell me you lived in a castle, Grant.”

“Technically, it’s not a castle,” Grant corrects. “But I think it’s as old as one.”

“Welcome back, Master Ainsworth,” the butler, a man in his fifties with gray hair and a faint mustache, greets him with a polite bow at the front steps. “I trust your trip was well.”

Of course, there’d be a butler.

“How many times have I told you not to call me master, Oliver? You don’t work for me,” Grant tells him. “Also, my surname is Herbert, not Ainsworth. Surely you remember.”

“Beg your pardon.” Oliver gives another bow. “Old habits do die hard.” He turns to me with a smile. “You must be Miss Gomez. Roger told me we should expect you. I’ve had a room prepared—”

“She sleeps with me,” Grant interrupts, placing his arm around me. “Where is Grandfather?”

“In his chambers, of course,” Oliver answers. “Your grandmother is there, too.”

“Good. We’ll go there. No need to escort us.”

Grant leads me up the steps and into the mansion. “I never did like him.”

“It’s obvious.”

“Don’t be fooled by his politeness,” Grant tells me, holding my hand. “He’s a snake, completely devoted to my grandfather.”

“Don’t worry. I don’t trust him one bit. I don’t trust men with mustaches, remember?”

As we go from room to room, I forget all about the butler, the furniture and the décor grabbing my attention and taking my breath away. The interior is twice as opulent as that of the New York mansion, and I swear some of the furniture is made of real gold. So it’s true. Grant is descended from nobility, and I’m sure this mansion was handed down from them.

“This place is magnificent,” I gasp, pausing to admire the chandeliers.

Grant pauses as well. “It’s a gilded cage. That’s what it is.”

Of course. The mansion must hold many unpleasant memories for him.

“If you hate this place so much, then why is the New York mansion so much like it?” I ask as we continue walking, coming to a grand, imperial staircase that reminds me of the entrance to a theater.

“Because my mother was the one who bought that house and had it decorated,” Grant answers. He pauses on a step, his eyebrows creasing. “I never told you?”

“No.”

Although that explains the portrait of his mother over the mantel.

“As she lay dying, my grandfather finally granted her request and gave her some of his fortune to spend as she wished,” Grant explains, going up the steps. “And she bought a house with it.”

“I see.” I place my arm in his.

“Cruel, isn’t it? The fortune was rightfully hers, yet she had to beg for it. And then she only managed to have it when she could no longer enjoy it all because of one single mistake she made – me. That’s how cruel my grandfather is.”

I frown, going the rest of the way quietly. If Grant’s grandfather truly is a monster, I’m not sure I want to meet him. Part of me fears him, and another part fears I might push him down these stairs for all the suffering he’s put Grant through.

He’s sick, remember?

Right. At any rate, I shouldn’t be thinking such thoughts. I’ll behave like a proper lady, I promise.

Speaking of a proper lady, as we go around a corner to a short hallway, I see a woman near a door, a maid beside her. My guess is she’s in her late sixties. She looks like she’s in perfect health, though; fit to carry a horse. She has an air of confidence about her that seems to teeter toward superiority. Her wavy hair and long-sleeved dress with the funnel neckline and the puffed sleeves look seemingly straight out of a Victorian novel. All she’s missing is a jeweled fan and a hat... and something tells me she has several of each.

“Grant.” She extends her arm and Grant kisses her hand. “Finally, you’re here.”

“Abby, this is my grandmother, Matilda Ainsworth,” Grant introduces us. “Grandmother, this is Abby.”

I resist the urge to perform a curtsy.

“And who is she?” Mrs. Ainsworth lifts her eyebrows.

“My girlfriend,” Grant says.

The label takes me by surprise, never having been used before. At the same time, it makes me blush.

The gaze of Grant’s grandmother sweeps me from head to toe. “I see.”

I wait for her to extend her arm to me and when she doesn’t, I just give a slight bow and a weak smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

She doesn’t answer, obviously not feeling any sort of pleasure to meet me.

“How is Grandfather?” Grant asks.

“He’s feeling better now. You can see it for yourself.”

“I will.”

Grant reaches for my hand and heads to the door. I follow him but his grandmother’s arm gets in my way like the clearance bar to a parking lot.

“I don’t think my husband is well enough to receive guests right now, especially not strangers,” Mrs. Ainsworth says. “Shall we go have some tea in the parlor downstairs?”

Grant frowns as he tugs on my arm. “Abby’s coming with me, Grandmother.”

“She is not.” Mrs. Ainsworth’s arm does not move, her chin held high.

“Grandmother…”

“It’s fine.” I reluctantly let go of Grant’s hand, not wanting to start a fight outside his sick grandfather’s bedroom. “I was thirsty anyway. I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

Grant’s eyes narrow in concern. “Are you sure?”

I nod. “Go and see your grandfather then tell me about him later.”

Of course I don’t want him to leave me alone, but Grant seeing his grandfather is what’s more important. It’s what he came to London to do.

He seems to have come to the same conclusion because he turns his back on me, opening the door.

“Come with me,” Mrs. Ainsworth orders.

I follow. I have a feeling that, in this mansion, Mrs. Ainsworth’s words are law. And here I thought it was Grant’s grandfather who was scary.

Well, maybe that’s why he’s mean, because his wife is so… cold.

As I follow her in silence, the song “Prima Donna” from Phantom of the Opera starts playing in my mind.

“Your name is Abby?” Mrs. Ainsworth’s question disrupts my silent solo.

“Yes.”

I feel like I should use a polite form of address, but I’m not sure which one’s appropriate.

“That’s your real name?”

“It’s short for Abigail.”

“Why not use Abigail?”

Why does it matter?

“My mother called me Abby,” I answer as we go down the stairs.

“And where is your mother?”

What is this? An interrogation?

“She’s gone now.”

“Ah.”

No sorry. Just ah.

“You’re American?” she asks after a few seconds.

“I grew up in the US,” I answer. “But I was born in the Philippines.”

She snorts.

How rude. And I should be used to this kind of treatment by now, but coming from Grant’s grandmother, it seems more offensive.

“What do you do?” she asks. “Do you have a job?”

“I’m a personal assistant,” I tell her.

“A servant?”

I frown. “No. More like a secretary but with—”

“A glorified maid,” she says.

I have to admit, she’s starting to get on my nerves.

“I assist Grant in administrative matters,” I explain.

“So you work for him?”

“Yes.”

“And yet you slept with him.” She stops and turns to me. “Have you no shame?”

Her words feel like a slap in the face, stopping me in my tracks. I want to retaliate but I’m not sure I should, plus I can’t seem to think of anything to say.

She gives another snort.

Why the…?

Then she continues walking. I follow her reluctantly, more slowly, taking deep breaths to calm myself down.

She’s an old woman, Abby, even though she is a bitch.

As we pass by a room, I catch a glimpse of some maids looking in my direction. As soon as our gazes meet, though, they look away, some of them even scurrying off like rats.

I wish I could scurry off right now.

“How many men have you been with?” Mrs. Ainsworth asks, not done with her questioning. “Have you ever been with child?”

This is not an interrogation. It’s an inquisition. And I’m done.

“I would rather not discuss such insignificant matters,” I tell her. “After all, we are strangers. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Suit yourself.”

Finally, we reach the parlor room, a spacious room that has nothing but chairs of all shapes and sizes, floor-to-ceiling windows, and glass doors leading to the garden. Mrs. Ainsworth sits on the divan, and I sit on the curved wooden stool with the velvet cushion. Shortly after, a maid enters with a silver tea cart.

And here I thought they didn’t make such things anymore.

The maid pours Mrs. Ainsworth a cup of tea from the pot then as she is about to pour another, Mrs. Ainsworth stops her.

“Abby will not have tea,” she says. “Get her a glass of water. After all, she’s thirsty.”

I stand up. “Actually, I’m not thirsty. I’d rather have some fresh air. Would you mind if I take a walk in your garden?”

To my relief, Mrs. Ainsworth shakes her head. “Not at all. Please enjoy.”

Pushing the glass door open, I step into the garden. I follow the stone path and heave a sigh of relief as soon as I’m far from the house. I swear Grant’s grandmother is suffocating. The farther away I am from her, the better.

I sit on a bench, breathing in the fresh air and enjoying its caress on my face, willing it to soothe Mrs. Ainsworth’s slapping comments and erase her snorts from my mind. After just a few minutes, I feel better.

I may have had a rough morning, but I’m still in London and a whole magical adventure still awaits me.

Suddenly, I hear a twig break. I turn my head, smiling as I see Grant.

“Ah, there you are.” He smiles back, planting a kiss on my hair before sitting beside me. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“I thought you were with your grandfather. What happened?”

“He was his usual charming self.” He places his arm around me. “He said he wasn’t dying or anything close to that, and that I should just leave.”

“Wow.”

“What about you? I thought you were with my grandmother.”

I place my hand on his lap. “She’s her usual charming self, too. Very charming.”

“That’s her all right.” Grant chuckles then reaches for my hand. “Let’s forget about them, shall we? Let’s leave this miserable place and go have fun.”

I nod. “I’d love that.”

I place my arm in his once more as we get off the bench, a wide smile on my face as we walk down the stone path. That smile vanishes, though, after a few steps, when a maid is standing in our way.

A maid with a villainous expression and a knife in her hand.

What the hell is wrong with this place?

“Easy,” Grant warns her, standing in front of me. “You might hurt yourself with that thing.”

“No, I won’t.” She lifts the knife. “But I’ll kill you with this thing.”

She must be mad. This place must have driven her mad. And the thing is, I don’t blame her.

“Listen,” I tell her. “We don’t mean you any harm. If there’s anything we can do to help you, we—”

“Quiet!” she scolds me, pointing her knife at me. “This is not about you. It’s about him.”

“Me?” Grant’s eyebrows crease.

“You’re Grant Ainsworth, right?”

“Grant Herbert,” he corrects. “But I think you have the same person.”

“You slept with my mother,” the maid accuses. “She was a maid here, too, long ago. Her name was Emily.”

“I’m sorry.” Grant shakes his head. “I don’t remember.”

The maid points the knife at him. “You seduced her and you slept with her and because of that, my father left us.”

I blink. Grant did all that?

“Put down the knife,” Grant tells her, his hands raised. “And we’ll talk.”

“I don’t want any talk. I’ve waited a long time for this. Now, you die.”

She lifts the knife and starts rushing toward Grant and me. Out of nowhere, Roger jumps out, pinning her to the ground before she can reach us. Quickly, he disarms her, tossing the knife aside.

Wow. I knew Roger was skilled, but seeing it with my own eyes sure is something.

“I’ll take care of her,” Roger promises, pulling the maid to her feet. “Or, rather, Oliver will.”

The maid, however, isn’t done. She struggles, and when she realizes it’s to no avail, she shouts at Grant.

“You’ll pay for what you’ve done! And as for you…” She turns to me. “You better run away from this man while you can. He has a heart of stone like his grandfather. He’s just using you, and he’ll ruin your life, too.”

“All right, that’s enough.” Roger hauls the maid away. “I don’t usually hit women but don’t tempt me.”

They leave. I heave a sigh of relief.

“Are you all right?” Grant places a hand on my back.

“Yeah.” I nod, placing my hand over his. “It’s a good thing Roger’s around. Is it true, though? Did you really seduce her mother?”

Grant shrugs. “I did seduce a handful of maids, though. It was the only way for me to be able to do things without my grandparents’ knowledge.” He touches my cheek. “I’m not proud of it, though, and I definitely promise that it will not happen again.”

I nod, believing him. And I’m not mad at him. After all, when I decided to accept him, I decided to accept all of him, including his past and his mistakes.

Something else bothers me – the fact that that maid, whatever her name was, and Lindsey said the same thing. They both said Grant was just using me.

I glance at Grant. I can tell that he cares about me. Even so, my deeply rooted fears can’t help but rear their ugly heads, my instinct kicking in.

What if he is just using me?

***

The question still bothers me days later in spite of all the fun I’m having with Grant around London. One evening, while Grant is out drinking with some old friends, I place a call to Lindsey from the hotel suite.

“You’ve reached Lindsey Holland. Please leave a message.”

I wait for the click, shifting the receiver to my other hand and putting the other on my hip. “Hi. It’s Abby. I’m calling from a hotel in London and I—”

“Hey!” Lindsey picks up the phone. “How’s London?”

“Good,” I answer, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“But you don’t feel the same way, do you?” she asks, picking up my lack of enthusiasm. “What’s so wrong that you need me and not the app?”

“Well, your app actually said for me to get answers so here I am.” I take a deep breath. “I just have one important question. Is there something you and Grant are hiding from me?”

“What?”

“I’m not accusing you and Grant of having a relationship other than your business partnership or anything. It’s just that I’ve been thinking and putting little bits together, and I think I’m feeling paranoid.”

“Your female sense is tingling, and it’s telling you something’s off.”

“Yeah. Exactly.”

“Well, what do you think we’re hiding?”

I shift the receiver back to my other hand. “When we first met, you firmly believed that Grant was using me and then there’s the fact that I caught Grant saying once that you were his idea. What’s up with that?”

Lindsey sighs.

“Please tell me.” I slide down to the carpet, pulling my knees to my chest. “We’re friends, right?”

“All right.” She takes a deep breath, and I hold mine. “Grant wanted my apps from the start. He called me up to make the offer. I said no, but he wouldn’t take that for an answer. So I challenged him. I told him if he could make a woman fall in love with him, then I’d consider his offer. You won’t believe the women he started sending me. He claimed they were in love with him, but I saw right through them. I didn’t only turn them down, I turned them against him. I never thought he’d be able to send me a woman who was really in love with him.”

“And he sent me, didn’t he?” I place my hand over my chest, which suddenly feels tight. “Well, he made me think it was my idea but he was actually grooming me for it all along.”

“I’m sorry, Abby, but hey, Grant ended up falling in love with you, too, so it doesn’t matter, right?”

I don’t answer. The end justifies the means just doesn’t cut it right now.

“Abby?”

“I’ll talk to you soon,” I say, not feeling like talking anymore. “Thanks. Bye.”

“A—”

I hang up, dropping the phone on the carpet as I bury my face in my arms.

I knew it. Even so, I can’t believe it. Grant tricked me. He did try to use me just like he used the mother of that maid, all those other maids, and all those women before me. Just like all those men used my mother.

Suddenly, the memories of that first week I came to work for him rush back. No wonder he was acting all weird then. He was desperate to make me fall in love with him. And then I turned him down and he took a different approach, making me believe first that he was in love with me.

And I fell.

I fell in love with him.

I fell into his trap.

I throw my head against the edge of the bed, running my hands across the sides of my face.

How could I have been so blind?

But he fell in love with you, too. He fell into his own trap.

Did he?

Just then, I hear a beep from Grant’s laptop on the table, letting me know that he has a new email. Since I manage his emails, I have access to his account. Out of habit, I check what came in, my eyes growing wide and my heart seemingly shrinking as I open one attachment of the message after another, all of them files of different women between twenty-two and thirty, all of them beautiful and from rich families.

Each click feels like a piece of my heart falling off until finally, when I’m done, there’s nothing left.

There’s nothing left of me.

Grant doesn’t love me. He used me and now that I’ve fulfilled my purpose, he’s looking for the next target, already having files on the candidates.

Just like he had a file on me.

For a while, I don’t move, frozen in front of the computer as my tears fall on the keyboard. Then, like a racer who’s just realized the gun has gone off, my body jolts into action. In a blur, I change my clothes and gather my things. Not even bothering to make a goodbye note, I leave.

There’s no need for goodbye when something never really started.

I was just passing by.

And now, it’s time for me to go.

Chapter 12

Grant

“Abby’s gone.”

The moment I entered the room, I felt something was wrong, the hotel bathroom slippers lying inches from each other on the floor and the robe a heap on the couch. Now, after searching the room and finding no sign of Abby or any of her things, I know what’s wrong or rather, what’s missing.

Abby.

She left. In a hurry. And judging from the pile of used tissue in the garbage can, she was upset. Since the phone receiver was on the floor, it must have something to do with that last conversation she had.

The question is… who was she talking to?

“I should have stayed at the hotel,” Roger says, frowning.

I shake my head, looking at the handset in my hand. “Something tells me you wouldn’t have been able to keep her from leaving.”

I press the redial button, my jaw clenching when I see an overseas number on the small screen. And not just any overseas number.

Lindsey’s.

My jaw clenches. I thought something was bothering her. I thought it was just something that had happened at the mansion. I should have known it was something else. I should have known a smart woman like her would not be kept in the dark forever.

Not that I was planning to keep her in the dark forever. I was going to tell her someday when it no longer mattered, when we’ve been together for a long time, when I’ve become more certain that I wasn’t going to lose her.

And now, I’ve lost her.

I toss the phone on the bed and take mine out from my pocket, calling her.

“The number you are dialing is…”

I end the call then go over to the table where my laptop is, thinking of getting information on which plane she’s trying to get on in hopes of catching her before she’s on it.

In front of the table, I pause.

Wasn’t the lid of my laptop open earlier?

Lifting the lid, I see the wet drop on the keyboard. A tear. Quickly, I open the minimized window, feeling like throwing the mouse in my hand when I realize that it’s the message from my grandfather, the one with all the profiles of the women he wanted me to choose from for my wife.

“Fuck.” I beat my fist against the table, ignoring the pain.

“Fuck is right,” Roger says as he looks at my screen. “Your grandfather sure has a knack for complicating things, doesn’t he?”

“I’ll go after her.” I head toward the door. “I’ll go to Heathrow and look for her. I’ll pay people to help me find her if I have to.”

“Grant, wait.” Roger places a firm hand on my shoulder. “I know you want to make things right, and I really hope you do but you can’t do it right now.”

I turn around to face him. “Why not?”

“Because there’s something more important you should do.” Roger points to the screen of my laptop. “Even if you talk to Abby now, it won’t change the fact that your grandfather still wants you to marry someone of his choosing, which means the two of you still can’t be together. If you’re going to chase after Abby, you have to make sure first that nothing will get in your way.”

“What are you suggesting? That I talk to Grandfather? There’s nothing for us to talk about. I’m not going to marry someone he chooses for me.”

“But if you don’t, he’ll disown you,” Roger reminds me.

“Then let him disown me.” I turn toward the door. “He never thought of me as his grandson anyway.”

“And what about your promise to your mother?”

I stop in my tracks.

“You did promise her that you weren’t going to turn your back on your grandfather, didn’t you?”

I clench my shaking hands into fists, remembering when she lay on the hospital bed, a few days before her death.

“I know your grandfather is selfish and proud. I know that better than anyone. But he did have a heart once. He loved me once, and he was kind and happy then. I can’t win back that love anymore but you can. Promise me that you’ll try. That you won’t let him die cold and lonely. Only you, Grant, can undo what I have done.”

And I did promise her. I gave her my word that I’d try.

If Grandfather disowns me, I’ll never have the chance to fulfill my promise. But what should I do? If I follow my grandfather’s wishes, I’ll never see Abby again. I’ll never be with her again.

“Fuck!”

I bow my head in anguish, beating my fists against the wall.

If only I knew what my mother was asking of me then, I wouldn’t have made that promise. I can’t turn back time, though, and she’s gone, which means I can’t ask her to release me from my promise, from this sentence to a lifetime of suffering.

Mom, how do I get out of this mess you got me into?

***

I ask her that question again as I visit her grave the next day, a bouquet of white roses in my hand.

I didn’t sleep all night, knowing that each moment, Abby was getting farther and farther away from my reach. I wanted to chase after Abby but I couldn’t just yet. I’ve tried to think of a way to resolve my dilemma but I couldn’t. I know how stubborn Grandfather is. He only let me start my own company because it was my mother’s wish. I know he’s angry that my company is succeeding and so he wants to ruin my happiness. He can never stand seeing anyone happy.

He was kind and happy then.

In truth, I do feel sorry for him. And I want him to acknowledge me, to be proud of me. That’s one reason why I wanted for my company to succeed so badly. Yet, he’s asking too much of me now.

“You do understand, don’t you, Mom?”

She doesn’t answer, of course, and I have to try and think of what she’d say if she was still alive.

What would she say? What would she do?

I can’t think, though. We barely saw each other before she got sick. I don’t even remember what she looked like then. I only got to know her after, and she only spoke of sad things then, and she hardly did anything.

“What should I do, Mom?”

Kneeling, I place the bouquet on her grave and as I do, I notice the small words written at the bottom of her tombstone. I almost forgot they were there since the print was small and the blades of grass obscured the words. No doubt that was my grandfather’s intention since he didn’t want those words in there.

I’ve known love and so I’ve lived.

At that moment, I remember the picture my Mom was clutching when she died – a picture of her and my father, their only picture.

Right. That was how everything began – her falling in love and marrying the man she loved against her father’s wishes. If he hadn’t died in an accident shortly after my birth, she would have lived with him and been completely happy. It’s tragic that she didn’t get the chance. Even so, it doesn’t change the fact that she fought for love and until the end. She did not regret it.

She loved until the very end.

If she was here right now, she’d probably laugh at how we both ended up in the same situation but proudly say that’s proof that I’m her son. Then she’d give me a hug and say, “To hell with your grandfather. You can’t help who you love,” and other things someone told her when she was fighting for love.

True, she told me to undo what she had done but I doubt she’d approve of that if the cost was love.

Love is her greatest legacy, after all.

Love.

Funny. I’ve been so hesitant to use that word before, thinking I didn’t know it and now, I’m throwing it around.

Which probably means it’s true.

I love Abby, and I’m going to fight for her even if it means going against Grandfather. I’m not just going to let him disown me, though. I’m going to talk to him. He probably won’t listen but I still have to try.

That’s what I promised my mother – that I’d try.

“I’ll try my best, Mom.”

I press my fingers to my lips, run them over her name on the tombstone and get up to leave, determination buzzing in my veins.

I’m not going to undo what my mother did because it wasn’t a mistake. I’m going to do what she didn’t get to do – talk some sense into Grandfather.

***

“No.” Grandfather shakes his head as he sets down his cup of tea on the matching saucer. “Your mother ruined her life. I’m not going to let you make the same mistake.”

“My mother did not ruin her life,” I tell him, sitting straight in the chair across him. “You did.”

Grandfather glares. “Don’t forget who you’re talking to, boy.”

“Oh, I know very well who I’m talking to.” I lean on one arm, tucking my hand under my chin. “I’m talking to a man who loved his daughter very much, who thought the world of her, who wanted to give her the world. He thought she was perfect. He thought she would belong to him forever, and when he found out he was wrong, he threw her away like a doll that was no longer needed.”

“I did not throw her away.” He leans forward, his eyes growing wide. “She turned her back on me. She chose your American father over me.”

“She chose her own happiness,” I point out. “Which she only did because you made her choose between her happiness and yours. And you punished her nearly all her life for it.”

Grandfather leans back in his chair, falling silent.

“But you know what? She never hated you. Do you know what was her greatest fear as she was dying? Not death. She was prepared for that. Not leaving me. She knew I could make it on my own. She was more afraid of you dying alone and unloved. That’s why she made me promise to try to keep that from happening.”

“Yet, here you are, practically begging for me to disown you.”

“I’m not.” I get out of my chair and kneel in front of his. “I don’t want to be disowned. In fact, I want nothing more than for you to look at me as your grandson. But I’m not going to choose that over my happiness, over the woman I love.”

Grandfather snorts, looking away. “Why do you want that woman so much? Your grandmother said she works for you and that she’s from some country in Asia.”

“From the Philippines,” I supply, standing up. “And I can’t tell you why I want her. I just do. I just know I want her bad enough to fight for her just like my mother fought for my father.”

“Why?” He stands up and moves away from him, hands in the air. “Why must you rebel against me like she did? And after all I’ve done for you?”

“You see, Grandfather. That’s your problem. You tried to give Mom and me everything in hopes that we’d love you back and do everything you wanted. You should have given us everything because you loved us, not because you wanted us to love you. In spite of that, we do care about you. We just don’t want to be your puppets. We’re your family, after all.”

Grandfather falls silent again, looking out the window with his arms crossed over his chest.

“I’m not asking you to love me as a grandson. As much as I want it, it’s not mine to ask. If there’s anything I learned, it’s that if you want someone to love you, all you can do is love them first. If they don’t love you back, there’s nothing you can do about it.” I move closer to him. “I’m asking you, though, to try and understand what I’m trying to do here. I’m not doing it to spite you or because I’m ungrateful or because I don’t care about you and your wishes. It has nothing to do with you. I’m doing it because it’s the only way for me to live my life, because I can’t live without her.”

He still says nothing.

“Mom said you had a heart once. I believe you still do. You say I’m making the same mistake my mother did. How about you, Grandfather? What will you do? Will you make the same mistake as well?”

He turns his head, looking at me. For a moment, he just looks at me, his expression vacant. Then he goes to his bed.

“I’m tired. Leave me alone.”

Well, at least he’s not telling me that he never wants to see me again. It’s a start.

“If that is what you want.” I head to the door, stopping just before I open it. “Thank you for listening, Grandfather.”

He doesn’t say another word. He doesn’t even look in my direction.

That’s fine. I’ve said all I’ve needed to say to him.

And now, I have to go to New York to talk to Abby.

***

“Go away, Grant. I don’t want to talk to you,” Abby says through the locked door of her apartment, leaving me standing in the hallway with all the presents I’ve brought for her. “There’s nothing left for us to talk about.”

I put down the paper bags I’m carrying and move closer to the door. “You know there is.”

“If it’s about my job, I quit. I’ll find another.”

“It’s not about your job, Abby, it’s about us.”

“There is no us. There never was. You tricked me.”

At that moment, the housewife from the next apartment comes out with her toddler on her hip, frowning at me.

I give her an apologetic smile, handing her one of the roses I have. She seems to appreciate it, sniffing it as she goes back into the apartment.

Good. I got rid of her. I don’t want to get anyone else’s attention, though.

I move my mouth closer to the door. “Could you please at least open the door, Abby, so that we don’t have to shout?”

There’s no response.

“Or we could just shout for everyone in the building to hear.”

She opens the door but just a crack, the bolt still on. She doesn’t show herself, either, and though I try hard to take a peek, I can’t see her.

“Are you going to talk or not?” Abby asks.

Well, at least I know she can hear me.

I lean on the doorframe and take a deep breath. “Abby, I’m sorry. I know what I tried to do. I know what I did. I asked Nathan to let you work for me, having done my research about you and thinking you’d be the best woman to convince Lindsey to change her mind. I seduced you. I tried to make you fall in love with me. But you know what? I fucked up. I fell in love with you, which wasn’t part of the plan, and that’s something I’ve never done before even though I’ve known a lot of women.”

“Really? Then why do you have files of other women in your inbox?”

“My grandfather sent those. He wanted me to choose a wife from them. I told him I wasn’t going to, though. I don’t care if he feels I’m letting him down like he felt my mother let him down. I’m not going to let myself down. Or you.”

“And what did he say?”

“Nothing.”

Abby falls silent.

“Abby?”

“You should go.”

I want to say more. I want to ask her why she can’t understand me. I want to stay here until she forgives me. I want to break down the bolt, barge into her apartment, and hug her so tight the broken pieces of her heart will fall back into place and then I’ll never let her go.

I don’t though. This is not about what I want. If she wants me to leave and give her some time and space, I’ll do that. I’ll step back for now.

“Okay. I’ll leave the stuff I’ve brought here – just some flowers, chocolates, some Broadway memorabilia, and some stuff from London.” I put the bouquet I’m holding on the floor. “If you need anything, just call me.”

She says nothing, closing the door.

I sigh. Well, I guess this serious conversation ended just like the last one, with neither Abby nor my grandfather saying yes but also not saying no. I just hope they’ll give me a chance, Abby especially.

Frankly, I’m not sure how I’ll do without her.

Come on, Abby. Give me just one more chance.

Chapter 13

Abby

So, Grant wants me to give him another chance, does he?

Sitting on the couch, I look at the pile of presents from Grant in the living room, the pile I’ve just hauled in from the hallway after making sure he’s gone.

It’s not that I don’t want to see him because I’m mad at him. Yes, I am mad at him, but the main reason why I didn’t open the door and face him was because I was afraid that if I looked into his eyes, I’d forget my anger and throw myself at him.

It’s not easy resisting the man you love.

Yes, I love him. I’ve realized that over the past few days. Otherwise, it wouldn’t have hurt as much and I wouldn’t have been so devastated to the point that I couldn’t eat or sleep properly or have the energy to do the things I used to do.

I’ve probably loved him for some time now. That’s why I can’t forget him no matter how hard I try, why I can’t seem to let go of him.

But I have to.

I have to resist him and forget him because I don’t think I can trust him again. He’s already hurt me once. He can very well do it again.

He said he was sorry.

Sorry is just a word. It’s easy to say, especially for men who want something.

He didn’t ask for anything, did he?

Come to think of it, he didn’t. He didn’t ask me to come back to him. He just apologized and explained. Like before, instead of demanding, he gave of himself.

I pout, lying on the couch.

Well, that’s not going to work a second time. I’m not falling for it anymore.

I fell in love with you.

I slap my forehead. Now, he’s using the word love. But, no. I’m not going to fall for that, either. He’s using the right words, but they’re just words.

How will he prove his feelings for you if you don’t give him a chance?

I sigh. My mother kept giving herself a chance at happiness. She kept giving love a chance. She kept giving men chances. And look what happened. Each man she gave a chance to let her down and left her in the dust.

Once is enough. I gave Grant a chance, and he wasted it. He broke my trust. He broke my heart. He used me.

You can’t say he used you if he’s keeping you.

True. But I just know that I’ll keep on thinking that he just picked me because I was the ideal candidate for fulfilling his plans, that we would never have met if not for his plot. How can something that started in treachery be true? How can it be trusted?

Then start again. Grant is willing to do that. He even chose you over his grandfather.

I must say that took me by surprise. And it did make me happy. Still, how can we start over when I don’t know if the doubts will ever end? I was afraid the first time. Now, I’m terrified.

So, you’ll just let him go even if you love him? Choose to be afraid instead of taking a chance on happiness?

“Oh, shut up.” I place my hands on my head, which is starting to hurt from thinking too much.

Actually, my head has been hurting a lot lately. And that’s not all. Yesterday, I felt dizzy while doing the laundry, having to stop for fear of fainting and this morning, I was nauseous, that perfect plate of bacon and eggs making my stomach reel.

Just the thought of that plate, in fact, starts a revolution in my stomach again. I sit up, one hand rubbing my tummy to calm it down and the other on my neck, as if trying to keep the food from coming out. This time, that doesn’t work, though, and I end up going to the bathroom to throw up.

Shit.

When I’m done, I brush my teeth and wash my face then head back to the living room, lying down on the couch again.

What’s wrong with me? Is it something I ate? Can it be all that airline food? Maybe it’s just jet lag or stress.

At any rate, I’d like to find out, and there’s only one way to do that.

I give another sigh, placing my arm over my forehead.

I guess I’m going to the doctor tomorrow.

***

“Please wait here,” the nurse tells me, gesturing to an empty chair in the waiting room. “Dr. Norwood will be with you shortly.”

“Thanks.” I sit down, resisting the urge to pace the room after the nurse has left.

Who’s Dr. Norwood? I’ve never heard of him.

I was with a Dr. Catherine Martin earlier, who said they were going to run some tests. Did they find something suspicious in my tests? Is that why I’m being referred to another doctor, a specialist maybe?

Am I going to die?

“Abigail Gomez?”

I look up to find myself staring into a pair of deep blue eyes.

Grant?

No. It’s not Grant. They may have the same blue eyes but the resemblance stops there. This man has jet black curls, a few of which are dipping down his wide forehead. His nose is more rounded toward the nostrils, his chin squarer, his lips narrower.

I suppress a frown. Now that I’m boiling with anxiety, I wish he was here.

“Yes, that’s me,” I say as I stand up, finding my head barely reaching his chin.

He’s tall. Not only that. He’s got a great physique, his chest and shoulders broad, his pectorals bulging against the fabric of his white dress shirt so much that I fear the buttons will fly off. And, in between the bottom buttons, I catch a peek of a ripped abdomen just before his shirt disappears into the waistband of his jeans that outlines his narrow hips and waist. His arms look like he can easily carry someone or maybe two someones while his legs look fit enough to have a few children on his lap. Or women.

What is he? An athlete? A triathlete? A double for Superman?

“I’m Dr. Norwood.” He offers me his hand.

Doctor?

Right. He’s got that stethoscope around his neck. How could I have missed that?

Because you were looking at other more important stuff?

Oh, hush.

I shake his hand, finding his firm yet smooth.

He places his hand back in his pocket. “Shall we?”

Shall we what?

He gestures to the hall.

Right. He’s a specialist, which means we’re headed to his clinic right now. Worse, they probably sent someone good-looking to break the bad news so that I won’t be so upset.

I take a deep breath. Relax, Abby. You’re going to be fine.

As he goes into a door, I pause outside, looking at the sign.

Brett Norwood, Obstetrician-Gynecologist.

Wait. What? Is there something wrong with my… reproductive organs? Ovarian cancer? Cervical cancer?

“Please come in,” Dr. Norwood says. “And take a seat.”

I obey, closing the door behind me and sitting on one of the chairs in front of his desk, dipping my clasped hands between my knees as I anxiously wait for news.

“Please tell me what’s wrong,” I plead with him.

“Oh, nothing’s wrong.” He goes through the papers on his desk. “In fact, everything about your pregnancy seems normal.”

I blink. “My what?”

“Miss Gomez, you’re pregnant – a little over five weeks pregnant.”

What? I’m relieved, of course, that I’m not dying. But pregnant? I never thought I’d have a child, though maybe I should have given it more thought. Now that I think about it, Grant and I didn’t use any contraceptives at all.

And this is the result when you don’t use contraceptives – pregnancy. That’s why I’ve been dizzy and nauseous and throwing up.

I clasp my hands over my mouth. “Oh, my God.”

“Congratulations.” Dr. Norwood stands up to squeeze my shoulder. “I know you’re feeling overwhelmed right now but that’s normal, too. After all, you do suddenly have a person inside you. Microscopic, yes, but still a person, one you helped create.”

A person inside me? I look at my belly. How can a person possibly fit there?

“It’s a miracle, really, and it never fails to astound me. That’s why I’m in this profession.”

I place my hand over my belly. “I don’t believe it. I can’t believe this is happening.”

He hands me the ultrasound picture and though it’s black and white, I can see the speck inside the hole – a baby inside my tummy.

I run my fingers over the picture then press it to my heart, a tear streaking down my cheek as the emotions I’ve been trying to hold back – fear, disbelief, excitement, joy – break through.

“I really am having a baby, aren’t I?”

Dr. Norwood nods. “Maybe at your next check-up at eight weeks, you can hear the heartbeat.”

“I’d love that.” I look at the picture again, smiling.

“I’m sure Mr. Gomez would be thrilled as well.”

“Oh, there’s no Mr. Gomez.” I put the picture down on my lap. “At least, none that I know of. I’m not married.”

“But you have a boyfriend?”

“Well, I used to,” I confess.

Suddenly, it occurs to me that I have to tell Grant. I have to tell Grant we’re having a baby.

“I won’t ask about the details. That’s not my job.” He raises his hands as he goes back to his chair. “But let me tell you that pregnancy can be a difficult journey and birth is a challenging event. It helps if you don’t make the journey alone.”

***

I’m… pregnant, huh?

I still can’t get used to the word, still baffled by the news as I step into the elevator of my apartment building.

All the way home, I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t stop imagining myself with a big tummy, my arms with an infant. I can’t stop trying to imagine my child. Will it be a boy or a girl? Will it have blue eyes or black? Will it be smart? Will it be strong?

I’m excited to find out, excited to begin this journey of motherhood that I know will last all my life. At the same time, though, I’m scared.

What if I’m not cut out for this? I know a lot of things, and I know a thing or two about taking care of babies because I took some babysitting jobs when I was in high school. That doesn’t mean I’m prepared, though, and I’m not sure I can do everything by myself.

It helps if you don’t make the journey alone.

So, do I get back together with Grant then?

I’m still wondering about that when the elevator doors open, deep in thought as I walk down the hallway, which is why I don’t realize I have a guest until I’m just two feet away from her.

“Marjorie?” My eyebrows furrow.

“Abby.” Marjorie gives me a hug. “Oh, I’ve missed you. The kitchen just doesn’t seem the same without you.”

“I missed you, too.” I squeeze her tighter, realizing I’ve needed a hug since Dr. Norwood told me the news and I couldn’t very well hug him. “It’s good to see you.”

Then I step back. “Wait. Grant didn’t send you, did he?”

Marjorie shakes her head. “It’s my day off. I came to see you because I was worried about you. I’ve brought some pies.” She lifts a paper bag off the floor. “Both savory and sweet.”

“Including your signature salted caramel apple pie?” I ask hopefully, suddenly craving it.

Marjorie nods. “Including that.”

“Oh, you’re an angel.” I open the door to my apartment. “Come in. I’ve got something to tell you.”

I don’t just need a hug. I need someone to share the news with and Marjorie’s just perfect.

She gives me a puzzled look as she picks up her bag and steps in. “You know, I thought you’d be very upset but you seem… happy.”

“I am happy.” I close the door. “I’m happy because–” I rub my hands and take a deep breath, “—I’m pregnant.”

Marjorie puts down the bag in her hand, her eyes wide as she stares at me. “You’re pregnant?”

I rub my belly. “I am. I just came from the doctor.”

“Wow.” Her jaw drops.

“That was my reaction exactly.”

She starts jumping. “Oh, my God. You’re pregnant.” She hugs me again, both of us jumping. “Congratulations! I’m so happy for you.”

“Thank you. I could definitely use a friend right now.”

Speaking of friends, maybe I should call Lindsey. She didn’t really do anything wrong, after all, and she’s probably worried about me. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled, too.

Abruptly, Marjorie stops, her hands on my shoulders. “Grant doesn’t know, does he?”

I shake my head then sigh as I sit on the couch. “I have to tell him, don’t I?”

Marjorie sits beside me and holds my hand. “I hate to say this but you do. A child needs a father and as much as possible, he should have one.”

Don’t I know it? I may not want to count on Grant, but I do want my child to have a father to count on – a luxury I never had.

And that’s not all.

She squeezes my hand. “That doesn’t mean you have to get back together with Grant, though, unless you want to. Do you want to?”

I nod. The more I think about it, the more I want someone to go on this journey with, someone to share experiences and memories of my child with.

I want someone to share my life with.

“But I’m scared, Marj. I’m scared that he might manipulate me again.”

“If it’s any help, he looks very remorseful lately.”

I raise an eyebrow. “He does?”

“And miserable. And he hardly eats my food. I think he’s really sorry for what he did to you, Abby.”

“So, you think I should give him another chance?”

“If you love him, you should.”

“Even if that could be another chance to hurt me?”

“I’m not saying he’ll never hurt you again. People hurt each other. That’s inevitable. But judging from what I’ve seen, he doesn’t like hurting you, and he wants to make the pain go away. As long as he keeps doing that, I think the two of you will be fine. You’ll hurt and heal together. That’s what a relationship is all about, right?”

I have to admit she has a point. All those men who hurt my mother, they never looked back. And Grant never did, either, until now.

“If you can’t trust Grant again, trust the love you feel for each other. As long as there’s love, you can make things work.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “You really do give good advice. Do you know that?”

“I know I’m a good cook.” She takes one of her pies out of her bag and unwraps it.

“Mmm.” I close my eyes as the smell hits my nostrils. “I’ll go get a spoon.”

On my way to the kitchen, I pass by the full-length mirror and I stop, staring at my reflection. My bump doesn’t show yet. In fact, nothing about me has changed on the outside. But I know I do have another person inside me. And that knowledge gives me fresh courage.

The courage to love. The courage to trust.

The courage to take another chance.

I don’t need Grant. I can raise this child all by myself. But I do want him.

It takes two…

Suddenly, I can’t wait to tell him the good news.

***

“Abby?” Grant looks at me in disbelief as I enter the den where it seems like I’ve interrupted his practice, a violin tucked under his chin.

“I didn’t know you played the violin,” I say, walking toward him with my hands behind my back.

He puts down the instrument. “I took lessons when I was a child.”

Of course, he did.

“I thought you escaped your lessons.”

He shrugs. “I didn’t always succeed.”

I stand in front of him and stretch out my hand. “May I?”

He lifts the violin, letting me run my hand over the smooth wood and the strings.

Amazing. I’ve always wanted to play the violin but I never had the money for lessons and when I finally had the money, I no longer had the time.

“I haven’t played for years but it seems like I still remember the basics.”

I glance at his music sheet, my eyes growing wide at the title – “All I Ask of You.”

“I was going to surprise you and serenade you,” he explained. “But I guess I can’t do that anymore.”

“Not the surprise but you can still do the serenade.” I take my hands off the violin.

He sets it down on a table. “What are you saying? Are you… giving me another chance?”

I hear the hope in his voice. I see it in his eyes.

He does love me.

I put my hands together, squeezing my fingers. “Well, you did say you were sorry, after all. And you did defy your grandfather. And…?”

“And?” He lifts his eyebrows.

I take a deep breath. “And I do want to make this work. I did say I wasn’t going to end up like my mother.”

He smiles, reaching for my hand. “You’re not. We’re going to do what our mothers didn’t. We’re going to seize what they didn’t get to have. That’s how we’ll honor them.”

“And also, because I want to be with you.” I look into his eyes. “I love you, Grant.”

He kisses my hand and then strokes my cheek. “And I love you, Abby.”

He leans forward to kiss me and as much as I want him to, I pull away, remembering my important announcement.

“Oh, and one more thing.” I take his hand and place it on my belly. “We’re going to have a baby.”

Chapter 14

Grant

A baby?

A while ago, I wanted to rub my eyes to make sure Abby was real and I wasn’t just seeing things. Now, I feel like shaking my ears to make sure I heard her right.

We’re going to have a baby? She’s pregnant?

“Apparently, I’ve been pregnant for five weeks now,” she says, looking at her belly. “You won’t feel Baby yet but it’s there in the oven all right.”

She takes out something from her pocket and hands it to me. “This is Baby’s first picture.”

I look at it, my heart stopping as my gaze rests on that tiny speck of white.

My child. A child with Abby.

I never imagined myself being a father, never having had one. Now that I am one, though, I can feel nothing inside me but pride and excitement.

And even more love for Abby.

Setting the picture down, I cup Abby’s face in my hands and kiss her. She places her hands around my neck, matching my passion as she parts her lips and lets her tongue tangle with mine.

Fuck, I’ve missed kissing her.

I’ve missed her taste. I’ve missed her smell. I’ve missed the feel of her body against mine.

I’ve missed her.

I thought I’d lost her but now she’s here for real, for good. And she’s carrying our baby.

Sliding my hands down to her neck and then resting them on her shoulders, I kiss her harder, swallowing her gasps and muffling her moans. The warmth turns into heat, running through my veins like molten lava, spreading through my body like wildfire.

I want to fuck her on the divan, into the divan, right now. My cock is twitching in approval, but I tell myself there’s no rush. Now that she’s chosen to be with me, we have endless opportunities to savor each other’s bodies, to give and take pleasure. Right now, though, it’s not about the pleasure. It’s about commitment.

I want Abby to know that I’m never going to let her slip through my fingers again and that she can count on me to take care of her and the baby.

My hand stroking her hair and the other on the small of her back, I pull her closer to me then take her hand and place it on my back. I want her to feel all of me, to feel that I’m all hers.

She puts her other hand on my back as well and when they both slide down to playfully squeeze my butt, I let out a moan, my cock quivering inside my boxers.

I still can’t believe that she’s mine.

I pull off her shirt and pin her against the wall as I kiss her again. Harder.

I seal her mouth with mine, my lips crushing hers, my tongue dancing with hers.

I cup her breasts through her bra then push the small piece of clothing out of the way so that I can feel her bare breasts in my palms.

Abby shivers, tearing her lips away from mine and throwing her head to one side as she lets out a loud moan. I kiss her ear as I knead the mounds of flesh in my hands, licking the lobe and sucking on it. Then I nip the sensitive skin lightly as I rub her nipples. More moans escape from her mouth, sharp gasps in between as she trembles.

“I read my breasts were going to be more sensitive,” she says after one gasp. “But I didn’t think they would be this sensitive.”

“How sensitive?” I ask as I twist her nipples gently.

She cries out.

“Any other changes I should know about?” I ask.

“The hormones,” she answers, panting. “I might just suddenly cry or I might just feel like slapping you when you walk into a room.”

I frown. “I hope not.”

She puts out a finger. “And one more thing.”

“What?”

She moves her mouth near my ear. “I’m hornier.”

As if to prove her point, she grabs the bulge in my crotch.

“Fuck!”

“I think we’re going to have to watch the language from now on,” she says, pulling my shirt and pushing me against the wall, reversing our positions.

She takes off my shirt then the button of my pants. Then she kneels on the carpet to pull down the zipper with her teeth before licking my cock through my boxers.

Oh, fuck.

“You know, some smells and tastes make me want to throw up now but this…” She takes my cock out, sniffing it before licking the tip.

“Fuck, Abby!” I throw my head and beat my fist against the wall.

She gives me a reprimanding look. “What did I say about language?”

“You can’t expect me to behave when you’re not,” I tell her.

“Oh, but I’m being very good,” she says, the mischief in her grin matching that glint in her eyes. “Very good.”

Then she grips my hips and takes my whole cock inside her mouth.

Fuck…

If she’s going to be this horny for the next nine months, I’ll have to think of other curses.

Heaven help me.

Just when I feel like the wall behind me is about to crack under my fists, Abby releases my cock. She gets up, takes off her pants and underwear and lies down on the divan, spreading her legs for me.

And I’d like nothing more than to bury my wet, aching cock between them.

But not yet.

Taking off my pants, I climb on top of her, kissing her until she’s out of breath, moaning when I taste myself on her tongue.

Oh, I can’t get enough of that wicked mouth, but that’s only my starting point.

Reluctantly abandoning her lips, I kiss her neck, sucking on a patch of skin that makes her moan. Then I suck on her breasts, her back arching in response.

“Shit.”

I grin against her skin. “I thought we were going to watch our language.”

“Forget it. Our baby can’t hear it anyway, and I’ll make sure he or she never will.”

“Whatever you say.” I continue sucking on her breasts then lick her nipples before tugging on them with my lips.

She cries out, her body shivering as her nails dig into my skin.

“Hurry, Grant.”

It’s an order but I ignore it, teasing her nipples a little more before moving to the soft curve of her belly.

Right now, it still looks the same. But within weeks, it will get bigger as our baby grows.

“Will you still want me when my tummy is as big as a chimpanzee’s?” Abby asks, lifting her head to look at me. “When I’m as big as an elephant?”

“I’ll still want you even when you’re as big as a whale,” I tell her, showering gentle, reverent kisses around her belly button.

I know her body will change. A lot. But she’ll always be beautiful to me.

I move lower, planting a kiss on top of her curls before teasing the nub hidden there. Then I move to her thighs, sucking and licking the insides.

“Grant!”

Sensing her impatience, I grip her thighs and kneel between her legs.

“You sure it’s all right?” I ask her, suddenly concerned.

“Yes.” She pushes her hips against me.

Even so, I try to be gentle, pushing in slowly.

Fuck, she’s tight. And warm. And soft. And my cock gets even harder, raging to experience all those delights.

Just a little more.

Once I’m completely inside her, I press a kiss to Abby’s temple but she cups my face and pulls my lips down on hers. Afterward, she nips my earlobe as she gives me a squeeze.

“Fuck me like you mean it.”

Oh, what the hell. I start thrusting and Abby stops talking, her speech reduced to gasps and moans as she squeezes her eyes shut and thrashes against the divan.

After just a few thrusts, she grips the edges of the chair as she lets out a cry, shuddering. I move faster, pounding into her. I throw my head back and give one last, deep thrust as my cock finally gets its release, spurting and quivering inside her.

As soon as I’ve caught my breath, I quickly pull out and climb off her, not wanting to crush her. I slump against the bean bag instead, catching my breath.

Abby gets off the divan and joins me on the floor, resting her head on my shoulder.

“I have to say... I like this pregnant you,” I tell her.

“You’re saying that now. Just wait a few months.”

“I will.” I place my hand on her belly again, stroking it.

“Do you want a boy or a girl?” she asks.

“I think I’d like a boy, but it doesn’t really matter.”

“Really?” She lifts her head and looks at me with creased eyebrows. “I thought you’d want a little girl to pamper.”

“Nah. She’ll boss me around.”

Abby chuckles, entwining her fingers with mine as she rests her head on my shoulder again. “Whatever happens, promise me we’re not going to make our children into something they’re not, that we’re going to love them no matter what.”

“You don’t need to tell me that.”

She lifts her head again. “Oh, and promise me you’ll be there for the next check-up next month.”

“Sure,” I assure her, pressing my lips against the back of her hand. “I’ll be there for every check-up.”

I don’t want to miss any step of our baby’s development or any milestone. I’ll be with Abby every step of the way.

“Have you chosen a doctor?” I ask her.

“Yes. I’ll be seeing Dr. Norwood.”

***

Brett Norwood.

I’ve read that he’s one of the top obstetrician-gynecologists in the country and that he’s known all over the world so I understand why Abby chose him.

But why does he have to be a man?

Watching him now as he talks to Abby, sitting next to her on the examination table as he answers her questions, I can feel my jealousy rising.

To make matters worse, he’s just about as good-looking as I am with the same blue eyes. It’s not the looks I’m worried about, though. It’s the fact that he’ll be seeing all of Abby, examining a part of her that only I should have the right to examine.

Why did she have to choose a male doctor?

I’ve told Abby I’m uncomfortable with it but she’s made up her mind, saying that the fact that he’s a man has nothing to do with it. She just trusts him as her doctor.

She had such a hard time trusting me and now, she just easily trusts this doctor?

When I told her that, though, she brought up all the women from my past, saying she trusts me in spite of all of them and that I should trust her. Of course, I could say no more.

I swear this is her way of getting back at me somehow.

And I can’t even read this guy, not knowing if he’s interested in Abby or not.

Needless to say, I’m going to be here for every check-up.

“Well, that’ll be all.” Dr. Norwood gets off the table. “If you need anything, you can just call me anytime.”

I roll my eyes.

Abby smiles. “Thanks, Doctor.”

“And congratulations again, Mr. Herbert.” He offers his hand.

I shake it but say nothing, waving my hand as we leave the clinic.

Outside, Abby grabs my arm.

“Come on. You don’t have to look like you’re being tortured.”

“But I am,” I tell her.

“If you’re such a grouch, I won’t bring you to my check-ups.”

I frown.

“Just kidding,” Abby says,

Well, she’s in a good mood. She seems to be glowing, actually, pregnancy becoming her.

“You know, I was thinking maybe we should come up with a pregnancy app. I know there are a lot out there already but I just feel like none of them really works for me.”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll look into it,” I tell her.

“Thanks.” She rests her head on my shoulder, causing my jealousy to simmer away. “Oh, and I want to look at some baby furniture. Can we do that? Please?”

She clasps her hands under her chin as she gives me those puppy dog eyes.

I place my arm around her. “Sure. But it will have to be after I meet with a client.” I look at my watch. “I’m having lunch with him.”

She frowns. “Oh, right. That guy from Parsons Entertainment, right?”

“You can join us since you’re still my personal assistant and all,” I tell her, rubbing her arm. “I’d be happy to introduce you. Then we can go shopping afterward.”

That makes her face light up. Ah, nothing cheers a woman up like a potential shopping spree.

“Okay.”

***

We arrive at the restaurant early, Abby ordering a bunch of appetizers since she’s hungry. I just order a glass of wine as I wait, watching her devour the food and checking some things on my phone, occasionally looking around to see if the man I’m meeting has arrived.

After a few minutes, I see him entering the restaurant just as Abby disappears into the restrooms, wearing a blue-collared shirt that has the logo of his company and holding a black laptop bag. He’s older than I expected, probably in his fifties but it doesn’t matter. As our eyes meet, I smile and he smiles back, walking over.

“Hi, there.” He offers his hand. “I’m Dennis Cooper from Parsons Entertainment.”

“Grant Herbert,” I introduce myself as I shake his hand. “Please sit down.

He sits, a puzzled look spreading across his face as he sees the empty plates on the table. “You’ve got company.”

“My personal assistant,” I tell him. “Who also happens to be my girlfriend.”

“Ah. How nice.”

I glance around. “Ah, there she is now.”

I stand up as Abby approaches. “Dennis, meet Abby Gomez. Abby, this is…”

I don’t finish my introduction, feeling worried as Abby grows pale, her breathing ragged as she stares at Dennis in horror.

Why is she looking at him as if she’s seen a ghost?

“Abby?”

Chapter 15

Abby

Impossible.

I run across the parking lot, my heart racing inside my heavy chest and my hands shaking.

Of all the people who could walk into that restaurant and do business with Grant, why does it have to be Dennis Parker?

I thought he was dead. I wished many times that he was, rotting to death in some cellar or at a bottom of a ravine with no one to recognize him or look for him or mourn him. Yet, there he is, alive and well, with that smile on his face.

How can he smile like that after all he did to my mother?

“Hey.” Grant catches up with me, grabbing my hand and pulling me into his arms. “It’s all right. I’m here.”

I snuggle into his warmth, breaking into a sob.

Why am I crying? I don’t know. Maybe it’s just the hormones. Or maybe it’s because seeing that man reminded me of all the pain and suffering my mother went through and of her death.

He was the one who killed her, after all.

Grant places a hand on my hair. “That’s the man with the mustache, isn’t he? Your stepfather?”

I nod. “I thought he was dead. We never heard from him again. I never thought I’d see him again.”

“Shh.” He runs his fingers through my hair.

“He’s the reason for all the hell my mother and I went through. He started all of it. He brought me and my mother to America. He promised her a lot of things. And then he left her. He left us without so much as a penny, just a house we couldn’t afford.”

“Calm down, Abby. That’s in the past now.”

“If not for him, if he hadn’t left, my mother wouldn’t have gone into that downward spiral. Or maybe if only he had left her some money so she could stand on her own two feet. Or if he hadn’t said those cruel words as he left.”

“It’s all right, Abby.” Grant grips my shoulders and looks into my eyes. “I’m not going to let him hurt you.”

I know that. Even so, I can’t help but feel afraid. I don’t ever want to see him again.

“Are you still going to do business with him?” I ask as I wipe my tears.

“I’m doing business with his company, not him,” Grant answers. “But you’ll never have to see him again. I’ll deal with him myself.”

I nod.

He pulls me into his chest again. “Shh. You’re not supposed to get yourself stressed. It’s not good for the baby.”

“I know. I didn’t ask to be stressed, though.”

He kisses the top of my head. “I’m sorry I brought you here to meet him. Why don’t you go to the mall ahead and check out some baby stuff, huh? Get whatever you want. I’ll follow as soon as I can.”

“I think I’ll just go home.”

I’m no longer in the mood to go shopping, my euphoria from having heard my baby’s heartbeat for the first time earlier having evaporated. It’s funny how the past can mess you up just when you think you’ve left it behind, just when everything is going perfectly.

“All right. If that’s what you want.” Grant rubs my shoulder. “But you have to relax and not think about this anymore. I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

“Okay.”

Grant squeezes me. “Trust me, Abby. Everything is going to be all right.”

I do trust him. Even so, I can’t help but feel that a can of worms has been opened just as I can’t help but feel that I haven’t seen the last of Dennis Cooper.

And I’m usually right about these things.

***

A few days later, I get an email from Dennis. No doubt he got my address from someone in his company since I was using it for business correspondence. That’s right, business. Yet, his email has nothing to do with work at all.

Abby,

I’m glad to see that you are well. You have become a fine woman and found a good man. I am so proud of you.

I know you’re mad at me, and I can’t blame you. The last time you saw me, I was shouting at your mother. I’m sorry you had to see that. I remember seeing you peeking from the kitchen with a scared expression. How I wanted to bring you with me. But I knew you would never leave your mother.

Why did I leave her? That’s probably your biggest question. And yet, I’m sure you know the answer. You saw how your mother changed. You heard her complaints and her jealous fits. You saw the bottles of alcohol and the meds. You might have been too young to understand at the time but I’m sure you understand now.

I had no choice but to leave your mother.

I don’t know what lies she told you after. I expect she told you a lot. But let me tell you that I truly loved your mother and you as my own daughter. I still remember the first time I saw you. You were sitting on the window sill with a wildflower in your hair, singing your heart out even though you didn’t have an audience. I remember, too, that time when we first went to Disneyland and you were in awe of everything.

All these years that we’ve been apart, I thought of you. I worried that your mother wasn’t taking care of you. It took me some time to get my finances stable again – your mother squandered all my savings, you see – but when I did, I looked for you. I could no longer find you, though.

Now, our paths have crossed again. Who would have thought? I know you want to pretend that it never happened. You want me to leave you alone. But I can’t. Whatever the case, you are still my stepdaughter and you are dear to me. My greatest regret has been leaving you, and it has burdened my conscience. Please let us free each other from the past. Let us leave its ugliness behind. There was also beauty. Remember that. Let us think of that instead and move on.

My number is written below. I will wait for a chance to have dinner with you, to reminisce the good old times, to hear all you have to say – I know there must be a lot you need to get off your chest – and how you’ve come this far. Let me make it up to you. Let me be the man you’ve always wanted to have – your father.

Dennis

I close the message, frowning, then leave my desk, looking out the window. How dare he send me such a letter? How dare he try to be my father?

No. I refuse to see him, to give in to his pleas.

Why should I have dinner with him? Why should I believe his words? Why should I let him off the hook?

I have no reason to.

***

“You should do it for your own peace of mind,” Lindsey tells me as she pushes the cart down the aisle of the baby store.

She came to New York to talk to her publisher, and I decided to take advantage of the opportunity and get her to help me shop for some baby essentials. I also told her about Dennis’ email. I didn’t think she’d try to convince me to meet him though.

“If I go have dinner with him, he’ll think I’ve forgiven him,” I tell her, stopping to try a rattle.

“Why don’t you forgive him?”

I look at her in shock, the rattle falling to the floor. “What?”

Lindsey picks up the rattle and puts it back. “I’m not telling you to do it for his sake. I’m telling you to do it for yourself. When you don’t forgive, you choose to burden yourself. You tie yourself to the past and when you do that, you can’t live the present fully. You lose out.”

“I know.” I’ve heard all that crap before. “But I just can’t forgive him.”

“I’m not telling you this as a psychologist. I’m telling you this because I decided to forgive Mark.”

I look at her. “You did?”

“I didn’t want to at first. I wasn’t sure I could ever trust him again. But you kind of inspired me.”

“Me?” I point a finger at myself.

“You and Grant. You showed me that men can change for the women they love. Also, you did forgive Grant, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but…”

“Sometimes, you just have to let go of the past and look to the future. And forgiveness is just another word for that.”

I sigh. “Listen. I’m glad that you and Mark are doing well again. But I just can’t forgive Dennis. He ruined my mother’s life.”

“He left your mother. She ruined her own life.”

“Fine but… If he hadn’t brought my mother and me to the US, things might have been different for her. She could have been happy. You see, the reason why she ended up the way she did was because he gave her so much hope. He made her rely on him. And then he left her.”

“If you didn’t come here to the US, you wouldn’t have met Grant. If you hadn’t gone through all those hardships, you would not be the woman you are today,” Lindsey points out, leaning on the cart. “But don’t dwell on the should-have-beens and shouldn’t haves. Don’t dwell in the past. Grant is trying to make peace with his past. Shouldn’t you do the same?”

I hate it when she’s right.

“The only thing Dennis did was get out of a toxic relationship and start over.” Lindsey starts pushing the cart again. “The only mistake he made was leaving you behind, which he’s now trying to make up for.”

“So, we should just forget about what happened to my mother?” I ask as I get a stuffed toy from the shelf, hugging it.

“I’m saying your mother isn’t here, and Dennis is practically the only family you have left, right? You’re going to have a child soon, Abby. Don’t you want your child to have a grandfather?”

I haven’t really thought of that.

“If you don’t let go of the past, you’ll teach your child about hate. Don’t do that.”

I give up.

“Fine. I’ll have dinner with him.” I put the toy back on the shelf. “Now can we shop?”

Lindsey smiles. “Sure. What else do you need?”

***

“I definitely need to come back to this restaurant and have more of their Death by Chocolate,” I tell Dennis as I wipe my mouth with the table napkin, having just finished three servings. “And I think when I’m not pregnant anymore, I’ll have some of their Death by Coffee. The one you had looked absolutely gorgeous.”

“It did taste amazing,” Dennis agrees, taking a sip from his glass of wine. “I’m glad I chose this restaurant. More than that, I’m glad that you agreed to have dinner with me.”

I reach for my own glass of water. “So am I.”

Truth be told, I was dreading this dinner, but it wasn’t so bad and not just because the food was delicious but because Dennis was cordial all throughout, even funny at times. He seemed genuinely interested in everything I had to say.

Maybe, just maybe, Lindsey’s right. It’s time to move on, both for my child’s sake and mine.

“So, are you going to stick around New York?” I ask.

“Why do you ask?”

I shrug. “Because, you know, you said you wanted to be the father I never had. I was thinking since I’m having a baby, it would be nice to have some family to welcome him or her.”

Dennis smiles. “Don’t worry. I’ll be around.”

“Good.” I take another sip of water.

“I can’t believe you’re having your own family but I am very happy for you. Your mother would have been, too.”

I pause, my mother being mentioned for the first time since we started dinner. I suppose it’s inevitable, though. She’s our common factor, after all. In fact, it’s a miracle we’ve only started talking about her now.

“Did you read about what happened to her?” I ask him, putting down my glass but keeping my fingers around it.

“Yes.” He taps his fingers on the table. “It’s unfortunate, really, that she had to die that way – in such a ghastly manner.”

“I didn’t look at the pictures.”

“Oh. Well, it’s good you didn’t. I shouldn’t have. They haunt me sometimes.”

I imagine they would.

“When they do, I sometimes feel sorry for her but then, you know, she brought it upon herself.”

I stroke the glass. “I know.”

Like Lindsey said, my mother had the choice to rise above the circumstances or sink lower and unfortunately, she chose the latter.

“She should have known better than to go out with some four-eyed nerd. They’ve got issues, you know. Insecurities.”

I pause, my fingers tightening around the glass.

Health nut?

While I didn’t look at the pictures, I did read the article, which said my mother’s killer was Bernard Peters, who was an engineer. There wasn’t anything about him wearing glasses, though, or being a nerd.

Was there?

Chapter 16

Grant

“What are you doing?” I ask Abby as I enter her office, puzzled by the sheets of paper scattered all around her.

When she got out of bed earlier, I thought she was just going to the kitchen to grab a midnight snack or a glass of water. When she didn’t come back after ten minutes, I went to look for her, confused when I didn’t find her in the kitchen. I searched the house, eventually finding her in her office.

“I thought I told you to take a break from work.” I walk toward her. “You need your rest, Abby. The baby is more important.”

“This isn’t work,” she answers, not even looking up from the papers.

Sighing, I kneel and pick up one of them, surprised when I find that it’s a printed news article about the death of Cristina Gomez, her mother. I pick up another, and it’s the same story but by a different writer from a different website. So is the next and the next and the next, some of them with gruesome pictures, the only exception a print-out about a man named Bernard Peters.

I frown. “What’s going on, Abby?”

She doesn’t answer, reading an article.

“Abby.” I grab her arm. “What’s going on here?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she finally answers. “Something was bothering me.”

“What?”

“Something about my mother’s death.”

I frown. “I knew you shouldn’t have had dinner with Dennis. You’re not supposed to get upset.”

“I’m not upset,” she tells me, wrenching her arm away and going through another article. “I’m… confused, troubled.”

“Of course, you’d be troubled. These are pictures of bloody corpses.”

“It’s not that that troubles me. It’s something that’s missing.”

“Missing?”

“Dennis said he read about my mother’s death and then he said something about her boyfriend, the one who supposedly killed her and then killed himself, being a four-eyed nerd. But there’s nothing in the articles about that.”

“What?” My eyebrows furrow. “Are you playing detective now?”

She doesn’t answer, getting back to reading.

I sigh. “Abby, the article Dennis read could have been taken down, okay?”

Still, no answer.

“What? Are you saying Dennis had something to do with your mother’s death? I thought after he walked out the door, he never contacted any of you again.”

“I thought so, too. I’m not saying they had any contact. I’m really just trying to figure out why Dennis said what he said. If you look at the pictures of Bernard, he isn’t wearing glasses.”

“You can hardly see his face, Abby,” I point out.

“I can see that he’s not wearing glasses.”

“Maybe Dennis just made that comment for no reason.”

“He sounded spiteful, though.”

I sigh. “Go back to bed, Abby.”

“I’m not sleepy.”

“Abby.”

She stands up, her gaze pleading with mine. “I’m sorry, Grant. I just have to get this bee out of my bonnet, you know. I told the cops not to investigate my mother’s death because I was convinced that it was simple. I already knew how my mother acted around men so everything fit. But what if it wasn’t simple? What if something else happened, and I just didn’t want it to see it because I was hurting?”

I pull her into my arms. “Of course, you were hurting. You lost your mother.”

“I have to find out how, Grant,” she whispers against my chest. “I just have to.”

“I know.” I kiss the top of her head. “Go to bed. I’ll have someone investigate it – a professional who isn’t pregnant.”

She looks up at me with a frown. “Did you just insult me?”

“No. I’m helping you.”

“Who’s going to investigate, though? Roger isn’t here.”

She’s right. Roger is currently in London. He’s not the only one capable of investigating something like this, though.

“I know someone.”

***

“You want me to investigate a woman’s death?” Cassie casts me a puzzled glance from the driver’s seat of her Subaru Forester.

Cassandra Hall or Cassie, as I like to call her, is a private detective, one recommended to me by Roger’s friend. Sometimes, I ask her to gather information for me, usually about women. She was even the one who put together that file on Abby.

This is usually how we meet so people won’t know about us – in her car parked somewhere out of sight and surveillance.

“What? Are you into dead women now?” she teases, sucking on the lollipop in her hand.

She’s always been sassy. That’s one of the things I like about her. I have to say she’s hot, too, with that hair of hers that’s a different color each time I see her – pink this time – and her slender figure that reminds me of a gymnast’s. I’ve never fucked her, though. I can’t say I never wanted to but I’ve never tried. I don’t know. Maybe I just don’t want to mess with her.

“I’m interested in this one,” I tell her. “Because she’s the mother of my pregnant girlfriend.”

“Congratulations.”

She pops the lollipop inside her mouth and gets the folder from my hand, going through the papers inside, which are some of the articles that Abby printed.

When she’s done, she tosses the folder into the backseat.

“This will take more work.” She leans against the back of her seat, placing her arms around the headrest. “You need to pay me a little more.”

“Of course,” I assure her. “I’m especially interested in finding out if a man named Dennis Cooper is involved.”

“Dennis Cooper,” she repeats.

“He currently works in the marketing department of Parsons Entertainment.”

Cassie nods. “Sure.”

“And I need this as soon as possible.”

“Got it.”

I get out of her car, looking around before getting into mine. As I drive away, I let out a sigh. At least, that’s done. Hopefully, Cassie can get answers soon before Abby gets worn out from thinking too much and hopefully, they’re the answers Abby needs. I’m starting to get worried about her and the baby.

After a few minutes, my phone rings. I pick it up, looking at the screen.

Lindsey?

Why is Lindsey calling?

I press the button to answer the call. “Hello.”

“Hey, Grant. Is Abby with you? She was supposed to meet me but she suddenly canceled, saying she had something important to do. She didn’t say what, though, and I’ve been trying to call her but she’s not answering.”

I stop the car near the curb. “What?”

“I know she could just be shopping or, you know, trying to relax but I just can’t help but worry. Is she with you?”

“No.”

But I have a feeling I know what she’s gone to do.

Fuck.

“Grant?”

“I’ll call you back,” I tell her, ending the call and making another as I continue driving.

“Forgot something?” Cassie answers at once.

“Get me the address of Dennis Cooper’s apartment here in New York now. I don’t care what it costs.”

“Okay.”

I don’t even care if I have to give Cassie a million dollars. Right now, Abby’s safety is my utmost priority.

I have to get to her as soon as possible.

Don’t do anything stupid, Abby.

Chapter 17

Abby

This is either very stupid or very brave, I think, as I look around Dennis’ Brooklyn apartment.

How did I get here? I asked Dennis if I could come, saying that I wanted to see his place and to have another talk – a sequel to the catch-up dinner we had. He was more than happy to give me directions and so here I am.

Why am I here? I’m here to find answers to my questions, of course. I know Grant hired a private investigator who’s probably ten times more competent than I am but I just can’t wait to know the truth and put my mind at ease.

Even if it means putting yourself and your baby in danger?

I know it’s risky but I’ve promised I’ll be careful. I even brought a small can of pepper spray that I have in the back pocket of my pants, though I hope I don’t have to use it. Who knows? I might find something here in the apartment right now while Dennis is out buying pizza.

I start searching, beginning with the drawer of the nightstand in his bedroom. I don’t really know what I’m looking for. A bloody shirt? A matchbox with the name of the motel where my mother was killed that puts him at the scene of the crime? Something tells me I’ll know it when I find it.

Well, it’s not in this drawer, which only has a bunch of receipts, some change, a pack of chewing gum, and a cell phone charger.

I move to the other drawers in the room, frowning when I find nothing but clothes. I search the closet and under the bed, doing so as fast as I can in my condition, but there’s nothing there, either.

Where else do I look? Under the pillow? In the bookshelf?

Still, I find nothing.

I sigh. Maybe I should just give up and leave it to the investigator to find the answers I’m looking for?

That’s what I’m planning to do but suddenly, I feel the need to go to the bathroom, which has been happening frequently lately – normal for a pregnant woman, I’m told. I go there, washing my hands after I flush the toilet. As I do, I find myself staring at the mirror and something occurs to me.

Medicine cabinet.

Some people keep their secrets in their medicine cabinets.

I open it, finding a lot of stuff inside – cotton balls, bandages, antiseptics, facial products, pill bottles, the usual.

Yup. Just an ordinary medicine cabinet with no secrets. Or so I think until I notice something strange with one of the orange pill bottles – it doesn’t look like it has pills inside.

What is inside?

I take the bottle, managing to twist the lid open after several tries. I pop its contents into my hand to find a necklace inside. Not just any necklace. My mother’s necklace that she wore the day she married Dennis, a present from him. She always wore it, even after Dennis left, and when I asked her why, she simply said it was hers, not his, and that she had grown used to having it around her neck.

Come to think of it, I didn’t notice if she was wearing it at her funeral. Then again, I didn’t really look at her coffin and even when I was, my thoughts were far away.

Why does Dennis have it?

I hold the necklace with the gold chain and the gold heart pendant up, examining it closely just to make sure it is the same as my mother’s. I know the pendant of my mother’s necklace had two smaller hearts engraved at the back.

I gasp, finding the hearts there.

It is my mother’s necklace.

That’s not all I find, though, also finding one of the tiny hearts stained red.

Blood.

Shocked, I drop the necklace, which clatters as it falls to the tiled floor.

So, Dennis did see my mother again. Worse, he was there the day my mother died. And there’s a good chance he…

“Abby?”

Oh, shit. Dennis is back.

My heart pounding, I scramble to pick up the necklace.

“Abby? I got a pepperoni pizza. I seem to remember you liked it.”

I slip the necklace inside the pocket of my pants then hurriedly put the lid back on the now-empty pill bottle, shoving it back into the medicine cabinet before pushing the door shut.

“Abby?”

I open the door, trying my best to stay calm when I see him standing just a few feet away.

“Sorry.” I try to keep my voice from shaking. “I just needed to go to the bathroom. You know, bladder issues.”

“Oh.”

Does he suspect anything? Can he see how nervous I am? I don’t know. I just walk past him, heading to the kitchen.

Act normal, Abby.

I open the box of pizza and inhale the aroma. “Mmm. Pepperoni.”

Dennis just stands there, staring at me.

“What?” I ask him.

His eyes narrow. “What do you have in your pocket?”

I freeze. Did he notice?

Calm down, Abby.

“You mean this?” I take the can of pepper spray out. “I take it with me wherever I go, you know, as a weapon of self-defense.”

Really?

“You know, against muggers and thugs out there. I mean, this is New York.”

He grabs the can, glancing at the label before throwing it into the trash can.

Great. Now, I don’t have anything to defend myself with.

“Now, hand the necklace over.” Dennis extends his arm.

“What necklace?”

Dennis chuckles. “You can’t fool me, Abby. I’ve always known if you were hiding something, whether it’s the cookie you got from the jar or a present you were making for your mother or a bruise from being pushed down the stairs at school.”

Shit.

“Now, hand me the necklace.”

“No.” I shake my head.

Even if I give him the necklace, I’m sure he’s not going to let me go. And if I do give it to him, then it’s over. I have nothing.

“Abby.”

“It’s mine,” I tell him. “It belonged to my mother, so now it belongs to me.”

“It wasn’t hers. It belongs to me.”

“You gave it to her, remember?”

“Which means I can take it back.” He takes a step forward. “Give it to me, Abby.”

I take a step back, panicking as I realize the sink is right behind me.

I have nowhere to go.

My fear rises as Dennis grabs a knife. “I don’t want to hurt you, Abby, but I will if you don’t give me the necklace.”

Shit.

Calm down, Abby. Think.

“Why did you kill her, Dennis?” I ask him, hoping to distract him. “Why did you kill my mother?”

He laughs but at least, he lowers the knife. “Fine. I’ll tell you why since you figured it out, though that also means I’ll have to kill you, but not before I get a fortune from your rich boyfriend. I wonder how much he’ll pay to get you and your baby back.”

I suppress a shudder. “Why?”

He shrugs. “Wrong place, wrong time? I was in that motel, too, you see, and I saw her. I hadn’t had a woman in a long time so I thought I’d go have some fun with her. She was still my wife, after all.”

“You left her,” I remind him. “You had no right to call yourself her husband.”

“But she was still wearing that necklace. Plus, the moment I saw her, I just missed her. I suddenly wanted her back, you know.”

My hands clench into fists. “How dare you.”

He ignores me. “So, I went to her room and would you believe she had the gall to try and throw me out, saying she was done with me?”

“She only did what was right.”

“Maybe, but I was pissed. So, I killed her with that Swiss knife I saw on the table then took the necklace. And when her boyfriend came out of the bathroom, I killed him, too, but made it look like he killed her first and then himself. I didn’t like him. I took something from him, too, you know.”

“His glasses.”

Dennis shakes a finger at me. “You’ve always been smart. I took his glasses, crushed them and threw them away somewhere.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t like them.”

I square my shoulders. “You’re not going to get away with what you did, Dennis.”

“Ah, but I already have and if I’m correct, you helped, right? You didn’t want any further investigation.”

Sadly, he’s right. I did help him get away, which means it’s my duty to help put him away. I have to get justice for my mother’s death.

I have to escape. But how?

“The necklace, Abby.” Dennis extends his hand again.

I take it out slowly.

“Good girl.”

I pretend to hand it over but at the last second, I grab the plate behind me, throwing it at his head.

“Fuck!”

While he’s distracted, I run to the door. I can’t run that fast, though, and Dennis catches up to me, pulling me by the hair.

Shit.

At that moment, the door crashes down on the floor, Grant standing where it used to be with a gun in his hand.

“Grant!” Relief wells in my chest, though it vanishes as Dennis pulls me close to him, holding the knife in his hand against my neck.

“Let Abby go,” Grant demands, pointing the gun at Dennis.

“Drop the gun or she dies,” Dennis threatens.

Grant doesn’t move.

“Drop the gun,” Dennis orders impatiently, lowering the knife so that it’s against my belly.

No. Not my baby.

Grant raises his hands, kneeling slowly to put his gun down.

I can’t breathe. One way or another, I feel like someone is going to get hurt.

This is all my fault.

“Good,” Dennis says when the gun is on the floor. “Now—”

With one quick motion, Grant grabs Dennis’ hand that is holding the knife, twisting his arm. I run to the doorway but watch fearfully as they fight. Dennis kicks Grant’s leg to free his arm.

“Fuck,” Grant mutters.

I place my hand over my heart. “Grant!”

Dennis tries to cut him with the knife. Grant evades the first few attempts but the fourth succeeds, leaving him with a gash on his arm.

“No!”

Oh, where is Roger when we need him the most?

I glance at the gun on the floor. Should I get it?

But if I do, I’ll be close to them again. What if Dennis cuts me instead? What if he hurts me or my baby?

Suddenly, as Dennis lifts the knife to cut Grant again, Grant crouches, kicking Dennis off his feet. As Dennis falls, Grant grabs the gun, pointing it at him.

Quickly, Dennis throws away the knife, his expression changing.

“Please don’t kill me. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone, I swear.”

Grant’s expression, however, doesn’t soften. “I don’t care. You tried to hurt my family. There’s no forgiveness for that.”

He cocks the gun.

Wait. Is he going to kill Dennis?

“Don’t kill him, Grant,” I tell him.

As much as I want Dennis dead, I don’t want his blood on Grant’s hands. I don’t want any more bloodshed.

“He’s not worth it,” I add.

For a moment, Grant doesn’t move. I hold my breath, fearing that at any second, the gun will off. It doesn’t, though.

“Abby, call the cops,” he tells me without taking his eyes off Dennis.

I obey, grabbing my purse that I set down on the couch and fishing out my phone from inside it, calling 911.

“9-1-1. What’s your emergency?”

“Hello. My name is Abby Gomez.” I glance at Dennis and take a deep breath. “I’d like to report an attempted murder and a murder.”

***

The cops arrive after ten minutes, dragging Dennis away. I hand them the necklace, too, telling them that it’s evidence he murdered my mother.

After they leave, I throw myself into Grant’s arms. My heart is still pounding, my hands still slightly shaking but I’m glad everything’s over. I’m glad Grant, my baby, and I are safe.

“Are you all right, Abby?” Grant lifts my chin.

I nod. “I’m sorry I investigated on my own even though you told me not to. I put our baby’s life in danger. I’m so sorry.”

“Shh.” He wraps his arms around me. “It’s fine now. At least, you were able to get your answers. Now, you can finally have some peace of mind and move on.”

“Finally.”

“And more importantly, you’re safe. Our baby is safe.”

I touch his arm. “But you’re hurt.”

“It’s just a gash,” he says.

“I didn’t know you knew how to fight.”

“Roger taught me.”

I smile. “Good. For a moment there, I was afraid I was going to lose you.”

“Me, too,” Grant admits, hugging me. “I was afraid I’d lost you.” He places a hand on my belly. “And the baby.”

“I know.” I look at my belly. “Thank goodness our baby is all right and now that I know what happened to my mother, I can devote all my attention to him. Or her.”

It doesn’t matter if our baby is a boy or a girl. I just know that our baby will change my life and Grant’s, making us into better people and a better couple.

Frankly, that’s what I’m more excited for.

I place my hand over Grant’s so that we’re both touching my belly then I smile. “We can’t wait to meet you, Baby.”

Epilogue

Abby

Thirty-one weeks later…

“It’s a boy,” Dr. Norwood announces as he hands the baby I just delivered to the pediatrician, Dr. Sully. “Just as the ultrasound predicted.”

“Our dear Marius,” I say, my gaze following the baby.

My baby. Our baby.

“You were fantastic.” Grant plants a kiss on my forehead.

“I don’t feel fantastic,” I confess, feeling as if I’m already on the brink of passing out from exhaustion.

I swear giving birth is the hardest thing a woman can ever go through, just like Lindsey and Marjorie warned me.

All my exhaustion vanishes, though, as the nurse places Marius in my arms. He’s so tiny and yet he’s already filled my whole heart, the joy and the love that I feel for him so overwhelming that tears trickle down my cheeks.

“Hello, Marius. I’m your Mama. And I promise I will always take care of you.”

He doesn’t answer, of course, but that’s fine. I don’t need him to say anything or promise anything back. He has my love unconditionally.

“He has the same hair as you,” Grant says to me, stroking the top of Marius’ head gently.

“Would you like to hold him?” I ask.

Grant nods and as much as I want to hold Marius in my arms close to my heart forever, I hand him to his father, pride swelling inside me as I see Grant carrying our baby, his smile letting me know he feels just as happy and complete as I do.

Staring at the two men who are my life, I can ask for nothing more. These two men are my present and my future. The past no longer matters. It’s already so far behind.

As a family, we may still hurt each other. We may still make mistakes. But I just know that nothing will tear us apart.

I just know.

One Hot Daddy

*Amazon Top 20 Best-seller, 4.5 stars, 300 reviews!*

I want to shove her against the wall and fuck the innocence right out of her.

There's just one problem.

She interns for my company and we have a no fraternizing policy.

As a single dad, I don't have time to get wrapped up in scandal.

This is going to be... hard!

Imagine my shock, OK, desire, when I stumble upon her in the elevator where I live and find out she's just moved in.

I'm screwed!

I can't take it anymore. Her firm breasts, peeking out beneath her business suit. Her bright smile, greeting me, making me hard the minute she looks at me.

It's too much!

This is so wrong. And WTF was I thinking making a no-fraternizing policy?

Well, we know which head will win this battle. I've been wearing the good guy hat too long.

Fuck being Mr. Nice Guy. Nice guys finish last.

I'm going back to the old me. I'll show her what a real man is like.

I'm going to finish again, and again.

Chapter 1

Charlotte shuffled up the front steps of the downtown Manhattan office building wearing black, pointed shoes. She held her head high, her chin sure and firm, her eyes glazed with false confidence. After moving to New York City just a week before from her small, sleepy town in Ohio, she was beginning her first “adult” gig as an intern at Mad Music Magazine—MMM—a writing gig she’d coveted since she was a girl. Peeking at her figure in the side mirror of the building’s foyer, she inspected her taut, tight waist, her firm, rounded breasts, and her long, swirling brunette hair. If she hadn’t chosen to write about bands and music, she would have been welcomed as a groupie, unquestionably. But she felt herself to be too intelligent for that.

The rest of the interns were huddled, quivering, in the far corner of the MMM offices, wearing similar black business jackets and standing unsteadily in heels. Redheads, blondes, a few quirky gay guys wearing dark, thick glasses, all stood like deer in headlights, peering up at the woman who’d hired Charlotte. Maggie. The intern-organizer. The woman who’d half-bragged about her outrageous party days in her twenties, when she hadn’t thought for a moment about taking a job in any office like this. Not until Quentin McDonnell took over as editor, of course. That’s when Maggie had known the magazine was going to take a turn. That’s when she knew the street cred would shine. Of course, Quentin wasn’t who he was when Maggie had first known him. He was grown up. Older. Responsible. No longer the rock star he’d been before he’d become editor.

Quentin McDonnell had been editor of MMM for the previous two years and had virtually revamped the magazine, giving it back to musicians and artists, moving away from supporting top-tier labels and other “moneymakers.”

“Man, fuck those guys,” Quentin had been quoted as saying, ten years before. And he’d stuck by this statement, obviously.

Charlotte slipped in line beside a redhead named Pamela, gripping her notebook tightly against her breasts. Maggie took attendance with sharp jolts of her pen across a white sheet of paper, her eyes piercing across the top of their heads. Charlotte leaned quickly, rabbit-like, toward Pam.

“Have you seen him yet?” Charlotte asked.

Pam shook her head lightly, not allowing her eyes to sway from Maggie’s gaze. “Haven’t spotted him. Think he’s in his office. Had a meeting with a band this morning. The Morning Stars.”

“Shit. They’re huge,” Charlotte murmured, impressed. “Of course, he collaborated with them, back in the early ‘00s. Must be how he knows them.”

“Right,” Pam said, her eyes dancing, as if she were pretending to know this.

Charlotte had been studying Quentin McDonnell for several years, since she’d been a ragtag teenager and constant listener to his grunge rock band, Orpheus Arise. Back then, he’d been a drug-addled sex-addict, with long, black, scraggly hair, taut muscles, and wild, black eyes. He’d had those kissable, pink lips, hidden there against his dark black beard. He’d been anxious, destructive, dominant, going through every model, female rock star, and actress throughout the ‘00s. Charlotte had followed his every move, becoming a kind of fan girl, obsessing over his hot body and his clearly tormented mind.

“All right,” Maggie, the intern organizer said, scratching the last mark on her attendance sheet. “Ladies. Gents. I’d like to take you into the office and show you your desks. Several of you are social media, and you’ll be working together, while the rest of you are up-and-coming writers with aspirations to become actual music journalists. Quite an aspiration. I’ve been there, myself. And look where I stand today.” She gave them a little smirk, obviously confident.

Charlotte’s face twitched with a brief feeling of jealousy. Becoming a writer intern at a music magazine meant she was a badass writer, sure. But it didn’t necessarily mean she’d “make it” in the industry. You had to have balls. You had to have gumption. And, quite often, people from Ohio just weren’t born with all that. They were born with shy sensibilities and too many bright, white teeth.

Maggie ushered the interns into a side room, telling them she needed to take a pause and leave them for a few minutes. She gestured wildly, saying, “Talk amongst yourselves, now. Make friends. Don’t be shy.” She winked and then scurried out into the larger office, walking with abrupt movements and tossing her hands back as she walked.

“Well, well,” said a particularly flamboyant, blond-haired intern who had introduced himself as Randy, off to Charlotte’s side. “I know we’re all thinking the same thing. Where’s the man of the hour? Mr. Quentin McDonnell himself?”

The interns all tittered, eyeing the door. The flamboyant intern continued, his voice rising. “I mean, we all got into music at around the time he was a fucking rock god. I certainly had my first little boy wet dreams about him, as a teenager. Oh, boy. Good days.”

“He’s even hotter now,” one of the interns piped up. “He doesn’t do drugs anymore. Hardly drinks, I hear. And takes good care of himself. He’s a hunk if I ever saw one. But he still exudes cool.”

“You saw him?” another girl asked.

“Sure. When I came in for my interview, he was having a meeting with Maggie. Maggie said something about sleeping with him, a long time ago. But I keep staring at her, wondering. She can’t have been hot back then. She’s certainly not anything to look at now.”

“Well, she’s his age. I don’t think it’s too far outside of reality,” another girl said saucily. “Besides, I don’t think Quentin cared back then what his girls looked like. He was set on fucking them, regardless.”

“I wish he was still like that,” Randy said loudly, laughing. “I’d do anything to wake up in bed with him. The famous Quentin McDonnell.”

The group sighed collectively. Charlotte’s heart ached with jealousy, knowing, now, that the other interns felt the same as she. But who was she kidding? It wasn’t as if Quentin would take a single notice of her. Perhaps if she’d been twenty-four when he’d been an addled, crazed rock star…

“Don’t even think about it,” Pam said, her voice tart. “There’s a strict no-fraternization policy. Didn’t any of you read the handbook before you came in? He’s got a daughter now. I think it’s frankly disgusting to speak of him this way.”

“So, you’re just here to work?” another girl asked, snorting loudly.

Several of the other interns joined in laughter, taunting Pam. Pam lifted her chin, pointing her nose toward the door and obviously praying for Maggie to save her.

Suddenly, Maggie reappeared in the main office with Quentin McDonnell himself beside her, speaking quietly and conspiratorially on the other side of the glass. Immediately, Charlotte’s throat clenched. Hunting for oxygen, her tongue tipped against the top of her mouth, making it difficult for her to breathe. He was the most handsome man she’d seen in her life, taking the outrageous gruffness of his earlier years and marrying them with a sophisticated, editorial look, with horn-rimmed glasses and salt and pepper hair. His muscles were thick, curved beneath his immaculate, gray suit, and his pink lips were just as kissable as they’d been ten years before—when he’d haunted Charlotte’s sexual dreams.

“Jesus Christ,” someone whispered. “A no-fraternization rule? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Suddenly, Maggie beckoned toward the team of interns, mouthing the words, “Lunch! Go to lunch!”

They hadn’t been at work for more than twenty minutes, making them confused—yet eager to feel comfortable again.

“She must not have time for us right now,” someone joked as they churned from the intern office, bounding back toward the elevator. One by one, they passed both Maggie and Quentin, who were bent over the spread of a future print of the magazine.

Charlotte hung back, allowing herself to be one of the last to pass by Maggie and Quentin. Her eyes turned toward Quentin. Her hips shimmied from left to right, articulating her curves, her femininity. She knew what she was doing; it had become automatic. Quentin looked up from his spread, making intense, immediate eye contact with Charlotte.

The tension around them grew immensely, causing Charlotte to panic and drop her notebook onto the ground. The notebook smacked, bringing heads back toward the scene, as if they were watching a car crash. Her face burning, she knelt quickly, retrieving it, and feeling the stern eyes of the rock-star-turned-editor on her ass.

He’d noticed her.

She lifted the notebook quickly, spinning back and hiding her ass, blinking wildly into his dark eyes. Her tongue searched for words of apology, words that would tell him that she was sorry for interrupting his meeting. But seconds ticked along, with both of them holding the intense eye contact. Neither formed words.

Perturbed, Maggie took a dramatic step back, dropping her hands to her sides. “Didn’t I say interns go to lunch now?” she asked, obviously forgetting Charlotte’s name. She was still new, nameless, and unimportant. But she still held court for the editor. At least in that moment, he only had eyes for her.

“Wait a moment,” Quentin said firmly. His voice was provocative, dominant, powerful. Maggie pressed her lips together, clearly frightened. He continued to stare at Charlotte, his eyes glossing over her frame.

In this moment, Charlotte felt like one of his groupies from ten years before, when he’d ransacked the bodies of teenage and twenty-something beauties all over the country. His penetrating gaze made her feel suddenly sexually charged.

Charlotte still didn’t speak. The tension mounted, with Maggie and Charlotte sitting in wait, holding their tongues.

Finally, Quentin removed his horn-rimmed glasses, shaking his ear-length, salt and pepper hair. “Who on earth are you?” he finally asked, as if she should have told him already. As if, all along, he’d been waiting for her.

“Charlotte,” she answered, her voice a whisper. Why did his gaze make her cower? Why did she feel exactly five inches tall? “Charlotte Barracks. I’m an intern. First day.”

Silence hung between them, then, with Quentin towering over her, making her feel weaker by the second. One of the other interns, a man, piped up from behind them. “We’re all new interns,” he said, his voice taking on false confidence. He’d probably read somewhere that he was meant to make an impression on the first day.

But Quentin’s eyes didn’t waver from Charlotte’s face. Nobody else in the room existed. Not when Maggie began to introduce some of the interns whose names she remembered, trying to act excited, attempting to yank Quentin’s attention back to her. Not when the rock stars he’d been interviewing poked their heads from the side office, asking if they might grab a cup of coffee.

Instead, Quentin found words. “Where do you come from? You’re clearly not from around here.”

“New York, you mean?” Charlotte asked, wondering if he was poking fun at her. Was it so obvious that she wasn’t from the East Coast? Did her cheeks shine with Midwestern sun? “No. I’m from Ohio.”

“Oh-HI-oh,” he whispered, his voice gruff. “I have a few good stories from there. And some I even remember.”

The band, now stationed behind him, began to titter with laughter. Charlotte swallowed harshly, remembering reading about the many orgies Quentin had had as a rock star. She’d read that article in the very magazine they were both now working for, something like a million years before. God, how times had changed. And, God, how she wanted him to splay her over a table and make love to her—or just fuck her, in the way of his ten-years-ago rock star self.

“My experience was a bit more wholesome than that,” Charlotte finally answered, her voice catching in her throat.

“And now you think you’re going to make it in the big, wide world, do you? First, this magazine, then eternity?” he asked, crossing his arms firmly across his chest. His eyes danced. He no longer appeared like the fatherly, nice-guy-editor. He was now all hard edges and bright eyes and bad boy arrogance.

“It’s been my dream to work here my entire life,” she answered softly.

“Well,” he said, scoffing slightly, raising the tension. “We’ll see how you do here, then.”

He said it as if he expected her to fail. Sensing the mounting tension, Maggie burst between them, raising her magazine spreads like a curtain. “Quentin, we really need your approval on this spread before we go to print. Can you just let the girl go to lunch with the others?”

She said it in a half-laugh, poking fun of his sexual nature. Charlotte took the opportunity to spin around, joining the pack of other interns in the corner. Her cheeks heated with embarrassment and panic. Randy’s eyebrows went high with pity. He wrapped his arm around her quivering shoulders and led her into the elevator.

“He made an example out of you,” he whispered in her ear. “Don’t worry about it. And don’t think about it a minute longer. You were hired because you’re a good writer. You were hired because you’re worthy. And he’s an arrogant bad boy. Everyone knows that, from way back in his early days. And just because I said that thing about wanting to wake up in his bed, doesn’t mean I don’t know it wouldn’t be a horrible thing for my self-esteem. As it would be for you.” He winked.

The elevator began to close, creating a firm barrier between Charlotte and Quentin, who still stood talking to Maggie. Just before the elevator door closed, his eyes snapped back up toward Charlotte, causing a chill to jolt up and down her spine.

“Jesus. That was intense,” Charlotte murmured, swiping light beads of sweat from her hairline. She couldn’t snap the image of the sexy editor from her mind.

“Let’s get you something to eat,” Randy said, laughing. “You’ll shake this in no time, flat.” The rest of the interns began to titter with light laughter and chit-chat, leaving Charlotte to her reverie.

She couldn’t have imagined such an explosive first encounter. She now understood the life of a groupie—a life she craved.

“Ah, girl. I see what you’re thinking about,” Randy said, laughing now as they scampered out on to the sidewalk. “But remember. There’s a no-fraternization rule. Not with your boss. You don’t want to fuck up your first internship.”

“Ha,” Charlotte said, kicking her head back. “I would never screw up this opportunity. It’s not like he even remembers me, anyway.”

Randy flipped on his sunglasses, cackling wildly. “That’s the spirit, my girl. I think you might just be grown up enough for New York, yet.”

Chapter 2

Quentin entered his office once more, splaying the magazine spread atop the mahogany desk. The Morning Stars were still there, with two of them rolling cigarettes and seated in expensive office chairs. Their jeans stunk of alcohol and marijuana, the two most essential things from Quentin’s old, rock star life.

“Great,” Quentin said, his eyes snapping past each of their faces. “I think we have a good interview here.”

“We really need good sales for this new record,” Mark, the lead singer, began. “People don’t buy CDs like they used to, when you were in the business. It’s fucking tough to get by.”

“I’ve seen the sales,” Quentin said, his voice booming. “But you’re making it up in concert tickets, aren’t you? That Brooklyn crowd is probably as hot as ever, these days.”

“These fucking girls, man,” Connor, the guitarist, said. “Dude, you remember, what was it, ten years ago? When we were playing that show in Queens and you were on MDMA? You grabbed that girl in the front row, lifted her onto the stage, and just started making out with her in the middle of the song. You missed the second and third verses, and the chorus. But the band had your back, just improvising until you let her go.”

A mad smile stretched over Quentin’s face in memory. He remembered the stink of that girl, how she’d pressed her lips onto his and lifted her legs around his waist. That had been before so many things had changed in his life. That had been before he’d gotten “serious.”

“That was around when you got that tat. Of your girlfriend at the time, that model from Paris,” Connor said, leaning closer. As he did, Quentin could see how rough the years on the road had been to him, aging him horribly, and causing tight lines to form between his eyebrows. The Morning Stars hadn’t had to give up on the party. They hadn’t had to go home. And they were destroying themselves, becoming assholes in their mid-thirties who still did lines of coke before shows and hooked up with girls in their late teens.

“I still have it, of course,” Quentin said gruffly, lifting his bicep. He swept his suit jacket from his shoulders and rolled up his white button-up, revealing several black inks on his forearm, all the way up to the big-titted woman on his upper bicep. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t remember her name, now.”

“She probably doesn’t have those tits anymore, that’s for sure,” Mark said, laughing. “Good thing you got them inked to you forever. For the memories.”

“For the memories. That’s all I live for now, boys,” Quentin said, tipping back in his chair.

“Right. You’ve got that kid, now,” their drummer, Will, scoffed. “Cute little thing.”

“Yeah. Yeah, she definitely changed my life more than the others. That’s for sure,” Quentin said, snapping out of his reverie. He rolled his sleeve back down and slid his arms into his suit jacket, ready to send the boys home. “Well, thanks for this interview. Sure is nice to see you guys.”

He didn’t sound the least bit sincere, and he knew it. He swept his hand out and shook theirs, making momentary eye contact with each of the men before him. The men of his past; the men who’d picked him up from bathroom floors, coated in cocaine and other, unknown drugs, and plugged him up with alcohol and watched him make drunken mistake after drunken mistake.

“And that little intern we saw out in the main office—“ Connor said then, making deep eye contact with Quentin before snapping his eye in a wink. “Don’t suppose you have big plans for her?”

“Oh. Charlotte?” Quentin said, sounding blasé. “She’s a kid. You saw her.”

“I did,” Connor said, his words filled with meaning. “And I know exactly what the old Quentin would have done with her.”

The Morning Stars left, then, leaving Quentin to brood, with the blinds closing him off from the rest of the office. He sat back in his chair, knocking his feet up onto the desk and pressing the back of a pen against his lips. His mind raced back to an image of Charlotte, bending down to retrieve her notebook. His member pressed against his pant leg, becoming insistent.

God, that ass. The curvature of it, dipping out from beneath her little business dress. Her thin, stick-like legs had been reminiscent of any groupie from his former band days, ones that had wrapped around his waist countless times as he’d fucked them from above—almost never remembering their faces, nor their names. Seeing Charlotte out there had forced him through countless memories, gorgeous ones.

But no. God, no. He wasn’t that person anymore. He’d stopped with the drugs. He’d stopped with the sex addiction. He’d gotten married, briefly, and they’d had his daughter, Morgan, seven years before—when he’d been twenty-nine years old. Sure, he hadn’t been ready to have a kid back then. Half-drugged, out of his mind, he’d blasted into the hospital room to find his large-breasted model wife stretched out on the bed, holding onto that tiny infant. Her eyes had bled red with anger. “You missed the birth of your daughter,” she’d hissed, no longer seeing him as the amazing rock star on stage, the lead singer of Orpheus Arise. In that moment, he was just a small, bruised little man who wasn’t there when his wife and daughter needed him most.

When he’d first held Morgan, he’d decided to change. For good.

But, Jesus, seeing someone like Charlotte forced him to reconsider.

He turned to the office roster on his computer, then, and found her name: Charlotte Barracks, interning in music writing. From western Ohio, near the Indiana border. Majored in writing and music in college, listed her top favorite bands in her résumé, and didn’t include his.

Digging a bit, Quentin typed her name into a search engine, discovering a photograph of her easily on a social media page. That stunning, angelic face peered back at him. She was an absolute knock-out and, best of all, didn’t even know it. She looked as if she’d been born and bred in the very shadows of Ohio cornfields, hidden from the world for over two decades. Naïve. Young. Fresh. Easily destroyed.

Insistent, his cock pulsed up against his pants once more. Slowly, methodically, he reached for his belt and undid it, unzipping his pants and wrapping his hand around his veiny, rock-hard member. He remembered getting naked on stage, over ten years before, and penetrating some raucous groupie in front of the drum kit, as fans watched nearby.

SEX-CRAZED ROCKER had been the headline. He remembered reading it, from this very magazine, before he’d known he’d be any kind of “suit” in an office. Before he knew he’d ever grow up. He’d loved the title, slicing the magazine pages out and hanging them in his shitty, studio apartment in Brooklyn.

As he thought back to these glory days, all the women in his memories transformed into the little Ohioan intern. He yanked his cock from his pants fully, now, and began to ease his palm up and down gruffly, imagining her lips wrapped around the tip. He imagined those bright red lips bobbing up and down, her eyes gazing up at him from between his legs. He would shove his cock deeper between her teeth, watching as she deep-throated him.

Shivering with lust, his eyes turned toward the clock. It was nearly three-fifteen in the afternoon. His phone began to blare with the alarm he set, always certain he’d be too caught up in writing to remember. Shocked, he dropped his cock, slipping it back into his pants and re-zipping, re-buttoning, re-clasping.

He had to pick up Morgan from piano lessons. It was his day. It was his turn.

Shaking his head gruffly, he stood, tapping his muscled ass to ensure he had his wallet and keys. He sent a brief email to Maggie, that poor, rough-looking thing, who—yes—he’d fucked ten years ago. She was a stunning writer, a real asset to his team at MMM. But she always brought up the issue of them once copulating, never considering that he’d been too addled on mushrooms at the time to know if she was an actual woman or just a figment of his unending imagination.

Had to pick up Morgan, he typed furiously for Maggie, already running a bit late. I’ll be back tomorrow morning, early, to approve the rest of the magazine spreads. Good luck with the interns. I know they drive you wild. He tapped send swiftly and forced his laptop closed, bolting for the door. He avoided Maggie’s glance before escaping to the elevator. He couldn’t afford the time she required, half-casually flirting with him.

The tension and jealousy she created was sometimes an assault to his office frame of mind. He certainly didn’t want to give her any cues that it could happen again, although he knew she wanted that. He could feel the simmer in her glances, sense the way she shoved her breasts upward when they spoke.

By the time he reached the sidewalk in front of the Manhattan office building, his brain was diluting itself from the hard day at the office, even allowing him a slight reprieve from thoughts of that hot intern, Charlotte. He was transitioning, now. For the next few hours, he would be a father. And damn, he’d be a good one.

Chapter 3

Morgan’s school was close to Quentin’s penthouse apartment on the Upper West Side, a place he’d been able to afford after he’d stopped cashing all his checks for drugs, cleaned up his act, and begun writing at MMM officially, at the age of thirty-one. The royalties for the music continued to roll in, graciously, like echoes from a near-forgotten time. And suddenly, at the age of thirty-six, he was a very rich man, with a Music Editor title and acclaim from several journalistic award groups.

He and Morgan’s mother, a once-model named Kate, had decided upon the school because of its commitment to music. Nearly every day, the kids had a music lesson, with piano, guitar, voice, and even some of the brass or woodwind instruments on offer. Morgan had decided upon piano, since Quentin had a large grand piano in his penthouse, and she’d grown up with him tinkering on it, writing songs and crooning.

“She’ll grow up to be just like her daddy,” Kate had said once, giggling as Morgan had practiced in the other room.

“You apparently don’t remember that isn’t a very promising thing to become,” Quentin had said, his words brimming with meaning.

Kate had rolled her eyes, her moods on a constant cycle. “Quentin, of course I remember what an asshole you were to me. And to her, too, before she could form memories. I was trying to say that she’s going to be a good musician, like you. That’s all.”

Quentin hadn’t responded. He’d maneuvered into the main room, watching as his tiny blonde daughter had banged away on the keys, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration. He’d clapped when she’d finished. She’d whirled from the keys into a dramatic bow, her bright blue dress swinging around her knees. Jesus Christ, he loved that girl.

When he reached the school, he waited, his hands flickering at his pocket, searching for a cigarette that was no longer there. He’d given up the habit when Morgan had been an infant, knowing that the fumes and the preservatives and the smoke would ruin her tiny pink lungs. He’d wanted to give her a chance.

Morgan bounded from the school moments later, her backpack bouncing at her spine, half-unzipped. Her blond hair flung back behind her, tangled and vibrant, her eyes glittering. She wrapped her thin arms around her dad’s waist, hugging him with unlimited passion—like a wild animal, bounding from the forest.

“Daddy,” she said, whispering. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Hi, baby,” he answered, leaning down and brushing her hair behind her ears in a delicate motion. “You’re looking ravishing today, I must say. Although it doesn’t look like your mom decided to brush your hair before you left.”

Morgan’s nose scrunched. “I didn’t want her to,” she said. “I screamed and cried until she stopped. And I’m sorry I did it.”

“Morgan,” Quentin sighed, rising up and taking her small hand in his. “You have to let your mom do this stuff.”

“But she brushes too hard,” Morgan insisted. “Not like you. You do it soft and easy. It never makes me cry.”

“Well, your mom cares about you. She always makes you look very pretty. Don’t you want to be pretty?”

“I don’t care,” Morgan said, sounding confident and cocky—so like Quentin as a kid. “I just want to be famous. And you can be famous doing almost anything, Dad. Trust me. Some people get famous just because they grow their fingernails out really, really long.”

“Ha. That’s true.”

“And you were famous. But not because you were beautiful,” Morgan said, blinking up at him. “Mom showed me some of the photos of you, when you were a famous rock star. You had long, tangled hair, too. And you were wild. Mom said you were nuts.”

“Did she?” Quentin said, his stomach turning over.

Quentin half-thought he should tell her some wild stories about her mother, but held them in.

“Mom’s boring,” Morgan said, swiping her toe against the sidewalk. “I can just tell.”

Quentin’s heart warmed for a moment, although he knew he’d have to set the record straight soon enough. He was a responsible, doting father, no longer that crazed, drugged fiend. He shuddered at the thought of his daughter falling down a similar path.

“Let’s grab ice cream,” he said, easing her toward the side street near the park, where they sold two-dollar cones. They stood in a short line before ordering one strawberry, one chocolate-vanilla swirl, and then walked slowly together back home, their tongues lolling against the iced treat. Each time Morgan licked hers, a dab of strawberry dotted her nose.

“I learned some new scales today,” Morgan told him, chatting companionably and filling space and time. “And I’m working on a Beethoven. I mean, it’s an easy Beethoven. One made for kids. But still.”

“That’s great, honey,” Quentin told her, whisking her into the safety of their apartment foyer. He nodded quickly to the doorman, Angus, who’d stood long hours at the door since Quentin had moved in three years before.

“Hi, Angus!” Morgan cried to him, between ice cream licks. “Only 162 days left of school!”

“Wow,” Angus said, his grin flashing brightly. “That’s not that many, now, is it?”

“I mean, it’s only September,” Morgan said, exasperated. “So, basically, we still have the whole year left.” She shrugged quickly, speaking like a know-it-all seven-year-old.

“I guess she’s got me,” Angus said, making eye contact with Quentin. “Ya’ll have a good evening, now. And study up for those next 162 days.” He winked.

“I’m going to practice tonight, Daddy,” Morgan said, chatting once more. “I have to be the best in my class. If Monica beats me at sight-reading next week, I’ll just die.”

“Somebody’s being dramatic,” Quentin said, laughing and ushering her down the side hallway toward the elevator. His heart brimmed in his chest, jolting with happiness.

He’d never imagined this kind of life for himself, certainly not in the throes of sexual or drugged passion. Certainly not when he pressed the heroin needle into his vein, nor when he took his eighteenth shot. But the simplicity of licking ice cream cones companionably with a little girl who looked surprisingly like him, with her spunk and love for him didn’t compare to any other thrill. Nothing on the planet.

Chapter 4

Charlotte’s best friend from college, Rachel, had moved out to New York City immediately after graduation. Charlotte had helped her pack, stretching duct tape over boxes and stacking them in Rachel’s rusty red caravan, which she’d sold immediately upon her arrival. In return, these four months later, in September, Rachel was helping Charlotte move into her temporary apartment. The difference, of course, was that she was accustomed to the city and had a million New Yorker complaints and bits of advice, unasked for, that were making Charlotte’s head spin.

“You really have to watch out for pickpockets in the subway,” Rachel said knowingly, hoisting a suitcase from the steps of the nearby stop, sweating lightly in her blue-striped business dress. “I know you’re not used to this stuff in Ohio. I was really shocked when I first moved out here and realized that everyone was out to get me, you know, if I wasn’t careful.”

Charlotte raised her eyebrows, faking shock. She’d read enough articles online about New York living that nothing shocked her. She steered the conversation from Rachel’s half-bragging about her four-month leap on Charlotte’s arrival, hoping to halt her annoyance at her friend.

“I’m so lucky my aunt left her apartment open,” she breathed. “I didn’t want to start a new job and hunt for apartments at the same time. I think it would have destroyed me.”

“You could have stayed on my couch for a bit longer,” Rachel said. “But we’re already pretty packed in as it is. Too bad you can’t stay in Brooklyn, though.”

“Yeah. I loved the bars around you. I’m going to come over there all the time,” Charlotte said, checking the map for her aunt’s apartment building. “Thanks for leaving work early to move me in, by the way. We had literally nothing to do today at the office.”

“Right. First day as an intern is always really weird,” Rachel said. “They don’t know you or trust you yet, so they just show you the coffee machine and give you some paperwork to sign. Pretty useless day.”

“You should see my boss.” Charlotte hoisted her backpack higher on her back, sliding the straps closer to her neck. “He’s the hottest person I’ve ever seen. I remember being a teenager and having a photo of him in my locker, when he was singer for Orpheus Arise.”

“My high school boyfriend really liked that band,” Rachel said. “He forced me to listen when he drove me anywhere. And he grew his hair really long, like that guy.”

“Right. That guy. Quentin McDonnell,” Charlotte said. “He’s my editor-in-chief. I can hardly look at him, he’s so attractive. And now he’s weirdly older, yet better looking. More muscular, less stringy and drugged out. And a dad, which is super hot to me. Ha.”

“Well, you might be in the right neighborhood for hot dads,” Rachel said, her eyes dancing around the Upper West Side. “Just in case you’ve already had your fill of Brooklyn hipsters. Oh, wait. You’d only be sick of them if you gave even one guy in your life a chance. But you hate dating. I get it.” Her voice was sarcastic, if playful.

Charlotte rolled her eyes. “You know I can’t date right now. I want to focus on this job. I have to make it at this magazine. They only offer a few people full-time writing gigs at the end.”

“And you’ll get it, Charlotte. You were the best writer at our university. It’s not like you’ll lose those skills, just because you’re in the big city now.”

“Just let me panic about this for a bit,” Charlotte said, easing her rolling suitcase to a halt in front of the high-rise apartment building. “Shit. This is it.”

“Wow,” Rachel breathed, gazing at her reflection in the wide windows of the foyer. “Your aunt lives here? Full time?”

“She married a doctor. He died and left her a ton of money, so she bought this place,” Charlotte said, shrugging. “But she spends half the year in Florida.”

“Why on earth would you go to Florida, when you could live here?” Rachel asked, exasperated. “I think I might crash with you, instead of the other way around. And you’re less than five minutes’ walk from the park. Damn, Charlotte. One of the best internships in the city, and this place. Most people don’t get this lucky.”

“Don’t be too jealous, yet,” Charlotte said, yanking the door open. “I only get it till March, at which point I’m sure I’ll be living in a shoebox in Queens. Just watch me. I’ll decline into nothingness in no time.”

“That’s the spirit,” Rachel said, giggling.

The elevator was at the other end of the hallway. Charlotte stabbed the UP button, her thoughts brimming with the events of the day. She’d started her internship at MMM, shown her hot boss the curvature of her ass like some office slut, and was now moving into her “own” apartment, already pre-furnished with top-tier interior design in mind. She shuddered, remembering the horrible doldrums of her last summer in Ohio, when she’d continued half-heartedly dating her ex-boyfriend from college, until she’d received the good news of the internship.

Finally, things were happening. Finally, the world was moving.

Inside the elevator, Charlotte pressed the button for her floor, brimming with excitement. But as the elevator doors began their natural close, a mad rush of feet sounded from the hall. Conscious that new neighbors wanted the elevator space, she brought her arm through the crack, holding it for them.

Suddenly, a man and a little girl, both holding dripping ice cream cones, appeared in front of them. The girl was vibrant, blonde, her smile crackling up at them and revealing that she’d recently lost a front tooth. Strawberry ice cream dripped from her nose.

And beside her stood a tall, muscled man, with dark hair down to his ears and horn-rimmed glasses hiding his dark eyes. His five-o-clock shadow covered his chin and high cheekbones. He looked smart, sophisticated, dominant.

Jesus. It was her editor. It was Quentin McDonnell.

Charlotte’s jaw dropped. The little girl hopped into the elevator, peering up at them. She giggled slightly, becoming a bright burst of energy as the elevator door closed behind the four of them, locking them in. “You guys sure have a lot of stuff.”

“She’s moving in here,” Rachel said, smiling and rolling her head toward Charlotte. Her eyes danced up to Quentin, who looked awestruck, like he’d seen a ghost.

“I’m Morgan. My daddy lives here,” Morgan said, gesturing to him. “And I live both here and down the road, with my mommy. We just got ice cream. You guys should try it. It’s absolutely the best.”

Charlotte’s eyes were centered on the ground, at her pointed, black shoes, feeling the embarrassment draw up from her stomach, through her neck, into her heated cheeks. She exhaled roughly, sensing Quentin’s eyes upon her. She felt under a microscope, analyzed from the front, rather than the back, this time.

Rachel and Morgan continued to chatter beside them, leaving Charlotte and Quentin in a kind of shell of silence, which brimmed with sexual tension and desire. Charlotte hadn’t been able to get this man out of her head since the morning. And now, he was her neighbor.

“Oh, wait. Which floor did you need?” Rachel asked, piping up and shattering the silence on the other end of the elevator.

“Nine,” Quentin said, his eyes dark and centered on Charlotte’s. “Looks like you’ve already pressed it.”

Chapter 5

Quentin watched his daughter nibble the last of her strawberry cone as the elevator swept past the second floor. He clung to his stupidly, recognizing that he looked like a fatigued dad, rather than a wayward, drugged, sexual musician. But with Charlotte’s angelic face before him, her pink lips pressed together expectantly, she reeked of inexperience.

“So, you’re helping move her in, then?” he asked the friend, instead of Charlotte. “That’s a kind move on your part.”

“Well, I owe her,” Rachel said, giving Quentin a bright, flirty smile. She wasn’t unattractive, with her bright red hair in curls down her shoulders. She had the same wholesome look as Charlotte. “She helped me pack up when I moved out here a while ago.”

“Just four months ago,” Charlotte piped up, her cheeks glowing with red. “Not that long, is what I mean.”

“Right,” Rachel said, rolling her eyes. “Well, I already feel like I’m becoming one of you.”

“The city gets into your blood pretty quickly,” Quentin said, speaking companionably. He eyed Charlotte tentatively, sensing his groin pulse up in his crotch. He could smell her. He felt wolf-like, a predator, zoning in on her. He’d scouted her without even trying. “Which apartment are you in?”

“Marcia. Marcia Barracks,” Charlotte whispered, her voice catching. “She’s my aunt. She goes to Florida every winter.”

Quentin nodded. “Morgan used to go there to water her plants in the wintertime.”

“That place smells weird. Like cats,” Morgan agreed.

Charlotte flashed a toothy grin at the young girl. She looked like she could inhale her tongue with nerves. Quentin craved making a woman feel this way. He’d watched them dive after him, during his shows around ten years before. He’d flaunted it, bragging about the women who’d done anything he asked.

And now, Charlotte was his employee, bound to do whatever he asked, regardless.

But that no-fraternization clause was there for a reason.

“I was just at piano lessons,” Morgan said, striking through his reverie. She lifted her backpack and drew out a whole book of songs she was practicing, flipping it toward Charlotte.

Charlotte grasped the book, her eyes glowing with recognition. “I used to have this very book when I was first playing,” she said quietly.

“You play?” Morgan asked, her voice high-pitched.

“I did. Until I was maybe eighteen,” Charlotte answered. “But then I focused on writing.”

“Kind of like Daddy,” Morgan said, gesturing wildly. “He used to be in a band or whatever, but now he just writes. Boring.”

Charlotte’s eyes flickered up toward Quentin as the elevator halted at the top floor, dinging the doors open. Quentin gave her a half smile before guiding his daughter into the hallway and tossing his half-eaten cone into the trash. Rachel and Charlotte walked out after them, yanking their suitcases along. This would be their release point. But something in Charlotte’s eyes forced his shoes on the ground, keeping him glued, towering over her. She bit her soft lip with white teeth, her eyes growing steamy, her eyelids heavy.

“Rachel, I suppose, I should introduce you,” Charlotte said suddenly.

Rachel’s eyes swept from Quentin back to her friend, looking quizzical. “You know each other?”

“Well, only sort of. We met today,” Quentin said. He swept his hand forward, taking control. “I’m Quentin McDonnell. Editor-in-Chief at MMM. Where Charlotte’s interning right now. Isn’t that right, Charlotte?”

“Had my first day today,” Charlotte breathed, her eyes turning down to the floor.

If Quentin didn’t know any better, he’d say that he could literally feel Charlotte’s heart jolting in her chest. She was like a rabbit, with a buzzing little heart—buzzing so hard it could go out at any moment, like a light bulb.

“Wow. And you were in that band,” Rachel said, pointing her finger rudely. “Orpheus Arise.”

“Yes,” Quentin said.

“Dad. I don’t want to talk about your band again,” Morgan whined from below, yanking at his hand. “And I’m starving.”

Quentin sniffed, turning his head toward his daughter. “Didn’t you just eat ice cream?”

“That’s not food, Dad,” Morgan said, her voice saucy. God, she was like her mother—a know-it-all, dressed up in a gorgeous little girl’s body. “Mom says I can’t eat sweets for dinner.”

“Does she, eh?” Quentin said, sensing Charlotte draw away from him. She turned back down the hall, toward her aunt’s apartment. She lifted the keys from her pocket, ready to scamper away. “All right, then. I suppose it’s time to say goodbye,” he said, bowing his head to both Rachel and Charlotte. “Say bye, Morgan.”

“Bye!” Morgan cried, before rushing the opposite direction down the hallway, toward their door. Quentin allowed his eyes to linger on Charlotte’s thin, taut body, on her breasts, and on that angelic, nervous face for a single moment more before turning, allowing the tension to release. He bounded down the hall, sensing the girls watching him from behind. He lifted his own keys from his pocket with a flourish, lifting his chin high and allowing a casual whistle to escape from between his lips.

He hadn’t felt this light, this young, in years. In his imagination, he spun back down the hallway and pressed Charlotte against the wall, pressing his mouth into her neck and inhaling the scent of her. He’d bang her throughout the night, until she cried out with a mix of pleasure and pain. He’d have no responsibility; he wouldn’t be forced to remember her name. He’d be gone from her life for good, after that, leaving only bruises. Leaving only scars in her heart.

But he wasn’t that man anymore. He couldn’t be.

Chapter 6

Charlotte’s anxious, shivering fingers slid the key into the door of her aunt’s apartment. Her ears rang with panic. When she opened the door, the scent of cats blasted over them, making Rachel cough. “Jesus. That kid wasn’t lying.”

“Ha.” Charlotte bounded into the apartment, trying to ignite her energy. She collapsed roughly on a cozy, flowered chair in the corner, blinking heavily around her as Rachel snipped the door closed. “Wow. That was fucking weird.”

“You’re shaken up, aren’t you?” Rachel asked, laughing. She walked toward the balcony, opening the door wide to rid the apartment of the stench. Leafing a lighter from her inner pocket, she lit a candle on the center table, fueling apple crisp flavor into the air. “You were just spewing all about how hot he was. How weird. It’s like you summoned him here.”

Charlotte’s heart continued to flutter. “I need a drink,” she whispered, boosting herself from the chair and marching to the liquor cabinet, which her aunt kept well-stocked. She leafed through the spirits, hunting through the gleaming glass bottles, before settling on a French red wine. The kitchen, tiny compared to the rest of the apartment, featured a large, antique cabinet, with a wine bottle opener situated on a rack at the top. She snuck it from its position, cranking the metal into the cork and popping it into the air.

“That’s a sound I like to hear!” Rachel cried from the far room before marching in, joining her. She slipped off her heels, revealing blistered feet beneath.

“Jesus, Rachel,” Charlotte said, pointing. “Your feet. They didn’t look like that in college.”

“I know,” Rachel said sadly, reaching over Charlotte and pouring herself a glass of wine. “It’s all the walking in this city. Sometimes I really miss my little red van. Remember all the good times we had in that thing?”

“You mean, when we were literally living in the middle of nowhere, Ohio?” Charlotte joked, joining Rachel in taking off her shoes. Her forehead relaxed; her shoulders slumped. “Boy. I’m going to have feet to match yours, soon.”

“Welcome to the club,” Rachel said, filling a second glass. The girls lifted their reds and clinked them, sipping languidly, their eyes closing. “Seriously,” Rachel continued, swiping the back of her hand across her lips. “I know I talk a lot of shit. I know I act all arrogant about New York. But really, my life is going to get one hundred percent better with you here.” She grabbed Charlotte’s slim hand with her free one. “And it will get two hundred percent better for you if you just have the balls to sleep with your boss.”

Charlotte’s eyes widened. She burst past Rachel and sped out to the balcony, her ears ringing with the words. Rachel joined her at the bannister, and the girls held their wine glasses over the balcony, their eyes turned toward the green of the park.

“I can’t sleep with him,” Charlotte murmured, her pussy clenching beneath her with need. Her heartbeat quickened, just considering it. “There’s a no-fraternization policy at work. And like my new friend, Randy, at work says, I can’t fuck that up, just by sleeping with a boss who will surely forget about me the minute he gets my panties down.”

“Girl, I’ve never seen anyone look at you that way. Definitely not your ex-boyfriend, that idiot Tyler. And not anyone else,” Rachel said.

“Well, me and Tyler were pretty fucked up from the beginning,” Charlotte said, sniffing, a smile drawing between her cheeks. “I was never that into it. But everyone else had a boyfriend. Remember?”

“Sure,” Rachel said, rolling her eyes. “I had that idiot from Calculus. What was his name?”

“Marcus. How could you forget?” Charlotte said, laughing. “You were literally fucking him constantly our sophomore year.”

“Oh, yeah,” Rachel murmured fondly. “I was really horny that year. I was losing all that weight and really feeling myself.” She glanced toward Charlotte, allowing her eyes to gloss up and down her figure. “Never did look as hot as you, though. Damn, Charlotte. I mean, no wonder that hot ex-rock star wants you.”

“I told you, Rachel. I mean, beyond the no-fraternization policy, I need to focus on my writing. This is my career. I can’t fuck it up.”

Rachel didn’t argue. She sipped her wine, pressing her lips together, her eyes dancing in the soft light of the coming evening. “All right,” she said finally. “I won’t pester you about this anymore. But you have to admit. Destiny is really throwing you guys at each other.”

“Fuck destiny,” Charlotte said, rolling her eyes lazily and tossing her head back, feeling oddly manic, excited, sexual. “I didn’t ask for this. And I’m not going to follow through on it. Because I actually have piece of mind, unlike some people I know.” She nudged Rachel squarely in the ribs with her pointed elbow, giggling.

“That coffee barista had it coming,” Rachel said, sniffing and easing back into the apartment. She twirled, her moves graceful, her feet rubbing against the Middle Eastern rug. “I might call him again. Who knows? It’s New York. Anything can happen.”

“Anything can happen,” Charlotte echoed back, joining her friend and flicking on some music, allowing the wall speakers to boom with her favorite new music. The girls poured more wine and gabbed easily, keeping each other company until Rachel meandered home at around ten that night, leaving Charlotte alone for the first time since she’d arrived in New York, just six days before.

She had to admit, the loneliness was eerie. Padding around her aunt’s apartment, half-drunk, she ripped her striped dress from her lithe form, dropping it at the entrance to the bathroom. She stood, analyzing her body in the mirror and drawing her fingertips across the bones of her chest, rubbing at her brown, pointed nipples, and then running playfully across her stomach.

Doors away, she knew her boss, Quentin, was awake. Probably sitting alone, drinking whiskey. Maybe reading. Surely not daydreaming about her. Surely not knowing she was standing perfectly, crisply naked, her breasts poised and the lips of her pussy separating, showing their perfect, pink insides, and allowing her fingers to press inward, rubbing at the top and finding the small knob, causing her eyes to close sharply. She unleashed a sigh, allowing her head to fall back grandly, her back to stretch.

As she stood, she lifted her foot up on the bathroom counter, revealing her pulsing lips to herself and separating them, stretching herself with pleasure. As she moved a finger deep within herself, pressing it against her tender G-spot, she imagined Quentin arriving to work the next day and demanding that she meet him in his office, immediately. She’d go, following him like a timid dog. And then, once within the office, he’d strip her bare, unleashing her skin. He’d walk in circles around her, his expensive shoes making tapping noises against the bright wooden floors. He’d press her against the desk, inhaling the scent of her, before ripping his belt from his waist and revealing his pulsing, veiny cock, which extended ravenously from his crotch. He’d press her body backward against the desk, allowing her pink lips to part, and he’d pulse himself into her. He’d press heavily against her G-spot and suck on her tits, wrapping his tongue languidly around her brown nipples and against the ridge of them, causing intense pleasure.

And then, he’d become gruff with her, pushing her harder against the desk, causing her to cry out. Her hair would stick to her back, which would be dripping with sweat. And she’d wrap her thin legs around his muscled abdomen, lifting herself into him, always craving more.

In that moment, the doorbell to her aunt’s apartment rang. Charlotte’s eyes popped open and she stared at her naked form in the mirror. She removed her fingers from her warmth, not bothering to clean them before rushing to throw on her dress. Still a bit tipsy, she struggled into the dress, tumbling against the doorframe as she maneuvered toward the front door.

Who the fuck was calling on her after ten at night? The doorman, maybe? Her aunt, back from Florida? Rachel, unable to get home as she’d drunk nearly an entire bottle of wine herself?

Wrapping her hand around the gold-rimmed door handle, she swallowed sharply, realizing she still smelled like her own sex. With a timid sigh, she opened the door just a crack, hoping this would be someone she could shoo away. Hoping she could retreat back to her bedroom and pretend she’d never felt anything sexual in her life.

But no. On the other side of the door stood her boss, Quentin McDonnell. With his muscled arms crossed over his chest, his eyes dark and brooding, Charlotte sensed that he’d been waiting for her. He’d wanted her.

And with her mouth ajar, her head spinning, and her pussy clenched tightly, pulsing, she felt no urge to dismiss him.

Destiny had pushed her over the limit. And she couldn’t refuse.

Chapter 7

Quentin didn’t speak for a long time, instead choosing to hold Charlotte’s gaze, his body domineering and towering over hers. His lips pressed firmly together, as if he were judging her. The pressure between them grew, with Charlotte standing stupidly in the doorframe, still able to smell the scent of her pussy emanating from her fingers. Could he smell them, too? Could he smell how much she yearned for him? Her breasts lifted slightly as she stood, humming over all the possible ways she could entice him and convince him to stay.

God, he frightened her. Her heart raced with panic. This was a top-level celebrity, a fucking hunk of a rock star, and an ex-sex addict, who’d apparently cleaned up his act.

The man in front of her didn’t seem like a person who’d ever cleaned up his act. If she didn’t know any better, she’d expect him to yank out a bag of cocaine and do a line of it on her tits, bending her over backward and sweeping his nose from her neck to her nipple. She shuddered at the thought.

After what seemed like a small eternity, Quentin suddenly thrust himself toward her. He caught his arms around her head and kissed her, passionately, on the mouth. He sucked at her lower lip, parting her lips and allowing his tongue to cascade against hers. It was a sensual, provocative move, causing her head to spin with the warmth of his mouth and the mixture of their juices. She closed her eyes easily, feeling in a dream. Bringing her hands behind his head, she cupped his hair and wound her fingers through his dark, rough locks, yanking at them slightly—telling him, without words, that she needed him, too.

Finally, their kiss broke. He shoved her away before grasping onto her shoulders, kneading at the bones with his firm fingers and looking at her with frustrated, angry eyes. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising sharply with each inhale.

“Jesus Christ, little intern,” he whispered, swiping his hand across her forehead and drawing her hair behind her ear. “How on fucking earth am I supposed to resist you?”

“You don’t have to,” Charlotte whispered, sounding childlike and inexperienced. “What happens in our apartment building, stays in our apartment building.”

Quentin’s eyes glittered, almost evilly. He lifted her, carrying her back to his apartment—reminding her, perhaps, that he couldn’t leave his daughter alone. Just in case. Once inside, he pressed his hands against the top of her chest and moved her into the foyer forcefully, taking the lead. He pressed her against the wall, kicking the door closed behind them in a flourish. Charlotte couldn’t breathe. She pressed her tongue against the top of her mouth, trying to focus, finding that small tears were building up in the corners of her eyes. Shock. Horror. Fantasy. Sexuality. It was all converging, in the here and now. And her pussy throbbed with desire for all of it.

Suddenly, Quentin brought his hands to the little dress she’d worn at the office that day, flicking his fingers over the buttons. He unbuttoned the top one, allowing the gleam of her ivory skin to protrude through. He knelt down and kissed that soft spot hungrily. His lips were warm, soft as they pressed down. Charlotte’s head bumped back, leaning heavily against the wall.

“Jesus. You taste amazing,” Quentin said gruffly. He unbuttoned the second, then the third button, revealing that she was no longer wearing a bra beneath her clothes—not after her little charade in the bathroom. His eyes glanced up as her breasts bounced from the dress. “You were wearing a bra today at work. I would have noticed if you weren’t.”

“What would you have done to me if I hadn’t been wearing one?” Charlotte whispered.

Quentin considered this, taking both of her breasts in his two hands, cradling them. He brought his firm thumb over the dark brown tips, rubbing at the tight button of the nipple, and then pressing down harder, more insistently.

Charlotte’s breath caught in her throat.

“I would have punished you. Surely,” Quentin said then, his eyes flashing. “I would have brought you into my office and bent you over the desk. I would have forced you to pay for your crimes.” He unbuttoned the rest of the dress quickly, then, and allowed it to fall to the ground.

Charlotte shivered timidly, standing completely naked in front of her once-idol, now boss. Her mind raced with all the reasons she should be doing anything else. But the sexual tension between them was intense, passionate, sizzling with joint desire.

Quentin brought his hands to his belt, unbuckling it swiftly. The belt buckle flashed in the soft light of the moon.

“Do you want to see me?” he asked her, his voice confident, dark.

Charlotte nodded her head, still timid. She knelt on her knees, feeling like the groupie she’d always wanted to become and unzipped his pants. They fell slightly, before she eased them the rest of the way to his knees. She grabbed onto his boxers, becoming needier, and revealed the strength of his veiny, rock-hard cock as it pulsed into the air before her face. It was red and dominant and angry-looking and had probably fucked a hundred women before her, all without comprehension of their names. Loving the anonymity of becoming just another of Quentin’s women, Charlotte pressed her face forward, feeling Quentin’s firm hand on her head.

She wrapped her tongue around the tip of him, anxiety fueling her. She was inexperienced, youthful, frightened, like a rabbit. But with his groans from above, she knew she was moving correctly. She wrapped her tongue longingly once more, before slipping her lips lower on his shaft. She felt the veins of him, pulsing against the top of her mouth, and then she pushed further, pressing the tip of his staff against the back of her throat. Peering up at him, she watched as his eyes closed with zealous feeling; his shoulders slumped. He gave way to the power of her lips, with his hands still over her head, guiding her. Telling her. Showing her.

After several minutes, as she wrapped her tongue firmly around his cock and eased her slim fingers over his torso, grabbing onto his muscled back and abdomen. He suddenly eased her head back, leaning her against the wall. In a swift motion, he removed his shirt and shook out of his pants, lifting her into the air and carrying her toward a small chair in the living room. He draped her across the armrest, gazing at her figure, and running a single finger from her nose, down the trenches of her neck, past her chest, through her belly button, and then, finally, stopping at her wet heat.

With firm fingers, he opened her wet pussy lips, drawing out the pinkness of her. He knelt forward, his eyes still on her face, and then pressed his tongue against the top knob of her clit, before gliding down and pressing against the opening. Charlotte’s mind exploded in a chorus of emotion and feeling as he sucked and licked at her pussy. His tongue was soft, maneuvering gracefully, like he had done this countless times before.

Charlotte cried out, then, suddenly growing more desirous. She swept her legs wider, bringing her hands to his black hair and tugging it. He lifted his tongue from her insides, gazing up at her.

“Fuck me, baby,” she murmured. “I want your cock in me.”

In a flurry of motion, Quentin lifted himself, parting her pussy lips, and then pulsed the tip of his veiny, red cock against her wet, nourishing pink. With gruff, animalistic, rock star action, he shoved himself as deep into her as he could, bringing the warmth of his chest over her firm breasts. She felt the tips of her nipples touch his chest in an explosion of feeling. She cried out, tossing her arms around his back and inserting her nails deep into his skin.

He made love to her, working at once like an animalistic, gruff rock star, and then occasionally as a loving, nurturing man who cared for her, who knew her. Their bodies became a single unit, working in a chorus beneath the heavy Upper West Side moonlight and listening to the parade of honking taxis outside.

After what seemed like a long, arduous time, Quentin knelt his head down, whispering into Charlotte’s ear, “I’m going to come. Come with me.”

Charlotte knew she could. She’d been hovering on the brink of orgasm for nearly a half hour, her head spiraling with emotion and pleasure. She nodded slowly, her eyes catching his. In a moment, she felt him pulsing within her. His head lifted, showing the soft side of his neck. He grunted, then cried out, and Charlotte joined him in falling through the many pitfalls of orgasm, her pink pussy lips at once wrapped tightly around his cock, and then loosening, then wrapping tightly once more. She felt a small tear slide down her cheek, falling into her hair.

Quentin kept his cock within her for a few seconds, gazing down at her, their bodies still joined. But slowly, he stood up, planting his large feet flat on the floor. He grew tall beside her, his shoulders muscled and broad. But she remained tiny, petite, tucked in the small chair, and wondering—panicked—if she’d just made one of the biggest mistakes of her life.

Chapter 8

In the moments that hung afterward, Charlotte felt as if time no longer existed, as if they would remain like this—Quentin gazing at her gleaming naked form for the rest of eternity. But the clock on the wall gave them away, ticking mindlessly toward two in the morning. Quentin exhaled gruffly, roughing his fingers through his dark, sex-crazed hair.

“I heard something today,” Charlotte said quietly, lifting herself from the small chair and gliding onto the couch, patting the side tentatively.

“Oh yeah? What’s that?” Quentin asked, his voice still broad and dominating, but finding more companionship with her after making love. He took two easy, long strides and then planted himself beside her on the couch, wrapping his muscled bicep around her small, bird neck. He cradled her.

“I heard there’s a no-fraternization policy at my new job,” Charlotte said playfully, blinking her eyes several times. “I heard that you’re not meant to sleep with your boss, that is.”

“Oh? And do you think that will be a struggle for you?” Quentin asked her, wrapping his hand around her large breast. He leaned to the side and kissed her neck, inhaling the scent of her.

“I think it might be,” Charlotte whispered playfully, her voice raspy. “You see, I think I’m really quite attracted to my boss.”

Her eyelids felt heavy with continued lust. She turned toward him, kissing him again, and sucking at his bottom lip. “But I don’t even think he knows I exist.”

After a moment of silence, of tension, Quentin knocked his head back in laughter. Charlotte joined him in raucous giggles, bringing her hand to the side couch pillow and hitting him playfully with it. This felt candid; this felt natural. Never, in all her years of listening to massive grunge band Orpheus Arise, had she imagined she’d be naked on a couch with Quentin McDonnell.

“I hardly know you,” Quentin said then, gazing into her dark eyes.

“That hasn’t stopped you before, has it?” Charlotte asked.

“I suppose not,” Quentin said, his eyes flashing. “But I assumed I’d grown out of that stage of my life. I thought I’d grown up. Grown old. Becoming a dad will do that to you. But then, I saw you at the office. And I knew—“ He stopped, hunting for words.

The air grew tight around them. Charlotte pulsed forward, drawing her thin arms around his neck. She felt closer to this man, in a million different ways, than she ever had with her ex-boyfriend from college—her only other romance. She was inexperienced, having been with only one guy. And she knew Quentin knew that, too.

“What did you know?” she finally whispered, hunting for it. She wanted him to say he knew he could fall in love with her. She wanted him to say he wanted to fuck her from the beginning, even. She just wanted the dirty talk to continue, playfully, darkly, into the night.

“I know one thing,” Quentin finally said, his voice growing gruffer. “I know that you need to get back to your apartment.”

Charlotte’s eyes quivered with sadness. She swallowed sharply, her shoulders slumping. “Really?”

He nodded firmly, drawing a line between them in the sand. He moved her legs from over his and found his own stance on the floor. With quick, muscled movements, he guided her back to the foyer, where they both dressed. He looked like a ragged version of his office persona, which caused Charlotte to want to thrust herself at him with more force. But she bit her lip, forcing herself to be quiet, to be demure.

“And this, of course, can’t happen again, Charlotte,” Quentin said, his eyes still glittering.

“I don’t believe you,” Charlotte murmured, her eyes casting toward the rug.

“You should,” Quentin insisted. “I don’t often lie about what my plans are. As my new employee, you’d do well to adhere to them.”

Charlotte rose onto her toes, graceful, like a ballerina. Her breasts bounced easily in the soft light. She forced herself to look up at him, even as he towered over her. He could break her like a stick, any second.

“I know where the door is,” she murmured.

The tension between them mounted, then. Quentin’s soft, kissable lips parted, searching for a final thing to say. Finally, she spun back toward the door, pulling it open and darting into the hallway, leaving him alone.

When she entered her apartment once more, a wide, manic smile formed across Charlotte’s face. She quivered with excitement, rushing to the bathroom mirror and gazing at her naked form, trying to see herself the way Quentin had seen her. Slight bruises had begun to form on her hips and abdomen, from his wild thrusting. These were her battle scars. She wished she could keep them forever.

Sometime after three at night, Charlotte fell asleep beneath the soft down comforter, stretched thin and naked and still quivering with lust. The last image in her brain was that of Quentin, telling her it could never happen again.

Her heart told a different story.

Chapter 9

Quentin couldn’t sleep when Charlotte left his apartment that night. His skin emanated her gorgeous scent, making his cock rise up beneath his sheets. The smoothness of her skin, her gorgeous, bouncing breasts, her thin, taut waist had all been there, in the palm of his hand, literally bowing to his every whim.

And he couldn’t have her again. He’d drawn the line in the sand. It had to be over between them. He couldn’t fuck up the delicate balance of the office, just to bend her over his office desk and part the achingly gorgeous lips of her pussy and dive, headfirst, into her.

That had been the old Quentin. The Quentin who’d ruined relationship after relationship. The Quentin who didn’t have a little girl to care for three or four days during the week, depending on her mother’s schedule. The Quentin who hadn’t brought MMM from the trenches and into the limelight, making it one of the top-tier music magazines of the current landscape. He was an editor. He was serious. He wasn’t cocaine-addled and sex-addicted. Not anymore.

And Charlotte had been a momentary weakness, a slight stain on his otherwise incredibly clean career.

His alarm clock blared out just after six, forcing his legs to the side of the bed. He leaned heavily against the palms of his hands, his nails dipping into his skin. Jesus, he was tired. When he’d been twenty-five, he’d once spent an entire week awake, hunting drugs and chicks, fucking when he felt too fatigued and taking shots to boost his energy. And he hadn’t collapsed at the end of it either, like some kind of medical invalid. He’d slept a hard six hours and then he’d gone at it again, like a dog. Constantly chewing the life out of his surroundings.

But now, with less than an hour or two of sleep, his thirty-six-year-old body felt fatigued and strung-out.

He rose, finally, and scrubbed at his naked form in the shower, fighting back his bad boy urges and trying to cleanse himself, mold himself back into the man he’d become. Not the man he yearned to be again.

Dressing in a black suit jacket and dark jeans, he bolted toward the kitchen, rustling together a small breakfast for Morgan. He knocked on her door with two sharp kicks of his knuckles and then heard her cry out.

“All right, Daddy! I’m coming!”

She didn’t sound exasperated, or angry, or weighted. She sounded ready to face the day.

“I set out your clothes for you. Do you see them?” he called.

“I don’t like this dress!” she cried back, through the door. “It’s too pink.”

“Look in your closet, then,” he answered, cracking the door open. He caught a view of his pajama-clad daughter’s shadow, rubbing at her eyes. “Just pick a different shirt.”

“Oh, I want to wear the Iggy Pop shirt,” Morgan said, leaping toward her wardrobe. She burst open the top drawer, digging through the perfectly aligned shirts, most of which were band-related.

“You can’t dress her like this,” her mom, Kate, had said once. “She’s going to grow up and do a ton of drugs.”

“Just because she knows who Iggy Pop and Nirvana are?” Quentin had asked, incredulous. “That’s culture, Kate. Or maybe you somehow forgot your roots, as well. I seem to remember you in the front row of many, many of my shows…”

This had, of course, pissed her off. The Iggy Pop shirt had stayed in the collection, along with the other band ones. And Morgan had become the “cool” kid at school—the one who talked lovingly about Kurt Cobain and Woodstock and music-related memories that she couldn’t possibly comprehend. And it would only get more interesting as she grew older.

“Shut the door, Dad,” Morgan cried then. “I want to get dressed.”

“Oh.” Lost in a reverie, Quentin wandered back to the kitchen and filled a bowl of cereal for himself, crunching at the sugar-laden shit and trying to raise his heavy eyelids. Eventually, Morgan joined him and poured a bit of milk into her bowl. She crunched sweetly, using the teeth she had left, and didn’t bother him with chitchat. She knew he didn’t take kindly to it in the morning. She recognized his somber mood.

Together, Quentin and Morgan packed her a quick, turkey sandwich with crunchy lettuce and a bag of Lays potato chips.

“Mom never lets me have chips,” Morgan whispered somberly, her eyes lowering. “She says they’re fatty.”

“Well, your mom has never gained a lick of weight in her life. So, I suppose she knows what she’s doing.” Quentin sighed heavily, zipping the lunchbox closed. He passed it to his daughter, ruffling her blond hair. “But in my opinion, a few chips every day won’t kill you. They won’t even make you fat.”

“Promise?” Morgan asked.

Great. Now, her mother was making her dislike her own body. Quentin formed several half-thought messages he could write to Kate when he arrived at the office, most of which worked along the theme of: “Don’t fuck her up and make her like you.”

But, of course, he’d appreciated Kate once. Maybe he’d even loved her. He’d certainly married her, in a flurry of drug-addled decisions and manic days. And according to the spread they’d recently had about him in a lifestyle magazine, he and Kate had been quite handsome looking that fateful day. Kate had worn a low-cut, lacey white dress, her tits poised to fall out at every minute, and her body bone-thin. Quentin had been rough-looking, tired, but with bright, animal eyes. His black hair had been longer, then, and falling in coils to his shoulders.

They’d been the very portrait of the rock star and the model, married young and partying wildly. And their divorce, in that sense, had followed the given course.

He walked Morgan to school, grateful that the sun peeked through the clouds and colored their faces. Morgan still gripped his hand, not embarrassed. She waved lovingly at passers-by, telling them chipper “good mornings” and immediately flashing smile after smile.

“How do you do it, little Morgan?” Quentin asked her, at the front step of her school. She clung to her piano books, gazing up at him, confusion clouding her eyes. “How do you stay so happy all the time?”

Morgan cackled with laughter, showing the darkness where her tooth used to be. “Daddy, don’t be dumb.”

Suddenly, a boy wearing overalls and a girl with a bright blue dress padded past, grabbing onto Morgan and springing her toward their classroom. Morgan cried back in shock and giggling surprise, “Daddy, I’ll see you soon! Love you!”

Quentin stretched his palm flat in a final wave, feeling the strings of his heart yank. Another parent, a woman named Melanie, stood beside him, watching the three children run wildly. She shrugged her too-thin shoulders, so reminiscent of Kate. “They have so much more energy than me in the morning,” she said, stretching out a wide smile.

“If only they could bottle it. I’d buy it, and pay more than any drug.” He paused, hoping he hadn’t gone too far—alluding to his past. “I think I’m going to go sleep at the office,” Quentin joked, trying to lighten the mood as he turned toward the sidewalk.

“Or just run coffee through an IV till nightfall,” Melanie said, waving as he left her behind.

The other parents always gave him the jitters, making him feel incompatible to the role of “father.” He’d packed a lackluster lunch; he’d allowed his daughter to wear an Iggy Pop shirt to school. Once Kate got wind of the chip and Iggy Pop combo, she’d probably grumble at him for several weeks, asking if she could really “trust him” around their child.

But the girl was happy. Happier than he’d ever been, he was sure. And didn’t that mean everything?

Quentin took a taxi to the office, arriving just after seven-fifteen and taking the elevator to the 26th floor. He was the first in his office, which was still crisp and fresh after the janitorial staff’s cleaning the night before. Papers were aligned neatly on desks; pencils and pens poked, rag-tag, from tiny holders. Even Maggie’s desk, a general tornado-zone, had been straightened and ordered.

Sighing, Quentin reminded himself that this world of responsibility, of magazine spreads, of pencils and pens, was his world, now. Not the other one. The one with Charlotte, stretched barren in front of him, crying out for his cock. No.

Quentin began to work at his desk, burrowing himself deep in magazine spreads and trying to build the interview he’d conducted the previous day into some kind of hard-hitting story. “Old band makes good again,” that sort of thing. In reality, he felt horrible for them and their inability to move on, while still feeling jealousy bleed through him. They wouldn’t have thought twice about fucking Charlotte, regardless of her position in their lives. They would have bragged about it and moved on.

But in reality, meeting and fucking Charlotte had been the most exciting part of his life in the past several years, especially since he hadn’t allowed himself to even look at other interns in the past. He’d never felt this kind of spark before. It had ignited a powerful force within him, something that forced him to remember his wild, bad boy side. He hadn’t always been a father, packing lunches and making small talk at the entrance of the school. No. Fuck no.

Suddenly, someone banged at his door. He lurched his head up from the magazine spreads, realizing he’d been in a reverie for the past fifteen minutes, without making a single edit.

He cleared his throat. “Come in.”

Maggie appeared in the crack of the door, looking hesitant, frightened of him. She pressed her lips into a smile, waiting for his “okay.”

“I said come in, Maggie. Don’t hang around out there all day.”

Maggie scurried in, clicking the door closed behind her. She bowed her red head, her bangs fluffing over her eyes. She hadn’t been this way as a teenager: a rough and wild woman, stripping her top from her breasts and rushing through the city streets.

“I’m sorry to bug you, Q. But we have a few advertising meetings early this afternoon. I was hoping to bring a few of the new interns into the meetings, as well. Just so they can get a feel for the business side of things. So many of them are just writers, coming out of college.” She rolled her eyes and laughed nervously, her shoulders quivering.

Interns. Shit. That meant Charlotte, didn’t it?

“How many interns?” Quentin asked, closing his magazine spreads with a swift motion. “I don’t want to fill the office. These ad meetings are kind of delicate.”

“Right, of course. I mean, I’d obviously like to bring in the sales interns. Maybe a few of the social media ones, so they can get a sense for what our brand image is and which advertisers we promote, which we don’t.” Maggie paused, leaning heavily upon his desk. She swept her breasts toward his face, pushing them just over six inches from his nose. He could see the darkness between; he could imagine fondling them.

“I’d like to bring in a few of the writers myself,” Quentin said then. “Some of the aspiring music journalists. Because I know they want all of this life. They crave it more than the others.” He swept back on the wheels of his chair, moving away from her breasts. He looked at her sternly, making eye contact.

“Oh. Do you want me to just handpick a few, then?” she asked him.

“No, no. I took a look at their writing samples,” he lied.

Maggie looked shocked. Her eyebrows rose high, recognizing a difference in him. “You’ve never done that before.”

“I want to take a vested interest in my interns this time around,” Quentin said firmly. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“Of course not,” Maggie said softly. She swept a single leg over the front side of the desk, showing a bit of her inner thigh. “Do you have a problem with this?” She began to move her skirt upward, revealing the paleness of her skin, the softness of her pink underwear.

“Yes. I do,” Quentin said gruffly, not moving a muscle. He didn’t want to alarm her, didn’t want to enrage her. His heart hammered in his chest. “I have the no-fraternization policy in place for a reason. And you know that.”

“I know that I can’t resist you,” Maggie said, her eyes flashing. “I know that I think about fucking you and sucking your cock during business hours, every fucking day. And I know you’re lonely. You aren’t the man you used to be.”

Angered, Quentin burst from his chair, causing Maggie to back away with shuffling steps. With a single motion, he swept past her, blasting the door open, and standing, huffing, in the center office. His writers stared up at him, sensing his dominance and anger over them. A girl in the center of the room dropped her notebook and leaned down quickly to get it, revealing a large, unattractive ass to the air. Calming himself, inhaling slowly, Quentin raised a hand.

“Sorry, everyone. Adrenaline about this next issue. It’s going to be a fucking great one. Thanks for your hard work.” He continued his trek down the hall, toward the intern office. He sensed a growing strength in his chest, one that insisted he make a scene, cause disaster. One that wanted him back on his bad boy streak.

Maggie rushed up behind him, taking small steps and whispering, “I’m sorry about that back there. Won’t happen again, sir. I totally understand.”

But as she tittered, Quentin burst open the door of the intern office and strode to the front of the room, forcing all eyes upon him. Ten in all, the interns were mostly women, with a few high-fashion, writerly men, wearing horn-rimmed glasses and suit jackets. Charlotte sat in the center of the room, her brown hair flowing evenly down her back, her smile faltering as she eyed him. She’d been speaking in whispers to one of the men, beside her, whose bright yellow hair burned holes in Quentin’s eyes.

“Hey. You. What’s your name?” Quentin asked the boy, who was probably around twenty-three and unaccustomed to being spoken to so gruffly.

Maggie looked on, aghast. Quentin knew she hadn’t seen him so riled up. Not since he’d taken the first writing gig at MMM. Not since he’d made it his own.

“R—Randy,” the yellow-haired boy said in a sweet, flamboyant voice.

“Randy. Hello. Welcome to MMM,” Quentin boomed. “What brings you here? What was your dramatic path that led you to this coveted internship?”

As he spoke, his eyes barreled into Randy’s skull. Charlotte’s perfect, pouty mouth parted in shock. The tension in the room was palpable, causing Quentin’s blood pressure to rise.

“Come on, Randy. We’re all waiting,” Quentin said.

“Well, I—I grew up in Maryland,” Randy began, his voice trembling.

“That’s not a good start,” Quentin said.

The other interns laughed, causing a nervous smile to stretch across Randy’s face.

“If you’re going to tell stories for a living, why not tell me the story of you, Randy? Why not tell it to me in a way that gets magazines into the hands of our readers? Why not tell it in a dramatic, beautiful, heartbreaking way?”

Randy’s nostrils flared. “My mother died when I was fifteen. She died of cancer and requested that I play the Who on repeat on her old record player until she died. She loved music more than anyone I’ve ever met. She introduced me to everything. And even though it still hurts to listen to the Who, I do it. And I do it constantly, just because I recognize that emotion isn’t something to be feared. It’s something to celebrate.” Randy stabbed his finger against his desk, his eyes flashing. “And I want to celebrate the emotion of music here. At MMM.”

Everyone was quiet for a moment. Maggie’s mouth hung wide, clearly shocked that Quentin had yanked such an emotional response from the little intern. Quentin bowed his head in recognition, giving Randy two firm claps.

“That’s fucking right, Randy,” he said. “That’s fucking right.” He swallowed, turning his eyes toward Charlotte, who looked as if she might begin to cry. “I want all of you to approach this gig just the way Randy is. With an idea of why you’re doing this, every single day. With an idea of what you want to say to the world.”

“And what about you?” Charlotte said then, her voice raspy and far away. Immediately, it yanked at Quentin’s dick, causing it to drum up against his pant leg. Beneath her low-cut top, he imagined her gleaming, white breasts and those soft, kissable nipples.

“What do you mean?” he asked. He felt the tension in the room mount.

“How do you approach this job, every single day? How do you throw your soul into it? What story do you tell yourself?” she asked him, her eyes flashing with anger. He’d told her it couldn’t happen again; he’d told her it wouldn’t.

“You all know I was lead singer of the band Orpheus Arise,” he found himself saying, stupidly.

“But that was a million years ago,” Charlotte said, almost challenging him. “That was before you quit the drugs. The sex. That was before you married and then got divorced. That was before you were a father. Who’s to say you can even tell that story to yourself, now, if you’re a completely different person?”

The other interns tittered, obviously anxious. Why was she challenging the boss? Their eyes glanced to-and-fro. Maggie clapped her hands, sending their eyes toward her in a dramatic movement.

“Hey, there,” she said, scowling. “Let’s try not to put each other down, now.”

“Nobody’s ‘put me down,’ Maggie,” Quentin said gruffly. “To use a kindergarten term that, yes, my daughter often uses. I am a father. That is correct, Miss—“

“Charlotte,” she answered, biting her bottom lip. “Charlotte Barracks. Remember, we met yesterday?”

Jesus Christ. She was toying with him, now. Wasn’t he supposed to have all the power? He felt his groin rush with blood. Setting his jaw, he turned to the other interns, gazing at their glossed-over faces. Several of the female interns wore too much makeup, trying to make themselves look older, wiser, despite their twenty-three years of age.

Another redheaded girl, similar looking to Maggie, if over ten years younger, thrust her hand into the air.

“Hello. Yes. Introduce yourself, please,” Quentin said, gesturing.

“Pamela,” the girl said primly. “And I can tell you exactly how I approach the work day, here at MMM.”

Quentin had already forgotten this charade and was growing bored of it. He swept his eyes toward his watch, recognizing that it was nearly time for the advertising meeting. The seconds ticked on, with Pamela itching to ask. Her tongue was literally poised in the air, like a turtle’s.

“We’ll have to halt this meeting just now,” Quentin said, moving toward Maggie. “We have an advertising meeting. Charlotte. Randy. I’d like for you both to come.”

“And Pamela, and Emily,” Maggie whispered afterward, gesturing to the social media girls. “We don’t have room for all of you, but we’ll switch you guys in and out throughout the semester. You’ll all get to have the excitement of being in a real, live advertising meeting.”

“Bunch of no-nothing fucks, is what it is,” Quentin joked, his eyes flashing toward Charlotte.

Her eyes cast toward the floor, avoiding him. Quentin’s lips parted in pause. What kind of relationship was this going to be? Would they perpetually dance around each other, trying to forget, while continually making the other remember?

“Come along,” Quentin finally said, leading his crew of interns, plus Maggie, into the conference room. He watched as each of them took a seat, with Charlotte sitting as far away from him as possible. The advertisers from a famous Brooklyn clothing and street wear shop entered the room next, having been let in by his secretary. They wore tight-fitting business suits with expensive, bright tennis shoes, and they spent the better part of a minute shoving their thousand-dollar sunglasses into sunglasses cases before removing their advertising proposals.

As they took their time, Quentin’s eyes drew across the table, making penetrative, intense eye contact with Charlotte. As she’d walked to the conference room, she’d unbuttoned a single top button, revealing the darkness between her breasts. She looked at him bleary-eyed, as if she peered out from beneath his bed sheets.

The men from the street wear store spoke the language of stoners, making a meeting that should have lasted just twenty minutes into over an hour. Randy, Pamela, and the other girl—Emily?—took notes evenly on a notebook, while Charlotte watched on, her chin centered upon her fist and her elbow on the table.

Finally, after a long pause, just before wrapping up the deal, Charlotte banged her fist upon the table. The other interns turned toward her, panic-stricken. But her lips parted, proving her brain had been whirling all along.

“I just don’t think the copy’s good enough,” she said then, her voice still timid, but holding truth.

Quentin peered at the street wear design, with its slogan: Street whore.

“It’s a play on words,” one of the owners told Charlotte, his thick eyebrow rising high. “Don’t you get it, or you need me to explain it to you?”

Charlotte’s cheeks grew hot. After a moment of panic, she righted herself, glaring at him. “I have a better one. Want to hear it?”

“Knock yourself out.”

“We’ll wear you out,” she said. “It’s sexy. And it’s not name-calling, like yours is. I think it would look better with the photo you chose, as well.”

There was a long pause, with the two owners of the street wear company pulsing their heads together and whispering. One of them was hear saying, gruffly, “Man, she’s right. We could get flack for that name-calling.”

“Let’s just take it. I want this to be over with.”

They parted and looked at her as if she were a marketing angel, a guru. One shrugged, beginning to roll up his advertisement mock-up. “I think we can agree on that.”

“Sure. Fuck it,” the other one said. “And we’ll pay what you asked, since you threw in some creative.”

They turned toward the door, both of them shaking Quentin’s hand before they sped out. As they shifted at the elevator, the team watched as they slid sunglasses over their eyes with a dramatic, swishing motion, bowing their heads at the ding of the arriving elevator.

“Jesus, those guys were a piece of work,” Quentin said, rising from his chair and leaning heavily against the table, his fingers spread out. His eyes ticked from Randy, to Charlotte, to Pamela, to Emily, and then to Maggie, before drawing back to Charlotte. He assessed her, recognizing that she was even more than he’d bargained for.

“Charlotte, honey, what you did back there,” Maggie began. “It was out of line. It wasn’t approved by any kind of committee on our end. And what if it didn’t align with our brand?”

“But it did,” Quentin stated. “She saw how shitty their design was, and she offered a solution. That’s what you have to do in this business. Quick thinking. I appreciate a mind like that.” His nostrils flared. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to see you in my office.”

“All of us?” Pamela piped up, lifting her notebook from the table. Her knees creaked.

“Perhaps later, Pamela. But just now, only Charlotte. Thanks,” Quentin said, taking swift steps toward the door. He listened as Charlotte lifted her thin frame from the chair, allowing her heels to clatter onto the floor. She followed him slowly, almost as if she were walking to her death.

In some ways, Quentin thought then, any new beginning was a small death of all that came before. They couldn’t have planned for this intense attraction. But perhaps they could make the best of it.

Chapter 10

Quentin clipped the door to his office closed, behind Charlotte, giving them the first moment of privacy since he’d left her alone the night before. Casually, he closed the blinds of his office with a swift flick of his wrist, eliminating all prying eyes.

“Why did you do that?” Charlotte asked, her voice now a whisper.

Quentin crossed his firm forearms over his chest and stood, feet wide apart. He still towered over her. “Why do you think I did it?”

“I don’t want anyone to talk about us,” Charlotte murmured. “And you’re the one who said it would never happen again.”

“That’s right. And I meant what I said,” Quentin said. His dark, brooding eyes seemed to pound into her skull. She blinked several times, unable to handle their intensity. “Why don’t you sit down?”

In the silence that followed, Charlotte sat primly in the chair across from his, watching him with cat-like interest as he poised himself in his normal chair. He adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses, wanting to choose words that would ignite nerves within her. He wanted to control her, completely.

“Did you choose that dress because you knew I would like it?” he asked her, gesturing to her breasts, almost spilling from the black fabric.

Charlotte’s jaw dropped. She swept her hands to her tits and cupped them, seeming like a rabbit, wanting to hide. “No—no. It’s just a dress. Nothing to attract, nor detract attention.”

“I would beg to differ. I would beg to differ on many accounts.” He lifted his notebook from his desk drawer, writing her name at the top. “Charlotte isn’t a name you hear so often, now, is it? An old-fashioned name. Something a grandmother would have.”

“Do you think of grandmothers when you think of me?” Charlotte asked him.

Quentin sniffed, smiling grandly to himself. “You’re a clever little one, aren’t you? I didn’t expect it. You don’t present yourself as such, initially.”

“Maybe you’re just too attracted to my tits to notice my intelligence,” Charlotte said, although not unkindly. “Of course, that’s your reputation, isn’t it? An over-sexed rock star. I read about you in my MMM when I was a teenage girl. I daydreamed about fucking you, albeit in vague terms. I didn’t know much about fucking then. Not like I know now.” Her eyes danced with meaning.

Quentin tilted his head sideways, his heart jolting against his chest. He could feel his manhood pressing firmly, with more insistence, at his pant crotch. He knew she was bluffing and could sense her inexperience the night before. He cleared his throat, wanting to guide them away from this dangerous topic. He knew he couldn’t resist her much longer.

“Tell me about your career, then,” he said. “Your aspirations. Why you’re here.”

Charlotte’s mouth hung open for a moment, shocked at the non-intimate, boss-like question. She stuttered into the words. “Well—um. I didn’t expect—“

“You didn’t expect me to take an interest in your career?” he asked her, smiling. “I can already sense that you have a way with words. That copy you spit out for the street wear guys back there. That was good shit. Really was.”

“Maggie was none too pleased.”

“She’s never pleased about anything.” He sensed he was making her happy, complimenting her on her work. It was well-deserved, sure. But why did it make him so content to please her? Never, in any of his past relationships, had he bent over backward for a female. They’d always bent for him.

“Well, I have to please her. She’s technically my boss. And I don’t think she’ll take kindly to many more one-on-one meetings between us.”

“Charlotte, it’s my magazine. I make the rules, here.”

“And the no-fraternization policy? You made that up, too?” Her eyes were like those of a deer, peering at him as he barreled his car toward it on a dark road at night.

Quentin clenched his jaw tightly, feeling his heart hammer in his chest. “I did. But I did it for a very good reason.”

Silence hung between them for a moment. Quentin cleared his throat. “Anyway. You majored in writing, correct?”

“Creative writing. But as I told you and your daughter, music has been a part of my life for a long time. I’ve been studying MMM for years and then found it grew in leaps and bounds when you took over as editor two years ago. I was amazed at your writing capabilities.”

“Especially since you knew about my past,” Quentin finished, gruffly.

“Especially that, yes,” Charlotte murmured.

“How can I help you become a good writer here? How can I guide your—shall we say—professional development?” Quentin slid his fingers through his black hair. His cock became more insistent, pushing up against his boxers.

Charlotte stood, then. Her breasts were taut against the low-cut fabric, revealing that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Her eyes danced with lust. She took a single step to the side of the desk, leaning heavily against the wood, taking a similar stance as Maggie had, just a bit before. Quentin’s reaction couldn’t have been more different.

“I don’t want to sleep with you for favors,” Charlotte answered quietly, her voice sultry. “I don’t play like that. I work for what I get. I know I can fight to be a writer at this office, without your guiding hand.”

Suddenly, she sat on his lap, straddling his waist, with her crotch pressed tightly against the mound of him. Quentin’s eyes closed immediately as she began to rub her clothed pussy against his aching cock, her nose a mere two inches from his.

“I think I know what you mean,” Quentin whispered gruffly. “You want to do this on your own.” He lifted his lips toward hers, kissing her insistently. He sucked on her bottom lip, inhaling the scent of her. “Jesus, you’re going to drive me wild.”

Her eyes shone down at him, holding such meaning. She brought her hands down to his belt buckle, unstrapping it, and then sliding the leather snake out from the belt loops with a flourish. She kissed him again, faster this time. He pressed his tongue against her lips and parted them roughly, tracing her tongue with his. Charlotte pressed more firmly on his manhood with her crotch and then brought her hands to his pants buttons, undoing them swiftly, and yanking the pants to his knees. Immediately, his pulsing, rock-hard staff sprung from between his legs, standing nearly nine inches long and thick as her fist. She sighed evenly, leaning heavily against the desk behind her, gazing at it with loving, lust-filled eyes.

Charlotte placed her legs atop his shoulder blades and watched as he eased her tights from her legs, then yanked her panties to her ankles. Their smells mixed around them. She parted her legs wildly, allowing her pussy lips to part. He placed a firm finger at the top ridge of her, rubbing at the knot, and watching as her eyes closed in intense pleasure.

“Fuck,” she whispered, biting her bottom lip. “Rub it. Harder. Faster.”

But Quentin rose up on his feet, then, and pushed her back further on the desk. He forced her legs wider, feeling his animalistic instincts take over. After feeling the wetness of her intimate lips, he parted them swiftly with two fingers, and then pressed the edge of his cock against the center. Charlotte’s eyes closed tightly, awaiting the pain and pleasure of his member.

Slowly, achingly, Quentin pushed his pulsing, rock-hard member deep within her, feeling the wetness of her, allowing his mind to bend backward in time. After three or four firm, even, easy pulses within her, he grew more insistent, fucking her hard against the desk.

The antique desk was situated on a rug beneath them, meaning that it didn’t squeak against the wooden floor. For this, Quentin was grateful.

Charlotte lifted both legs over Quentin’s shoulders, giving him a gorgeous view of her bouncing tits and her taut belly. He turned his head slightly, kissing her ankle, her foot. His eyes clenched tightly, feeling waves of passion throttle through him.

Surprisingly, he’d never fucked at his desk before. But god, the power trip felt amazing. Why hadn’t he done this a million times before? Why didn’t he bang out every single intern, strip Maggie against the desk, make his way through the office?

Because that wasn’t him anymore.

Because Charlotte was different.

Quentin knelt down, then, and kissed her in a fit of intense desire. He felt sweat falling down his forehead, pooling with the sweat on her chest. He whispered into her ear, “I think I’m going to come. Come with me.”

Why did he always want her to come with him? That had never been a thing for him before. He’d always been selfish, desiring only his own pleasure.

Charlotte nodded quickly, her eyes dancing. “I’m ready.”

Finally, Quentin allowed himself to be free. With her insides pulsing hard against him, his rock-hard member burst with intense release, causing him to cry out in surprise. He felt himself press hard against the pillow of her G-spot. She cried out similarly, gasping, her eyes filling with sudden tears.

“Jesus Christ,” she murmured, wrapping her arms around Quentin’s neck and suddenly pulling him close. “Fuck. That was amazing.”

Quentin didn’t have words for it. He couldn’t possibly comprehend such a beautiful, sexual experience. Outside, Manhattan continued to struggle past, with cars beeping and humans bolting across streets and deadlines coming and going. But his chest, thrust up upon the breasts of his new intern, spoke a different truth.

Was he falling for her?

Suddenly, he stood and lifted his pants to his waist, buttoning them swiftly. He sniffed, swiping his hands through his black hair and adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses. Silence hung between them as they regrouped, as they found their bearings.

“I’m sorry, Charlotte, but I’m going to have to cut our meeting a bit short,” he said gruffly. “I have a meeting with The Morning Stars about yesterday’s interview, at a bar up the road.”

“Are you re-working the article?” Charlotte asked, suddenly interested. She bounced from her stance on his desk and clothed herself once more, blinking brightly, like a child at school.

“Not quite sure yet,” Quentin said, his eyes growing dark. Was she trying to weasel into his article, now? But didn’t she have incredible insight on this stuff?

Would giving her a chance to be at the fresh interview be giving her a boost in the right direction, career-wise? But would it be warranted, as they’d slept together twice?

These were the very questions he hadn’t want to face when he’d issued the no-fraternization policy. Fucking too much had fucked him up as a rock star. Guidelines. Basic rules. These were the things that made him thrive in a professional environment.

“Alright. Well, I’ll get out of your hair,” Charlotte murmured, suddenly understanding she’d overstayed her welcome. She stabbed her feet into her shoes, giving him an injured animal look, and then fled the office, bringing his sexual scent with her. She clipped the door closed, leaving Quentin to slump down into his chair, feeling vaguely defeated.

“Fuck,” Quentin breathed. He eased his cheeks into his hands, smelling the scent of her pussy on his fingers. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

A knock on his door sprung him out of his reverie.

“Come in!” he called.

Maggie opened the door, peering in. Her eyes were dark, like a wild animal’s. “Can I talk to you, boss?”

“I have to get going, Mags,” Quentin said softly. “The Morning Star assholes are waiting for me up the road.”

“I have loads of spreads I need you to look at,” Maggie said, her voice softening with the nickname. He’d been calling her “Mags” off and on since they’d met each other ten years before. “You took quite a long time with that new intern. The brunette one.”

“Sure,” Quentin said, trying to sound blasé. “I think she has pretty good ideas.”

“It was just a fucking advertisement, Q. I think she needs to learn when to talk in turn.”

“When has anyone ever gotten anywhere talking in turn?” Quentin asked her, rising from his chair and leaning against his desk, still feeling the warmth from Charlotte’s body. “In fact, I might remember you talking out of turn earlier this morning.”

Maggie’s face grew red, startled. She bowed her chin slowly, clearly simmering with embarrassment. “I wanted to apologize about that. It was unnecessary and out of line. I’m—”

“No need,” Quentin said, raising his hand. “Just don’t question my actions regarding these interns again. I want to be more involved with them. Give them a streamlined route to a professional life. Something I really didn’t have as a twenty-something, if you remember.”

Quentin left his office, then, and sped down the road, toward the Upper West Side, his shoes flashing black against the sidewalk. He was amazed at how easily he’d lied to Maggie about his decisions to “guide” the interns. Back in his twenties, he’d been an impeccable liar, scarcely able to remember what the truth was after telling a lie once or twice. He’d resolved to give this up as a parent—as a proper “adult.”

But the lie of his affair with Charlotte was beginning to grow very, very sweet on his tongue. He could lie about “not sleeping with her” for years, as long as he was allowed that sweet, pulsing pussy. He lifted his chin high in the air, feeling the darkness of his youth descend upon him, wholly.

He was fucking Quentin McDonnell. He wasn’t just some dad, ready to end his life in an easy chair. He was akin to the Morning Star rockers, with a very basic, very stark difference. He wasn’t a sad, aging rocker. He was a yearned-for, wanted editor of a major music magazine.

In many ways, this was the coveted next step of his sexual life. He couldn’t very well walk like a zombie through the rest of his life, a la the Rolling Stones. He was moving up. He was educated. He had sexual prowess.

And fuck, if he could get away with it, he would move on Charlotte as many times as she allowed it: that gorgeous, virginal woman, who talked a big game. Quentin could smell how much she wanted him.

Chapter 11

The rest of the day at the office, Charlotte sat in waves of panic at her desk, feeling her shoulders slump. She’d broken the no-fraternization clause once more, and, worst of all, she recognized that she was growing linked to Quentin in ways that he probably couldn’t understand, as a man over ten years her senior and far more experienced.

She was meant to be typing up an article about a Brooklyn show she’d attended the previous week, before she’d even begun at the magazine, with two up-and-coming bands from the area. They’d flung their bodies across their guitars and drawn sweat lines across their t-shirts, screaming out song after song. The energy had been enlightening. It had been akin to how Charlotte had always imagined an Orpheus Arise show to be.

Of course, she knew she never could see that reality, up close.

Lost in thought, Charlotte’s eyes danced toward the window, where she watched a plane in the distance barrel toward the airport. Randy poked her with his pen, lightly in the shoulder. Whisking around, her eyes panicked, she slowly found a smile.

“What are you daydreaming about, little miss?” Randy asked her softly, so as not to pester the others.

Charlotte shrugged. “Just can’t think of a good introduction for this piece.”

“Ha. I don’t believe that for a second. I read some of your stuff online, from college,” Randy said.

“That shit?” Charlotte said, her heart warming. Why had he looked into it? Was he really so kind?

“I just wanted to see where a little Midwestern thing like you came from,” Randy said, not unkindly. “But you have some damn snappy ideas, Charlotte. And I know the big man, Q, can see it, too.”

Charlotte’s cheeks reddened with sudden panic. Was Randy alluding to something? Could everyone tell? Jesus. This was why the no-fraternization policy was in place.

“Oh, no. He still thinks I’m a know-nothing intern. Trust me on that one.”

“I don’t know. Seems he’s showing a bit of favoritism,” Randy said, his eyes glinting. “Of course, I’m happy for you. I really am.”

“It’s not like that,” Charlotte began. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, really.”

Pamela marched past, flipping her red hair. Listening to their conversation, she suddenly leaned toward her, almost conspiratorially. “Now, all you have to do is get him to sleep with you. Then, you can work your way up to some of the top writing positions at the magazine. Who wouldn’t want such a coveted seat?” Her eyes glinted evilly.

Charlotte’s lips parted with sudden panic.

“Hey,” Randy said, smacking his palm against the desk, just beneath Pamela’s brooding face. “That is uncalled for, girl. One hundred percent uncalled for.”

“I have to get home, anyway,” Charlotte said, bursting from her seat. It was nearly five in the afternoon, the time when the interns were freed. She’d seen Maggie leave about twenty minutes earlier, ducking from the office like a spy. With Charlotte’s mind revving at a million miles an hour, she wished for a safe space, for a walk to clear her head.

“Bye, Char,” Randy said as she packed up, rising from his chair as well. “And, kiddo…”

Charlotte spun around, her eyes holding light tears. “What is it?”

“I’m sorry if I irritated you with what I said. I really do think you’re a great writer. And I know you wouldn’t do anything like sleep with the boss, or whatever.” He turned and glared at Pamela, who scurried away, like a rat.

“Thanks, Randy,” Charlotte murmured, her heart falling into the acid of her stomach. “That means a lot.”

She sped into the sunshine of mid-September, a sunshine that spoke of lost summers and of the approaching coziness of winter. She couldn’t shake the scent of Quentin, nor the thought that some of the interns were “catching on” to their affair. She’d known Quentin just one day of her life and already it seemed he’d tipped it upside down. Nothing she’d assumed about herself the previous day—regarding her approach to her career, to professionalism—was correct any longer.

Charlotte took the long route home, gliding through the park, taking in as much of the sun as she could before it nestled beneath the trees. The tug of her apartment, waiting for her to unpack her clothes and other things she’d lugged from Ohio, was palpable. But she ignored it, knowing that if she waited alone in her apartment, she’d yearn for Quentin even more.

He was just down the hall. And he was all but irresistible. Even though she knew that every time she slept with him, she was literally detracting from her professional development.

She was whoring herself out.

Her phone began to buzz. She lifted it, discovering it was her aunt, down in Florida.

After three rings, Charlotte answered brightly, trying to sweep away her sense of melancholy.

“Hey, there, Auntie.”

“Darling Charlotte, it’s so good to hear your voice. How is the apartment holding up for you? Your mother said you got the keys all right from my lawyer.”

“I did, yes. And the apartment, well, it’s too good to be true,” Charlotte said. She stared at a child on a swing set, swooping in a wild arc through the air, his legs flailing. “How’s Florida?”

“Florida is quite swell,” her aunt answered, speaking the language of a woman over seventy years of age. “I’m getting quite a bit of writing done, and I’ve been flirting with the pool boy almost constantly. Such a hunk, Charlotte. That’s what you call them? Hunks?”

“Ha. I’m not sure, Auntie,” Charlotte said, grinning. “Hey, Auntie, do you happen to know many of your neighbors on the ninth floor?”

“Oh, yes. Of course. I’ve lived there over twenty years, now. Have you met any of them?”

“Just a few. One man and a daughter. Morgan.”

“Morgan. That little thing. She used to come water my plants in the wintertime. Once, she broke a vase, and her father—a hunk of a man, to say the least—bought me a delightful new one in its place. It was made in Paris, of all places. He really knew how to charm this old lady’s heart.”

Charlotte felt her heart erupt with warmth. Jesus. This man wasn’t just a sexual icon. He was probably a good person. What was this emotion, this spinning in her head?

Was she falling for him?

No, no. It was too early.

“Well, great. I’ll know to go to his apartment if I ever need anything,” Charlotte answered softly. “It’s good to have kind neighbors. Especially in a new city, alone.”

“Darling, you were never meant for Ohio. I could see it bleeding you dry, every year when I came to visit. You have something more in you. I can smell it.”

Charlotte thanked her aunt for the apartment once more and then said her goodbyes, with her aunt telling her that she’d spend the rest of the evening drinking mimosas near the poolside. Brimming with daydreams and impossibilities regarding her boss, Charlotte walked back home, hopeful that she’d somehow run into Quentin in the elevator once more.

But the elevator doors opened, revealing an empty, silver interior. Her neck bent like a sad giraffe, she stabbed the ninth-floor button and felt the pressure of gravity as it launched into the sky.

Her apartment was just as lonely, just as somber as she’d imagined it to be. She unpacked slowly, methodically, stabbing hangers into her dresses and stuffing tights and shoes into the closet. She played music that made her anxious, and then stabbed the “Next” button countless times, trying to hone in on her mood.

Nothing fit. Nothing fit except Quentin, beside her. Speaking with her. Teasing her.

Frustrated, she lifted her phone and texted Rachel, ready to confess.

CHARLOTTE: I did it. I slept with him.

Charlotte dropped the phone on the bedspread, immediately panicked. Writing it out meant it was real; writing it out meant that she was allowing this to happen. Writing it out meant she wanted it to happen again.

After a small, panicked eternity, Rachel began to message her back, in a flurry.

RACHEL: OMG. You slut.

RACHEL: Just kidding.

RACHEL: I mean, how did this happen?

RACHEL: Please, tell me everything.

CHARLOTTE: He just came over last night.

RACHEL: Very cool. Very hot. He’s used to getting what he wants, I guess.

CHARLOTTE: I just don’t want to be his collateral damage. I told you. I want a career. I want to be a music writer.

RACHEL: But you also want that sweet dick.

CHARLOTTE: Sad, tragic, but true.

RACHEL: HAHA.

RACHEL: Let me know if you want me to come over. It must feel crazy, just being down the hallway from him.

CHARLOTTE: It does. But I’ll be all right. I’m going to have to get used to this eventually.

Charlotte undressed, donning a pair of leggings and a black V-neck shirt. After she realized she hadn’t yet gone grocery shopping, her stomach did a brief flip of hunger, crackling within her. “Shit,” she murmured, surfing through the Internet, on the hunt for cheap Chinese. She felt concave, like she was folding in on herself. “I can’t survive like this.”

Would she grow accustomed to talking to herself, now that she lived alone? Now that she was growing more and more mentally unstable, due to lusting after her boss?

“Yes, hi,” she said, speaking now to the Chinese restaurant down the road. “I’d like to order some food for delivery. Orange chicken, with a few of those spring rolls. Yes. That’s all.”

The Chinese woman on the other end spoke to her tartly, telling her it would be about twenty-five minutes till she’d receive it. The order amount was almost nothing—less than eight dollars, shockingly, and without a designated amount required for delivery. Charlotte imagined that if she passed the Chinese place on the sidewalk, her stomach would curdle at how disgusting the interior was. What she didn’t know wouldn’t kill her.

Poised on the couch, she waited for her Chinese, sensing the nighttime come rushing in. Unfortunately, her mind turned to thoughts of Quentin almost immediately, imagining him with his daughter. She imagined him stirring dinner, his business sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing his tattoos. He’d instruct Morgan on her piano technique, using his many years of musicianship to guide her hands. Just because he’d been a raucous rock star didn’t mean he didn’t have the skills to back it up.

And, Jesus, those hands hand been pressed against her clit earlier that afternoon as he’d bent her over his desk.

No. She had to stop thinking about it. She had to draw the line and tell him, almost immediately, that she couldn’t be alone with him again. Resisting his prowess was almost impossible. His scent drove her wild, made her frenzied. Even just thinking about it, her legs began to part; her pink pussy lips bounced softly apart, yearning for him.

The doorbell rang, then. Charlotte ripped up from the couch and rushed the door, feeling out of her mind. She grabbed her wallet and opened the door to reveal a Chinese delivery driver on the other side. He passed her a massive dripping bag, and she handed him ten dollars, including the tip. He nodded primly and then turned away, without speaking. He darted toward the elevator before Charlotte even had the chance to say goodbye.

She brought the bulky bag of Chinese into the kitchen, having to carry it with two outstretched arms. She began to leaf through it, sensing immediately that they’d gotten the order wrong. There was enough food in it for at least three people, for one. And also, her orange chicken was missing, replaced with some strange, sloppy-looking beef and vegetable dish.

“Fuck,” she murmured, rushing to her phone. She’d given up eating red meat the previous year and didn’t want it to turn her stomach. She dialed the Chinese restaurant, getting the same lady on the phone. “Hello,” she said, her voice still bright, if manic. “I ordered food about twenty-five minutes ago, and it’s the wrong order.”

“Okay. What is your address?” the woman asked sternly, as if she didn’t believe her.

“I’m at Wabash and 181st. On the ninth floor.”

“Ohhh,” the woman cooed into the phone. “Let me see.”

She paused for a long time, leaving Charlotte to bob her weight uneasily, anxious. All she wanted, now, was to munch on orange chicken and dive between the sheets. Perhaps all thoughts of Quentin would flurry away when she woke in the morning.

“There were two deliveries to the ninth floor,” the woman finally announced primly. “One just down the hall. McDonnell. You know?”

Charlotte’s heart began to hammer in her chest. How could this happen? How could they possibly order from the same Chinese restaurant, at the same time? Why was the universe racing her so swiftly into Quentin’s arms?

“Fuck,” she sighed into the phone, an accident.

“It just down the hall,” the woman stammered, clearly agitated. “If you’re so lazy that you can’t walk down the hall—“

“No, no,” Charlotte whispered hesitantly. “It’s not that. Thank you. Thanks.”

She hung up the phone and pressed it tightly against her chest. The Chinese food stunk from the countertop, emanating MSG and salt. Her nostrils flared, and her pussy seemed to find its own heartbeat, hammering its desire into her panties.

If she went, she knew she wouldn’t be able to resist him.

If she went, she’d fall further from her professional track.

If she went, she’d dissolve into the greatest pleasure of her life. She couldn’t get enough of it.

Fuck. What was she going to do?

Chapter 12

“Orange chicken?” Quentin said, sighing. Morgan blinked up at him, expectant, her fingers still scribbling their scales across the countertop.

“You didn’t order that, Daddy,” Morgan said, her voice bobbing up and down. “Is my rice pudding in there?”

“No. Not here, either,” Quentin sighed, frustrated. He dumped the bag on the far side of the counter, unsure of what to do. There wasn’t enough food for both of them, and Morgan had been quite picky lately, eating only vegetables and avoiding meat at all costs. She was a seven-year-old activist and an annoyance at the dinner table. Phase after phase after phase: that was childhood. Maybe it was adulthood, as well.

“Well, what am I going to eat, Daddy?” she asked playfully, spinning on a single toe.

“Why don’t you go practice the last page of that new one you brought home and leave me to the dinner making, huh?” Quentin said, snapping his hands to his knees and leaning down to her height, looking her in the eyes. “We all have responsibilities in this house. And yours is to ENTERTAIN ME!” He wrapped his arms around her, suddenly, and spun her in a mad circle, causing her to giggle maniacally.

Finally, he let her loose, watching as she scrambled back toward the piano. She gave him a final, half-evil look, and then curved her fingers over the keys. For a moment, Quentin felt his heart pulse with happiness, and with pure love.

Filling a large pot of water, he salted it and waited for the bubbles to come to the surface. Spaghetti, again. For an outright millionaire, it seemed strange that he fed his kid spaghetti. But she loved it, swirling her fork as many as twenty times in the gooey strands before lifting it to her gaping mouth.

Sometimes, everything about their life seemed too good to be true.

As he poured the spaghetti into the water, however, he couldn’t shoot the thought of Charlotte from his mind. He’d spent the majority of the afternoon with the memory of her kiss on his lips, talking in low tones with The Morning Stars and holding himself back from bragging about her.

He couldn’t. Somehow, he felt she meant more than just a few brief lays.

But no. Jesus, no. He shook his head wildly, watching as the spaghetti broke down, became wavy. The no-fraternization policy had to be upheld, at all costs. Feelings were out of the question, as well. Morgan didn’t need him to have a relationship, slicing through the perfect structure of their four-day-week lives.

Besides. He’d never had to explain a girlfriend to Kate; hadn’t had to voice the words that he’d “moved on” completely from their marriage. He knew she didn’t love him any longer. Perhaps she never had. But just watching the realization that she’d “lost” fold over her face would destroy him. He also didn’t know if she would work to turn Morgan against him in the aftermath. And if the relationship didn’t work out, he didn’t want to face that, either.

It was better this way.

“It was a little fling,” he whispered to himself, practicing. “It was nothing at all. We fed our curiosities, and now we’re both over it. Completely.”

At that moment, the doorbell rang. Quentin’s stomach clenched. He wiped his hands on the blue-striped kitchen towel. With each movement, his tattoos flashed from beneath his rolled-up shirt.

“Dad? Are you going to get that?” Morgan called from the piano room, halting her playing.

“Got it, sweetheart. Keep going!”

Quentin began his stern march toward the door, pressing his lips together firmly. If it was Charlotte, he’d have to send her back down the hallway. What was she thinking, anyway? He had a child. It was still relatively early, which meant she wasn’t in bed yet.

This felt invasive. This felt wrong. This was everything he was trying to avoid.

Through the crack in the door, he revealed that it was indeed Charlotte. Immediately, her beauty caused his throat to catch. She wore a deep, V-neck T-shirt, black leggings, and a pair of off-kilter, red socks—a bit of personality, maybe. Her figure was an absolute dream, with those large, soft breasts, that cinched waist, and those doe eyes.

In her hand, she held a greasy, white bag. A Chinese food bag.

“Hey,” she stammered, clearly feeling awkward.

The tension was nearly impossible to slice through. Quentin peered at the greasy bag, questioning.

“They gave me your order,” Charlotte murmured. “The Chinese place. And I’m guessing—“

“You have orange chicken,” Quentin said then, understanding. After a pause, he whispered, “Fuck. They really screwed us over, didn’t they?”

Charlotte pressed her lips into a smile. “It’s almost stupid, really.”

“DAD? WHO’S AT THE DOOR?”

“I see you’re not alone,” Charlotte said, drawing strength into her voice.

“Not often, no,” Quentin said, accepting the bag of Chinese from her outstretched arms. “And we’re both starving.” He paused again, searching her eyes. She seemed sad, demure. Almost expectant that they shouldn’t be together, right now. Almost as if she understood precisely what was on his mind.

“I’ll grab yours,” he said, tossing the bag onto the counter and trading them off.

“Thanks. How was your meeting? With the Morning Stars this afternoon?” Charlotte asked, her voice lilting. She was making slight small talk, trying to bridge the friendship.

“Ah, maybe we should talk about this at work tomorrow instead,” Quentin said, passing her the food.

The line was drawn. It was over. It had to be. His heart ached with the truth of it.

“Makes sense,” Charlotte whispered, her eyes glimmering.

Morgan hopped from the piano room, then, and spotted her. Her wide grin forced a larger smile onto Charlotte’s face. Quentin watched as Charlotte gave the girl a slight wave, her slim fingers pointed skyward.

“Hey, kiddo. Sounds good in there.”

“You haven’t even heard the best part!” Morgan cried, tumbling closer. “What did you bring?”

Charlotte searched Quentin’s face. Quentin bowed it, giving her the okay. She could handle this on her own.

“Just your Chinese,” Charlotte said, speaking in light tones. “The Chinese restaurant mixed up our orders. How silly, no?”

“That’s hilarious,” Morgan said, smacking her palms onto her jeaned knees. “They are always mixing up our orders. But Dad says they’re the best in the city, so.” She shrugged, sounding blasé, like a much older woman.

“She sounds like she knows what she’s talking about,” Charlotte said warmly, eyeing Quentin once more.

What did she see when she looked at him? Her boss? A rock star? A father to the little girl between them?

“Well, then, you have to eat with us,” Morgan said, her voice insistent.

Charlotte hesitated. She bit her lip in that sensual way she always did. Quentin could almost literally see the wheels cranking in her head.

“Come on, Charlotte,” Morgan said, rolling her eyes. “You can’t just hang out in the hallway all day. The food’s getting cold.”

“I don’t mind eating alone,” Charlotte said hesitantly, glancing up at Quentin once more. Something within his gut clenched with interest, with yearning.

“Dad says it’s unhealthy to eat alone,” Morgan said primly. “He says that’s why I can’t eat in front of the television by myself. Dinner is for communion.”

“Does he say that?” Charlotte murmured.

Quentin shrugged evenly, not even hating that his daughter was giving him away. He couldn’t take his eyes off the gorgeous girl. He opened the door a bit wider, gently tossing his head toward the dining room table. “Come on, Charlotte. Like the girl says, it’s completely irresponsible to eat alone. You’d be doing your body a disservice.”

He gave her a meaningful look, raising his eyebrows. Charlotte’s soft pink lips parted. Tiny, thin feet flicked over the entrance of his apartment as she entered, shrugging her shoulders, unable to break their eye contact.

“Yay! A guest!” Morgan cried out, leaping up. “We never have guests. Just Mom, sometimes. And she never lets me eat Chinese food.”

Morgan clipped the door closed behind Charlotte. The noise burst in Quentin’s ears, reminding him that he was trapped with this girl he “couldn’t” lust after, at least for the next hour or so. With her just a half foot away from him, he inhaled her scent, which was, frankly, still a mix of their sexes, together.

He led Charlotte and his daughter to the table, lifting three plates from the upper cabinet. The three plates were unfamiliar and strange in his hand, representative of a mother, father, and daughter trio that he, Kate, and Morgan had never created. He dropped each plate in place, and then grabbed the two greasy bags of Chinese, portioning out Morgan’s and his, and handing the orange chicken bag to Charlotte.

“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice soft. “This means more than you know.”

They sat, with Charlotte and Quentin across the table from one another, and with Morgan at the head of the table, holding court. Charlotte dove into her meal with chopsticks, while Morgan stabbed at her veggie dish with a fork.

Suddenly, Charlotte pointed her chopsticks toward the stove. “Are you boiling something?”

The bubbles from the boiling pot flung over the sides, then, coating the stovetop. Morgan let out a yelp of glee as Quentin sprang to his feet, barreling toward the pot. He moved the pot to the side, turning off the heat, and watching as the bubbling water receded. “Still want spaghetti, Morg?” he asked, laughing.

“No way, Dad,” Morgan said, sounding like a know-it-all. “Maybe Charlotte does?”

“Maybe next time,” Charlotte answered, grinning. She stood and wandered toward the stovetop, swiping a loose towel over the hot water, careful to avoid the hot burner. Quentin watched on, perplexed, unaccustomed to a woman’s touch in his apartment. Before he could find words, she’d folded the towel evenly and placed it on the hanger, over the oven, and swept back to her seat.

“How was school today, Morgan?” Charlotte asked her, flashing her eyes toward Quentin.

God, she was perfect. Quentin wrapped his black hair around his ears and joined the girls back at the table, hardly able to eat, given that he was suddenly bubbling with nerves. This glorious, angelic woman was sitting at his table, with his daughter. She was now privy to his world. And he hadn’t stopped it.

“It was fine,” Morgan said, rolling her eyes. “I got an A-minus in sight-reading, which is bullshit.”

“Morgan. Don’t say bullshit,” Quentin said quickly.

“Fine. It was bologna,” Morgan scoffed. Whispering, she turned to Charlotte. “But really, it was bullshit. I didn’t mess up even once!”

“Holy cow. Well, an A-minus is still really good,” Charlotte said, lifting a small chopstick bite to her lips. “Better than I could have done, I’m sure. And certainly better than your dad.”

Quentin smiled widely, feeling his heart open to her playfulness. “Hey, now. Leave the dad out of this.”

“Never!” Morgan proclaimed happily, pointing her fork into the air. “Never, ever, ever.”

“She’s a gem, isn’t she?” Charlotte said, flashing her teeth.

“A pure one,” Quentin said sarcastically, dosing out more vegetables onto his daughter’s plate. He found he juggled his attraction to Charlotte and his fatherly nature toward Morgan rather easily, slipping from passionate confusion toward Charlotte, to knowing that Morgan needed more food, in a snap. “I think—you know, I know—that after this plate of food, you should show Charlotte your latest piece you’ve been working on. You haven’t had an audience yet, now, have you?”

“But I was thinking she could play Barbies with me,” Morgan said, her voice dipping into a whine now. “I never have anyone to play Barbies with. Except for you…” She trailed off, testing him.

“It’s going to be past your bedtime, soon,” Quentin said, suddenly yearning for just a moment alone with Charlotte. “I think just another round of piano, then teeth brushed, and then your mom’s coming to get you. You’re sleeping there tonight.”

“I know, Dad. You’ve told me like eighteen times. You’re acting almost as lame as Mom.”

Quentin gestured easily toward Charlotte. “See. I’m almost as lame as Mom. That almost means everything.”

Morgan grumbled into her food, allowing tension to grow between Charlotte and Quentin once more. After several more bites, the girl sprang up from her chair and bounced toward the piano room, introducing the tune. But neither Charlotte nor Quentin could hear the specificity of her words any longer. Their eyes were centered upon one another; the chemistry was tight, intense.

Charlotte swallowed harshly. Quentin watched as her posture seemed to grow taut, into the frightened little animal he’d seen in his office earlier that afternoon.

This was a standoff. This was an unfortunate, end-of-the-road. And, in the background, Morgan began to play, her fingers articulating with perfection, allowing the melody to tinkle in their ears.

Chapter 13

“She’s really good,” Charlotte finally managed, her voice raspy. Had she been able to breathe for the past few minutes? She couldn’t feel her fingers, her toes. Her heart ramped up intensity against her ribcage, making her feel like a tiny animal, caged. She eyed the door, conscious that if she left immediately, she could avoid pure disaster.

She could avoid this growing intensity.

She could avoid this—could it be heading toward—love?

No. She’d known him just over a day.

“Well, she’s much more diligent at it than I ever was.” Quentin rose and collected their plates, dropping them into the sink and tossing out the Chinese trash.

Charlotte stood, her shoulders quivering, and watched him from the counter. She felt frozen. Finally, he turned toward her, catching her staring at him. His eyes were incredibly dark, dense, filled with secrets. What could he possibly be thinking? What could he possibly want?

“You’re a good father,” she murmured, hardly heard over the music. “It’s so comfortable here. With the Chinese and music. And her personality. It’s so… alive. It’s been a while since I felt something like that. Being young, twenty-something… sometimes I think it’s one of the loneliest emotions in the world.”

“I remember those days,” Quentin answered. “I was famous, of course. But alone in many respects. I didn’t think anyone understood me or could even imagine what it meant to be me. I eliminated any chance to get close to anyone.”

“What about her mother?” Charlotte murmured. “Did you get close to her?”

Quentin shook his head, almost imperceptibly. His eye contact remained intense. “No. I thought I could. But I couldn’t. Morgan’s the only person I’m close to on the planet. I’m guarded. More than even I know, sometimes. My life is only the magazine and her. I don’t even go see shows anymore.”

“Must be bizarre. A complete switch,” Charlotte said. “One minute, you thought you knew everything your life could be and everything it could mean. And then you stretched the definition.”

“But that’s why—“ Quentin began.

In the next room, Morgan hit a wrong note. “BULLSHIT!” she yelled and then proceeded on, causing both Quentin and Charlotte to burst into laughter. They tried to quiet themselves, drawing their palms over their lips.

“Shhh. I don’t want to upset her,” Charlotte whispered. “She’s really very good.”

“And that mouth,” Quentin said. “I swear, it’s her mother’s friends. Not me. I’m very, very careful.”

“Maybe you’re not as careful as you think you are,” Charlotte said then, her words loaded.

Quentin paused. Charlotte felt panicked, certain she’d stepped out of line. Of course, she wanted to poke him a little bit, like a human trying to wake a bear. But this wasn’t the time. Just as she prepared to apologize, Quentin pushed his thumb toward the far cabinet, shrugging.

“I was going to drink a glass of wine. Want one?”

“Only if she keeps playing,” Charlotte said, her heart ramming still harder.

“Once she gets started, she can go for hours,” Quentin said, grinning. “I can’t tear her away from that thing.”

Charlotte watched as Quentin knelt his muscled form at the base of the cabinet, hunting for the right bottle. She adjusted her weight, feeling her pulse proceed from her chest, through her stomach, to her pussy, which seemed to ache for his touch. Him being a dad was the hottest thing she’d seen in her life.

“An Italian wine all right for you?” he called.

“Of course.”

He poured the reds evenly, with firm movements. Charlotte struggled reading him. Was he just being polite? Did he wish to keep her there, sleep with her later, and then make their relationship still more muddled?

Did she wish to muddle it?

She had brought the Chinese food over. She could have left well enough alone. She’d literally poked the hibernating bear. She’d thrust the night into motion. And she couldn’t very well barrel out now.

“To your first week of work, I suppose,” Quentin said, clinking his glass with hers.

“And to you,” Charlotte murmured. In her heart, she couldn’t remember a time in the past twenty-four hours when she hadn’t been by his side. He was all-important to her, now. She worshipped him.

They stood in silence for a moment, listening as Morgan bounded through several arpeggios. Charlotte bit her lip, feeling uncomfortable, but knowing nowhere else to flee. She took a tentative step forward, inhaling the scent of him, desire coursing through her.

“What was it really like?” she asked, her voice catching. “To give up your entire life, for this?”

Quentin looked shocked, as if no one had actually asked him that question before. He peered at her curiously, as if expecting a trick. “Are you interviewing me for some sort of MMM article?”

Charlotte shook her head slowly. “No. Just curious about you. Can’t say I know the first thing about you, besides what I’ve read in magazines. Besides what you eat at the Chinese restaurant. Besides how good of a father you are.”

“And that’s already more than most people know,” Quentin said, now sounding vaguely playful. “Why should I reveal more of my soul to you? I hate to say this, but I’ve fucked tons of women. And none of them were ever privy to my life.”

“Does it make me different, that I’m still here?” she asked him, wincing slightly at his “fucked tons of women” statement.

“I’m not sure yet,” Quentin said, sounding truthful, and frankly curious. He cleared his throat, softening slightly. “To answer your question, it was a relief to give it up for this.”

Charlotte’s eyes widened.

“I was exhausted. I was tired of all the drugs. I was tired of drinking till dawn. I was tired of living for no one else but myself. I’d been a long-time reader of MMM, and, a few months after Morgan was born, I just walked into the offices and asked if they’d give me a chance. The band was breaking up. I needed something else to do.”

“So, they gave you a test?” Charlotte asked.

“No. First, they flipped their shit,” Quentin said, laughing. “They were only used to seeing photographs of me. They weren’t used to seeing me up close, much less talking to me. Then, they assumed I was fucking around. But I came prepared. I brought a few reviews I’d written about the bands I’d toured with, and they were impressed. And with my name on the MMM writer list, they knew they might sell a few more copies. It was worth it, for them.”

“Wow,” Charlotte breathed. “And just like that, you became a new person.”

“I’m sure you feel similar,” Quentin said. “You just moved to the big city from the middle of nowhere. Everything must seem chaotic and bizarre and otherworldly.”

“I don’t often talk about it,” Charlotte admitted softly. “I don’t want to sound like that little country bumpkin.” She swallowed sharply. “How strange that your daughter will never go through that kind of fear. She’s ahead of her age in confidence, surely. And she’s got beauty and brains. A treacherous combination.”

“I’m terrified,” Quentin admitted, laughing. “To tell you the truth.”

“I think we’re all terrified,” Charlotte murmured. She sipped her wine, feeling closer to him, emotionally. Her heartstrings yanked. Why was this happening? Should she even question it?

“What time is her mother coming?” Charlotte asked, remembering what Quentin had said. “Morgan’s spending the night over there?”

“Right. Yes,” Quentin said, shaking his head, jostling himself from somewhere far away. “She’ll be here in about twenty minutes, I guess. She lives just up the road and never runs late. Ever. She’s like clockwork. It’s almost freaky.”

Charlotte exhaled through her nose, her eyes holding such light and humor to them. She licked her lips, gazing up at him. When she felt the tension between them might crack the very molecules of the kitchen, he suddenly burst forward and kissed her on the lips. Charlotte swept her hand back, leaving the wine glass on the counter, and then wrapped her arms around his neck, bringing him into her. Accepting him. What the hell? If she wanted it, she was going to have it.

She sucked at his bottom lip for a moment until he tore into her, allowing his tongue to part her lips, and then searching through her, toying with her. He reached down, grasping her ass and yanking it upward, holding tightly to her. She cried out quietly, breaking their kiss with the shock of pleasure bounding up and down her back.

Fuck.

She gazed into his eyes for several moments, pressing her hands against his chest.

“What are we going to do?” she finally whispered. “What on earth are we going to do?”

Suddenly, they heard Morgan break her hands from the piano keys. She began to pad into the dining room and kitchen, her blond hair waving behind her like a flag. Quentin stepped back casually, his face breaking into a smile, void of the emotion he’d just held for Charlotte.

Charlotte felt broken, aching. She crossed her arms tightly across her chest, trying to smile at Morgan. In reality, she wished she was somewhere far away.

“What did you think?” Morgan asked her, popping up on her toes. “Did I do good?”

“Well, Morgan. Did you do well,” Quentin said, correcting her.

“Well, whatever. Did I?”

Charlotte nodded primly, taking a step toward the door. She sensed it was her time to leave. The spell had been broken. “You are a wonderful musician. I can’t wait to write about you one day, when I become a real music writer, and when you become a renowned musician.”

“Promise you’ll give me a good review?” Morgan asked, laughing.

“Promise. And I’d never lie,” Charlotte murmured, her voice wavering. She felt fatigued, aghast, frustrated. She waved to Morgan. “I suppose I better get back to my house. I know you’re heading to your mom’s, as well.”

“Aw. Dad, make her stay.”

“I can’t,” Quentin said.

Still, what Charlotte had said seemed to echo in the air around them. “What are we going to do? What on earth are we going to do?”

But the question remained unanswered.

Charlotte gave a final wave to the father and daughter before rushing into the hallway, racing down the rug, and finding solace in her aunt’s cold, dark apartment, exhaling roughly and finding it difficult to regain composure. Tears ran down her cheeks, wetting her black V-neck. Her unsteady legs forced her to the floor in front of the wooden door. Her ears grew accustomed to the silence around her, and the air felt sick with her panic.

Would she ever kiss Quentin again?

She was beginning to crave it. She couldn’t kid herself any longer. He was becoming interconnected with her time in New York, becoming the very oxygen she breathed and the thoughts she formed.

And she was going to make herself sick with lust for him.

Chapter 14

Quentin worked diligently in Morgan’s bedroom, packing her backpack for the following day and feeling the approaching tide. Kate was on her way. Sleepy-eyed, his daughter collapsed upon her bed, wrapping her arms tightly across her chest.

“I don’t want to go to Mom’s,” she murmured once more, rolling her sad little eyes.

“I know, baby,” Quentin murmured, stuffing her Ramones sweatshirt into her backpack, just to irritate Kate. “But your mommy really wants to see you. And we have to play along with that, even though it sucks sometimes.”

“Whatever,” Morgan said tartly. “Hey. I really like Charlotte. She’s so pretty! She looks like a model, like Mom did when she was younger.”

“Ha. You think?” Quentin asked, his stomach stirring. He wanted to dance as far away from this topic as possible, without giving her cause for alarm.

“I mean, Mom’s still really pretty. But she doesn’t smile as much as Charlotte,” Morgan said, sounding astute. “And my teacher says a smile is the best fashion you can have.”

“Well, then, you must be the most fashionable girl at school,” Quentin said, leaning down and lifting his daughter by grabbing her beneath the armpits and twirling her, causing her to squeal.

“Again! Again!” she cried out, laughing hysterically.

Quentin twirled her the opposite direction, causing his own head to begin a wayward spin. He saw black and red dots flurry his vision, and he couldn’t help but give her a crazed smile, allowing the stress of the day to fall from his shoulders.

The doorbell always rang at the wrong time. He set his daughter back on the carpet, still giggling outrageously, and then walked casually toward the front door, mentally preparing himself for his ex-wife. He pressed his lips together evenly and then cracked the door, looking sternly toward the tall, blonde, bone-thin woman before him, whose cheekbones seemed like knives.

“Hey there, Q,” Kate said softly, tilting her slight form. Her gaze danced behind Quentin’s back, assessing the apartment. “I smell Chinese.”

Quentin opened the door a bit wider, his heart lurching with anger. “I made sure she didn’t have anything bad or fattening. She just ordered fried air.”

Kate entered, her heels tapping on the hardwood floor. She was sculpted from clay, maybe, with refined leg muscles, peeping beneath a leather skirt. Quentin couldn’t blame himself for being so head-over-heels for her, as a younger man. But now, to him, she reeked of something off-color. Something evil.

“Ha,” she laughed, waiting. “Honey? It’s Mom.”

Morgan stomped into the room, then, with her coat unzipped and on, and her backpack bouncing. She frowned, her eyebrows coming together in the center. “Mom, did you get the piano tuned yet?” she asked, sounding outrageous and tired.

Kate turned her head swiftly toward Quentin, her eyebrows rising. “She always gets this way when you feed her bad food.”

“Ugh. That means no,” Morgan sighed, rushing toward her. She gave her a lackluster hug and then collapsed in a dining room chair, her legs bouncing up and down.

“Honey, I told you I would get it done soon, and I meant that,” Kate said, sighing. “I have a lot going on right now. And it’s only slightly out of tune.”

“You don’t have an ear for music,” Morgan said, sounding snotty.

Secretly, Quentin’s heart soared with pleasure. He promised himself to take Morgan out for ice cream again, next time he saw her. But he pressed his lips together, creating a show. “Hey, now. You know you can practice on that piano. This isn’t the end of your life. And your mother’s doing the best she can.”

“I’ll never survive being the non-musician between us,” Kate said begrudgingly. Turning her head swiftly toward Quentin, she asked, “Hey. Do you mind if we talk privately for a few minutes?”

“Oh. Of course,” Quentin said, swiping his arm toward the bedroom, guiding her. As an aside, he told Morgan, “Watch TV till we’re back, squirt.”

“No! It makes it difficult for her to sleep,” Kate sighed, already giving up. She watched as Morgan raced into the television room, her tennis shoes squeaking against the hardwood floor. “Damn, Q. You really do win the cool dad award.”

“Ha,” Quentin said. He sat on the bed, drawing comfort and looked up at his ex-wife, trying to find some kind of recognition in her eyes. Did she remember that they’d fucked all night, when they’d first met? Did she remember that they’d actually created that human out there together, that this hadn’t always been the plan?

But how could it be any other way? Kate was cold, almost calculated in her parenting scheme, and although she usually took Quentin into account when deciding things for Morgan, she often did it with a grimace, as if she couldn’t understand why on earth he was still around. Shouldn’t he have died of a heroin overdose by now? Shouldn’t he have married some dimwit model and gone to live on a tropical island? Why on earth was he responsible? These were all things he imagined she thought about him, daily, as he continued to complicate her world.

“So. What did you want to talk about?” Quentin asked her.

Kate stood, pin-straight, and clasped her hands together.

“Is it about Morgan?” Quentin asked then, suddenly alarmed. “She went to the doctor last week. Did anything—“

“No, no,” Kate answered firmly. “Morgan is healthy as ever. She could use a cold to put her in her place.” She grimaced. “Sorry. Of course, I don’t mean that.”

“You can joke time and again, if you want,” Quentin said, flashing a smile. “It suits you.”

“Ah, well. Joking’s never been my strength. You know that.” She smiled, showing how beautiful she was. Her eyes twinkled. “The truth is, I met someone. Someone who might become very, very serious. Someone I’m considering introducing to Morgan, and even having move in after a while. And I wanted you to know.”

“Wow,” Quentin breathed, unsure how to feel. His mind raced with a million different responses, none of them completely sincere. “Well, congratulations, I suppose.”

“Right. Thank you,” Kate answered, her voice prim. “I think I’ll introduce him to Morgan in the next few days, if it’s all the same to you. He’s a Wall Street guy, but a big lover of kids. A bit older than me. Forty-five.”

“Even more mature than myself, then,” Quentin said lightly, laughing.

“Ha. Says the man who missed his own daughter’s birth,” Kate said, choosing the first thing she could think of and trying to make a joke of it.

Quentin hesitated. Anger didn’t fuel him, now. Just sadness. Just an ache of loneliness, perhaps.

“I’m sorry. You’ve more than made up for it since then,” Kate said softly, rubbing her cheeks. “I think I’m just nervous, telling you this. I don’t know why. Our love died just about the time it started. But I want this to be different. This time. I might even want more kids. I’m not sure. And that will affect you, and it will affect Morgan, and I just want to be really proper about how I do this. That’s all.”

Quentin stood evenly on his socked feet, remembering what Morgan had said about Charlotte. Pretty, like Mom used to be. But Kate was still quite gorgeous. And she was still trying, out there in the world. She was fighting for love and emotion and experiences.

Why wasn’t he?

“Thank you for telling me,” Quentin answered finally, bowing his head. “It means the world. And you already know that Morgan will take to him, whoever he is. She loves everyone. She’s open to everything.”

“You’re right,” Kate answered. “I know you are. I don’t know why I’m so anxious. But really—” She paused, giving him a meaningful look. “Really, I was wondering about you. You’re on your feet, now. Mature. An editor-in-chief, for god’s sake. The best father Morgan could ask for. And I wanted to know when you were thinking about moving on.”

“On? As if I’m still pent up about you?” Quentin asked her, his voice teasing.

“No, of course not,” Kate said, hesitantly. “I just mean, have a meaningful relationship for once. Actually take it beyond the one-night stand, if you even do that anymore. I sense a loneliness about you.”

Quentin stood abruptly, his heart revving with sudden anger. How dare his ex-wife come into his apartment and tell him he “seemed lonely”? He pointed toward the door, trying to force words. “I think we should get back to Morgan. Enough about me. And enough about what’s-his-name, the prince from Wall Street. Need I remind you, my business isn’t yours unless it affects Morgan.”

Kate’s face grew gray. She recognized she’d crossed a line. Her heels clicked across the large bedroom and back into the hallway. Quentin’s anger receded; he forced himself to take long, easy breaths. He placed his hand across his daughter’s head, alerting her it was time to go. She snapped the television off and joined them at the door, feeling the tension in the air.

“Good night, Daddy,” she murmured, yanking him down to her and kissing him on the cheek with tight lips. “I love you.”

Quentin snapped the door closed behind them, frustration brimming within him. He hadn’t been alone in at least four days, always with Morgan pattering around the apartment or tinkling the keys. Now, the place felt cathedral-like, far too large for one man. He bounded toward the piano, a place at which he sought solace, and began to ram out his frustration, feeling a new song begin to coil from his fingers.

And as he played, as he tinkered, as his creativity grew, he saw a single face in his mind’s eye.

Charlotte.

God, kissing her in his kitchen earlier had tugged at his cock, pressing the ridge hard against his jeans and giving him flashbacks to being inside her tight, almost virginal pussy. Its pink walls had crushed into his pulsing, veiny, rock-hard member before accepting it in a flurry of wetness.

God, he wanted her. He could feel her physical form, moving just a few doors down. How her eyes had pleaded with him to keep her, to hold her, just before she’d gone home. He’d only known her a day and a half, but already it seemed he was under her spell. He’d never fallen this fast or this seriously. He’d never felt such impenetrable lust.

“Fuck,” he cried out, slamming his fingers against the keys. His ex-wife felt sorry for him, using words like “loneliness.” And maybe he was lonely. He wanted someone by his side who he legally couldn’t have. And he knew what it would look like, taking Charlotte as his girl. It would look predatory. It would negate her entire professional career.

But it was exactly what he wanted. It was the only thing he could focus on.

Chapter 15

After nearly an hour, positioned against the door, her nose buried between her knees and her heart pushing somewhere beneath her stomach with stress and sadness, Charlotte finally convinced herself she needed to go to bed. She was being foolish, feeling her thoughts churn in a meaningless circle, always coming back to the same thing.

Charlotte and Quentin couldn’t be together. It was against the clause in the contract. And it was against her morals, along with everything she’d ever worked for. If she moved up in the ranks at MMM and became an actual music writer, she wanted to do it on her own merit. She didn’t want to feel the disgust glittering back to her in her co-writers’ eyes.

But how could she avoid him?

In that moment, she heard a knock on her door. Still leaning against it, she felt the vibrations of the almost angry, volatile knock up and down her spine. She lifted herself, feeling anxious, her heart fluttering like a rabbit’s. Pressing her top teeth into her lower lip, she wrapped her hand around the golden knob, waiting. Hoping. Once she opened the door, she knew she’d never be able to come back.

She felt his sigh on the other side of the door. Immediately, her pussy loosened. Blood pulsed around her shoulders and thighs and stomach, causing her head to roll back slightly with desire. Her lips parted. She unlocked the door and cracked it open slowly, watching as the shadowed form of Quentin appeared before her, as if planted there, awaiting her decision for years.

His face looked brooding, dark, almost angry. There wasn’t time for talking. He burst forward and wrapped his arms around her, lifting her into the air. She felt herself lifted, unable to protest. He kissed her passionately, there on her stoop, and then fled back to his apartment, still with his lips locked over hers. She closed her eyes, feeling her chest press up against his. She felt the abrupt push of the door behind him as he slammed it, locking her in his apartment with him. The once-family atmosphere had changed completely, putting in its place a stern, insistent, over-sexual feel.

Their desire for one another couldn’t wait.

Quentin shoved her up on the kitchen counter. He dove into her neck, kissing and then sucking at her skin, causing her to toss her head back. Her hair wound in curls down her back, almost all the way to her ass. Grasping her buttocks, he lifted her, then slipped her black leggings down to her knees, revealing her tender, kissable legs.

Bending down, he exhaled warmly between her thighs, gazing down at her perfect, peach lips. He stripped the leggings from her feet, one by one, and then allowed his tongue to release, drawing a line from the inside of her knee, all the way to her wet pussy. Sensing his impending tongue, Charlotte lifted her legs high, pressing her feet on either side of her, on the countertop. But he toyed with her, poising, silent, in front of her silky, wet pussy, its lips parting, opening into soft, gorgeous darkness.

“Do you want this, Charlotte?” he asked her gruffly.

Charlotte hesitated. Countless questions flashed through her mind. But she nodded, almost imperceptibly, feeling warm, anxious, needy. “Fuck me, Quentin,” she whispered. “Please.”

Quentin dove into her, his tongue parting the lips of her pinkness, drawing out the warmth and the silky wetness, causing her eyes to close. A soft moan escaped her mouth. She reached upward, removing her black V-neck evenly, along with her bra, which she tossed across the kitchen. Her nipples pierced the air, looking like brown daggers. She grabbed them tightly, crying out as Quentin’s tongue dipped further within her. She began to quiver, unable to control her desire. His face grew coated in her lustful wetness.

Moments before she was about to come, as her pussy began to pulse with impending release, Quentin halted his tongue. He stood upright, gazing into her eyes, and then pushed his face into hers, sucking at her lip. He maneuvered his thick hands around her waist, and then he flipped her over, bringing her ass outward on the countertop. She cried out in surprise, and then poised herself, expectantly, listening as Quentin ripped his belt from his jeans and unzipped himself. She could feel the heat of his rock-hard, pulsing member across her thighs and on the curvature of her ass.

From behind, Quentin pressed his fingers against her labia, finding space for his thick staff. He pressed two fingers deep within, easing them against the pillow softness of her G-spot. Having been so close to sexual release moments before, Charlotte’s pussy pulsed against his fingers, becoming another organism, a separate entity. She cupped her breasts with her fingers, wanting to cry out to him again. His patience was destroying her.

Finally, he lifted his rock-hard staff, pressing the tip into the pink, silky slit, which swallowed it, and then grew full with him. His large, perfect balls hung beneath, and, in a moment of intense pleasure, Charlotte rose up on her knees and reached back, arching her spine, and cupped them, toying with them. Quentin let out a great moan, before drawing his lips toward hers and kissing her. He held his cock within her, up to the hilt, not moving for several seconds. The juice and life of their kiss seemed to ignite new emotion within her heart.

Each time they fucked, it felt like the first time.

Quentin began to fuck her, hard, then, shoving his member deep within her and then drawing out slightly, causing her to gasp with surprise. He lifted his hand around her thigh, pressing his finger against the top knob of her pussy.

After several minutes, the orgasm throttled itself through Charlotte’s body, causing her stomach to clench and release. Her pussy wrapped tightly around Quentin’s cock, fueling through intense waves of pleasure, before leaving her gasping, her hands splayed across the countertop.

With the intensity of her pussy’s pulsing, Quentin’s solid cock found release, as well, caught up in the emotion of Charlotte. The ridge of him pushed as far into her wet softness as possible, until he, too, came in a flurry of pleasure. His eyes closed; he rested his cheek against Charlotte’s back. And he wrapped his arms firmly around her body, cupping her breasts.

They gasped together, finding their breath. He eased his member from her pink lips, turning her toward him on the countertop. He kissed her gruffly, with exhaustion, and then whispered into her ear, “Sleep here tonight.”

All the rules were off.

She nodded slightly, unable to think her decision all the way through. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she felt herself carried there, lightly, as if splayed on a cloud. He wrapped her in sheets and a comforter, and then undressed himself, lying beside her and sliding his fingers through hers. They didn’t have words for what they’d done or for the decision they’d made. They simply allowed their eyes to close, without embarrassment. And they fell asleep, diving into a kind of dream world, not conscious of what they would face in the morning.

Chapter 16

The phone call came at around four in the morning. Quentin’s phone buzzed from the kitchen counter. The familiar noise jostled him awake, atop his cloud-like bed, with his arms around Charlotte, who smelled angelic, like lavender. He inhaled a final scent of her before lifting his legs gently from beneath the sheets and walking, naked, toward the kitchen. The air was eerie and ghost-like, as it was just before dawn. He shivered, wishing he’d put on clothes. Fall was coming on fast.

When he saw who was calling him, panic immediately flooded his veins. He grasped the phone.

“Kate. What’s going on?” His words were harsh, raspy. He found it difficult to breathe.

“It’s Morgan,” Kate cried. “We’re at the hospital. I don’t know. She woke me up. She was having trouble breathing.”

“What the fuck?” Quentin breathed, leaning heavily against the counter. He felt his knees might give way beneath him, sending him to the ground.

“The doctors are saying it’s an allergic reaction to something,” Kate continued, sounding hysterical. “They’re doing more tests right now. You didn’t give her anything—anything she’s—”

“She’s not allergic to anything!” Quentin cried, pounding his fist on the counter. “We’ve had all those fucking tests. And they said—”

“Kids change, Q,” Kate whispered. “Just get here as soon as you can, all right? They’re going to put her back to sleep, soon, and run more tests. It’s been… well… it’s been a hideous hour.”

“I’m on my way,” Quentin said curtly. He smashed the phone down and sped toward his bedroom, where he slipped an old grunge band T-shirt over his torso, donned boxers, and a pair of jeans. Then he turned to face Charlotte, a glittering, slumbering angel between his sheets.

Fuck. This was all happening at the worst possible time. His emotions for this gorgeous girl seemed to recede, like the tide, replaced with his panic. What was he doing? He had to get to the hospital. He had to focus on being a father, an editor. He couldn’t involve himself with this girl.

Everything seemed crystal clear at four in the morning.

He leaned his hand against her naked shoulder, jostling her slightly. Her eyelashes parted, surprised, and she blinked up at him, her face taking on a look of trust. “What time is it?” she murmured, tucking herself deeper into the sheets. “And why are you already dressed?”

A jolt of emotion passed through him. Just let her stay in bed. Let her into your life.

“You have to leave. Now,” Quentin said, his words curt. “I have to head to the hospital. There’s been an emergency.”

The chill of him caused Charlotte to rise swiftly, no longer making eye contact. Standing naked, poised, she hunted for her clothes and then donned them swiftly, clearly confused. Quentin felt sliced down the center, yearning to wrap his tired arms around her impossibly thin waist. He stood sullenly in the kitchen, his mind racing. His feet itched for the trek to the hospital.

Charlotte passed before him, fully dressed, her eyebrows diagonal, almost cartoonish above her eyes. The gray light of the coming morning gave her a ghost-like appearance. Her perfect lips parted, hunting for an explanation. But after shaking her head a final time, she dropped her chin, shaking it tenderly. Her body language said there was no use.

Finally, she burst toward the door, without speaking, and entered the hallway, leaving the door slightly ajar. Quentin could hear the soft padding of her feet as she found safety and solace, alone. And the moment her door clicked closed, he throttled toward his keys and wallet, grabbed his leather jacket, and fled from the apartment building, already sensing it was too late.

Emotions were dangerous. And his growing emotions for Charlotte needed to be squelched immediately. Already, he’d probably poisoned his daughter with something she was newly allergic to; he’d not been there when she needed him most. And he’d already abandoned much of his upright affairs at the magazine, insisting to Maggie that the non-fraternization policy was all-powerful, while fucking an intern, of all people.

Jesus. What was he doing?

Outside, he miraculously found a taxi immediately, hailing it with a single dart of his arm. The driver took him to the hospital, blasting past the still-lit streets, making him feel outside of time.

“It’s going to be chilly soon,” the taxi driver told him, demonstrating a fake shiver. “I can feel it in my bones.”

Quentin didn’t answer.

The taxi skirted in front of the hospital minutes later. Quentin smacked several bills into the driver’s hand, probably too many, and then blasted into the hospital doors, pressing at the fingerprint-spattered glass. He fled down the hall, listening to the chorus of hospital machines, beeping from room to room, before finding the waiting room of the emergency area. His stunning, fatigued ex-wife was slumped in a far chair, her spider legs in strange angles in front of her. Tears slipped down her cheeks.

In this moment, Quentin understood: this was real. This was happening. Their baby girl.

Kate stood up silently and wrapped her arms around his chest, giving him the first hug they’d shared since Morgan had been an infant. She felt unfamiliar, foreign. But after Charlotte’s quick rush away, he was grateful for someone to cling to.

“Do they know anything?” Quentin asked.

“Just that she’s going to be fine. We got here in time,” Kate whispered, her voice raspy. “And they think she’s allergic to shellfish. I know she doesn’t eat it, but—“

“But the Chinese restaurant. It cooks everything with everything else,” Quentin said, fearing the worst. “Jesus. I’m so, so sorry. You always tell me not to fucking order from there.” He gasped slightly, conscious that he’d nearly destroyed the one thing he held dear. “Morgan is paying for my idiocy. Christ.”

Kate slipped her hand across his shoulder, kneading at his bones. “Shh. There’s no use feeling this way right now. She’ll be awake in about an hour, they said, and we can go in and talk to her.”

A man appeared beside them, then. He was broad-shouldered, with blond hair and a blond mustache, wearing a black turtleneck and tan pants. He pressed a coffee cup into Kate’s hands, whispering into her ear, “You should sit down, Kate. You’re visibly shaking.”

Curious, Quentin’s eyebrows met in the middle. His head tilting, he began to form the question. Who was this asshole, whispering into his ex-wife’s ear?

The man skirted his now-free hand forward, shaking Quentin’s. He flashed a winning, Wall Street smile. “Hi, there. I hoped we’d meet under better circumstances. I’m Jason. Jason Wiley.”

Quentin had forgotten about Kate’s new boyfriend. Momentarily, his eyes flashed toward her. The man’s grip was stern, heavy, wanting to send a message.

Quentin gave him a half-smile. “Good to meet you. Thanks for taking care of Kate until I could get here.”

“Sure. As you know, we were planning on doing the introduction this week. I can’t wait to meet little Morgan,” Jason said, clearly trying to say the right words, so as not to get on the father’s bad side. “This stuff… this is no one’s fault.”

Quentin nodded, although he didn’t agree. His stomach held a brick of guilt. He excused himself from the couple, watching side-eyed as Jason slipped his arm around Kate’s thin shoulders, comforting her. But Quentin was a lone wolf; he didn’t need that kind of solace. His entire world was his daughter.

He bought a burnt cup of coffee and paced near the front desk, where they’d call their names soon, telling them Morgan was ready to see them. Although he didn’t ask for it, he still felt the image of Charlotte pass through his mind, a reminder of how frightened she probably was, right then. He’d literally kicked her from his bed at four in the morning, without an explanation. He’d probably made her feel two inches tall.

But whatever. Treating her this coldly was essential, ridding her of any lingering emotion for him. In a week’s time, she’d be screwing some barista in Brooklyn, like all the other twenty-somethings in New York. He’d be a passing memory, a story she could tell her friends. They wouldn’t even say hello in the hallways. And perhaps Morgan would forget about her, as well.

“Morgan McDonnell!” the woman at the front desk squeaked out, sending Quentin rushing toward her. Kate wasn’t far behind, leaving Jason with two steaming coffee cups and a ripped-up copy of Golf Digest. She shivered, placing her hand on Quentin’s back.

“Can we see her?” Quentin asked the woman.

“The doctor’s on his way out to speak with you,” the lady said, her words blasé. “Wait here.”

Quentin and Kate stood like people waiting for a train, their eyes at the door. They felt the rush of the doctor’s feet before they actually saw him, listening to the rushing taps of his feet across the linoleum floor. Quentin couldn’t control his racing heart.

Doctor Andrews was balding, with graying, blue skin, and sad, tiny eyes. His large hands were confident, drawn together at his chest. He greeted them both, Kate for the second time, and Quentin for the first. “You must be the father.”

He led them through the double, white doors, through the hallways.

“She’s conscious, now,” he told them. “We’ve reduced the allergic reaction, and she can breathe on her own again. Honestly, the shellfish was in trace amounts, which definitely saved her life. But I would avoid any trips to this restaurant—or any other dodgy place in the future.”

“Of course,” Quentin said firmly, wanting to instill the fact that he was a good father. “If I only would have known—”

Dr. Andrews opened the final door in the hallway, revealing his tiny daughter, with her blond hair whipped back on the pillow, her large eyes hunting the room, and a little tube in her arm. Her vital signs blasted on three different screens around her, dwarfing her. Immediately, Quentin’s chest felt squeezed.

“Hi, Daddy!” Morgan said, her voice bright. “Check it out! I’m a robot!”

“Ha,” Quentin said, trying to yank back his tears. “Finally, you’ve beat the humans at their own game. You don’t need us any longer. You’re bionic.”

Morgan giggled, trying to lift herself to a seating position, before failing from fatigue. “I’m so, so tired, Daddy,” she murmured. “And they said I can’t even go home till tomorrow.”

“It’s for the best,” Kate interjected, always the voice of reason. “They want to monitor you. Make sure you’re not sick anymore.”

Dr. Andrews appeared behind them, then, excusing himself. He bowed toward the hallway, explaining, “Just had an emergency down the hall. But you can reach me via the front desk. Morgan will be moved later this afternoon to a smaller room, without the machines. And then, as she’s already told you, we’ll release her tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you, Doc,” Quentin said firmly, making intense eye contact with the man. “This means more than you could possibly know.”

He returned to his daughter, sliding into a chair beside her bed and grabbing onto her little, chilly hand. She gave him a tight smile, revealing chapped lips. “Daddy, I just couldn’t breathe. It was stupid. And now, I won’t be able to practice for my piano competition today. I’ll fall behind!”

“One day off from practice isn’t going to kill your chances,” Quentin said, laughing. “Trust me. I didn’t practice for two weeks before I performed at Madison Square Garden, and I killed it.”

“You were a rock star, Daddy. Not a classically trained musician. I’m sure you made some mistakes,” Morgan said, rolling her eyes.

“Somebody hasn’t lost her spunk,” Quentin said, turning toward Kate and grinning madly. His heart fluttered with love for his daughter. She was going to be all right.

Kate appeared in the seat on the other side of the bed, taking Morgan’s other hand and rubbing at it. Wrinkles and darkness formed under her eyes, probably from not applying makeup before racing to the hospital. It was strange seeing time make its way across her face, especially when she took such care not to show it.

“Daddy, are you going to work today?” Morgan asked him then, her voice growing softer.

“Not unless you want me to,” Quentin said firmly, already divorcing himself from his tight schedule of meetings. This was more important. This was everything.

“No. Stay here. Watch cartoons with me,” Morgan said, her words insistent. “Please?”

“Of course, darling. I owe it to you,” Quentin murmured, leaning forward and kissing her palm softly. “I wouldn’t leave your side today for the world.”

Chapter 17

Charlotte couldn’t sleep once she returned to her apartment. She lifted a wine glass from the countertop, half-wanting to smash it to smithereens on the hardwood floor. Anger and sadness throttled through her, both working to reign. Quentin had kicked her out of his apartment at four in the morning, like a ragdoll, a plaything he no longer wanted. And he’d given her no real explanation, besides grumbling something about it being an “emergency.”

She couldn’t linger on it. He was just done with her. That had to be it. And now, she was stuck as his intern, probably having to fight to stay relevant at the magazine, when he would probably want her gone at every turn.

Of course, what was worst of all, was that she was falling for him, head-over-heels. When he’d fucked her against the countertop, blasting his mighty, rock-hard dick between her pussy lips, she’d sensed a growing love in her heart. It was bigger than lust; it was stretched larger than a crush. Gazing into his eyes, she’d sensed that he felt it, too.

At least, she’d thought so.

After showering off the musky scent of him, she sat, a towel wrapped tightly at her breasts, and wove through the countless writing jobs on the Internet in New York City. Perhaps she could leave the magazine, start anew. She’d royally fucked up her first experience, potentially ruined her career and life.

But none of the listings she caught compared at all to her position at MMM. Frustration brimming, she dressed in a simple black mourning dress and donned makeup with intensity, wanting to look hot and almost wicked at the office. Red lipstick flashed into a near-evil smile in the mirror. She would show him she was more than just his plaything.

Entering the magazine offices, however, she noted that Quentin’s office door was flung wide open, without him in his familiar position. Curious, she headed to the coffee machine, finding that Pamela was filling her cup. Her hair hung in tight red curls down her back, and she’d clearly bought a new black dress, one that revealed a bit more cleavage.

Was Pamela trying to copy Charlotte, just to attract Quentin’s attention?

“Oh, hello,” Pamela said tartly, slipping to the side. She swept a tad of sugar into the coffee mug, twirling a spoon in the center. “How was your night?”

“My night? Oh. Fine,” Charlotte murmured, not wanting to discuss it.

Had she been speaking with Rachel, she would have said, “Well, I’ve been fucking the boss, and now he seems to want me out of his life for good, which is great. Just great.” But of course, this would negate her contract.

“And yours?” Charlotte finally managed.

“Oh, fine. Just been working on a few pitches for the writer’s meeting this week. I think I’ve cooked up some pretty good ideas,” Pamela said, her eyes flashing. “You have some good ones. Don’t you?”

Honestly, Charlotte had a few ideas jotted down at her desk, but hadn’t given the writer’s meeting much thought, beyond that. Now, fire burst up and down her spine, reminding her. If she embarrassed herself in that meeting, in front of Quentin himself, she’d never live it down.

“I have some stuff up my sleeve,” Charlotte said, sounding mischievous. “Meeting at eleven?”

“Yes, apparently,” Pamela said as they continued into the hallway and toward the intern offices. “But Quentin still isn’t here today, which has everyone nervous. He’s normally always here by eight or nine. And it’s already almost nine-thirty.”

“Shit,” Charlotte murmured, her heart beginning that now-familiar hammering. Did he really want to avoid her this much? Was this an act, putting her in her place?

“Not that it’s any of my business, but the magazine does go to print in just over a week. He should be here,” Pamela said, sounding snooty.

Charlotte eyed her suspiciously as they entered the intern offices, feeling vaguely angry. She wanted to say something sarcastic about Pamela’s dress, alerting her that she looked foolish. But she was a good person, a girl with class. She held her tongue and turned to her desk, where she collapsed beside Randy. His blond hair glittered in the light.

“How’s it going?” Randy asked her, a smile stretching widely. “You look upset.” He leaned forward, whispering, “Did you see what Pamela is wearing?”

Charlotte grimaced. “It’s pretty bad.”

“You know she just wants attention from Quentin. But I suppose, don’t we all? You’re the only one who’s getting it.”

“Well, not anymore,” Charlotte murmured.

Confused, Randy’s eyebrows lowered. He leaned toward her, sounding conspiratorial. “What do you mean? What’s going on? You know something. You have a secret.”

“No, no,” Charlotte said, her cheeks reddening. “Of course not. I just mean… he paid attention to me yesterday, but that doesn’t mean he’ll even look at me ever again. He doesn’t care about us interns at all. We’re just dust. And he’ll clean us out of here at the end of the semester anyway.”

“Wow. Someone’s depressed today,” Randy said, elbowing her softly in the upper arm. “If you want to talk today, let me know. I know transitioning in this city can be rough as fuck.”

“Tell me about it,” Charlotte murmured, feeling the heaviness of the past week shift on her shoulders. “I feel like I just want to sleep for the next three weeks.”

“They call it the city that never sleeps for a reason,” Randy said.

Charlotte worked swiftly throughout the morning, actually getting a bit of writing done, due to the fact that she wasn’t distracted by the intensity of Quentin’s presence. But still, she kept her eyes to the hallway, hunting for his return. Should she approach him, demanding why he’d toyed with her? She imagined this other reality, in which she was a strong, outrageous woman, blaring words of regret and anger at her boss.

Ha. She was nothing but a meek mouse.

Sometime after lunch, she inched from her seat, glancing around the intern office. Pamela had yanked her red curls into a ponytail, finding solace in her tomboy nature. She scribbled roughly across a notebook, intent on “beating” Charlotte in the idea realm, whenever they eventually had the writer’s meeting.

Charlotte left and wandered down the hall, catching sight of Quentin’s office, which was still empty. Maggie was positioned outside of it, magazine spreads splayed out in front of her, her eyes dancing across the images. Charlotte approached her quietly, standing like a ghost.

Finally, Maggie flinched, realizing someone was beside her. She blinked wildly, trying to make sense of Charlotte’s face. “Shit,” she murmured, snapping the magazine pages closed. “You could have said something.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt you,” Charlotte said. She gestured toward Quentin’s office, trying to sound strong. “Where is the editor today?”

Maggie glanced toward the empty room, her face aghast. “He’s just stepped out for a meeting,” she said, her voice uncertain and wavering.

“But he hasn’t been here all day,” Charlotte stammered.

“He has,” Maggie said. “I had a lunch meeting with him.”

“Where did you go?” Charlotte challenged.

“That’s not your business,” Maggie began, before hesitating. “I mean, we went to the Trojan Horse. Up the road. Delicious Greek salad.”

“Huh.” Charlotte didn’t know whether or not to believe Maggie. Perhaps Quentin had already told Maggie that he’d been sleeping with Charlotte, and that Charlotte was to be let go soon. But why would they allow her to be on the premises, in the first place? Her eyes flashed. “Well, do you know when he’ll be back?”

“Not really,” Maggie said. “He tends to take a while with these big clients. They like to wine and dine, all that.”

“It’s only two in the afternoon,” Charlotte offered, arguing once more.

“Well. You know the rock star life,” Maggie insisted, turning away from Charlotte. The tension between them grew. “Anyway, I have to get back to this. Please, head back to your desk.”

Charlotte tossed her long brunette curls and trudged back to her intern office, angry. If she was about to be fired, she wished someone would just tell her. If she was going to be ignored for the next several months, as intern of a man she could have loved, she wished someone would just tell her.

If she was going to go up in flames; if the love she’d begun to harbor was about to collapse around her, then she damn well wanted to know.

Ultimately, she didn’t have a good feeling.

Returning to her desk, Randy leaned toward her, whispering into her ear, “Hey. Drinks tonight? I can tell you need some TLC.”

Charlotte nodded slowly, robotically, taking solace in this stranger. “I would kill for about three bottles of wine right now,” she murmured.

“That’s the spirit,” Randy said back.

Chapter 18

Quentin continued to shove meetings back, telling Maggie he wouldn’t be in the office till at least the following day. Her insistent text messages, all declaring, “WE PRINT IN A WEEK, YOU IDIOT!” went ignored. He was tucked away in Morgan’s hospital room, nibbling at kid cereal and watching modern-day cartoons, which were, in his opinion, complete drivel. But Morgan seemed to dig them.

Kate came in and out, knowing that Morgan was most comfortable with just her father. She brought teddy bears and other toys, along with a card signed by all the members in Morgan’s class, including her arch-nemesis, the other pianist, Monica.

“Ugh. She’s happy I’m not there,” Morgan said, tossing the card to the side.

Quentin couldn’t handle it. He laughed outrageously, overblown with emotions. His daughter was going to be safe. And best of all, her spunk was electric.

“The hospital food sucks,” Morgan said, when they finally allowed her to eat dinner, late that night. “I want macaroni and cheese. I would KILL for it!”

“Ha. Don’t say kill,” Quentin said, chuckling. He lifted his phone, eyeing the sad-looking toast on her plate. “Do you think they’ll kick me out if I order you macaroni and cheese?”

Morgan shrugged, tossing the toast to the side. “I don’t know. You’re the adult.”

It was true. And he’d already poisoned her with that Chinese food. But he dialed the local BBQ place, which sold impeccable cheesy macaroni and ordered them a large vat of the stuff, knowing they didn’t sell anything shellfish-related. He even asked, mid-conversation, “You definitely don’t have shellfish in the kitchen? Or in the vicinity? You, sir, haven’t eaten shellfish lately, have you?”

And the man on the phone laughed heartily, saying no.

The macaroni was delivered to the hospital at around eight-thirty, a few hours before visiting hours were over. Kate pounced on them immediately when she entered, viewing her ex-husband and her tiny daughter stuffing macaroni down their throats with plastic forks.

“Jesus, Q. I can’t trust you at all.”

“She wasn’t eating. She needs to get her strength back,” Quentin said, gesturing toward their daughter, who’d begun to refill her bowl. “She’s got the appetite of a lion.”

“No. A tiger,” Morgan insisted.

“Right. That’s what I meant,” Quentin said, giving Kate a knowing look.

“Whatever,” Kate said, stuffing herself in the chair across from him. She still looked fatigued, but she’d obviously applied makeup at some point. She no longer looked so skeletal, so sad. “What cartoon is this?”

Quentin tucked his daughter in that night, drawing the sheets up to her chin. Kate kissed Morgan on the lips precisely once before excusing herself and heading home with Jason, squeezing Quentin’s elbow a final time before departing.

“Aren’t you leaving, Daddy?” Morgan asked, her eyes big as saucers, like a rodent hidden in a tunnel.

“No way,” Quentin said, extending his legs out in the small, plastic chair. “I’m camping here with you. What if you wake up and you get scared again?”

“Dad. I’m big now,” Morgan insisted, rolling her eyes. But her voice wavered, telling a different tale.

“Yeah, I know you’re big,” Quentin said. “But I also know the only job I really care about in this world is being your father. And I’m going to do that really, really well. Understand?”

His daughter drifted off in the next twenty minutes, exhaustion folding through her and causing her to sleep dreamlessly, without her normal kicking and fighting to unspeakable demons. She was safe. She would sleep through the night.

Nothing like this would ever happen again. Not if he had anything to say about it.

As she slept, Quentin’s thoughts turned to the office. He lifted his phone, typing quickly and rescheduling a meeting with the band Thick Soled for the following late afternoon. He apologized to Maggie, telling her “something very important came up,” not wanting to mix his two worlds: his family life and his magazine life. Although he, personally, didn’t own the magazine, the numbers had shown nothing but growth for the past two years, since he’d become editor. He didn’t imagine he’d lose his position any time soon.

Maggie typed back quickly, her words coming a bit sloppily, perhaps showing she was drunk.

“Don’t leave me hanging like that again,” she said. “I had everyone coming at me, asking me where you were. The interns were manic. All the girls are dressing slutty to attract you, I think. It’s disgusting.”

Quentin’s mouth down-turned, then, as Charlotte came back to his mind. He typed back to Maggie, hating himself.

Good thing there’s that no-fraternization clause in place, then. Otherwise—I might be tempted! he said.

“Ha, ha,” Maggie said back, reinstating their friendship. She couldn’t stay mad at him for long. She continued, “That little pretty one, Charlotte, asked when you’d be in. She was pretty insistent. I’d watch out for her, if I were you. She’s a smart one. Smarter than even you, maybe.”

Quentin shoved his phone into his pants, shivering. As his daughter slept, he cranked up onto his feet and entered the hallway, his mind a blur. Hadn’t kicking her out of his bed been enough of a message? There was no possible way she could know what had happened with Morgan. She probably assumed he’d kicked her out, and then proceeded to avoid her all day. This was for the best. Wasn’t it?

He seemed like a major dick. But he had to uphold the no-fraternization rule. He had to force things back on the rails. He had to keep his life stable. And that meant no Charlotte.

But even as he thought about her, his cock pressed firmly against his pants, seeming insistent. This was the longest he’d gone without seeing Charlotte since he’d met her. His fingers seemed to simmer with desire to touch her, to grasp her thin waist, and to separate the silky lips of her pussy, allowing his tongue to dive between.

Would he ever have that kind of pleasure again?

As he paced through the hallway, a tiny redheaded nurse walked past him, shuffling her ass from side to side. She had a tight, taut waist, a small, bird-like neck, and lithe feet, which pulsed across the linoleum at the speed of light. She wasn’t like these other hulk-like nurses. She was different. During his rock star days, he would have branded her as fuckable and shoved her into a closet, stripping her panties to the floor.

But Quentin felt nothing. The only person who seemed to ignite this lion-like fervor within him was Charlotte. He halted himself, thrusting his palms against the wall, trying to calm his racing heart. The blood had rushed into the tip of his cock full-force now. He needed release. But deep in the labyrinth-like hallways of his daughter’s hospital, he would have nothing.

He’d be pent-up. He’d be forced to linger through dozens of dreams of Charlotte’s naked quivering body until morning.

Quentin slept fitfully on the side bench in Morgan’s room, waking periodically to check that his daughter was breathing all right. He remembered when she was a baby, taking her home with him for the first time, anxious that he didn’t have Kate by his side any longer. He’d forced himself to stay awake, wide-eyed, without any drugs besides coffee, just to ensure she was all right. She’d slept like a log, yet Quentin had felt they were continually on the brink of disaster.

Kate arrived at around eight in the morning, when the doctor was planning to do his final analysis and then let Morgan go. She brought a change of clothes, along with some bagels, and the three of them chewed companionably, with Morgan sitting upright in bed, her legs crossed before her.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you eat carbs in years,” Quentin told Kate. “Perhaps ever.”

Kate rolled her eyes, taking a delicate bite. “Do you see me growing fatter in front of your eyes?”

“You’d be beautiful either way, Mom,” Morgan said, sounding annoyed.

“The kid’s right,” Quentin said firmly.

Kate gave him a glowing smile.

“Listen,” Quentin said, addressing both of them. “I do have to go into the office today. I have a big interview with an up-and-coming band, and I need to check in on the writers. We’re printing next week. Stressful time.”

“You should go,” Kate said, her eyebrows high. “Morg’s about to get released, and then we’ll just chill out at home the rest of the day.”

“I have to practice anyway,” Morgan said stiffly.

“Why not take another day off?” Quentin asked.

“You’re not,” Morgan said pointedly.

“Fair,” Quentin said, rising. He kissed his daughter on the forehead, already feeling regretful to leave. “Well, promise that the moment you feel weak, you’ll head back to bed. Okay?”

Quentin fled the hospital and hailed a taxi immediately, rushing back to his apartment building to shower and change. He felt the weight fall from his shoulders, knowing that Charlotte wasn’t currently in the apartment building, having already trudged to work. He scrubbed himself clean, kicking his nails into his back and feeling at his spine. As he left the apartment building, he yanked the trash from the trashcan, remembering that the Chinese residue was leftover there—something he wanted far, far away from his sanitary house.

When Quentin had been his dominant rock star self, he’d avoided women constantly after sleeping with them, turning a blind eye and almost taking pleasure in the pain that danced across their faces. He’d hurt hundreds of women, probably, with his ravenous, sexual addiction and his assurance that no one girl was “the one.”

He would do the same to Charlotte. For the good of them both.

Taking the elevator up to the MMM offices, he prepped himself, internally, for the meeting with Thick Soled. While his writers took over most of the features, he liked to write at least one big one every magazine, positioning himself as the top-tier writer at the magazine. He wasn’t just in charge, he was fucking good, an artist. And his articles were most often read on the Internet, anyway.

Thick Soled had been an up-and-comer for at least a year, playing dark, dive bars in Brooklyn and Chicago before finally signing a label and releasing their first record. Their sound was grungy, raspy, howling—not unlike Orpheus Arise had been, ten years before. Their plan, to meet at his office at one-thirty and then trudge to whatever bar would have them, was Quentin’s saving grace for the day. Ignoring Charlotte’s brilliant form would be easier from far away.

But the moment the elevator doors opened, Quentin took his first step into the office and found himself in tense, impenetrable eye contact with Charlotte herself, who stood speaking with Maggie near the entrance to his office. After several seconds of heart-racing, gut-wrenching uncertainty—during which he wanted to blast Charlotte against the wall and rip at her business clothes—he finally lurched his eyes away, all-out ignoring her. He eyed Maggie and nodded toward his office. “Maggie. I’d like to see you in my office.”

“Q. Good to see you back,” Maggie said.

Quentin felt Charlotte’s brooding eyes upon him, dancing from Maggie to Quentin and back. Her lips parted soundlessly. Through the corner of Quentin’s eyes, he thought he could see a tiny tear trickle from the corner of hers. But he didn’t dare look closer, just to be sure.

This was just how he’d handled the broads ten years before. And it would be how he would handle it now. Charlotte was nothing—a bug to be squashed. And now, she could return to her intern-lifestyle, allowing him to return to his editor-in-chief status. The no-fraternization policy would remain.

He had to behave himself. He was a father. An editor-in-chief.

He had to play by the rules.

Chapter 19

Charlotte retreated to the bathroom, sliding down the side wall of the stall and weeping, fully, into her palms. After the night they’d had, just two days before, he’d ignored her completely. He hadn’t even allowed his eyes to grace her face. The normal, sexual tension had existed, certainly. But perhaps that only existed in Charlotte’s own mind? She couldn’t be sure.

Perhaps he’d used her up and planned to spit her out, like a dog toy.

His sexual deviance, thought to have been left in the past, ten years before, had just followed them both into this future. And now, it had destroyed Charlotte’s very sense of self. She quaked with sadness, feeling her stomach lurch.

As it was nearly lunch, she excused herself early and fled the office, sensing Randy’s eyes upon her, curious. Slipping her sunglasses from her face, she bounded down the street, feeling her blood rush through her veins. The world was crashing around her. Somehow, she felt electric, incredibly aware. This was what heartbreak felt like.

She wasn’t sure she’d felt it before.

The side corner, several blocks down, held a large, shaded bar, in which several winos drank in the bright light of the early afternoon. She joined them, tossing her purse to the ground beneath the bar and smacking her palm on the counter, eyeing the bartender, her sunglasses still plastered across her face.

“I’m going to need a Manhattan,” she said, her voice trying to find certainty.

“Darling, we don’t make that shit here,” the bartender said, his voice gruff, yet kind. “Better order something hard. Or wine or beer.”

Charlotte nodded, recognizing she was inexperienced. A Manhattan? She didn’t even really know what that was. “Right. I’ll have a wine, please. Better make it white. Don’t want to stain my lips, for work.”

“Right,” the bartender said, half-rolling his eyes and stomping toward the back refrigerator, finding a new bottle of white, unopened. “Don’t think I’ve had anyone drink white in here for a few months. Not that kind of establishment, you know. The kind that draws in white wine drinkers.”

Embarrassed, Charlotte slipped the sunglasses from her nose and blinked rapidly at him, sensing tears begin to build behind her lashes. “It’s just—I want to feel—”

“You want to take the edge off. And this is your poison. I get it,” the bartender said. His bald head gleamed beneath the orange lamplight. It seemed that the springtime sunshine didn’t seep far in through the windows, leaving them both in shadow at the bar top. “What’s your name, sweetie?”

He couldn’t have been younger than sixty. Charlotte felt oddly safe with him, unquestioning his purpose in asking her questions. He seemed like a lonely old man, behind a bar all day, watching the rest of the world go by.

“It’s Charlotte,” she murmured, sipping the white wine. It tasted tart against her tongue, unlike the nice wine her aunt had tucked away in her cabinet. But it would do.

“Charlotte. That’s not a name you hear very often anymore,” he said. “I’ve always liked it. Reminds me of the early century. Of Europe, even. Hell, I don’t know.”

Charlotte laughed appreciatively, already feeling the wine dance around in her head. She hadn’t yet eaten and had even foregone breakfast. She shivered. “I was the only Charlotte I knew growing up, that’s for sure,” she said, grinning. “In a group of Stephanies and Carries and Laurens.”

“Lauren. That’s my granddaughter’s name,” the bartender said, revealing a small sliver of his life. “Never liked the name, but love the girl. When I get down to Tennessee to see her.”

“Wow. So far,” Charlotte breathed. “My family all live in Ohio. Not far.”

“Nope. Although, after living in New York, I’m ruined for anything else. I don’t know where else you could possibly live. My daughter didn’t feel the same, hence this granddaughter I have a million states away.” He chortled. “You’re just a bit younger than her. Than my daughter, I mean. What are you? Twenty-two?”

“Twenty-three,” Charlotte murmured, sounding miserable. “But I feel four years old right now. Trouble at work. And I worked damn hard to get this job! It’s the only one I want on the planet. I definitely don’t want to leave. But something horrible happened…” She trailed off, sipping the wine down. The bartender refilled it, gesturing, as if to say it was free. Charlotte sure hoped it was.

“Well, then, you can’t give up on it. No matter what happened,” the bartender told her, his voice firm. “My daughter used to give up on everything, even if she liked it. She didn’t want to fail at it. She gave up on sports, dance, music. On everything. She even gave up on me, at least for a while. And it hasn’t gotten her anything but an early divorce and a custody battle.” He paused, recognizing he’d gone too far. “Of course, that’s nothing like you. And that’s my problem. Not yours.”

“Shit,” Charlotte murmured, diving back into her wine. “No, but you’re right. I shouldn’t allow myself any kind of quitting. Quentin was rock bottom, before. He was a rock star with every kind of addiction, and he had to fight to be in the position he’s in. And who knows what kind of uncomfortable positions he was in, before this. Not that I want to know…” She trailed off, biting her tongue, thinking about his sexual deviance, his addictions. “Anyway, if he can rise from the ashes, I can certainly rise up from this. It’s been, what, just a few days?”

The bartender answered with only a smile. He pointed up the road, past several skyscrapers, toward a single, glittering, silver one on the corner. “You know, I used to work there.”

“What?” Charlotte murmured. “No. Are you serious?” She glanced at it, unable to link up this bearded, balding bartender with that professional-looking, piercing skyscraper.

“Sure did. But I gave up. And now, I’m here,” he told her. “Now, I’m not much for teaching people lessons, not when they have a drink in their hand. But I think you already know what you should do.”

Charlotte nodded slowly, sliding her half-empty second glass across the bar top. She swiped the back of her hand across her bright pink lips, feeling suddenly embarrassed for going to a bar in the middle of the day. Who did she think she was?

“Thank you for this,” she murmured, rising up onto her heels. “I think I should be getting back.”

Once standing, she felt oddly certain of her decision, sensing that she’d crossed over some kind of boundary. Her brain simmered with knowledge, with insight.

“What was your name, sir?” she asked the balding bartender, her eyes Bambie-like, big.

“I’m Hank,” the bartender said. “And I want you to forget about me immediately and head back to work. You deserve it.”

Charlotte’s lips pressed into a smile. How much time had she missed from work? As she pounded onto the sidewalk, she lifted her cell, noting that it was still ten minutes before everyone corralled back inside after lunch. Nobody would notice she’d been gone. Stabbing a piece of gum into her mouth, she chomped furiously, hoping the stench of the wine would fall from her lips.

Luckily, or perhaps not so, the wine had reduced her anxiety as she entered the office. She walked with powerful steps toward her desk and then sat primly on the edge of her seat, making momentary eye contact with Randy, who’d nibbled on a salad at his desk. Charlotte’s stomach growled angrily, conscious it had only had alcohol the entire day. Randy handed her a crouton, looking at her curiously. “Didn’t you just go to lunch?”

“Trying to drop weight,” Charlotte lied, crunching on the crouton. “But, damn, aren’t these good.”

“You shouldn’t deprive yourself. Not with that figure,” Randy said, his voice flamboyant. He shot his notebook toward her desk, showing her the features he was planning to pitch at the next writer’s meeting. “Check out what I’ve been brewing up?”

Charlotte snuck the notebook toward her, nodding almost imperceptibly at the half-thought-through items on his list. The ideas showed that Randy had a semi-thorough understanding of the current music climate, yet it also alerted her that he had a great deal to learn, as he was planning to pitch features regarding bands that were brewing the previous few years and certainly not this spring.

“I think these need a little bit of help,” she began, her voice a whisper. “I mean, they’re great. I just think if we put our heads together…“

Randy nodded enthusiastically, glomming onto her. “Whatever you think. You’ve got the brains here.”

“Ha,” Charlotte murmured, rolling her eyes. She began to jot down several ideas, linking his with greater musical comprehension. As she did, she dove deeper into her personal world of thought, almost blacking out.

Perhaps that’s why she didn’t hear the door open. Not immediately, anyway.

She felt the silence, first. It was heavy against her shoulders, causing her spine to curve. Glancing up, she spotted Maggie in front of the interns, her arms crossed over her chest. “Charlotte? I don’t suppose you’re going to join us?”

“Oh, shit,” Charlotte said, dropping her notebook. “I’m sorry. What is it?”

“Quentin would like to discuss the recent interview he had with Thick Soled with all of you. Wants to demonstrate how he forms an idea, then applies that idea to an interview, and then turns that into a story. Sorry if that sounds too boring for you.”

Charlotte’s mouth had turned downward with fright. She burst from her seat, trying to imitate excitement. “No, no. That sounds wonderful. I just got caught up in my note-taking, is all…”

Why on earth would Quentin call them in for this post-interview process? Was this Maggie’s idea, for teaching the interns? She shuddered, knowing Quentin wanted to see her about as much as she wanted to see him. Zero. Nada.

Bowing her head, she drew herself behind Randy as the interns filed out, lining up in chairs in the conference room and waiting in silence for Quentin to join them. Maggie stood quietly at the head of the large gray conference table, her hands wrapped at the top of the rolling chair, gripping too tightly. Her eyes danced across Charlotte’s face, branding her. What did she know?

The wine continued its sloshing around her head, dipping from ear to ear, it seemed. Charlotte brimmed with sudden expectation. She no longer held the fear she initially had, at least with this alcohol confidence. She half-wanted to toss her head back in raucous laughter at the ridiculous nature of it all. Two weeks before, she’d been passed out in her father and mother’s backyard hammock, daydreaming about the day she’d finally have a feature in MMM. Now, she was facing off with the boss and ex-rock star—a man who’d decided, just off-handedly, that she no longer existed.

Finally, Quentin burst into the room, standing taller than Charlotte remembered, his broad shoulders firm and strong as he strutted toward the front, near Maggie. A skinnier, more rugged man came along with him, his beard long and curled, and a black hat perched upon his head. Charlotte recognized him immediately as the lead singer of Thick Soled.

“Hello, interns. I wanted to introduce you to Keith, here, the lead singer of Thick Soled,” Quentin said, not even glancing toward Charlotte. “We just had a pretty wonderful chat, wouldn’t you say, Keith? And in the hours that follow, I’m going to show you how I’m taking that conversation and honing it into a story. It’s what we do here, professionally, at MMM, and I would be remiss not to clue you into my technique.”

“Good to meet you all,” Keith, the singer said. His voice was quieter, more demure than Quentin’s. Charlotte felt sure that he didn’t like being in front of crowds. “Quentin, it was wonderful to hang out with you again, but I think I might hit the road.” He stretched out his arm and shook Quentin’s hand, almost as if this moment was for show, for the other interns. Quentin just wanted to impress them with the big names he knew, just to reinstate his power over them.

Perhaps that was it?

Charlotte couldn’t tell.

As Keith left, Quentin smacked his palms together, causing a quiver of nerves to ease through the seated interns. Their boss made them anxious. Each face revealed tension. They didn’t want to fuck up.

“Now, as you all probably know, Thick Soled has been up and coming for about a year, especially in the Brooklyn area. Can anyone tell me who they opened for that got them noticed by a top-selling label?”

The room was quiet, with Maggie shifting her weight uncomfortably. Pamela stared at her hands, and Randy swiped the sweat from his forehead, visibly shaken. Charlotte’s heart hammered with the answer. She knew it! Didn’t anyone else?

Fueled with wine, she thrust her hand into the air. Quentin’s eyes danced around it, not wanting to call on her.

“Anyone?” he asked.

Randy pointed toward Charlotte with a child-like finger. “I think Charlotte knows.”

Finally, Quentin nodded, without looking at her. His eyes were far above her head, drilling into the wall behind her. “All right. Which band?” His voice was stern, reminiscent of her father’s.

“They opened for the White Rabbits, last year in a June basement show, when a member of the label Thayers was watching. They signed them shortly thereafter, although they fought with them briefly about wanting to replace the drummer. A kind of Beatles-ish dilemma, I suppose. But Thick Soled refused.” Charlotte’s words were confident. Her eyes danced around Quentin’s face, trying to connect with him. Her pussy seemed to press against her insides, beating with insistence, knowing he was so close.

“Shit,” Randy breathed, clearly impressed. He’d hardly heard of the band, Charlotte knew. She was revving with dictionary-like knowledge of the music scene.

Quentin nodded slowly, not wanting to acknowledge how informed she was. His avoidance of her was making Charlotte feel cold, alien.

“Sure. That’s a pretty good assessment,” Quentin said.

“I’ll say,” Maggie blurted. Quentin gave her a stern look, causing her to bow her head. The tension in the room grew. Did Quentin want to squash Charlotte out, like a bug?

“Anyway, throughout the meeting with them today, we discussed several elements of their future trajectory, along with their recently released album. For the article, then, I want to plot their career path, from tiny indie grunge artists, all the way to their expected, top-tier status. In essence, then, I want to tell the future of them, based on what we know about these bands’ trajectories. And I think you’ll see, from the dialogue transcripts, that the content’s there for this type of article…” Quentin began to lift his notes from his side pocket, his movements cocky.

But Charlotte’s brain began to feel that similar, electric current again, as she’d felt the last time she’d had a great idea. She shivered, shooting her hand into the air once more. “Excuse me, sir,” she said, sounding half-sarcastic. She hoped no one else on her team noticed it.

Quentin frowned, still skimming through his notes. “Just a moment.”

“I’m sorry. I just think that’s a really weak idea for a story,” Charlotte said firmly.

Quentin lifted his head swiftly, glaring at her and making eye contact with her for the first time since they’d seen each other two nights before. He smacked his notebook onto the conference room table, allowing the silence to fold over the room like a thick blanket. Pamela, a few seats from Charlotte, gasped into her hands.

Had anyone been fired from MMM before?

“Oh?” Quentin finally answered, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “You think so?”

“I do,” Charlotte said primly, bringing her fingers together in a kind of prayer-pose.

“Care to share it with the class?” Quentin said, anger fueling him.

Charlotte grimaced, sensing she was on the brink of disaster. “I think there’s a better story to tell about the band’s return to old-fashioned tactics, regarding making music, getting famous, moving up the ranks. The guys have been friends since they were pre-teens, right?”

“I’m not… I didn’t ask…” Quentin blurted, suddenly sounding stupid.

“Well, they did. And instead of worshipping new trends in the music industry, they’re returning to old habits. Even their chords are similar to those used ten, fifteen years ago. They’re akin to chords used by your band, dude. Orpheus Arise. It’s pretty clear they’re taking your band as inspiration. Write a piece about the romance of grunge bands in basements. Write a piece about romanticizing the grungy past. That’s the piece people want to read. They probably won’t remember Thick Soled three months from now; that’s just the nature of things. But they remember their pasts. And they want to link these young boys with something that mattered to them.”

Quentin’s jaw dropped. Charlotte sensed she’d either ruined her career or boosted it for good. The surrounding interns shifted in their seats, clearly uncertain of which path she’d taken, as well. Pamela seemed to smirk, as if she knew she’d blast to the “top” of the interns, now. She couldn’t wait to squash Charlotte out.

“Charlotte, again,” Maggie began. “Speaking out of turn at a meeting like this. Quentin’s the editor in chief. You can’t just—”

But Quentin held up his hand, halting her, clearly captivated with Charlotte. As their eyes linked, it was as if they were the only two people in the room, alone, ready to undress each other—stripping each other bare, licking at the salty skin below.

“Let’s cancel this meeting,” Quentin said then. “It’s clear I can’t keep my own interns in check.”

Charlotte’s cheeks grew pink with fright. She bowed her head, breaking the spell between them. Still, her pussy lips seemed to open wider, yearning for him. Quentin cut from the room, slamming the door closed behind him, either outraged or too focused to close it correctly. The interns began to titter around her, feeling the drama as it shivered in the air.

“Shit,” Randy finally said, directing it toward Charlotte. “What on earth was that about? You spoke like you had a vendetta against him.”

Charlotte pressed her lips together, suddenly frightened. “I don’t know. Shit.” She pressed her fingers against her forehead, suddenly conscious that she was spiraling out of control.

Maggie approached her, her heels clacking against the hardwood floor. She leaned down in a swift motion, revealing her tired breasts and the cavern between them. “Charlotte. Do you mind if I speak with you in my office?” she asked swiftly.

Charlotte’s cheeks reddened even more. She pushed herself from her chair, feeling all intern eyes upon the small of her back. For the first time in months, she had an intense sugar craving and imagined herself shoving several cookies down her throat and sobbing on the subway.

Fuck. She was going to lose her job.

Why couldn’t she leave well enough alone?

She marched behind Maggie, her shoulders slumped, her mind bending. How would she tell her parents what had happened today? How had she allowed her emotions to spin so far out of control?

Chapter 20

Quentin smacked his notes onto his desk and slammed his door, feeling an intense, passionate rage fuel through his bloodstream. His cock pressed tightly against the crotch of his dark jeans, angered that he hadn’t fucked Charlotte immediately. The moment he’d made eye contact with her—something he’d been trying whole-heartedly not to do—he’d sensed it wasn’t over between them, no matter how much he tried to convince himself of such.

And now, she’d blasted his idea, telling him a much better one. When he’d been a beginner writer at MMM, he’d had the balls and the gumption to pitch ideas like that, blasting past all staff above him and making several enemies, but even more friends.

He tossed himself into his chair, then, and slowly unzipped his crotch, pulling out his rock-hard, pulsing member, and rubbing his thumb against the large veins. It seemed to have a mind of its own, drawing a tight circle of pre-cum at the opening, which Quentin swiped off immediately, hopeful it wouldn’t stain his pants.

He couldn’t have her. He had to end it.

Wrapping his fingers around the wide girth of his staff, he eased up to the tip, then pulled the skin all the way back to the hilt, allowing the pleasure to course through him. He wouldn’t allow this girl to make a mockery of him. He’d proceed with his original plan for Thick Soled. It was a fine idea, and it aligned with the questions he’d asked them, in their initial interview.

Although, as this was a feature in the magazine in two weeks’ time, he did have the option to fix it…

No.

He continued to rub at himself, bringing his thin, red skin far above the tip, and then fueling it down, moving faster, with more insistence. As he gave himself this pleasure, Charlotte’s trim form appeared in his mind, with her bouncing breasts cupped in his hands, her stunning, pink lips opening to reveal a provocative moan.

His idea didn’t really amount to much, did it? He halted his masturbation, suddenly stuck on his job. Fuck. Keeping his hand around his cock, he waited for the feeling to pass—for his lust for release to return. But again, Charlotte’s idea sprung to his mind, growing more insistent.

He couldn’t fuck her. But with that brain, he couldn’t fire her, either.

With sudden anger, he released his hand and then yanked his pants together, zipping them with a flourish. “Jesus Christ.” He rose to his feet and stared out the window, wishing he’d just stayed with his daughter that day. Things were simpler, out there. Cartoon-watching. Eating macaroni and cheese. Outside, the traffic had ramped up, becoming bumper to bumper. Taxis blared and squawked. Everything felt sinister.

Maybe he needed to face the disaster head-on. Yes, he and Charlotte had an immediately, physical and emotional attraction. But also, they could be partners; they could be friends. If only he gave her the opportunity. He was the fucking editor-in-chief of MMM. He could do whatever he wanted.

“Stop being so fucking weak,” he whispered gruffly to himself, having a sudden, urgent desire for a lick of hard alcohol or even hard drugs. He hardly had those cravings any longer, having been to rehab as a younger man. But occasionally, the urgency struck at inopportune times, proving that he would always, eternally, be an addict.

Perhaps now he was more or less addicted to Charlotte.

A knock on the door disturbed his reverie. “Come in!” he yelled and tried to return to some kind of normalcy, at least outwardly.

Maggie shot into the office, then, with a mighty, tooth-filled grin on her face. She shut the door behind her and then meandered toward his desk, tossing her hips flirtatiously. God, when was this going to end?

“Hey, there, Q. Sorry about that rogue intern,” she said, her voice casual.

“Oh, it’s fine,” Quentin said, trying to toss it away. “Really. The girl has spunk. I like that.”

“Well, she’s going to have to take her spunk somewhere else,” Maggie said, giggling madly.

“What? What do you mean?” Quentin asked, eyeing her darkly.

“We can’t have an intern interrupting you in your own meetings, Q,” Maggie said, speaking like an impatient mother. “I mean, she’s rude as can be. Sure, her ideas are—”

“Really great,” Quentin interrupted. “They’re really great ideas. You haven’t had an idea like that since you started.” He stamped his hands on either side of his waist, simmering.

Maggie halted. “Fuck. That’s a thing to say,” she murmured finally, stretching the sad tension in the room.

“You know I didn’t mean it,” Quentin began, bowing his head. He no longer made eye contact with her, angered at himself for hurting her. For years, she’d been one of his confidants. One of his friends.

Before Charlotte had ignited some kind of bad boy mentality in him once more. Now, he wanted to stomp through his life, blast through people, tower over them, become the very portrait of his past self.

“So, you fired her?” Quentin asked, his voice quiet.

“I told her to leave. Yes,” Maggie murmured. She collapsed in the chair across form him, clearly shaken. “Quentin, if you don’t see any validity for my position any longer—”

“Don’t be foolish,” Quentin said, his heart hammering. “You know I don’t feel that way.”

“I don’t know what to feel,” she murmured.

Fuck. Quentin felt yanked between two worlds. Maggie’s shrunken face was bursting slight tears from her eyes, while Charlotte was probably packing a small box of things, fired on her fourth day of work.

“No one’s fired, Maggie,” he said firmly. “Especially not Charlotte. We need her.”

He burst from the office and bounded toward the intern offices, his heart continuing its mad ramming against his ribcage. If Charlotte couldn’t work at the magazine, if she left New York, he wouldn’t see her again. And it would be his fault.

The interns sat demurely, their eyes downcast, with Charlotte’s little blond-haired friend’s shoulders slumped with dismay. Charlotte was nowhere to be seen, her laptop closed, her long, brown locks missing in the sea of blondes and redheads. Quentin stood in the doorway, as one-by-one, the interns turned to face him, their faces like moons.

“Where is she?” he asked, his voice booming.

Pamela pointed at the elevator. “She just left. Bawling her eyes out.” She smirked as if she took pleasure in it. Her eyes cut into slits, looking dark.

“Fuck,” Quentin murmured, turning toward the elevator and rushing, his black shoes blasting across the hardwood. He stabbed the “down” button, sensing all eyes on his back. The office was like an echoing cavern, rich with other people’s assumptions about him, about Charlotte, about Maggie.

If he fought to bring her back, what would that show them?

And if he didn’t fight to bring her back, just because of what they thought, what did that mean?

The elevator swept him to the ground, where he chose a direction—north, toward their apartments—and then all-out sprinted, his breath catching and his lungs tightening. It had been years since he’d exercised, having kept a trim, muscled figure just from hanging out with his daughter. But his muscles grew loose, warm, and his body opened up to the sprint, as if this was life or death.

The sunlight caught on Charlotte’s brunette hair as she stood at the corner, three blocks up. Her spine was arched; her back muscles quaked with tears. Quentin blasted forward in a final bit of both rage and panic, feeling as if she was falling off a cliff, and he had to catch her. He had to halt the impact.

“Charlotte!” he cried finally, placing his hand firmly on her shoulder and ripping her back toward him.

She spun like a ragdoll, with black makeup drawing lines down the tops of her cheeks. Her lips quivered; her eyes met his with confusion.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she whispered, her voice raspy. “Did you want to fire me again? Did you want to make sure I really got the message that you don’t want to sleep with me anymore? That you don’t like my ideas? That you don’t think I’m a good enough writer to be in the club or whatever?” She pointed a finger directly toward his muscled pectoral, showing more passion than he’d ever seen. “Because you’ve made it pretty clear. You tossed me out like a plaything. And that’s fine, Quentin. Now I know just how New York guys work. I know just how my idols—my musician idols—would treat me. If I could take back the first time I ever listened to Orpheus Arise as a teenager, I fucking would.”

As she spoke, her voice reached a crescendo. Quentin’s eyes grew wider, taking in the gorgeous image of her. When he and his ex-girlfriends had fought, he’d felt almost nothing, instead understanding that what they’d had was never meant to last and usually rushing out the door afterward.

But now, he felt no urgency to leave. He wanted her. He wanted all of her.

As Charlotte began to charge into another tirade, he wrapped his arms around her waist and yanked her into him, cupping her bottom lip and then ripping her lips apart, gliding his tongue across hers. She let out a small whimper and then collapsed into him, bringing her arms around his neck and allowing him to lift her into him.

They kissed as the traffic pulsed past, as the taxis honked brightly, as bicyclists twirled over the pavement and as pedestrians cut behind them. The entire world continued its manic racing, but they paid no mind.

After what seemed like a tiny infinity, Quentin broke the kiss and stared down at her glittering eyes, which had filled with tears. Neither of them spoke, recognizing the depth of emotion between them. They didn’t want to interrupt the spell. It felt like a million years since they’d last faced off in the conference room. It felt like even longer since they’d made love.

“I don’t want to fire you,” Quentin whispered. He nudged his nose against hers.

“You didn’t show that very well,” Charlotte murmured back, her eyes filling with humor.

“I didn’t know she was going to do that. Maggie sometimes makes decisions out of turn. And I’m sure, on some subconscious level, she’s jealous. I don’t think it takes a smart person to sense what’s between us.”

“Well,” Charlotte began, visibly shaken. “Shit. I don’t really know what to say.”

“Say you’ll come back to the office. Say you’ll help me with the Thick Soled piece. I love your idea. It’s absolutely impeccable. I want you to come to the next interview. I want you to take your place as a writer for MMM. You fucking deserve it, Charlotte. Your shyness really falls off when you care about something.”

“Music writing is one of the only things I care about,” Charlotte admitted. “Besides this new obsession I have.” Her eyes glittered toward him. “That’s you.”

Quentin lifted her into his arms once more, kissing her soundlessly on the nose, then the lips. His heart drummed against his chest; his cock grew insistent, pulsing out against his crotch and rubbing into Charlotte’s stomach as he eased her higher into the air.

“I have an idea,” he murmured then. “And there’s no arguing.”

Chapter 21

As Quentin released her, tapping her back onto the sidewalk, Charlotte felt as if she walked on clouds. The September sun skirted from between the clouds, lighting her cheeks and firming up Quentin’s smile. He took her slim hand in his, guiding her several blocks east, with neither of them speaking, now. The sexual tension between them mounted, with the anger and the sadness and the passion from the day becoming the building blocks.

When Maggie had fired Charlotte, Charlotte hadn’t fought back. She’d sensed it was coming, like an approaching storm, and had even sensed Maggie’s pleasure while doing it. “I normally don’t need to fire interns,” she’d explained, almost as if they were having “girl talk,” and she was divulging her deepest secrets. “But it seems you just won’t listen to logic about how meetings need to be run.”

Of course, Charlotte had sobbed. But she’d ripped herself from the office quickly, not wanting to have Quentin catch a glimpse of her on the way out. She plotted to move from her aunt’s apartment immediately, sleeping on Rachel’s couch once more until she could find a silly waitressing or secretary gig.

But now, Quentin had stormed out after her, finally creating a kind of resolution to this beginning of their story. Despite the non-fraternization policy, and despite her interruption during office meetings, and despite him literally kicking her out of his apartment at four in the morning the previous day, he was choosing her. He was deciding upon her.

Quentin pushed open the door of the four-star hotel down the road, the Hilton, and walked swiftly, causing Charlotte to clack beside him with quick, heeled steps. He asked for a room from the front desk’s clerk, who slid a card across the countertop. As they were requesting an immediate room, without luggage, at three in the afternoon, there was no question what they were up to.

The passion was mounting.

In the elevator, Quentin shoved Charlotte against the glittering mirror, causing her to arch her back with lust. The elevator pushed them up to the twentieth floor as Quentin’s hands dove up Charlotte’s skirt, bringing his finger against the slit beneath her tights. She moaned audibly, her brain unable to calculate just how this was happening. This was a dream. It had to be.

The elevator doors parted, the movement almost sensual, and Quentin lifted Charlotte into the air, still kissing her. He marched them to room 2044, which revealed two king-sized beds, a large hot tub in the bathroom, and expansive windows, which showed a picturesque view of the river and sun-drenched skyscrapers around them.

He dropped Charlotte atop the mattress, his lips diving to her chest. He began to unbutton her dress, revealing the tenderness of her skin. The movements were humble, supple, almost as if he recognized how beautiful their affair truly was.

This was special. It meant something.

“Quentin,” Charlotte murmured, forcing his lips to rise, his eyes to connect with hers. “I think I might be falling for you too fast.” She eased her fingers through his black hair, her words quiet and simple and filled with truth. “I just thought you should know.”

He kissed her with more purpose and removed her dress, stripping it down her legs and dropping it to the floor. He ripped her tights off, one leg at a time, and then separated her legs, exhaling gruffly into the wet, silky lips of her pussy.

“Jesus Christ,” she breathed, hardly able to stand it. Her back arched as she waited, expectant. She felt him grow closer to her, the heat of his tongue rolling from between his lips. Finally, she cried out as his tongue rolled up from the bottom of her slit to the top. His lips caught upon the top knob, sucking gently on her clit, before diving deeper, causing her to cry out with pleasure.

“I want to see you,” she murmured. “Please. I want you inside me. I just want you close to me.” She reached toward him, drawing him up upon her naked breasts, loving the heat and weight of him upon her. “I just want to be close to you. All the time.”

Charlotte unbuttoned his shirt swiftly, with expert fingers, and then ripped it from his stiff, muscled shoulders, feeling at his pulsing pectorals.

“I can’t believe I have your beautiful body at the office with me every single day,” Quentin whispered, tucking his lips down and sucking on the darkness of her nipple. “I would love to have you work there every single day, completely naked. Just typing at your desk with your tits out.”

Charlotte laughed outrageously, knocking her head back. “I’d like to say the same to you.”

She reached for the waist of his pants, ripped the black pants down and allowing the thick, firm staff to emerge from between his legs, dropping several drops of cum onto the flat skin of her stomach. She wrapped her fingers around its thickness, unable to reach all the way around, and eased her hand from the hilt, up to the tip of his cock, making the skin taut. As she moved, his eyes closed, showing the intensity of the moment. He bit his lip, knocking his head back.

“Just get inside me,” Charlotte whispered, her voice harsh. “Come on, baby.”

Knocking her body back a bit on the comforter, she eased her long legs around his taut, muscled back, and then pulsed her silky pussy upward, pressing his tip against her. Her wetness made him sigh and moan immediately. He pushed into her gradually, becoming a part of her, folding into her limbs and body with familiarity now. His body immediately began to shake with pleasure.

He fucked her slowly, then, from above, with the maturity of an older man and the passion of a man falling in love. Charlotte nearly cried from the intense joy of it, feeling completely linked with him, the slow motions causing her brain to swirl.

They continued like this for over a half hour, with Quentin often removing himself almost all the way out, his tip the only part of himself still within her, before gliding back into her and filling her up, pressing hard against the softness of her G-spot.

Finally, Charlotte’s tight pussy walls began to quake with sudden orgasm, throwing the vibrations into Quentin’s rigid cock. They shared the orgasm, staring into one another’s eyes in their intimate, private hotel room. Collapsing, gasping, they wrapped their arms around one another and devolved into one another’s warmth, feeling strangely outside of time. Outside, the world had no understanding of where they were or what they were doing. Their existence was a beautiful secret.

The afternoon continued in much this manner, with Quentin calling Maggie to tell her he couldn’t find Charlotte on the street, but to email her telling her that her job was hers, if she returned for it.

Maggie agreed, almost begrudgingly, asking, “Where on earth did you go, then?”

“Had a family thing,” he lied.

Charlotte and Quentin continued to make love, eventually opening the hotel minibar and picking and choosing between the several different hard liquors and mixing various drinks together.

“It’s a Negroni,” Charlotte said, giggling, as she served him the spicy, Italian cocktail. “I learned to make it in college.”

“Oh,” Quentin said, sipping it and making a stern face. “So, you were an alcoholic in college? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

She devolved into another fit of giggles, folding into the warmth of his kisses.

“You aren’t going to kick me out of this bed, are you?” she asked him softly, swiping her finger across his eyebrow in a tender motion.

“I wouldn’t do that to you again,” Quentin murmured. “You’ve been driving me wild, Charlotte. I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind.”

“Where were you yesterday, anyway?” Charlotte asked, her voice sweet, fatigued. “I was so worried you were avoiding the office because of me.”

“Nothing like that,” Quentin said. “My daughter had an allergic reaction to that Chinese food. I was at the hospital with her.”

Charlotte knocked up into a seated position, her eyes growing panicked. “Jesus, Quentin. Why didn’t you tell me? That’s terrifying. What was it?”

“Apparently, she’s allergic to shellfish. And the kitchen has some kind of—”

“Residue. Shit,” Charlotte murmured, swiping her fingers across her cheeks. “If I hadn’t brought you the Chinese that night, she wouldn’t have—”

“Hey, now,” Quentin began, slicing his palm through the air. “This is definitely not your fault. And she’s perfectly fine, now. She went home with her mother this morning. She’s a bit frustrated she can’t practice the piano as much as she’d like, but she’s fine.”

“Fuck, Quentin. You must have been so frightened. So, you got the call—”

“When you were sleeping beside me. Yes,” Quentin answered, his voice far away. “I’m sorry I kicked you out like that. I was frightened. I was feeling a lot of different things. Lust and emotions for you, and also, a certainty that we shouldn’t be together. Not when I need to be a good father to Morgan. Not when my second job, beyond anything, is this magazine.”

“That non-fraternization clause…” Charlotte whispered.

“Let’s not discuss it now,” Quentin answered, kissing her again. “It’s too damn depressing. And I don’t want to feel anything but this today.”

Charlotte closed her eyes and allowed herself to devolve into intense pleasure once more, making love to him throughout the rest of the evening and early morning, sleeping occasionally and finding solace in his body.

He was right. At least for now, nothing else mattered.

Chapter 22

The next day, Charlotte appeared at work along with everyone else, dressed in a fine-cut black dress and high heels, her hair falling in bright curls down her back, and her skin almost glowing from nearly twelve hours of intercourse and cuddling with Quentin.

Randy was already seated at his desk, his neck arched as his eyes ate up the social media on his phone. Charlotte sat primly beside him, her eyes dancing with light. She cleared her throat.

Turning swiftly, Randy gazed at her, shocked. “Shit, girl. What are you doing here?” he whispered, his voice harsh. He stabbed his phone into his back pocket, looking anxious. “You’re fired.”

“I’m not,” Charlotte said, thrusting her right shoulder forward. “I got the email from Maggie last night. They had a change of heart.”

“Wow,” Randy breathed. “I’ve never seen a turnaround like that. I mean, once you’re fired, you’re fired.”

“I think Maggie just made a flash decision,” Charlotte said, shrugging. “Might be difficult with her in the future. Doesn’t seem to like me very much. Said I had an attitude.”

“Ha,” Randy said, his face still bright with shock. “Jesus. I was wondering how I was going to get through the next few months without you. And to think, your idea was actually better than our editor-in-chief’s.” He shook his head, looking aghast. “It doesn’t seem like something you should get fired over, ultimately. It seems disgusting.”

Pamela entered the intern offices and stood, stock-still, staring at Charlotte. Her tongue slipped from between her lips, looking snake-like. Again, her hair was in wayward curls, clearly trying to attract some sort of attention—perhaps from Quentin. “What the…” she murmured.

“She’s not fired!” Randy cried out, sounding flamboyant. “It’s a miracle.”

“Miracle is one word for it,” Pamela said, her voice tart. “I mean, you clearly spoke out of turn. I, for one, thought you had good reason to be fired.”

“Great opinion, Pam,” Randy said sarcastically. “I hope you’ll grace us with more of those opinions in the future. That would be really helpful.”

Pamela rolled her eyes, clacking her heels toward her desk. She grumbled inaudibly to herself, sounding like a crazed valley girl, on the brink of insanity. “Who the fuck does this girl thinks she is?”

The other interns had mixed reactions, using curt nods to welcome her back or else skirting their eyes away, sensing she was now spoiled meat and best avoided. Confident after her night of lovemaking, Charlotte remained jolly, typing up a press release for an event the magazine was hosting in a few weeks and even exploring new bands, which she’d write about in the coming afternoon. She bobbed her head, finding pleasure in each unique sound, and took tight notes on her notepad, reminding herself, over and over again, that she was being paid to write about music.

Her heart bled with the joy of it.

That night, Morgan spent the night with Quentin again. Charlotte offered to cook them dinner—sans shellfish—and she busied herself in their apartment, listening as Morgan and Quentin played a duet on the piano, tinkling the high and low keys and creating a stunning melody. Quentin even used that gruff singing voice of his, made famous on five records and two EPs over the years. Charlotte felt warmed and caught up with the private performance, almost allowing the lasagna noodles to boil too long.

As she splayed the lasagna noodles and the ricotta cheese in a mighty patchwork pattern, she felt Quentin approach her from behind, pressing his lips into the back of her neck and wrapping his firm arms around her thin waist. He inhaled the scent of her, causing her to giggle.

“You guys are sounding pretty good in there,” she whispered, moving her lips into his on the side. Her pussy ignited with sudden pleasure, yearning for his touch. Slowly, he moved his hand down the flat of her stomach, dipping beneath her jeans and finding the warmth between her legs.

“I can’t handle playing piano in there when I know your body’s in here,” he whispered into her ear. “It’s too much.”

Charlotte giggled. “How’s Morgan feeling?”

“Better than ever,” Quentin answered. “Aren’t you feeling good, Morg?” he called.

“Just fine, Dad. Stop asking me that!” Morgan answered from the piano room.

The vibrant blonde girl pounded into the kitchen, causing Quentin to release Charlotte with a sad motion. They stood like islands. Charlotte slipped the lasagna into the oven, grinning sheepishly.

“Well, I’m so glad you’re all right,” Charlotte said stupidly.

“My class sent me a bunch of chocolate. Do you want some?” Morgan asked her brightly.

“Um…” Charlotte began.

But Morgan raced past her, into her bedroom, and drew out a box of French chocolates, which someone’s rich mother had probably picked out to impress Quentin. She pressed a single mint chocolate piece into Charlotte’s outstretched palm, watching her intently as she ate it.

The mint and chocolate melted in a chorus of flavor on Charlotte’s tongue, bringing a slight smile.

“See. It’s damn good, isn’t it?” Morgan demanded.

“Language, little thing,” Quentin said, tossing her blond hair around with his firm hands. “And what did I say about the chocolate? No more before dinner. Charlotte here is slaving away to make you some really good lasagna.”

“Oh! I love lasagna,” Morgan said. “Mom never lets me eat it. Carbs,” she whispered, almost conspiratorially.

“As if she really knows what carbs are,” Quentin said, rolling his eyes. “Hop back to the piano, Morg. We eat in forty-five minutes.”

She did, leaving Quentin and Charlotte to make out heavily in the kitchen to the sound of Mozart and Bach, drummed with the fingers of a seven-year-old.

They ate companionably at the table, getting to know one another more intimately and laughing outrageously at Morgan’s silly school stories, along with her apparent distaste for the hospital nurses.

“Oh, she was nice to you!” Quentin declared, pointing his fork. “She fluffed your pillows!”

“She always messed them up,” Morgan insisted. “Mom did it perfectly, then this nurse comes along and… bang.”

“Wow. She should definitely lose her license,” Charlotte joked.

“Ha,” Quentin said, rolling her eyes. “I can’t handle you women. I have a constant headache.”

But his eyes gleamed with sure pleasure, obviously surrounded with people who ignited joy into his once dark and drug-addled mind.

This was a new chapter for him, Charlotte felt sure. And perhaps she could be semi-responsible for making it whole.

Chapter 23

The next week, on Thursday, Quentin called Charlotte into his office. The secret pair had successfully avoided each other’s presence at work the previous few days, only catching one another’s eyes across rooms and stewing with tension and desire for the other. Faced with “what to do” regarding the non-fraternization clause, they’d apparently decided to avoid it for now. They’d known each other less than two weeks and already they brewed with a sense of purpose, with growing love.

“I’m falling for you,” Charlotte had told him in the hotel room the week before. And she’d meant it.

Charlotte entered, choosing to keep the door ajar slightly, so as not to attract attention.

“Hello, sir,” she said, her eyes bright. She was playing the role of intern, now, despite her frequent appearances at his apartment and her growing friendship with his tiny daughter. “You wanted to see me?”

Quentin’s voice boomed. “Sure did. I was thinking about your pitch last week, regarding the article about Thick Soled.”

“Ah, yes. The pitch that nearly got me fired,” she joked, crossing her arms over her breasts. “How could I forget?”

“If only our interns didn’t speak out of turn,” Quentin said firmly, his eyes still playful. “Then we would get a lot more done around here. But alas…” He shrugged. “It’s a changing world. I can’t pretend to keep up with it.”

“You’re an old man,” Charlotte breathed, her tongue slipping from between her lips. She imagined drawing it around the tip of his cock, forcing it to grow rock-hard, veiny. She’d begun to know his body with intimate detail; what made him stir, what caused him to moan. She’d never had this with a man before.

“Anyway,” Quentin continued, his eyes flashing. Could he tell she was thinking about his rock-hard staff? Was that it, bulging up at his crotch? “I want to change the article completely. I want you to take the lead on the second interview, and I want you to write it. Yourself.”

Charlotte’s lips parted. Her heart hammering, she hunted for words. Taking this on… Wouldn’t it alert the other interns that she had “special favor”? She reached back and pressed the door closed, giving them privacy, allowing them to talk as equals.

“Won’t they guess something’s up if I take the article?” she asked tightly. She struggled to inhale completely.

Quentin shook his head. “They know you have ideas. They all heard your pitch. I think they’d assume it was the next relevant step.”

Charlotte wasn’t so sure. She shifted her weight, imagining what Pamela would say, faced with this information. “It’s just that they already don’t trust me very much. I was fired once, and then brought back on.”

“Let me ask you a question, Charlotte,” Quentin said, speaking with more dominance, more like her boss than her lover. “What do you want out of this internship?”

“I want to be a real music writer. You know that,” Charlotte said, her eyebrows lowering. “You know that.”

“I do. But I also know you need to take this opportunity, and fuck the others. You’re a damn good writer, and you have insight, and you have angles. That’s stuff that many writers take years to hone. Use your skills, and blast ahead of your peers. I’m just giving you the tools to do it.”

Charlotte nodded. She hadn’t interviewed an actual musician before, and panic throttled through her, sending bumps across her forearm. “When is the interview?”

“It’s whenever you schedule it,” Quentin said.

“But they’re friends with you,” Charlotte said pointedly.

“I’ll come with you, if you want,” Quentin said. “But I won’t say anything except hello, goodbye, refill our drinks. I’m there with the money. Nothing else.”

Charlotte’s chest tightened. Silence stretched between them, but it was not unkind or weighted with any kind of disdain.

“I think I’m just nervous.”

“That’s natural.” He swept his chair out from beneath his desk and patted his lap, drawing her closer to him. She slipped off her shoes and straddled him, drawing her crotch close to his bulging one. She kissed the tip of his nose tenderly, her heart bursting with lust in seeming fireworks against her ribcage.

“I’ll see you tonight?” she breathed.

“Only if you set up this damn interview,” Quentin said, squeezing her ass playfully.

“Fine,” Charlotte said, sounding half-whiny, but knowing, inwardly, it was time for her to step up her professional game.

Returning to her desk, she typed up a careful email to Keith, the lead singer of Thick Soled, conscious that asking him to do a second interview for a magazine was a big thing—one that robbed him of time he thought he’d already given.

Keith,

Hey, there. My name’s Charlotte Barracks, and I’m taking the lead on our Thick Soled feature, ultimately angling it toward our more nostalgic audience, given that you clearly take great stock in old indie and grunge. For this purpose, I’d love the chance to interview you next week, at a time that’s convenient for you. Quentin says he’s got the drinks, as long as you show.

All the best,

C”

Confident, Charlotte shot the email across the Internet and then leaped from her seat, confidence sizzling through her. Randy gave her a confused roll of his eyes, becoming more accustomed to Charlotte’s quirks.

“Girl, you’re nuts,” he murmured, tossing his head. “If you weren’t so damn good at this, and so hilarious, I’d move over by Pamela.”

Pamela shot her eyes toward them both like daggers, anger causing her lips to part. She’d been a fanatic since Charlotte had been fired and rehired, slicing into the coffee line in front of Charlotte and even mocking her proposals at the writers’ meeting. For the record, Randy and the others had shot back at Pamela, telling her that Charlotte’s ideas were grand and forward-thinking, unlike Pamela’s tired, oft-done features. It seemed the writers were taking sides, standing aligned with Charlotte, confident that she was their champion intern.

Charlotte didn’t know what she would do if they ever found out about her and Quentin.

“Shhh,” Charlotte breathed, hushing Randy. “Don’t tempt her.”

Keith emailed back just before Charlotte left for the day, setting up an interview for the following Wednesday afternoon. This meant that the article wouldn’t be ready till the release of the magazine a few weeks from then, which would require some reconfiguring of the writing schedule. Quentin affirmed that this was “no big deal” and often happened, emailing Maggie with the change of schedule. “Charlotte’s taking the lead on the Thick Soled piece, meaning we’ll need to give her adequate time to prepare. I think we’ll move up the piece about the Atlanta music scene. Brent’s writing is always smooth.”

Of course, the moment Maggie understood that Charlotte was taking on a feature, alone, she appeared at her desk, without so much as an email notice, and demanded Charlotte come to her office immediately. Charlotte rose, again feeling the aching eyes of the interns on her back, recognizing that, somehow, she was in trouble. She felt the warning signs, saw the bright lights. “Turn back,” her muscles screamed.

Maggie opened the door to her small, closet-sized office, which she hardly used and certainly never invited anyone into—except, apparently, when she was firing them. She pressed her lips tightly together, looking like a strange, turtle-like creature, her anger pulsing out from every orifice.

“Quentin’s informed me that you’re taking your first lead,” she said, her voice curt.

“I am,” Charlotte said, not sitting.

“Please. Have a seat,” Maggie said, gesturing.

“I’d rather stand.”

“Right. Well. I wanted to… give you your due congratulations, for the feature. It is a marvelous idea, and it seems you’ll take it where it needs to go. But I wanted to give you advice.”

Charlotte’s toes curled in her shoes, feeling suddenly trapped. Her inhales came sparingly, making her dizzy.

“What is it?” she murmured.

“Well, first of all, darling, I know just how you feel about Quentin,” Maggie said, her eyes flashing. “I can see it in every crevice of your body. You’re attracted to him, and you’re not the first one. No.”

Charlotte’s lips parted, suddenly. She throttled with panic.

“But that’s not to say he’ll take to you, Charlotte. I know you’re a gorgeous girl. Everyone can see it. But he’s already fired you once, remember. I had to fight, tooth and nail, to get you back on the payroll.”

Charlotte knew Maggie was bluffing. Maggie had fired her out of turn, out of jealousy, perhaps. She quivered, not wanting to argue. If she revealed what she actually knew, she’d be showing all her cards. And that was against the non-fraternization clause, completely and totally. That would destroy her for good.

“I got the feature because he liked the idea,” Charlotte whispered. “I’m not trying to… to be with him.“

“Ha. I can see right through you,” Maggie said harshly. “I just wanted to tell you to watch yourself. Don’t make yourself out to be a fool. You could ruin your career, which is proving to have quite a bright future, isn’t that right?” She mocked, making Charlotte out to be a fool.

“I don’t know,” she breathed. “I just want to write the feature.”

“My eyes are on you, Charlotte,” Maggie whispered. “You may think you’re queen of the interns, but that can fall apart in a second.”

She flipped her red hair, returning to her chair and beginning to highlight things with a bright blue marker. She hummed evenly, like an evil villain.

Charlotte stared at her stupidly, trying to remember to breathe. What the hell?

“You can leave, now,” Maggie said primly. “I have tons to do before I leave. Unlike you, I have actual job responsibilities, besides flirting.”

Charlotte spun from Maggie’s office and shut the door a bit too loudly, causing several editors and writers to snap their heads toward her. They’d surely noticed her in the previous few weeks, perhaps even sensing the tension between her and Maggie. None of them made eye contact with her, not choosing to include her, as she reeked of intern status.

Entering back into the intern office, she made momentary eye contact with Pamela, who grinned madly, like a clown.

“Somebody had a bad meeting with Maggie,” Pamela said, her voice heavy with snark. “I don’t suppose you got fired again, did you?”

Charlotte ripped her purse from her desk and snapped her laptop closed, anger zipping through her.

“Actually, she just wanted to discuss the feature I’m writing for the magazine. About Thick Soled,” Charlotte said, her eyes dancing with anger. She felt on the brink of insanity.

Pamela’s jaw dropped. Interns didn’t get features—this was a hard and fast rule. She shot up from her desk, clearly trying to think of some kind of haughty response. But Charlotte was already bursting from the intern office, seeking solace in the silence of the elevator, where she finally collapsed in a fit of tears.

She was a mockery. She was a scam. She was nothing.

Chapter 24

Friday afternoon, there was a slight crispness to the air, an assurance that fall was coming, easing into their summertime, soon to rob them of afternoon warmth and evening sun. Quentin left the office early enough to pick up Morgan at school. She’d been back since the previous Monday, brimming with frustration at being “a few days behind on piano” after her hospital stay, but generally content to be elementary-school-popular, having been one of the only kids to stay the night in the hospital.

Quentin waited out front, a small, brown paper sack in his hands, holding two chocolate croissants he’d picked up at the local French bakery. Perhaps ice cream was out of the cards for a while.

As he waited, he checked his phone, finding a small message from Charlotte. Immediately, a smile flickered across his face and his heart palpitated, showing his lust and growing intense affection for this girl. As they’d grown increasingly emotionally attached to one another, they’d also found ways to sneak around their schedules, hooking up in his office at work or making love after Morgan left to visit her mother. He found that he felt lighter, more even-keeled than he had in years, and he knew it was a result of this budding relationship.

In truth, he’d never felt this way.

When Charlotte brought up the non-fraternization policy, Quentin always talked over her, teasing her, telling her not to worry, they would figure it out later. And he was certain, somehow, they would. Or perhaps he was just too giddy to care, really, what the future held. He was enjoying the lust-filled waves of the present.

Morgan leaped into his arms, becoming a flurry of long blond hair and sticky fingers, which she confessed was due to the snack she’d just eaten. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t get to have my croissant,” she said, her eyebrows high.

“If you say so,” Quentin said, guiding her toward the sidewalk and into the swarm of children and parents, picking up and rushing away.

“Is Charlotte coming over tonight?” Morgan asked, ripping a slab of crispness from her croissant.

“Do you want her to come over tonight?” Quentin asked, curious. Morgan had brought up Charlotte more and more often, recently, leaving him to believe she was falling for her, just as he was.

“I mean, definitely. She’s way cooler than you,” Morgan said with certainty.

“Oh. Well, that hurts,” he said, grinning.

“She’s just younger, Dad. She gets it.”

“What, exactly, does she ‘get’?” Quentin asked.

“I don’t know. Me, I guess,” Morgan said simply.

Quentin held his daughter’s hand as they bounded across the street. Clouds began to coat the sky, growing gray and filling with rain. He stopped briefly and yanked Morgan’s zipper up her torso, closing her coat tightly. “Brrr,” he said. “It’s getting chilly.”

“So, she’s not coming?” Morgan asked, her bright eyes blinking.

“No. She has plans with a friend tonight,” Quentin answered truthfully. “Remember the girl she was with when we first met her on the elevator?”

“Oh,” Morgan said, her eyes downcast. “I thought we were her friends.”

“We are, honey. She just has to maintain her other life, as well. She’ll be around this weekend. I promise,” Quentin said, not expecting such certainty from his daughter about Charlotte. He rose to his feet and grasped her hand once more, darting them toward their apartment building and saying a brief hello to Angus, who grinned at him mischievously.

Quentin wondered if Angus knew he was sleeping with Charlotte. Then again, of course he did. He was the doorman, rich with secrets. Wasn’t that the purpose of the doorman, in the end?

“I think it’s too late to turn back, now,” Charlotte said softly, speaking with Rachel at the Brooklyn wine bar, tucked near the exposed brick wall. “I mean, I’m falling for him. Head over heels, really. But on the other hand, I know it’s against the rules. Like, I could lose my job. He could, too, I think. We could really fuck everything up.”

Rachel sipped her drink, assessing her friend with non-judgmental, yet thoughtful eyes. “I never did take you for the sleeping with your boss type,” she said, teasing her slightly, playfully. “But it suits you, I think. Your skin is brighter than I’ve ever seen it.”

“Ha,” Charlotte said, taking another sip. “I should have been fucking like this years ago. It just never suited me. I never felt anything for anyone. Until now.”

“And the daughter?”

“I love her,” Charlotte said, her eyes widening. “I love her like a younger sister, or a step-daughter, or…” She trailed off, snapping her palms over her cheeks. “Shit. I’m in too deep, already.”

“Don’t do this to yourself,” Rachel said. “Don’t make yourself feel guilty. You’re in it, you’re falling in love, and there’s not a lot else you can do, unless you want to quit. And I’m guessing that’s not what you want.”

“It’s not,” Charlotte breathed. “I want to write this feature, and I want to be a known music writer. But I also don’t want anyone to know.”

“That you’re sleeping with him, because it invalidates you. And on top of it, you could lose everything. And so could he.”

“I don’t think he even considers it,” Charlotte whispered. “He’s so into it, calling me into his office frequently, not caring if he stares at my ass while we’re there. It’s like he’s lost all sense of himself.”

“I think that’s what happens when people fall in love,” Rachel said, her voice teasing. “And I get it. You’re between a rock and a hard place. But just keep your head up. Roll with the punches. Maybe everything will work out.”

“Ugh. I just don’t know how,” Charlotte murmured. “And the worst of it is… I miss him. I miss him all the time. I want to run to his apartment right now and demand time with him. I want to make out with him on top of our building. Nothing else makes sense. And dammit, Rachel, this is the lead singer of Orpheus Arise, for god’s sake. None of this was in the cards for such a country bumpkin.”

“You’re still a country bumpkin,” Rachel said, winking. “You’ve just earned yourself a bit of sass since then, I’d say. A bit of Manhattan sass. Now, stop freaking out about it, and tell me something good. About the sex.” Her eyebrows rose high, waggling.

Could she even comprehend Charlotte’s panic?

Charlotte left Rachel in Brooklyn just after midnight, taking the train back to the Upper West Side and listening to the second Orpheus Arise album through headphones as the train blasted through the ground. The brooding, angry man in her head buds was the very man she’d slept with only that morning, before they’d both headed to work. He still contained that element of bad boy anger, of something brooding, like a storm, behind his eyes. And it made her pussy loosen, quivering with lust and desire.

She was going to avoid him that night, planning instead to go immediately to bed and wake up in the morning to work on her interview questions for Thick Soled. But as soon as her feet hit the hallway carpet, she pounded directly toward Quentin’s door, anxiety burning in her chest.

Not wanting to wake Morgan, she texted him from out front. He opened the door, revealing his sultry, muscled self, with just boxers and no shirt, his feet bare and large, flashing on the hardwood floor. He stared into her eyes, seeming to say a million things with one look.

Finally, Charlotte spoke.

“Are you sure we aren’t going to ruin everything?” she whispered. “I feel like this is our last opportunity to abort mission.”

Quentin tilted his head, almost incredulous. “I don’t want to jump off this ship. Not even if it’s sinking,” he said gruffly. “And it isn’t.”

Charlotte nodded slowly, taking a slight step forward. She felt his hands grip her waist and bring her closer to him. The heat of his groin rose up on her leg, and her pussy gave a heartbeat, a recognition, parting its peachy lips and preparing to feel whole, to be stretched, to be filled.

“Come in here, baby,” Quentin whispered, between soft kisses. “Come sleep with me. I’ll take away all your worries. You don’t need to live with them anymore.”

And somehow, Charlotte believed him, allowing herself to devolve into many layers of emotion and lust, stripping herself bare for him and diving between his sheets, becoming his angelic form, his gorgeous intern, the girl who was risking everything to be with him.

She hoped their delicate balance would never falter.

Chapter 25

“That interview,” Randy said the following Wednesday morning, hours before Charlotte was meant to leave to meet with Keith from Thick Soled. “That’s soon?”

They were standing at the coffee machine, with Charlotte clinging to her steaming cup and Randy filling his, watching as the dirt-brown trickle came from the tiny slot.

“Today,” Charlotte affirmed. “I’ve been working on the questions literally non-stop.”

“I can tell something’s on your mind,” Randy said, touching his temple. “Can feel the nerves coming off you. You’re all jittery.”

“Ha. I know,” Charlotte said, her voice soft. “I’m an anxious wreck. But once this is over, I can start writing the damn thing. If it’s just me and a computer, then it’s not as intimidating.”

“Ha. You sound like an artist, with some paint and a canvas,” Randy said, teasing her. He lifted his coffee mug and pattered toward the hallway, with Charlotte following like an injured dog. The secret was beginning to eat at her, nibbling at the edge of her heart and causing her shoulders to slump. Her only friends in New York City were a few of her intern friends, along with Randy. And she couldn’t divulge the secret of her love life without destroying her relationship with them.

She felt poisonous.

“Anyway, nobody deserves this like you do,” Randy said, assuring her. “And you’re completely personable. I would open up to you, at least.”

“Ha,” Charlotte said, laughing. “You don’t need much to open up to anyone. You just spew it out, like a drunk girl. Which is something I appreciate, by the way.”

“Good. Because I’ll keep telling you all the horrible stories about my ex-boyfriend until I get you to open up about your love life. I know you’re fucking. I can see it on your skin.”

“People keep telling me my skin looks good,” Charlotte said, rolling her eyes. “It makes me think my skin didn’t look good before.”

“Before what? Before you met Mr. Right?” Randy asked, teasing.

“No. I mean. No,” Charlotte said, tossing herself into her desk. She gave him a secretive smile, wanting to keep the silliness up. “Now, no more questions. I have to focus.”

“Whatever. Just don’t get married without telling me,” Randy said, joining her. He began to type furiously on his screen, diving from line to line on his notes for the feature he was pitching at the next writers’ meeting.

Charlotte knew it wouldn’t get picked up. It was too imprecise, too last year. Perhaps, when she found time the following day, she could help him stretch it out a bit. She’d become his editor, fueling him as far as she could in the industry. Even if he didn’t have the skills, she wanted him by her side. Their friendship was beginning to mean something, even outside the office.

Charlotte met Quentin outside his office at two that afternoon, armed with a notebook, three pens, and a recorder, which she planned to use during the interview. She grimaced in panic as he joined her, looking cool, suave, unfettered.

“Somebody looks anxious,” he said.

“Let’s just not talk about it,” Charlotte said, rolling her eyes.

Around them, the other editors and writers gave them sideways glances. Since Maggie’s “chat” with Charlotte the previous week, she’d kept a wide berth, perhaps assuming that Charlotte would go straight to Quentin if she tried to “put her in her place” again. Charlotte was clearly gaining power with Quentin. This much was obvious to anyone.

“Ready?” he asked.

They entered the elevator together, standing at least two feet apart. The air around them sizzled, with Charlotte’s fingers twitching expectantly. The moment the gray doors closed, she felt Quentin’s hand on her ass, swirling her into him. She kissed him languidly, with wet lips, closing her eyes. Her body went lax with longing. His lips parted hers, darting his tongue within her mouth and causing a wayward moan to draw up from her throat.

“Wow,” she breathed, breaking the kiss.

“Impressed?” he asked, sounding playful.

Her eyebrows rose high. “Cocky today, huh?”

“You should be the one who’s cocky,” Quentin told her firmly. “It’s your first interview, babe. Get a little confidence. Stand up straighter. You’ve fucking got this.”

“Ha,” Charlotte breathed. “I just want—“ She stopped, feeling emotion brim through her. “I want everyone to think I’m a proper journalist. I want to be taken seriously.”

“And you will. After this,” Quentin said.

They still had a few hours before the interview and had left the office early purposefully, wanting to prepare with a drink and a bit of chatter about her interview questions. They went immediately to the Brooklyn bar Keith and the others had agreed upon, with its exposed brick walls, its cement bar top, and its mustached bartender, who served them both cocktails with slices or lime and orange floating at the top. Charlotte sipped hers evenly, feeling an immediate rush in her brain. “Damn,” she breathed. “This is really going to knock me out.”

“It’s going to loosen you up,” Quentin corrected, leaning closer to her. “Let’s see those questions.”

Charlotte pressed her notebook into his hand, watching as he flipped through it evenly. His eyes coursed down the lined page and he nodded, almost imperceptibly, his shoulders readjusting. Above them, a grunge song from the ‘90s blared from the scratchy speakers. Charlotte approved.

“These are good, Char,” Quentin said, smacking the notebook back on the counter. “Really. I think your questions alone are going to set you apart from the other assholes they normally interview with. Including myself.” He smirked.

“You aren’t just saying that, right?” Charlotte asked, almost demanding an answer.

“No,” he said. “I promise. And you’re about as passionate about this as Morgan is before her piano recitals. I always have to talk her down from a bridge before each one. ‘Dad, I’m going to mess up and no one is going to respect me and I’m going to die.’ Every single fucking time.”

Charlotte grinned. “A girl after my own heart.”

“She hopes so, at least,” Quentin said. Her eyelashes flickered. “You know, I haven’t dated anyone seriously while I’ve had Morgan.”

“That’s kind of shocking,” Charlotte said. “She’s seven. You haven’t had anyone?”

“I’ve devoted my life to her. And the fact that this human who’s my entire existence respects you this much—I mean, that says everything. It tells me I’m not wasting my time.”

“Good,” Charlotte breathed.

They hadn’t spoken so heavily about their attraction, not since they’d begun. It had been nearly three weeks, although it felt like much longer, perhaps months. She sipped her cocktail, simmering with electricity, hopeful that the afternoon ahead unfolded evenly, without her saying the wrong thing or overstepping or making herself look a fool, especially in front of Quentin.

The band arrived about an hour later, while Quentin sipped on his third drink. Charlotte had ordered a water with lemon, wanting to retain some semblance of a sharp brain. She rose when she saw their rugged figures, watching as their eyes skirted from Quentin, back to her, confused, really, why she was taking the lead.

“Hi, boys,” Quentin said, rising and shaking their hands. “Keith. Martin. Cody. This is Charlotte. She’s one of our interns, and she’s taking the lead on this. I hope you’ll give her the respect she needs.”

“We aren’t that breed of rock star, Q,” Cody said, chortling and sitting beside Charlotte. “Not like you were.”

“We respect women,” Martin said, teasing him. “Charlotte. Hi. It’s nice to meet you. I heard you’re writing your first feature?”

“That’s true,” Charlotte said, her voice deep. If she didn’t believe in herself, who would? She slipped her recorder to the ON position and then grabbed her pen, beginning to take notes. She knew she looked harried and tried to focus on her breathing, feeling her tongue dry.

“And I appreciate you guys agreeing to do this. I know last time it was just Keith who came out to the interview, but I do think the article will breathe with more of your voices.”

“Cool. Yeah, people normally just want to talk to Keith,” Martin said, rolling his eyes playfully. “But whatever. Even when we were kids, girls only ever wanted to talk to Keith.”

“He’s our hidden factor. Our secret weapon,” the other band member, Cody, chimed in.

“Come on, guys,” Keith said, knocking his rugged forehead forward, clearly wishing they’d move from the topic. “I know you’re both obsessed with me, but this is a bit too much.”

“Ha,” Cody said.

“You’re actually on a pretty good theme, here,” Charlotte began, feeling vibrant, ready. “I wanted to discuss your initial trajectory and your experience with music as kids, growing up together. Your influences. And then, how your band links back to this nostalgia trip, upholding bands like Orpheus Arise and so many others.”

“Oh, hey, Orpheus Arise,” Cody said, nodding his head toward Quentin. “Good to see you. Although would kill to see you behind a guitar again.”

“Those days are over, boys,” Quentin said. “I only operate a computer these days.”

“Damn. Grunge is dead,” Martin said.

“It’s not. You guys are keeping it alive,” Charlotte murmured.

“That set you guys played. In the basement in Brooklyn in 2006 with the Beehives. Shit, man. I saw that on YouTube and I nearly lost my mind,” Keith said.

“It was a baller show, man. Seriously,” Martin added.

“It’s not dead,” Charlotte interjected. “Because you guys are keeping it alive. Talk about why it’s worth it to you. Why do you insist on blasting it with electricity and energy and bringing it to a new generation?”

Quentin splayed his hands forward, palms up, gesturing to the boys. Perhaps they spoke the same language, Charlotte thought. Quentin seemed to interject, saying, “Talk to the girl. Not to me.”

And the boys behaved. They began to answer her, drawing inspiration from stories of their joint past and telling the tale of how they’d become the present-day Thick Soled—a name they’d arrived on when Keith’s mom had bought him thick-soled shoes and everyone at school had made fun of him.

“Keith hasn’t allowed anyone to make fun of him since then,” Martin said, laughing. “He’s not terribly thick-skinned, to say the least.”

The interview carried on from there, with all five of them ordering several rounds of drinks. Quentin hardly talked, only answering questions about “how things were” when he was a top-tier rock star. Charlotte brimmed with pleasure throughout the conversation, sensing the truth: she was damn good at this. This was what she was meant to be doing. And despite the fact that she’d probably gotten the gig through sleeping with Quentin, she still saw nowhere else she belonged more.

Thick Soled excused themselves after the third drink, shaking Charlotte’s hand with verve and then clapping Quentin on the shoulder blade, telling him, once more, they’d “kill” to see him perform again. They trudged from the bar table, exiting into the flurry of passenger traffic, leaving Quentin and Charlotte in the shadowy bar, the only drinkers in the establishment.

“Wow,” Charlotte breathed, holding out her fingers. They were quaking. She flashed a bright smile, aware of how silly she looked. “Shit. I’m shivering. But that was absolutely—incredible.”

“I can tell you loved every second,” he answered, leaning closer to her. “I was falling for you more and more every second. You reeled them in when they got too far away from a question topic, and you allowed them to dance through different anecdotes, having fun with it.” He clapped his hands together, almost aghast. “Shit. It’s going to be a much better article than the one I was planning to write. It’s going to be about a million times better.”

Charlotte leaped to her feet, wrapping her arms around his neck. She pulsed herself into his lap, unable to rein in her joy and sexuality, and then brought her lips around his, kissing him passionately. He wrapped his arm around her back, cupping her close.

When their kiss broke, Charlotte placed her palm on his cheek, feeling at his five o’ clock shadow. His musk flooded her nose.

“What do you want to do now?” she whispered.

“I want to take you out to celebrate,” Quentin said. “I want you to divorce yourself from all that worry you’ve been holding onto, and I want you to have a good time with me.”

“Where do you want to go?” Charlotte whispered.

“I know just what you’ll love.”

Quentin paid for the massive tab with a flourish of his credit card and then grasped her hand, leading her into the sun-drenched, early fall streets. She slipped a cardigan over her shoulders, retrieved from her bag, and added her sunglasses atop her nose, conscious that all the panic she’d had, jostling around her heart for the past week or so, was receding quickly.

And she hadn’t even made a total fool of herself.

“God, I just want to shout it from the rooftops,” she breathed, giggling. “I want to tell the world that I fucking did it. I fucking killed that interview.”

“Hah,” Quentin said, his eyes gleaming with delight. “I love seeing you this happy.”

He led her down a side alley, toward a rusty set of steps. Although Charlotte was a bit hesitant, she trudged up behind him. Music built up in her ears slowly, gravitating from the rooftop.

“Is this a roof party?” she asked, breathless. She hadn’t yet seen this “side” of New York, although it had certainly been something she’d dream of.

Quentin didn’t answer. He squeezed her hand firmly and pulled her up the final few steps, delivering them to a landing. A man stood out front, wearing dark sunglasses and balding in the center, front part of his head. He wore a rugged leather jacket; his jeans were holed and too tight on his rather thick frame. But the man grasped onto Quentin’s hand and then gave him a masculine hug, one that spoke of years of partying, of raucous times.

“Q,” he said, his voice booming. “Good to see you again, man. You’ve been out of the scene for years.”

“That’s true, that’s true,” Quentin said. “Thought it wouldn’t be a bad time to rejoin. This is my friend Charlotte. Charlotte, this is Peter. Pete.”

“Pete,” Charlotte said, a smile snaking across her lips. She shook Pete’s hand, feeling suddenly like a specimen.

“You always did have the prettiest girlfriends,” Pete said, shaking his head. “Back to your old tricks, I see.”

“Nah,” Quentin said firmly. “I’m a changed man. A dad. And a professional. Fuck, it’s been a while. I need a drink.” His eyebrows rose high. He joined Pete’s raucous laugh, both of them seeming to fall into reverie. Charlotte shifted her weight, listening to the rock music, revving from just over the fence.

“No entrance fee for you guys, then,” Pete said, gesturing inward. “Just go have a good time.”

He stamped them both with black images on their inner wrists and then swept them toward the roof party, with Quentin slipping a firm hand around her waist. Charlotte buzzed with the previous bar’s cocktails, feeling herself transported to a different world: to Quentin’s old world of drugs and sex and abandonment. This was the world she’d craved, from her lonely position in Ohio. The world she’d expected for herself, as a music groupie.

She’d arrived.

As they entered the rooftop party, Charlotte gaped, in awe of the gorgeous guests. A band strummed guitars in the corner, wearing the height of hipster cool, their eyes covered in sunglasses and their jeans sucking close to their skin. Girls leaned heavily against tables, their breasts glowing in the soft light of the late afternoon. Drinks were poured heavily and passed to men in hip hats with mustaches, bringing white wines back to their girl companions. It was clear that everyone had a purpose, everyone had money, everyone was creating a kind of show, for all their peers to see.

“Wow,” Charlotte breathed, whispering into Quentin’s ear. “I don’t think I’ve been to such an exclusive party before.”

Quentin laughed, guiding her to the bar. He ordered them two craft beers and then carried the frothing glasses to the edge of the roof, giving them a grand view of Manhattan and the sun, lingering at the height of several of the skyscrapers. He clinked his glass with hers, congratulating her with a firm nod.

“I’m saying this as your boss. You’re a marvelous journalist,” he said.

Charlotte eyed him. “And what would you say if you weren’t my boss?”

Quentin leaned heavily into her ear, whispering, “I’d say I want to fuck you against the edge of this roof, for everyone to see, just so they know that I have you, I’m the one taking you home.”

Charlotte shivered, feeling her heart rate quickened. “I’ve always wanted to fuck in front of people,” she answered, her eyes dancing. “Kind of a fantasy of mine.”

“Oh?” Quentin asked her, smirking. “Maybe we can make that dream come true.”

Quentin and Charlotte sipped their beers, chatting amicably and heightening their friendship and lust for one another. Charlotte found it difficult to stop giggling, surprised, at a certain point, at how hilarious she found Quentin. “I wouldn’t have assumed you—the king of grunge—would be so funny.”

“When you’re as famous as I used to be, you have to have a sense of humor about it. Otherwise, you’ll go absolutely crazy.”

Mere minutes later, the band quit playing their set. The lead singer wrapped his microphone with the cord, passed it off, and then shuffled toward Quentin and Charlotte, his eyes centered upon Quentin. He gulped audibly, despite his seeming put-together chicness.

“Quentin? Quentin McDonnell?” he breathed, reaching out his hand.

Quentin shook it, probably used to this type of interaction. Charlotte watched as the younger man slipped his sunglasses from his nose, lending Quentin his dark green eyes. “I just wanted to come tell you thanks for listening to our set. We all grew up with Orpheus Arise. And it’s really a dream come true to meet you.”

“You guys partying after this?” Quentin asked him.

Charlotte’s eyes shot toward Quentin, curious. Quentin was off drugs—wasn’t he? The air sizzled around them, anticipating the younger man’s answer.

“Sure. We have some stuff.” He gestured back toward his band, who were packing up and moving aside for the next set. “We’ve just been doing it on the side of the roof. No use for the bathroom up here. Everyone’s fucked out of their minds. Everyone who’s cool, that is.”

Quentin pushed forward, following the younger man, who introduced himself as Miller. The other boys shook Quentin’s hand, giving him firm nods, a sign, apparently, of respect. Charlotte quivered beside him.

“And Morgan’s with her mom the rest of the night, right?” she whispered into his ear.

“Absolutely. I wouldn’t be out here if she wasn’t,” Quentin said, giving her a half-dark look. As the brief moment of tension passed between them, Quentin shrugged it off, gesturing. “I’ll just take a little bit. It’s been years. And you, baby, you’ve ignited something in me. I want to live again, you know?”

Charlotte nodded, her hesitance drawing a frown across her face. “Sure. I trust you,” she lied. Her nostrils flared as she tucked closer to the band, where the drummer drew white lines of powder across a book

As her eyes danced around the room, Quentin wrapped his hands around her waist, trying to catch her back in his embrace. “Come on, baby. You want a little bit?” he asked, preparing to go next, after the drummer. “I promise, it’s good shit. It’s only good at these parties.”

Charlotte’s heart yanked at her brain, fueling panic. She looked up into his eyes, small tears drawing themselves from the corner of her eyes. “I’m—I’m sorry. Maybe I’m too much of a novice to handle this.”

“Hey,” Quentin said, his voice becoming quieter. He spun toward the band. “I’ll be back in just a second.” He drew Charlotte from the band, into a far corner, and then cupped her face with his hands in an intimate motion. “You think I’m going to get addicted again, don’t you?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered, realizing, suddenly, how much she truly cared for him. “I want you to be safe is all. I don’t want to lose you, the way the other girls did.”

Quentin’s eyes grew softer. He leaned closer to her, kissing her deeply and sucking at her bottom lip. He only broke the kiss to breathe. “Baby, I’m not going anywhere.”

After an intense moment of silence, during which not even the band played, Charlotte turned her eyes toward the entrance of the rooftop party. Still wrapped in Quentin’s arms, she watched as a redheaded girl, approximately her age, dressed in a bright pink skirt, stared at her, mouth agape, her eyes filled with anger and darkness.

It was Pamela.

“Shit,” Charlotte exhaled quickly, shoving Quentin from her grasp. She parted from him, still staring at Pamela.

Befuddled, Quentin knocked his arms on either side of his torso, glancing to where Pamela stood, but not recognizing her. “What’s going on?”

But before Charlotte could explain, Pamela ducked toward the side steps, disappearing from sight. Charlotte felt her stomach drop out; her knees grew weak. She fell against the side, half-wall, quivering down to the ground. Quentin began to call her name, recognizing her panic.

“Charlotte? Hey? Are you okay? Baby? Char?”

But he sounded as if he was a million miles away.

“Shit. Shit, shit,” Charlotte finally exhaled, visibly shaking.

Quentin laughed, in spite of himself. “Morgan always makes that face. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to—”

“Can we just go?” Charlotte begged, not wanting to explain the horrible thing that had just occurred. In her mind, the world had just split in two. In another reality, in another timeline, she and Quentin were snorting cocaine till dawn, celebrating her successful interview into infinity. But in this one, Pamela was racing home to call Maggie, to tell everyone the truth, that Charlotte had only gotten the feature because she was sleeping with the editor-in-chief. And beyond that, she was busting the no-fraternization clause, thinking she would get away with.

Quentin hailed a taxi outside the rooftop party, his arm wrapped tightly around her waist, becoming a pillar on which she could lean. The moment he tucked her into the back, he swept her hair behind her shoulders, easing her cheek against his shoulder.

“I’m sorry I wanted to do that back there,” he answered firmly. “It won’t happen again. Really.”

“That’s not it,” Charlotte murmured, watching as they laced through the darkening streets, darting through cars, racing the sun. “We’ve been found out.”

“What do you mean?” Quentin asked, seemingly not dismayed.

After all, losing his job probably wasn’t a big issue for him, was it? He was a millionaire, perhaps more. He’d fought his battles. He wouldn’t fight to pay for groceries again.

But Charlotte, no. Her battle had just begun. And she’d just fallen on her sword.

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore. You’ll find out soon enough,” she whispered, cutting her head closer to his chest. “Just hold me for now, won’t you? I want to be as close to you as possible. I don’t know what tomorrow will look like. And I don’t know what I’ll feel when it all falls apart.”

“Charlotte. I can’t resist you,” Quentin said, after a long pause. “You might be single-handedly saving my life. I’d given up on love.”

But Charlotte couldn’t find the words. She began to shake at the beauty of what he’d revealed to her. Devastation clouded her mind. She held her tongue, waiting till they arrived back at their apartment.

Her shoulders aching with the horrible promise of tomorrow, she wrapped herself tightly around Quentin, ripping his pants to his knees and wrapping her perfect lips around the tip of his cock, rubbing her tongue in a light, flirtatious circle around the tip. She listened to his moan, and then dove down to his balls, sucking on their perfect, circular shape. He caught her head with his hands, bringing her upward, kissing her again and then ripping her dress above her head, revealing her bra and underwear beneath. Her underwear was slightly wet, as her pussy had begun its insistent pounding, its silky lips separating, its clit poking out from above. Quentin slipped her panties to her feet, then unhooked her bra, watching as her tits bounced casually in front of his face. He wrapped his mouth around the darkness of her nipple, sucking at it insistently, with need.

They dove into bed with each other, making passionate, end-of-the-world love, with only Charlotte recognizing what had occurred. She humped him wildly from above, her lips parting, and his wide girth filling her, pushing up against the softness of her G-spot. He placed two fingers against the small clit, expounding on her pleasure centers and pushing a long, easy moan from her throat.

This is what she’d given up her career for, she told herself as she fell into a chorus of orgasms. This had to be worth it. This had to be everything.

Chapter 26

Charlotte snuck from Quentin’s bed early the next morning, kissing his soft, warm lips before slipping back into her apartment and scrubbing herself clean. Clamping her eyes closed, the image of Pamela, staring at her, stampeded through her brain. She couldn’t have imagined it.

“Damn,” she whispered, her voice raspy and echoing in the shower. Just when Quentin had told her he was falling in love with her. Just when everything seemed to be falling into place.

“What the fuck was Pamela even doing at that party, anyway?” she murmured to herself, toweling off. Pamela had seemed like a snooty nerd, perhaps ultimately writing the classical music or jazz beat, rather than the chic rock and grunge beats.

Although she’d plotted to arrive at the office a bit before everyone else—hoping to get ahead of the rumor mill—she realized, halfway down the street, that she’d forgotten her notebook and recorder, both with information she required to write the feature. She raced back, removing her black heels and feeling the gritty sidewalk beneath her feet. Mid-internal cursing, she gave Angus a hearty wave, then pushed up to her apartment, already recognizing the harried nature of the day.

It wasn’t going to get any easier.

Charlotte arrived at work about five minutes after she was meant to, finding that the interns were bent intently over their computers. Charlotte tried to dart to her computer, unnoticed, but soon found that, one-by-one, each of the interns turned their eyes toward her. Each eyeball seemed to burn red with anger, with envy.

“There she is,” Pamela said, her voice saucy. “The woman of the hour.”

Charlotte pressed her lips together, her heart hammering in her chest. She tucked toward her desk, only to find that the chair had been removed. She waved a firm palm toward Randy, who kept his headphones in his ears. A heaviness fell upon her shoulders. The entire crew was ignoring her. Even her friend.

“Randy, hey,” she whispered, her voice hesitant, weak. She nudged him slightly, watching as he slipped a single earbud from his ears. “Randy, it’s not what you think.”

“Oh. It’s not?” Randy asked her, sounding sarcastic. “Because I don’t know how it could be anything else.”

“Can you just let me explain?” Charlotte murmured. “Please? Don’t you owe me that?”

“Charlotte, I barely know you,” Randy snapped, stabbing his earbud back in his ear.

“None of us do,” Pamela said, smirking from the side. “You really put on a good face, though, didn’t you? There for a while, of course. Nothing lasts. Especially not that little relationship you think you have.”

Charlotte’s nostrils flared.

“I don’t know what you think you saw,” she began, unsure of where she was leading. Pamela had, of course, seen precisely what she thought she did. She’d seen an intern making out with the editor-in-chief of their magazine. She’d seen privilege. She’d seen a liar.

“Oh, honey. Don’t even try,” Pamela said. “The only thing I’m really worried about is what Maggie’s going to say when I send this email.”

“Please. Don’t,” Charlotte whispered, her voice rough.

“Oh, I’m not going to yet,” Pamela said. “I want to watch you suffer in shame for a few days before it all falls apart. I want to see you cower in this room, crying, even. I want to make sure you feel like the piece of shit you are, and then I want to turn you in. I’m sure you know all about the non-fraternization policy. And if you don’t, I’m sure Maggie will fill you in.”

Several of the interns shifted uncomfortably, jittery with Pamela’s spat-out words and clear anger.

“Guys, is it really that big of a deal?” Charlotte murmured, trying to find someone, anyone, to hold her up. “If you’d just let me tell you how it all happened, I think you’d understand.”

But the writers returned to their computers, beginning to type furiously. She was a tumor, a rat, something best avoided, best not discussed. She collapsed at the side wall, leaning heavily against the white-wash, and opening her computer. Slipping her headphones on, she dove into a raucous world of 2000s grunge music, trying to get in the right headspace to write the feature.

But it soon seemed impossible. Her mind raced. She understood that the world was crumbling around her.

Angered, she stood and burst from the room, stomping toward Quentin’s office. She entered without knocking, watching as his downcast eyes turned to hers lovingly, saying all the things she wanted them to say. In response, she slammed the door and began to gasp with hysterics.

Quentin burst from his desk chair, reaching her quickly and wrapping his arms around her thin, bird-like shoulders. He shot his palm down to the small of her back, trying to hold onto her, stop her shaking.

“What is it?” he asked her tenderly. “You can talk to me. Something’s been up since last night…”

Charlotte’s tears blurred her eyes. Swallowing sharply, she finally found words. “Quentin, it’s been such a wonderful time, getting to know you. But Pamela—she saw us last night. She saw us kissing. And now, she’s going to hold it over my head for a few days, and then she’s going to tell Maggie.”

Quentin huffed, slipping his fingers through his dark hair. “Fuck.”

“I know,” Charlotte murmured, her head spinning. “I should probably just leave. Maybe Pamela won’t have a vendetta against you and spare you. This can’t get to the owners.”

“How about you let me worry about Pamela and the owners?” Quentin said firmly, pressing his lips together. “In the meantime, you have a job to do.”

“What do you mean?” Charlotte whispered.

“You have to write your feature. More than ever, now, you have to focus on it. It has to be the best fucking thing you’ve ever written. You need to show these assholes how good you are. That this magazine doesn’t even deserve how good you are.” He smacked his fist against his other palm, giving her a fiery look. “And you can leave. Go home. Do it there, or anywhere. This is a poisonous place for you right now, and I blame myself for that.”

Quentin took a dramatic step forward and placed his palms on either side of her cheeks, his breath hot. “I’ll see you when you’re done,” he whispered simply.

Charlotte nodded, biting her bottom lip. With a dramatic motion, she swept from the office and went to gather her things, listening as several of the interns muttered things under their breath at her. “Sell out.” “Slut.” “Groupie.”

At the doorway, she turned quickly toward Randy, who was still bent over his computer. His eyes flickered toward her for the first time since the morning. They were heavy with disappointment. Charlotte’s lips parted, yearning to state another apology, anything to link them together. But she felt the moment slip away.

Chapter 27

The moment Charlotte slipped from his office, her eyes heavy with the news of their escaped secrets, Quentin collapsed against the side of his large mahogany desk, his shoulders slumping forward. Jesus. He hadn’t been careful enough, always robbing Charlotte from her intern offices and fucking her hard against the desk, lifting her dress over her spine to reveal the moon-like curvature of her porcelain ass. Inhaling the scent of her during her office day had become like a ritual, something he associated with office life, now.

But everything soured with time.

Throughout the day, he focused his attention on another feature he was writing for the online MMM landing page, an article about a band named Everest, which he’d toured with during the summers of 2007 and 2008. The nights with Everest had been heroin and cocaine-laden, with powdery mountains lining his memories. The lead singer, a guy named Walt, had actually passed away from his addiction during the summer of 2011, becoming a harrowing story for Quentin, who was just beginning to clean up his act around that time.

Jesus. He remembered Charlotte’s face when he’d considered doing the drugs with those kids in Brooklyn. He’d felt such rapturous emotions, having her on his arm, and listening to that music—that music!—and feeling a kind of zealous energy he’d abandoned when he’d become a boring dad. “Just a small hit,” he’d told himself. “It can’t hurt anything.”

But Charlotte had held him back. He owed her everything for that.

Standing casually, he made a pass through the offices, watching as his editors and writers typed furiously or else snapped away from social media screens, making it appear as if they worked hard all day. He peered into the intern offices once or twice, finding Charlotte’s now-familiar space to be empty, her chair removed. Pamela, the woman on the hour, sat haughtily, her nose seemingly higher than the others, with terrible, burnt curls coating her back. Who on earth had allowed her into that party? Why had Pete the bouncer led he and Charlotte to the fire?

Maggie’s office door was open halfway, revealing her own red-headed form, slicing at pages with a rogue pen, editing ruthlessly. He peered at her from the door, wondering if, when told about the affair, she would really take the steps to rid him of his position as editor. Didn’t their friendship matter?

It had been a one-sided friendship, Quentin realized. He hadn’t given her much in return for her padding along after him, eyes like a doe’s, her body aching for his touch.

Perhaps he should have fucked her once more, just to shut her up. But the thought of it now made his dick soft, untouchable in his pants. He knocked on the side wall of her doorway, causing her to cut her chin upward, surprised.

“Hi, there,” Maggie said, her eyebrows moving to make smooth peach circles above her eyes. “What do I owe the pleasure?”

“You mean I can’t just come by and ask my favorite lady what she’s up to in here?” he asked, sounding false.

“Just editing, as usual,” she said, standing. “You have anything you want to talk about?” She hesitated. “I know Charlotte’s writing that feature. Are you really sure you want her to do something of that importance? She’s just an intern, and the magazine literally hinges on that.”

Quentin held up his palm, his fingers flat. “I am. She deserves the chance. Perhaps they all do. I’ll figure that out myself, down the line.”

Maggie’s head tilted. “You’re willing to let them all write features?” she asked, incredulous.

“Okay, maybe not all of them,” Quentin said gruffly, already losing ground. He needed to tell her about Charlotte, he knew. He needed to get ahead of it. “By the way. Charlotte went home sick, I guess. Going to work on the feature from home.”

“Ha. As if some sad little apartment in Queens or whatever is going to be more consoling than staying here,” Maggie said, rolling her eyes.

“Is that where she lives?” Quentin asked, feigning ignorance.

“She lives at the bottom of a well for all I know,” Maggie said, stacking her edited pages evenly. “Listen, I’m about to start writing that feature you assigned to me the other day. About music downloads. Want to run an eye over it when I’m finished?”

“Absolutely,” Quentin said, backing toward the door. His heart rushed into his stomach, recognizing that Charlotte was well hated amongst both the interns and Maggie. His smile faltered. He remembered Charlotte saying they should turn back, that it was their last chance to cover everything up. But he’d ignored it, listening only to his innate, animalistic desires.

Quentin left the office early, knowing he needed to pick up Morgan from school that afternoon. Grateful to uncoil from the stress of their current situation, he stopped to nab a few apple-based pastries from the French bakery and waited near the school as a slight drizzle began to coat his jacket. Several mothers tittered around him, complaining about the weather and comparing notes on how they got their kids to practice their music.

“I take away video games,” one mother said.

“I just don’t allow a snack until after.”

“My daughter screams if I make her practice over forty-five minutes. Let’s just say we’re transferring schools next year if this keeps up. I don’t think she’s going to be the next singer-songwriter, that’s for sure.”

Morgan appeared in the school doorway moments later, her backpack bobbing along her spine and her smile wide, making an invisible tension in Quentin’s brain loosen up. He lifted her with a swift motion, twirling her and causing her to squeal. The other mothers looked on, either worried or else uncertain about the lack of boredom in the father and daughter’s relationship. For this moment, perhaps, Quentin could forget about the trouble brewing at work.

“What do you wanna do today, kiddo?” he asked Morgan. He snapped her coat’s hood over her blond hair, ensuring that she was covered.

“Let’s go out for dinner,” Morgan insisted. “I don’t want to eat spaghetti again. Unless, is Charlotte cooking for us?”

“No. Don’t think so,” Quentin said sadly. “She’s working pretty hard right now.”

“Well, she has to eat,” Morgan said pointedly.

“She might need to work and eat at the same time,” Quentin said, sighing. “How about burgers in Greenwich Village?”

Morgan lifted her arms in a mighty, victory motion, agreeing. Quentin flashed his arm for a taxi and the pair corralled inside, with Quentin telling the man the address of their favorite burger, fry, and milkshake place—again, a place best-avoided in conversation with Morgan’s mother. Kate hadn’t so much as looked at a burger in years.

They arrived at the restaurant and were seated in the corner, at a high-top, where Morgan swung her feet playfully and read out the menu to her father, showing off the skills she’d learned only in the previous year.

“The Big Heaven burger has three types of cheese, bacon, pickles, and hot sauce. Damn, that sounds disgusting!” she cried, aghast.

“That’s what I’m getting. No question,” Quentin said, teasing her.

Morgan ordered a strawberry milkshake, a kid-sized burger, and fries, while Quentin ordered a large burger with Brie cheese and an IPA beer. They sat, awaiting their food and chatting, as several dark-haired, gruff-looking men in suits entered, their aura powerful, matching even Quentin’s.

His eyes snapped toward them with recognition. As they sat at a four-top near the street window, he pinged two of them as being top writers for Rolling Stone, a magazine MMM would never beat in either content or readership, not for miles.

He wouldn’t approach them. His pride was stiff, unbending. He sucked his IPA down, trying to concentrate on Morgan’s twittering about a fight she’d had with a boy at school about grace notes and just how long was too long. His brain felt stretched.

After a small infinity, the editor-in-chief of Rolling Stone, a man named Tommy—keeping his once-rock star persona name, instead of just switching to Tom—cracked his chair back and began a long trek to Quentin’s table, deciding to bend to Quentin’s ego.

This was a victory.

Quentin’s eyes turned toward Tommy the moment he appeared at his table, as if he hadn’t noticed him before. He flashed a quick smile before rising and swiping his hand into his, shaking with professional strength. Tommy’s band had never gone as far as Orpheus Arise, but Quentin still remembered the little strappy guy at the occasional gig, seeming to falter to the floor with the weight of his guitar around his neck.

“Tommy. Good to see you.”

“And you, Q,” Tommy responded, his voice deeper than it once had been, when he’d been a man in his twenties. “How’s it going over at MMM? Holding down the fort?”

“Trying to,” Quentin answered. “Have an issue coming out next week, so you can imagine the panic at the office.”

“Sure. We just released, so we’re out celebrating,” he said, lifting his thumb toward the table behind him. “Would still love to do a feature about Orpheus Arise’s comeback soon. Some of our interns are still really into your shit, listening to your albums while they write. I try to tell them what a bum you were back then, but I can’t say they believe me. Your swagger is timeless. Surprised they ever wanted to write for Rolling and didn’t just go straight to you.”

“Ha. Well, your magazine has the ultimate prestige,” Quentin said. He felt his daughter’s eyes upon him. Did she still see the “swagger” from the mid-2000s? He hoped she only saw her boring dad.

“Anyway, interns are assholes to have around,” Tommy continued. “They think they have all these ideas, but they haven’t been around the block long enough to know what the scene was and is really like. They’re just cocky. They’re fucking exhausting.”

“Language!” Morgan cried from below before slurping at her strawberry milkshake, her eyes large, like saucers.

“Sorry,” Quentin said, placing his palm against her head. “She’s learning what to say in public and what not to.”

“Well, with a dad like Quentin McDonnell, I’m sure the lines become blurred in the best ways,” Tommy said, chortling. He shook Quentin’s hand a final time before spinning back to his own table, making a final comment. “If you ever want to talk shop, man to man, we should grab a drink.”

Quentin nodded. As he sat, slumping in his chair, he realized he wasn’t top dog over people like Tommy any longer. The game board had changed. Screaming little indie grunge rockers had lurched ahead of him, in some respects, and become top-tier editors at major magazines. His heart burned, yearning to fight to make MMM a better, more sophisticated magazine—one that could blast past that sort of competition. One that could become an institution.

“Dad. You’re lost in your thoughts again,” Morgan said, sighing. Ketchup spattered itself across her cheeks, making her look clownish. “And you look like you need another beer.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Quentin said, hailing the waitress. “You always know me best.”

The next night, when Morgan was no longer with him, burning curiosity sent him down the hall to Charlotte’s. He rang the bell, waiting, his heart hammering against his chest. Normally, they fucked every single day, at least once or twice, and his cock pulsed heavily against his crotch, wanting to dip within her, to fill her.

Charlotte answered the door after a long pause, her hair swept up in a ponytail and her eyes blackened, singed with tears. A pen twirled in her fingers, showing her manic anxiety. “What is it?”

“I wanted to check in on you,” Quentin said. The sadness in her eyes burned into him, making him recognize this was his fault.

“Just writing. Still,” Charlotte murmured.

“You’ve been writing since I sent you home yesterday morning?” Quentin asked, incredulous.

“Well, yes,” Charlotte said. “And I’m not going to stop until it’s perfect.”

There seemed to be a boundary between them now. Quentin tucked forward slightly, trying to bend it back, to kiss her soft, pillow-like lips. But she ducked away, stabbing panic pins into his chest. She shook her head, almost imperceptibly, like a child who refused to leap in the pool.

“I can’t. I have to get back to this,” she murmured. “I have to remember what’s important to me. And right now—this is it.”

“Charlotte,” Quentin began, shoving his hand against her door, trying to keep it open. “Let me read over what you have so far. Let me see if I can help you.”

“No,” Charlotte said, her eyes flashing. “I need to do this on my own. I got caught up in—in whatever this is, and I lost sight…” She trailed off, ducking behind the door. “I’m sorry, Quentin,” she breathed. “I’m really sorry.”

Quentin stood still as the door snipped closed in front of him, becoming a barrier between him and the girl he’d begun to allow himself to love. He scrambled his fingers through his hair, frustration brimming. Trudging back to his own apartment, his mind began to spin with the first bit of creative juices he’d felt in ages. Deep in his soundproof studio, he cranked up his guitar and blared upon it, feeling the life come back into his fingers. He howled song after song, making up various, already-forgotten lyrics along the way, and feeling his heart drip with the pain of not seeing Charlotte—and the potential of losing her forever.

Chapter 28

Charlotte wasn’t at work the next day or the next, which was Friday. Marching past several interns at the coffee machine, he heard them whispering, incredulous that Charlotte hadn’t yet made an appearance, despite Pamela “not telling Maggie yet.” He darted around the corner, his ears perking up, listening.

“Do you think she will?” Randy asked in a harsh whisper. “I mean she talks a big game. I could see her holding this over Charlotte’s head for the rest of the internship, rather than giving her name over…”

“No. I think she wants destruction,” another intern said. “She doesn’t know a ton about music, so she’s eternally on the defensive. You know, she thinks she deserves this life that Charlotte already has such a comprehension of. It’s a tragedy she ever got caught up with Quentin.”

“Yeah, but, who could resist him?” Randy whispered. “Charlotte is a little Midwestern girl from Ohio. She didn’t have a chance the minute Quentin laid eyes on her. You remember that day.”

“The tension between them was weird, wasn’t it? Like you could literally slice it with a knife.”

“Do you think the affair started immediately? Seems strange that Charlotte wouldn’t try to avoid it, given that she was so centered on her career.”

“Where is she hiding, anyway? Randy. You should call her. She trusts you.”

“Not anymore. I let Pamela toss her under the bus, and then I stomped on her,” Randy said, his voice demure. “I feel like shit about it.”

“We were all pissed, Randy.”

“But in the long run, what does it matter?” Randy asked as the interns spun back to the intern offices, away from Quentin’s prying ears. “If she’s going to make it, she’s going to make it. Regardless of who she’s sleeping with. Rock and roll isn’t about the fucking rules.”

His last words rang through Quentin’s ears. The rules had always felt far above Quentin’s head, something unseen and not felt. He’d blasted into super stardom, not caring about the rules of love, or the rules of drugs, or the rules of drink. He’d lost so many years of his twenties, giving them away to some sort of “nothingness.” And now, Charlotte was trying to make something of herself, become a prestige music writer. And he’d gotten in her way.

When Quentin arrived at his desk, his heartbeat ramped up, recognizing what he needed to do. Pressing his lips together, he sent Maggie a brief message, telling her he wanted to meet with her outside of the office. He needed to talk.

Maggie messaged back hurriedly, clearly anticipating some sort of business meeting, or perhaps a slightly romantic meeting between two old friends. Maggie’s seduction attempts had been rebuked for years, leaving her bruised and damaged, still working under Quentin’s shadow. Which meant she’d be the first one to bite when she heard the news.

Quentin met Maggie near the elevator just after lunch. Dressed in a dark green coat, with a dramatic length, past her knees, she looked rather sophisticated, unlike the coke-snorting, sex hound she’d been as a twenty-something, sniffing around Orpheus Arise. Had she been an aspiring writer back then, like Charlotte? Quentin didn’t know. Would it matter, anyway? Could she remember those days?

“What’s up?” she asked casually, her eyes bright. “Where do you want to go?”

“Let’s go grab a drink,” Quentin said, his voice gruff. He stabbed the down button and waited, his hands drawn at his waist. “The booze in the office isn’t cutting it for me anymore.”

Maggie tittered nervously, stepping beside him in the elevator and standing several inches too close, her fingers jittering nervously near his. Quentin couldn’t imagine taking her hand. He hoped, abstractly, that someone on the planet would take her hand someday, keep her safe, assure her she was worthwhile. It couldn’t be him.

They sat across from each other at a Greenwich Village bar, the only two people ordering cocktails before three in the afternoon. Maggie stabbed the small straw onto her tongue, sipping too quickly, her eyes bright. “What did you want to talk about? I’ve been editing the first features from Mark and Thomas… Let me tell you, Mark’s sucks, Thomas’ is great. As usual. Maybe we should do something about that.”

“How much longer is Mark’s contract?” Quentin asked, slipping into old habits.

“Maybe four more months?” Maggie answered.

Silence hung between them, then. Quentin’s throat burned as his mind revved, glossing over all the things he needed to say. He sipped half of his cocktail, giving the air a violent sigh.

“Listen, Mags,” he said. “I’ve known you a long, long time. And I don’t think, during that entire time, you’ve known me to be happy.”

Maggie’s lips parted. She eyed him curiously, obviously unsure of where the conversation was leading. “I don’t know if I thought that…”

“Well, I’m telling you, here. Besides the birth of my daughter, my adult life has been pretty dark, tinged with too much partying, too many women, too many drugs. And I’m sorry if you were affected in any way. I was a foolish, selfish man. It’s probably something I should go to someone to discuss. Someone professional.”

Maggie nodded, almost imperceptibly. “You’ve seemed good since you started as editor,” she murmured. “More stable. Less like the Quentin I first met.” She reached forward, then, trying to grab his hand. But he snaked it away. She scowled. “Why am I here, Quentin?”

Quentin hung his head. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

The air around them grew even fierier, more taut. He needed to find release. He continued, forcing himself forward. “It’s just—I made a huge mistake. A mistake that could, potentially, ruin the professional lives of two people. But I think if I explain it to you, you’ll know what to do. You have such a balanced head on those shoulders. You’ve been my guide.”

Maggie’s face looked more strained now. She forced a slight smile, realizing, now, that she wasn’t necessarily in Quentin’s presence because he wanted to commune with her, and certainly not because he wanted to bang her. No. He needed her help.

It was clear, already, that this wasn’t cool with her.

“What did you do, Quentin?” she asked, sighing.

“It’s the girl,” Quentin said. “Charlotte.”

Maggie blinked several times. “She hasn’t been at the office in days.”

“It’s because we’ve been found out.”

Her face looked scrunched now. “You’ve been fucking each other.”

“I think I’m falling in love with her.”

“Love. Huh. What a fucking concept.” Maggie tossed the rest of her drink down her throat, looking as if she might storm from the premises. Her knees twitched beneath the table. “You’ve got to be kidding. You’re the one always on and on about the no-fraternization clause in the fucking contract. You’re the one who says we have to uphold it.”

“I know what I said,” Quentin said firmly. “And I know what I did.”

Maggie burst from her seat, glaring at him. “She’ll be fired, you know.”

“That’s why I brought you here,” Quentin said. “I wanted to get out in front of it. I wanted to make sure she wasn’t. She’s worked damn hard for this position.”

“And she’s writing this fucking feature, just because she’s fucking you,” Maggie whispered harshly, her face growing aghast. “This is the top feature of next week’s magazine. This is something that should have gone to someone who’s been writing there for years, Quentin. Someone like me. You literally robbed me of a potential rise in the ranks…” Her nostrils flared. “I’ve worked my ass off for you, for years. And this is how you repay me?”

Quentin rose up, trying to stop her unnecessary outbursts. He swept his hand forward, trying to grip her forearm, talk her down. But she ripped her arm out of reach, visibly shaking. “I could sue you, you know,” she whispered. “I could sue you for thousands of dollars for busting your contractual agreement. And I’d win. You know that.”

“I do,” Quentin murmured. “Of course, I do. And I’m asking you not to do that.”

“Just because you think I’m in love with you or something?” Maggie howled, smacking her glass onto the table. “Just because you assume I have this unending love for you, you think that I’ll hide your big mistakes?”

“No,” Quentin said quietly, still trying to stay calm. “I think you’ll help me figure out this problem because you’re my friend. And you’ve been my friend for years.”

Maggie’s nostrils flared. She was acting unrealistic, wild, the very portrait of a crazed woman, obsessed with his band in the 2000s. “I just don’t know what to think of this right now. I respected you,” she said, gathering her coat. She flung her arms deep within it, tossing her red hair back.

“Then I’ll leave,” Quentin said suddenly. “After the next issue, I’ll leave the magazine. Someone else will become editor. Just allow Charlotte to stay. Don’t fucking sue me. I’ll be out of your life for good. All right?”

Maggie looked defeated. She spun swiftly from the bar, her coat twirling behind her, and then sped into the rainy streets. She hailed a cab with a flail of her arm and then was gone, rushing back to whichever corner of the universe she normally existed in. Quentin still felt her shadowy anger, lurking on his shoulders.

Fuck.

He ordered another drink, and then another, feeling the Friday after-work crew join around him, laughing raucously, their eyes wide with joy for the end of the workweek. But Quentin felt nothing but gloom.

Charlotte wouldn’t talk to him, needing her space. His daughter was at a friend’s birthday party for the night, stuffing herself with too much candy and cake, probably on a path toward passing out in a soda coma. And his ex-wife was probably entwined in the arms of that new Wall Street asshole, Jason.

Frustrated, he returned to his apartment, stopping to buy a bottle of Jack on the way. He hunkered down in his studio, strumming together a new song throughout the night, trying to abandon his fears at the door. He hadn’t remembered—or perhaps he’d never really known—how close intense happiness was to intense love. Now that he’d allowed himself to feel anything worthwhile for Charlotte, he saw the depths of his soul.

And he didn’t necessarily like it.

But the guitar and his voice howled out a melody, one he stuck to a half-assed recording. He felt that jolt of electricity he’d once felt, as a much younger man, building songs with his once-best friends and ex-band mates.

It had been the only worthwhile thing.

Chapter 29

Charlotte busied herself with the article throughout the weekend, listening to the recordings from the band over and over again, and retyping the introduction over fifteen times, just trying to get the right emotion, to highlight the intensity of their conversation. Throughout the interview, her heart always tinged when she heard Quentin speaking, reminding her of the beauty of that, their last day together. A relationship that really couldn’t be.

Since she hadn’t been to work in days, she was curious to know what had occurred, but hadn’t yet dared ask. Had Pamela broken the spell and told Maggie about Charlotte and Quentin’s affair? Had Quentin stood up for her? Had Randy said anything—anything at all—in her favor? The world felt tumultuous, chaotic, outside of the small cavern at her computer screen. It was her final sanctuary.

But it couldn’t last forever. The article needed to go to the editor—Quentin himself—and then it needed to go to print. With the 3,000-word article trapped in her Google drive, she showered and dressed early Monday morning, conscious to choose a simple pair of black pants and a black turtleneck, her least sexual clothes, asserting the difference between her old self and her new one. She wouldn’t be sleeping with the boss anymore, if only they’d take pity on her and allow her to stay.

The article was damn good. And if they didn’t see validity in her writing, then she didn’t know how else to fix her situation.

At the office, she sent the email to Quentin, Maggie, and the other interns, including a downloadable link for her article, along with the message:

Hello all,

As you know, I’ve taken the past several days to focus on this article. I’ve put my blood and guts into it. As it’s my first feature—and perhaps my last—I’d love all your thoughts and edits. Don’t hold back.

Yours,

Charlotte

As the day crept on, the interns joined her in the intern offices, giving her only a subtle glance before draping themselves over their computers. Charlotte worked diligently on other projects, hunting down new stories to pitch and hoping her brain would stop its unnecessary, rapid, cyclical nature, which was making her feel crazy.

Randy still hadn’t looked at her.

During lunch, Charlotte passed Quentin’s office, sensing his brooding form within. As she’d drawn the line between them, she knew she shouldn’t want to go in there, to hunt him down, to admit defeat. She yearned for his body, ached for his scent. But the flashing eyes from Maggie, in the corner near the printer, shrouded her with fear. Hustling to the elevator, she burst into the crisp, late-September afternoon, understanding: Maggie knew. She was hanging on a literal thread.

Sometime at the end of the day, she received a single email regarding her submission. Just one. And it wasn’t from Quentin. It wasn’t from Maggie. And it certainly wasn’t from Pamela, who still seemed out for her blood from the other side of the intern office.

It came from Randy.

I can’t believe how well written this is. And I can sense how sad you are today. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m not brave enough to say this to your face. Maybe, just maybe, how good this article is will patch things up in the office. But if it doesn’t, I want you to know—you’ll make it somewhere else. The world is your fucking oyster, Charlotte.

If he’d approached me, I would have fucked him, too.

Randy

The email brought new life to Charlotte’s aching head. She excused herself from the office, bouncing down the sidewalk in the last of the fall sun, sensing that Randy’s words regarding her article described the feeling of everyone else, as well. The writing was crisp. The perspective was clear. The anecdotes were interesting, yet not distracting. And it made an up-and-coming band look timeless.

“If this is the last article I ever write,” Charlotte murmured to herself, “Then I’m proud of it.”

Tuesday, Charlotte didn’t hear anything at all, not from Quentin, nor Maggie, nor the rest of the interns, making her stomach swell with anxiety. She bit her tongue throughout the day, trying to stabilize her panic. But she soon drew blood, tasting its tangy flavor in her spit.

The magazine would be released on Friday, which was just three days away. And she hadn’t heard anything.

If the article was pulled from the issue, due to the circumstances, she felt she might kill herself. She’d strained everything for this, drained her romantic life, and lost her friends. The loss would be too great.

And not speaking with Quentin gave her an aching sadness, which seemed to grow and chill in the bottom of her stomach, replacing the incredible love that had brewed there throughout her first few weeks in New York.

That night, Charlotte sat at home, a book splayed across her lap, her eyes not reading. It was past eight, and she imagined Morgan sliding her fingers across the keys, with Quentin in the kitchen, cleaning up after dinner. Just a few apartments away, their vibrant life brewed on, while hers seemed to dwindle, grow gray.

A knock at the door caused her to burst from her chair, dropping the book to the ground. Stringing her fingers through her hair, she stretched her legs toward the door, hopeful. This had to be Quentin; he was finally there, with the right words to say.

He would finally tell her how incredible her article was—the highest compliment she could receive, from an editor.

But when she opened the door, she found little Morgan, standing with her feet shoulder-width apart, her eyes firm and stubborn. In her arms, she held a large blue plate, on which seven chocolate chip cookies were splayed.

“Charlotte,” Morgan said, her voice firm in its own way, yet bright and girlish.

“Morgan,” Charlotte returned, placing her hand on her waist. “What do I owe the pleasure?”

“You haven’t been over to my house in over a week!” Morgan cried out, then, shoving the plate of cookies forward. “How do you expect to be my friend if we don’t hang out?”

A slight smile crept across Charlotte’s face, even as her heart seemed to drop in her chest. “Oh, honey. We’ll always be friends,” she said, taking the blue plate. “Did you make these yourself?”

“Uhhh… Kind of,” Morgan said, shrugging. “But Dad ate half the batter already. You can’t trust him with anything. Just like I couldn’t trust him not to hurt you.” Her eyes flashed, showing she knew more than most girls her age.

“Ah. I see,” Charlotte said. “You think your daddy hurt me, then?”

“I know he did,” Morgan said. “He doesn’t know how to play nice all the time. But I want you to forgive him, because I know he’s sorry. He hasn’t smiled in days. And it’s getting old.”

“I know I’ll see you around, Morgan,” Charlotte said, her voice hesitant. “Don’t be a stranger.”

“So, you won’t forgive him?” Morgan asked, piping up. “You really won’t?”

“He’s already forgiven,” Charlotte murmured, her eyes suddenly bright with tears. “But I need to be by myself right now. Can you understand that?”

“Oh,” Morgan grumbled, turning back toward her apartment. “Whatever.”

“Morgan?” Charlotte cried out, her throat growing choked. “Tell your dad it’s okay. Tell your dad I’ll be fine. Tell him—tell him I was always going to make it, no matter what.”

Morgan shrugged slightly, adjusting her pink sweatshirt and then zipping it with a firm motion. She took on the formation of messenger, tossed between her friend and her father, and somehow comprehending the sheer, impenetrable emotion between them.

“Okay,” was all she said, as a result.

Charlotte burst back into her apartment, still clinging to the blue plate of cookies. In a sudden burst of sadness, of emotion, she smashed the blue plate against the edge of the table, watching as the shards scattered in a flurry of cookie crumbs and blue daggers. She began to quake with sadness, comprehending that the end had truly come for them.

She had to move on, find peace.

Chapter 30

Quentin had never been prouder of an MMM issue. Sending the pieces to print, he leaned back gruffly in his office chair and then wheeled it, swooping around toward the window, where he could glare down with brooding eyes at the tiny, squirrel-like people below.

Charlotte’s feature was better than anything he’d ever written. His heart burned with that knowledge, sensing that the prose had a maturity to it that his writing would never master. The moment after Maggie read it, she burst into his office, the pages pressed against her breasts. She clicked the door closed behind her, her eyes brimming, wet.

“Tell me you helped her with this,” she demanded, saying the first words since they’d fought at the Greenwich Village bar the previous week.

“I didn’t. She won’t talk to me,” Quentin said. “She wants to be on her own.” The truth of the words made his heart clench.

“Well, shit,” Maggie said, collapsing in her chair. “She’s damn good, then.”

“We can’t afford to lose her,” Quentin said.

Maggie’s eyes flashed. “But it’s not fair to the other interns.”

“It can’t be fair. She’s fucking better than them. Better is never fair.”

Maggie couldn’t bicker with that logic. “I have almost no edits,” she told him. “And I’ve decided… I don’t think I’m going to press the issue. The issue of you and Charlotte, I mean. You tell me it’s over, and I believe you.”

“It is,” Quentin murmured sadly, his eyes turning toward the office window, where he could see Charlotte leaning over the coffee machine, filling her cup. The curve of her ass was a perfect arc beneath her white dress. His hands clenched into a fist with sudden, indescribable sexual passion.

Maggie eyed him curiously, rising from her chair. She no longer spoke to him with any sexual attraction, with prowess. She seemed tired, lines drawing themselves in circles beneath her eyes. “You’ll find happiness again, Q,” she murmured, turning toward the door. “Just hopefully not at the mercy of some little girl like that.”

This felt like a slap. It stung for many minutes, long after Maggie had returned to her closet-sized office, after Charlotte had filled her coffee and dropped a tiny dreg of milk within. Would he ever learn how she liked her coffee? Would he ever make her laugh in bed again? Would their worlds draw together again?

He supposed he couldn’t think about it.

He sent the magazine to print, knowing they’d be at newsstands on Friday morning, one delivered to his apartment as early as seven a.m. through a special courier service. He sensed, with the single click to send, that he was altering Charlotte’s life for good, spinning her toward a trajectory of new life, and new professional status, and perhaps many new loves.

The little Ohioan girl he’d met would be long gone. And his heart ripped at the sadness of saying goodbye.

Chapter 31

Charlotte rushed to the newsstand on Friday morning, her heart fluttering. Her black coat, one reserved for winter, had been drudged up from the bottom of her suitcase with a sudden burst of fall chill. With one week to go till October, the earth had taken a dramatic turn, bursting them toward winter all too soon. And her skin drew dots of chill in response.

The MMM magazine was featured on the top rack, with other music and movie magazines, complete with a cover of the Thick Soled musicians—those familiar faces she’d interviewed a few weeks before. She wrapped her fingers so tightly around the magazine, digging her nails into the glossy exterior.

“Ma’am? Are you going to pay for that?” the newsstand worker demanded, his thick, black eyebrows rising high. “Because otherwise, you gotta put it back.”

“I wrote this,” Charlotte murmured, tossing a five-dollar bill at the man. “I wrote the feature!”

“Congrats,” the man said, his words flippant. “Now, go tell the rest of New York City.”

Charlotte raced into a nearby coffee shop, wrapping her palms around a ceramic mug and sipping at a cappuccino, her stomach clenching with fear. Her name—Charlotte Barracks—was listed at the top of the article, beneath the title. It could be mistaken for no other name, no other writer. It was hers.

She read it once, then again, diving through her words and celebrating the pattern of them, the utilization. It hadn’t been edited a single bit, not by Maggie, nor Quentin, and she cherished this fact, knowing it was a rarity in the writing world. Sneaking the magazine into her bag, she rejoined the crowded sidewalks and marched toward her office building, sensing movement and change in the air. With this article, New York seemed to echo her name back to her, telling her, once and for all, she belonged. And not just because she’d once been sleeping with a rock star-turned-editor.

Passing hipster coffee brew houses on the way, her eyes craned to see that several mustachioed men, and their scarfed women, bent their heads to MMM magazines, diving through her words.

She was taking them on a journey.

About twenty-five minutes later, Charlotte entered the offices of MMM, her tongue turning to sandpaper with panic. Once inside the intern office, she spun her head to see that most of the interns were reading her feature, their nose pointed toward the bottom of pages, showing their interest. Joining Randy at her desk, she elbowed him softly, ripping him from the magazine.

His eyes were warm, friendly. He’d forgiven her, maybe. Or perhaps he just didn’t care anymore.

“The big fucking day, huh?” he said, his voice bright. “Charlotte, this is incredible. Really. And it wasn’t even edited from the original you sent.”

“I know,” Charlotte said, widening her eyes. “It’s really mine. Fuck! It’s hard to believe. This is literally a dream come true.”

The other interns piped up their heads, looking like rodents coming out of holes, and gave her slight grins.

“It rocks, man,” one guy told her, from the corner.

“That section where you describe their sound? Jesus. You wield adjectives like knives,” another said.

“It’s seriously one of the best pieces MMM has published in years. I’ve been seeing it passed around the Internet already. Impressive.”

Charlotte crossed her fingers over her knees, confidence fueling her. “Thank you,” she said, unable to verbalize how amazing she really felt. “This means a lot. And, guys, please know that I didn’t ever set out to wrong you.” She hesitated, her eyes dancing across theirs. She swallowed sharply, waiting.

“Girl, please,” an intern said from the side. “Pamela would throw us all under the bus if she could. Right, Pam?”

Pam didn’t speak. She lurched from her chair, holding her laptop at her chest. Her cheeks flushing with panic, she shoved from the room, unable to face the team that had righted itself , recovering from the near-fatal blows against Charlotte the week before.

“Pssh. She’ll get over it,” Randy said as they watched her run toward the elevator, all flailing limbs. “She’ll be back to piss us off in no time. I think she’ll make a career out of it.”

Suddenly, a shadow appeared in the doorway of the intern offices, causing a shiver to bolt up and down Charlotte’s spine. Quentin, of all people, had arrived, even after avoiding the intern offices for the past several days. The interns hushed, turning their noses back to the magazine, while Quentin continued his blaring gaze, which seemed to suffocate Charlotte, turning her tight throat inward and closing.

No one spoke for what seemed like a small infinity. For Charlotte, she and Quentin were the only humans alive, their hearts beating as one.

No matter how many times she’d said that she and Quentin didn’t belong together; no matter how many times she’d convinced herself that she and Quentin should end it, for good—she knew, now, she’d been wrong. She stood delicately, like a ballerina, and then gathered her laptop and notebook, walking toward him, as if walking toward a bright light.

Finally, she stood before him, in full view of all the other interns. All secrets were out; their dirty laundry was strewn over the office.

“I was hoping to speak with you about the feature in my office,” he said firmly, his eyes dark. “If you have a moment.”

“Of course,” Charlotte said, sounding professional.

They were playing the game again, dancing around one another. And her heart quickened, like a rabbit’s, awaiting either the car to roll over her, squishing her, or missing her entirely, allowing her to escape death.

Charlotte entered the warmth of his office, listening to the click of the door behind them. The tension was high, causing her ears to ring, her fingers to burn with desire to touch him. But instead of reaching for her, ramming her against the desk and pummeling his mighty girth between her legs, he sat across from her, his hands wrapping together, and his eyes straight ahead, solid.

“HI,” he said.

“Hello.”

The clock on the wall continued to tick.

“The article is incredible. I’m sure you’ve already sensed it’s a success, but I wanted you to hear it from me. I know you slaved at it for days. You deserve every bit of acclaim. And none of that acclaim belongs to me, no matter what you may think,” Quentin said.

Charlotte felt her heart warm. A slight smile began to creep across her lips, showing her lust for him. But still, the divide had been drawn between them.

“But we can’t be with each other,” she murmured, cutting to the chase. “I know it’s the wrong thing. It’s unfair to the rest of the employees. It’s unfair to you, and to me.”

Quentin leaned back heavily in his chair, assessing her with smart, dark eyes. She could feel the cranking mechanics of his internal mind, trying to pinpoint precisely what to say.

“I don’t want to say that,” Quentin began.

“But we should say it,” Charlotte whispered, feeling a single tear descend down her cheek.

All her life, she’d been hunting for this height of emotion. But it had come at the wrong time. Lifting her shoulders back, she tried to go on with confidence, to halt her girlish crying. But her insides continued to quake.

The phone blared on the desk. Quentin hesitated before lifting it, holding up a single finger and mouthing, “One minute.”

Speaking to his secretary, Charlotte heard him say, “Who is it, Barbara? Tommy?”

A pause.

“Yes. Sure. Connect me.” He spun his chair around, turning his eyes toward the window. Outside, the clouds were parting to reveal a glimmer of late September sun. In Ohio, they could have snow in mere weeks.

“Tommy, hey there,” Quentin said, sounding jovial, almost false. “What can I do for you?”

“Yes. Uh huh. Well, thank you. Thank you. Yes, actually. New here. She’s an intern.”

Charlotte frowned, uncertain. She whisked her fingers through her hair, drawing her head forward. Who was he talking to? And why did she feel he was definitely speaking about her?

“I’ll pass along her details, then,” Quentin said, laughing. “And let me know if you want to grab a burger some other time. Had a good time seeing you the other night. All right. Bye.”

Quentin hung up the phone. He closed his hands over his desk, gazing down at Charlotte with glowing, almost loving eyes. Despite all they’d been through the past week—when they’d been tested, strung out—it seemed the growing affection remained.

“You’ll never guess who that was,” he began.

“You’re right,” Charlotte said, shrugging. She gave him a half-smile, feeling uncertain, lost.

“That was the editor-in-chief of Rolling Stone magazine. He wanted to know who the hell you were and where you came from,” he said, his nostrils flaring. “You really got the music writing industry talking this morning with your piece.”

“That was Tommy Burson?” Charlotte said, shocked. “Seriously? I can’t—I don’t—” She shook her head tentatively, bursting from the chair. “Why would he care who I am?”

“Well, he was shocked you were an intern,” Quentin said. “And he wanted to know if you’d be interested in a real job. One that actually pays more than your barely-living wage as an intern for MMM.”

Charlotte’s jaw dropped. She leaned toward him, unable to resist him any longer, and strapped her legs around him, straddling him. She brought her hands to his gruff cheeks, gazing into his eyes, unable to deny how good it felt to touch him. Beneath her, she felt his cock, the tip rubbing against her clit, making her pussy lips part with intense desire.

“He wants me to work for him?” she whispered.

“Well, he wants you to come in and talk to him,” Quentin said, giving her a devilish smile. “But I can’t imagine he won’t love everything about you. Especially your writing. But this…” He grabbed her ass, squeezing it till she giggled with glee. “This won’t hurt your chances, either.”

“This would solve everything,” Charlotte whispered, incredulous. “We could do this for real, without skirting around a bunch of rules.”

“Shhh,” Quentin murmured, pressing his nose against hers. “Don’t psych yourself out. Just go talk to him. If you like the job, if it suits you professionally, then take it. And if you don’t, you’ll just work here. And we’ll keep publishing your features until you tell us to stop.”

Charlotte kissed him, slipping her tongue against his and rubbing at him with her crotch, yearning to hump him properly. She felt his hands on the small of her back, grasping her, easing his nails into her skin. He broke their kiss after several impenetrable moments. “You fucking gorgeous specimen,” he whispered. “Go email Tommy Burson. There’s no time to waste.”

Charlotte did as she was told, racing back to her desk to email the editor-in-chief of Rolling Stone to set up an interview for the following day. He called her back immediately, upon receiving the email, introducing himself with a gruff voice and even telling her he’d been in bands when Quentin had been a rock star, over ten years before.

“Oh, we sure knew each other,” Tommy said. “But back then, none of the girls knew my name. Only his. It got kind of frustrating, as you can imagine.”

“Sure,” Charlotte said, feeling as if she were floating. “Although I’m sure he didn’t deserve it.”

“No, no. He did. But he’s even more handsome now, the asshole. Anyway, I’d love it if you could pop into the offices this next week, just to meet me, get a feel for your job, and maybe even claim a few bands that you’d like to write about, yourself. They’d be your beats, essentially.”

“Shit,” Charlotte murmured, unable to hold in her excitement. “I’d love to. Does Monday work?”

“Sure does, Charlotte. How about nine in the morning? We start the day right at Rolling Stone, with big, beautiful donuts. I hope you’re not gluten free.”

“Never.”

Hanging up the phone, she turned, brimming, toward Randy, and then tossed her arms around his neck. Unsuspecting, Randy bucked back, nearly falling to the ground, but caught her, all the same, in a firm hug. “Wow,” he said, laughing. “This might go without saying, but you’re stronger than you look. What’s all the hubbub about?”

“Oh, nothing,” Charlotte murmured, grinning inwardly. “Just appreciate you being around, is all. Drinks this weekend? I need help celebrating my article. And I want to do it with my newest, closest friend.”

Randy agreed heartily, lifting a flask from his business suit jacket pocket and passing it to her, causing her to giggle outrageously, not knowing he’d been sipping dark whiskey throughout nearly every work day.

“You are a man of many, many surprises,” she said, knocking the drink back. “Thank god I know you.”

Chapter 32

Two weeks later, it was the second week of October, and the last day of Charlotte’s first week at Rolling Stone magazine. Hustling from the offices, where she’d slaved over an article about an up-and-coming band reminiscent of Soft Cell, the ‘80s band, she met up with Randy for a quick drink, telling him the complex hierarchy of the editors and writers of Rolling Stone, and how it felt to finally be taken seriously.

“I know you’ll find your niche somewhere,” she told him firmly, over their second cocktail. “You’re a great writer.”

“It just sucks that you left us with Pamela,” Randy said, teasing her. “Because in the end, she’s treacherous to everyone. Her and Maggie have kind of bonded, maybe it’s their joint red hair—who knows—and Maggie’s been pushing to have Pamela write more for the magazine, even though I think she was hired for sales. It’s a whole, dramatic thing. Of course, Quentin’s stopping it in its tracks.” Randy paused, giving her a quizzical look. “How is it going with you guys, anyway?”

Charlotte couldn’t contain her smile. She leaned forward, her heart pushing against her ribcage, as she described her love for Quentin for the first time.

“I have never felt this way before,” she breathed. “Every night his daughter isn’t with him, I go there and we cook dinner and we laugh or we go out and see music and dance…” She trailed off, her skin glowing. “I can’t believe it all worked out. It felt like it never would, there for a bit.”

“Good thing you’re a baller writer,” Randy said, laughing. “Otherwise you’d still be pining for him from the tiny intern office. Let me ask you another question.”

“ Hmm?”

“What was it like to fuck in his office, knowing you could have been found out any second?” His eyes flashed with humor, making Charlotte’s face brim with red embarrassment.

“I’d like to plead the fifth on that one,” she said, giggling. “Now, this is my last drink. I have to run back to Q’s. We’re having a little dinner with his daughter before she goes to a week-long piano camp.”

“A whole week with Mr. Right,” Randy said, teasing her. “Now doesn’t that sound like a dream?”

It did.

Charlotte kissed Randy on the cheek and left a twenty, paying for them both. She dashed toward the street and hailed a cab, slipping evenly into the broken, leather seats and directing him toward her apartment building. Leaning her head heavily back, she gave thanks to the universe for opening to her. For giving her love.

When she reached Quentin’s door, Morgan flung it open and rushed headlong into her legs, wrapping her arms tightly around them. Morgan’s lips were coated with melted chocolate, making her look adorable, if clumsy. Charlotte lifted her into her arms and swiped her finger across her chocolate cheek, inquiring, “How on earth did this happen?”

“She got into her snack drawer before dinner. That’s how,” Quentin called, flipping burgers on a grill on the small balcony, toward the piano room. It was one of the last gorgeous days of the year, when October allowed blue to flood the sky.

“Ah. I see,” Charlotte said. “Guess that means I get her burger!”

“I don’t eat meat, remember?” Morgan said, sounding haughty. “You heathens.”

“It’s a veggie burger for her,” Quentin said, rolling his eyes. “The phase continues.”

Charlotte dropped a bottle of red on the counter and then entered into his firm embrace, reaching up and kissing him. She sucked at his lip for a moment, allowing her eyes to close. Would any feeling be as beautiful as coming home to this?

“How was the last day of the first week?” he asked her then, smacking her ass.

“Oh, wonderful,” Charlotte said, squealing slightly. She cranked open the wine, pouring them two glasses, before joining him on the balcony for good, listening as Morgan began her pounding. She’d begun Beethoven, and the emotions were strikingly different. “We had a big staff meeting at the end of the day. Lots of ideas swirling around. It made my head spin. But it was electrifying.”

“Yeah. We have those every once in a while,” Quentin answered. “I love how it ignites the writers. We should have them more often. Maggie doesn’t think they work. But she’s got a lot of interesting opinions.” He winked at Charlotte, teasing her, now.

The treachery of their affair seemed like years ago now. Their love blossomed each day, with Quentin sending her emails, music links, and even the new song he was working on, which he’d entitled, “She’s Here.”

Charlotte didn’t want to assume it was about her. But she sensed it.

Quentin, Morgan, and Charlotte sat at the dining room table, with two burgers and a veggie burger before them, all three steaming, with blackened marks from the grill. They ate heartily, speaking companionably, with Quentin refilling their glasses of wine with frequency. Charlotte felt her head spinning with a strange mix of inescapable joy and lust for future fucking.

Morgan would be leaving them soon.

The doorbell rang as Morgan chewed her last bite. Tossing herself from her chair, she raced to the door, opening it wide to discover her mother, Kate, standing nearly six feet tall, with tight thighs and a taut waist. Kate hugged her daughter stiffly, making eye contact with Quentin, then Charlotte.

Charlotte’s heart lurched. While she’d understood that Kate would be stopping by that night, nothing could have prepared her for what a stunning beauty she was. Morgan was going to be gorgeous.

“Hi, there,” Kate said, clacking forward and sending her hand into Charlotte’s. “I’m Kate. It’s wonderful to meet you. Morgan won’t shut up about you, so I know you’re pretty all right.”

Charlotte grinned, grateful for the introduction. “Well, I think she’s pretty all right, too,” she said. “Great to meet you, by the way. You’re driving her up to piano camp?”

“Well, the driver is. I’ll be in back.” She turned to Morgan, speaking in bright, mothering tones. “You should grab your piano books, babe. We’ve got a long night.”

“I want Charlotte and Daddy to come, too,” Morgan said, stuffing her lip out into the air, pouting.

“Aw, well, they can’t. But Jason’s coming with us. How exciting, right?”

“Sure,” Morgan said, stomping down to her room. “He always tries to teach me stuff.”

Kate blushed, shrugging. “He’s trying to help her understand the market. I tried to tell him, you know, she’s only seven. But connecting with kids might not be his strong suit.”

“He’s a good guy, regardless,” Quentin offered.

“He sure is,” Kate breathed, sounding hesitant. “You guys have big plans this weekend?”

“Just resting,” Charlotte said. “I’m exhausted. First week at Rolling Stone. And Quentin here… well. He’ll be working on new music.”

“You’re doing it again?” Kate asked, incredulous. “Really? That’s wonderful news, Q. Absolutely wonderful.”

“We’ll see,” he said. “But it does feel good to be in a studio again.”

Morgan reappeared, yanking her backpack behind her and looking sluggish. The father-daughter duo said their goodbyes, with Quentin lifting her into a firm hug and then giving her a light spanking on her way out, telling her “behave yourself,” with a slight wink. Kate waved from the door before slipping it closed, leaving Charlotte and Quentin alone in the echoing apartments, with nothing but their cranking brains and winding thoughts.

Suddenly, Charlotte spun toward Quentin, looking mischievous. “I want you to play it for me,” she said. “The song.”

Quentin smacked the back of his neck. “No. I mean… I don’t know why you’d want to hear it at such an early stage.”

“Because I do. I’m so proud of you for working on something you love this much again,” she whispered. “Please. For me?”

Quentin grasped her hand and led her toward the back, soundproof room, shoving the door closed behind him. Charlotte situated herself on a small chair in the corner, watching as Quentin moved in the familiar pattern, slid ing his guitar strap across his chest and beginning to tune the instrument. Charlotte had watched countless videos of the band on YouTube, had almost memorized his motions. And now, they were here. In front of her.

And her pussy grew wet with insistence, wanting those fingers on the guitar strings to touch her.

Quentin began to sing, then. The song was sorrowful, hinged on a sense of regret and longing. And as he sang, Charlotte stood, beginning to unbutton her dress for him, before allowing the black fabric to fall to the floor at her feet. She stood in a bra and a pair of black tights. He halted his playing, shoving his guitar to the side and rushing toward her, lifting her into him.

Charlotte wrapped her firm legs around his waist, closing her eyes quickly and then kissing him with eager, wet lips. He ripped at her tights, bringing his fingers to her already wet, silky pussy. He unhooked her bra, allowing her breasts to bounce against his chest, their nipples growing hard.

Their kisses grew more insistent. Charlotte unleashed his wide, rock-hard staff, pulling the skin over the tip and then back down again, causing him to moan with continuous pleasure. As he leaned her up against the soundproof wall, his hands cupped her ass, and he slotted his firm staff between her peach pussy lips, entering her and filling her, causing her eyes to grow wide.

They made love against the wall, and then on the floor, with Charlotte wrapping her arms tightly around his chest and abdomen, stretching her neck and arching her back, like an animal in the wild. Their moans were censored from all neighbors, and they cried out, howling with lust, and tearing at one another’s skin, finally freed of the shackles they’d begun their relationship with.

As they collapsed beside one another, huffing, their orgasms throttling through them in the time that was after, Quentin whispered into her ear, sending shivers up and down her spine.

“You know the song is about you. ‘She’s Here’ just means I finally found you. And in some ways, it feels like I was waiting for you all along. Throughout all those horrible years of drugs and partying and reckless mistakes, I was waiting for you. I’m so grateful I waited.”

Charlotte turned her head, rubbing her nose against his. “I love you,” she whispered, saying it for the first time. “I’ve never loved anyone before. But I know it when I feel it. And I know it now.”

“I love you, too,” Quentin responded softly, kissing her again.

Quentin wrapped his strong arms around her, lifting her from the soundproof room and carrying her to the balcony, where they stood in their underwear and coats, drank wine, and spoke about the many different lives, interacting and ending and becoming beneath them. As writers, their brains were always in action. And as lovers, they would always find common, sexual ground, with chemistry akin to the most intense rock star sound.

Copyright © 2017 by AG Media, LLC, a representative of Kira Blakely.

All rights reserved.

AG Media, LLC owns exclusive rights to all content herein. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from AG Media, LLC, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

About the Author

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All I’ve ever wanted to do for years is write my own books. I spent an ungodly amount of time ghostwriting a few bestsellers for other authors before realizing it was time to start taking credit for my own work.

My personal struggles in life, love, and money have driven me to start doing what I love most: Writing full time.

I started writing when I was a teenager. I fell in love with a boy who didn’t quite love me back--admittedly, I was terribly insecure and slightly overweight--and the entire experience drove me to start practicing my craft. Writing helped me to escape, to reimagine a world where happy endings actually existed. If I couldn’t have the love of my life, I’d just create Mr. Right in my romance novels… with maybe a few embellishments.

I’ve found my calling. Having the experience of doing what I love most as a full time job has given me happiness and confidence galore. And, soon after I found those, I was able to find companionship. Shout out to my guy and my kitty!

I so hope you enjoy my books! I wish you the very best in this crazy thing called life.

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