She doesn’t deny it. Instead, a hint of pink spreads through her cheeks. “What do you want from me?”
I laugh softly. Sweet, innocent Callie. “I think you know what I want.”
What I’m doing is beyond the edge of morality, manipulating my wife like this. But this is also who she married—I’m a Bastard, and I’m the biggest bastard of all when I’m going after something I want.
“You’ll have to say it.” Her mouth purses defiantly. “If we’re negotiating.”
“I want you to try again.” I don’t even flinch as I say that, although my gut clenches. I might be playing the cold asshole, but I’m also intensely vulnerable, the way I always am with her. “Come home, to our house. Be my wife again.”
Her hands uncurl inside the sleeves of her sweater, and then she pushes them out past her cuffs, exposing them. “For how long?”
Oh, she thinks she’s being coy, but I know I’ve got her. If she was that committed to ending our marriage, she would have said no outright, not continued the negotiation. I suppress my smile through well-honed practice.
When she’s back in the City, back among the life I built for her, without Fuchs pouring poison into her ear, she’ll see she was wrong. Wrong to leave me, wrong to give up on our marriage.
Whatever time period I give her now won’t matter, because once she’s back in my bed, she’s not going anywhere.
“Until the website is launched.” That will take several months, at least. “After that, I’ll give you whatever terms in the divorce you want.”
“No shares in the Bastards,” she immediately says. “I never wanted those, and I don’t want to deal with them.”
“Fine.” I’m lying, but she’ll never have the chance to find that out. I hold out my hand. “Do we have a deal?”
She pulls her lush lower lip into her mouth, worries it with her teeth. I pray that the towel is thick enough to hide my reaction.
“And sex?” she asks. She looks torn between hope and despair.
“Sleeping together is what married people do. If you can’t commit fully to trying again…” I spread my hands wide, my signal that I’ll walk away, no sweat.
It’s another lie though.
Her hands disappear into her sleeves again, the fabric drawing tight over her fists. She’s not used to this—she has no quick parry ready to go.
Holy hell, but I’m an asshole. Some dim portion of my brain is screaming at me, telling me she’ll never forgive me for this.
The louder portion is screaming, Fuck it, take what’s yours. And she is yours.
“I don’t want to get pregnant again,” she finally says. But the despair hasn’t won out in her expression, not yet.
It’s won the battle in my gut though, knocking the breath clear out of me. I can’t let on though, can’t give up my advantage now. I’m too close to getting her back where she belongs.
“You weren’t pregnant before,” I say, keeping my voice cool and steady. “And any child of ours would have the world at their fingertips.”
She closes her eyes for a moment, and I almost, almost break. Almost tell her to forget it, that she can have her website, her divorce, and anything else she wants. I’ll never bother her again.
But if I do that, I’ll have nothing left. Nothing except work. And what is work without her?
So I keep my mouth shut and my expression hard.
“Well?” I prompt her.
She ignores my outstretched hand. “I agree.” Her chest rises as she fills her lungs, and her expression crystallizes into resolve. “To try again.”
I don’t feel as triumphant as I ought to. Probably because her expression promises that she’ll extract some concessions from me before all this is over.
Chapter 9
We arrive back in the City in record time.
Logan drives like he does everything else: hard and fast and totally intent on what he’s doing. Even though he’s pushing the car to speeds I wouldn’t dare try on my own, I’m not worried. At least not about his driving.
I am worried about what I’ve agreed to. Yes, I want to stop Fuchs, because what he did to us was really rotten. But my coming back doesn’t mean our marriage is magically fixed. Logan is still going to work too much, and I’ll still feel completely lost in his world. If we go on the way we have been.
It’s the chance that it might not, sliver thin as it is, that has me in this car, riding next to him, going back to our life. When I ran, I didn’t want to admit my marriage might be over. And I still don’t want to admit that. I still want to fight for it.
Logan in full Bastard mode, negotiating with me like he was going to take everything he could and never feel a flicker of hesitation… it was hot. Superhot. My mother would be appalled, but it turns out I like the caveman act.
When we zip down the 80 past Berkeley and then hit the usual traffic jam just before the Bay Bridge, I crane forward in my seat, taking in the view of San Francisco from across the water. It really is a gorgeous city, and seeing it again makes me realize how much I’ve missed it.
I point out the window. “Look, Meowthra. There’s your new home.”
From the back seat, Meowthra yawns and then returns to licking his paws. He’s as unexcited as I was anxious.
Logan took over the moment I said I’d return with him. Calls were made, and my house would be packed up, my car driven back to the City, and my lease dealt with, all by someone other than me. I wouldn’t have to lift a finger.
We did go back to my cottage for a few things I’d need, and as I was putting my art supplies in the back seat—I’d already filled the trunk—Meowthra hopped in. And wouldn’t be budged. I frantically called the owner, explaining that I might be kidnapping his cat against my will, but he only laughed and said, “I told you he goes where he wants. Looks like he wants to go with you.”
So here I was, returning to the city I loved with an estranged husband and a semiferal cat. An odd way to cross the Bay Bridge, but San Francisco has seen weirder. That’s what I love about it.
But then Logan goes past the Bay Bridge, cutting over to the 880. My fists tighten in my lap, and I have to press my lips hard together when I realize where we’re actually going.
Of course we can’t go straight home. We just have to stop by the office, which is more like Logan’s home, given how much time he spends there. The 880 will take us along the bay to South Bay, past the City entirely, and we’ll loop around the base of the bay up to Palo Alto and the offices of Bastard Capital.
I keep quiet the entire ride, not that I’ve been talking much. But I don’t even look out the windows anymore, at the bay going by or the salt ponds there. I’m too anxious about what’s going to happen when we arrive.
Logan doesn’t say anything either, not even as we pull into his reserved parking spot, right next to the other Bastards’ Teslas. I can’t tell if it’s because he’s concentrating on his driving or if he’s anxious too.
Bastard Capital is pretty blah from the outside, just like every other VC firm on Sand Hill Road. My logo sits discreetly next to the front door. They wanted something very old-school, clubby, yet also amused. Sort of a wink—yeah, we know what we’re expected to do, but don’t expect us to do it.
Bastard turned out to be a surprisingly easy word to make elegant. It’s the two a’s in it, which stand out in more traditional fonts. Even though my marriage didn’t work out, I’m still proud of this logo.
This office is where Logan and I first met, together poring over logos and color palettes and branding options. He invited me out that first day, but I told him I couldn’t date clients. I wanted so badly to say yes. Clients had hit on me before—God, it sometimes seemed like clients did nothing but—but it was easy saying no to them.
It was almost impossible to say no to Logan though, although I somehow managed it. The day I handed in my finished work and my firm announced I was done, he asked me out again. That time I said yes.
A date was almost beside the
point by then. We’d spent so much time together on the designs I was already half in love with him. Three months later, he proposed. I didn’t hesitate to say yes.
Maybe I should have.
Logan takes my hand as he leads me inside. I should pull it away, walk in on my own two feet, but I also want his protection against his adopted brothers.
See? He wants to be with me. I’m not stealing him from you. Which is very teenager-like of me, but I’m so keyed up and mixed up I do feel like a teenager again. Gawky and gangly and out of place.
Their receptionist is a young man who looks awestruck at the sight of Logan. I don’t remember him, so they must have hired someone new recently. “How are you, Mr. Martell?” His stance is as stiff and painful as a raw recruit’s.
“Good.” Although Logan’s voice is too harsh for him to actually be good. Logan hands over Meowthra to the receptionist, who takes him with only a flicker of surprise. “Is Mark here?”
“I’m sorry, everyone except Mr. Martell—your brother—is gone for the DataHub meeting. I don’t expect them back for several hours.” His gaze cuts furtively to me, then to my hand clasped in Logan’s. His eyes widen in a way that tells me he knows exactly who I am and why Logan holding my hand is so shocking.
I swallow hard, my fingers twitching.
Logan doesn’t seem to notice. “Shit,” he says at that news. “That means Anjie’s gone too.”
My heart sinks. Anjie was one of my few friends at Bastard Capital. It would have been nice to see her today. Instead, I’m getting Elliot.
Logan pulls me forward. “I’ll go find my brother,” he tells the receptionist. “We’re not to be disturbed.”
As we move through the curving halls—the office is designed to flow like water—junior associates stare from behind their laptop screens, some discreetly, some openly. Logan and I are the soap opera of the century around here, starring the too handsome, insanely rich bad boy of tech and the wife who was crazy enough to leave him.
Right before their very eyes, the bad boy is dragging his missing wife through the office to the firm’s lawyer. I’m sure they’re all anticipating something very juicy is about to happen right here.
I don’t make eye contact with any of them, keeping my head high and my gaze aimed over Logan’s shoulder. I can see them from my peripheral vision, and that’s more than enough for me.
Logan doesn’t knock when he comes to Elliot’s door, he simply throws it open.
“We’ve got problems,” he starts off.
Elliot is behind his desk, marking something with a red pen. He looks exactly the same: three-piece gray tweed suit, wire-rimmed glasses, and stern expression. I’d accuse him of being a hipster given how he dresses, but Elliot is too tight-assed to know what a hipster is.
When Elliot catches sight of me, his expression hardens like permafrost. I stare back, trying not to shiver.
“If there’s something wrong with the divorce settlement…” He lets that hang like a noose.
I don’t let myself react, because I know that’s what Elliot wants. But inside, I’m shuddering, wishing I could pull myself into my sweater like a turtle into its shell.
“We’re not signing that.” Logan tosses himself into one of the chairs. “We’ve got to do something about TidBytes.”
Elliot shifts, his gaze cutting from Logan to me and then back again. “After looking over the posts in question, I don’t know that we have a strong case for libel. But even a suit we can’t win sends a strong message that we won’t tolerate any more stories.” His jaw tightens. “And why aren’t you signing the divorce agreement?”
“It’s not because I want more.” My words are as cold as his tone.
Logan shakes his head. “You two need to stop snarling at each other. Callie, sit down.”
I tuck my hands into my sweater sleeves before I do. Being confronted with Elliot the very first time I step back into this place is doing a number on my stomach.
“What exactly are we doing here?” I ask Logan. “Is he a web designer now?”
Elliot’s confused frown gives me a burst of mean pleasure. He’s always so smug; it’s nice to be ahead of him for once.
Logan doesn’t answer me, at least not directly. “We’ll need to set up a corporation. A media company along with all the bank accounts and such. Say five million to start with, just so we can get some people hired.”
“A media company?” Elliot asks. I didn’t know he could lift his eyebrows that high. “What the hell do we need a media company for?”
“We’re going to beat Fuchs at his own game.” Logan sends me a dazzling smile. “Oh. I forgot. Hand me your phone.”
The sudden change in subject has me spluttering. “My phone?”
Okay, so he is my husband—estranged husband—and we’re reconciling, but it’s my phone. I feel like he’s asking me to hand over my underwear.
“Yep.” He holds out his hand, palm up.
“What are you going to do with it?”
“Give it to January to make it Fuchs-proof.”
That doesn’t make sense to me, but I’ve never been a computer person. I mean, I used to use them every day for my design work, but that doesn’t mean I understand them any more than flipping a light switch every day makes me an electrical engineer.
When I hand the phone over, Logan tosses it immediately to Elliot, who catches it with one hand, his expression sour.
“See that January gets that,” Logan says.
“I haven’t even met this January,” I protest weakly. “What is she going to do with it?”
“Don’t worry about that.” Logan’s tone manages to be both bright and condescending all at once. And okay, maybe I wouldn’t understand, but I’m tired, confused, and upset, and he’s just taken my phone.
Elliot sets my phone down, distaste on his face. “I’ll contact her and see what she can do. Now, what was this about a media company?”
Logan looks at me and waits. “Go on. It was your idea.”
Suddenly, with Elliot’s cold eyes staring at me, it seems incredibly silly. Elliot wants to simply sue Fuchs, and here in his office, surrounded by all the markers of his lawyerly expertise, it seems crazy to contradict him.
But I’m a designer, and I know why he’s got the law books and the briefs out and the red pen—Elliot’s made himself a place where he’s the expert and not to be questioned. I’m being manipulated by the set he’s built here.
“We’re going to make our own news site. Better than TidBytes, and we’ll take their audience away.” I straighten my shoulders once I’m done, even though I should have done it before I started talking.
Elliot stares for a moment, his expression stony, and then he pops his jaw as his gaze slides over to Logan.
Logan’s looking at me, not quite smiling but with clear warmth in his expression. Somehow between when I walked into his motel room and now, I’ve convinced him this really is a good idea.
“Callie, could we have a moment?” Elliot finally asks, still watching his brother.
I want to say no, that I have a right to be here… but I’m not sure that I do. I left Logan, and I don’t know where our marriage is now. It’s not fixed, that’s for sure.
I might not be Logan’s wife in the future, but Elliot will always be his brother.
“Sure.” My voice quivers, but it’s so small I don’t think they hear it. At least I hope they didn’t hear it. “I’ll just grab the cat and wait in the car.”
Logan doesn’t say anything, so I take that as my cue to leave.
Chapter 10
“What the hell is going on?” Elliot demands the second Callie shuts the door behind her.
I knew this was coming, only I expected all the Bastards to be here and to get a full interrogation. But Elliot alone will be tough enough—he’s been pushing for me to start divorce proceedings for a while.
“I told you, we’re starting a media company.” I shift in the chair, crossing one leg over my kne
e. “You still know how to file the LLC paperwork, right?”
“My paralegal—” Elliot closes his eyes, and I swear I can hear his teeth grinding. He hates being derailed. “I don’t mean the media company. I mean Callie. And you. You leave with divorce papers, then come back with her and some crazy scheme.”
I tap my fingers against my leg, trying to hold in my temper. I love my little brother, but my marriage is my own business. And it’s not crazy—it’s my chance to win back my wife even if I had to manipulate her into it.
Not that Elliot would get that. I’ve always tried to keep her interactions with Elliot and the other guys to a minimum because she’s clearly not comfortable with them. Which is fine. I mean, I’d like her to be close with them, but she doesn’t really fit into the high-T atmosphere around here.
Elliot doesn’t understand that though. He doesn’t make compromises for anyone, much less romantic partners. It’s why he’s perennially single.
“We talked about the divorce settlement.” I shrug, although my shoulders are tight. “When she realized TidBytes was behind it all, she agreed to come back.”
Okay, I’m lying here—a little bit—but that’s the truth that matters. Callie is confused at the moment, having been away too long. Now that we’re back together, she’ll see that her life with me is too good to leave again.
And maybe I can cut back on work. A little bit. Just enough to ease her mind. I owe her that much after not being there during her pregnancy scare.
Elliot taps his pen furiously against his desk, the only sign he’s about to explode. “She left just because of some pictures on a blog?”
“Yep.” I loop my arm over the back of my chair, daring him to contradict me.
Elliot drops the pen to his desk blotter—he’s so fucking old-fashioned—then picks it up and puts it in the cup next to his desk clock. “Okay. Fine.” His words are as sharp and precise as his movements. “I’ll just put the divorce filings on hold then. And”—again, I can almost hear his teeth grinding—“start a new LLC. For a media company.”
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