by Piper Lawson
"You can be really sweet when no one's looking,” I accuse.
He cocks his head as he pays for the umbrella. "That's the time to do it. Can’t have women indiscriminately falling in love with me.”
I shake my head as we wind our way through the lobby toward the doors. “So in private, we’re still us, but in public…”
“We’ll act,” he concludes. “Convincingly enough they believe we’re falling for each other.”
He follows me out to the front steps. The rain has lightened, but I raise the umbrella anyway, stretching to hold it over both our heads.
His baby blue shirt pulls across his toned chest and shoulders and makes his hair and eyes look even darker.
“PDA,” I say before he turns to go. “We should agree on how much. A lot of couples keep their exchanges to their private lives. We don’t need to touch at all. In fact," I rush on, thinking of how his closeness affects me, "it’s probably better that we don’t.”
I expect him to concede the point, on account of him needing to leave, if nothing else.
He surprises me by stilling, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking at me with new appraisal. “Is there a reason you don’t want me to touch you?”
Because I might like it.
“It’s nothing personal.”
It’s totally personal.
With an unreadable look, Ben catches my umbrella and uses it to tug me toward him.
We’re near enough I can smell his aftershave. I’m trapped in that warm gaze that’s familiar and unsettling at once.
“What are you doing?” I manage.
“Making a statement.”
I’m not sure where to look, his dark eyes or his mouth. “I don’t hear anything."
“But they do.”
I glance past him, searching the crowds of people, some with umbrellas and some ignoring the light sprinkling.
He doesn't move an inch. “The way we’re standing, every person in New York knows you’re mine.”
The words send a shiver through me. The way his voice drops, the confidence he must exude over a boardroom table, it's all here and it’s mesmerizing. I’m seeing Ben as they must see him—confident, undeniable, in control of himself and everything bold or foolish enough to enter his orbit.
I lift my chin. “Well, if it’s that easy, you don’t even need me.”
His answer is a smirk that’s hot as fuck.
“That’s where you’re wrong.” His breath is light on my face. "You’re my girl, which means even if you don’t touch me—especially if you don’t touch me—you’d act as if you want my mouth on you. As if it’s all you can think about. As if all you really want is to get me alone so I’ll do that thing with my tongue that makes you scream.”
From the expression on his face, I swear he knows how he’s affecting me.
Someone bumps me from behind and I stumble forward a step, my free hand landing on Ben’s strong chest to keep myself from falling.
My gaze flicks to his lips. Suddenly I’m imagining that firm lower lip giving just a little against the pressure of mine.
“What thing with your…?”
“Better.” His gaze lingers, warm enough I swear I feel the caress.
We’re too close. He’s not touching me or kissing me, but every nerve in my body is lit up as if he is.
With that sexy smirk firmly fixed on his mouth, he turns and saunters away, leaving me wondering why my lips tingle.
5
My brother stares at me from my chair as I breeze into my office.
“You’re late,” he says.
“Sue me.” I roll down my sleeves and fasten the buttons as he peruses the files on my desk.
“If this is what you’re presenting this afternoon, they’ll never go for it.”
“I’ll convince them.” I shrug back into the Armani coat I’d taken off on account of the heat. “Of course, Holt will oppose it because it’s me.”
“No,” Tris corrects, shoving the chair back and rising. “He’ll oppose it because the proposal is risky and their balance sheet is weak.”
Xavier and Holt were already working together when I joined the firm. I was the same age as most of the associates, but had an impressive track record and took my trust fund and turned it into a fortune.
This isn’t about the money, it’s about the challenge. I like to meet new people, have my finger on the pulse of what’s happening, and know I got in on something first. Tris likes to point out all the ways people are wrong and fucked up and don’t deserve a chance, which is why even though he clerked for a Supreme Court Justice after law school, he bailed on the public servant track and signed on as counsel for us.
The partners each have different expertise. I specialize in tech. Holt does services. Xavier does infrastructure. There’s some overlap, and with the help of a team of associates, we scope, vet, and vote on companies together. Our Monday meetings focus on new acquisitions.
“It’s not risky once you add it to the portfolio we have. That’s the whole point. Diversification. The model only works with high turnover. We want to make thirty percent a year on our investment. That means some dogs in with the stars,” I say as Tris brushes past me.
Most people wouldn’t peg us as brothers, except that we have the same eyes.
He’s smug where I’m serious. He’s details where I’m big picture. He’s an asshole where I’m nice.
At least, he has a chip on his shoulder neither his work nor the revolving door of women in his personal life seems to soften.
He pulls up in the doorway next to me, frowning. “You were with someone.”
“Did you just smell me?”
“Nah.” Tris follows me out the door and down the hall. “I guessed from the fact that you missed two meetings this morning and were late from lunch. So who is it?”
Game time. “Daisy.”
He cackles. “I don’t believe you.”
I pull up outside the boardroom. “Why not?”
“She’s a nine on looks alone. Those eyes. That mouth. Those tits. Come on,” he goes on as I bristle, “I’m not allowed to notice? Because everyone else does.”
My abs tighten in surprise. “Daisy landed Richard Vane as a client this morning.”
His brows lift. “Damn. She just got hotter.”
A strangely possessive feeling rises—one that could be alleviated by wringing his neck. Unfortunately, I can’t because Xavier is already in the meeting room.
“Holt’s on his way,” Xavier intones from his seat.
We have eight chairs around the boardroom table. Through implicit agreement, no one takes the head because we’re equals.
Tris and I take the far side. I don’t worry about the appearance of us brothers having each others’ backs because it doesn’t play out that way in this room. Here, anything is fair game.
Tris leans over, lowering his voice. “She friend-zoned you years ago.”
Irritation rises. “She didn’t friend-zone me. We agreed to be friends. Mutually."
“So you always knew she was hot, but it never occurred to you to act on it?”
I think about her at the Met. She gets her share of admiring looks from strangers, but they don’t see what I see—that she’s not just another attractive woman in New York. She’s a thousand times more rare and special than that.
“What we have is more than physical. It doesn’t—didn’t,” I correct, “translate.”
But for a moment, standing on those steps, I gave myself permission to see her not as my best friend, but as a woman. I let my gaze linger on the curve of her breasts, the way her dress tugged enticingly over her hips, the fullness of her mouth, the dark lashes fringing eyes I love in every variation of amused and calling me on my bullshit.
"Even if I’d wanted to date her back then, it would’ve been fucked up.”
“Why?”
This is not something I’d planned to talk about with Tris, but arguing isn’t worth the effort. “I slept with h
er sister.”
Tris’s eyes round. “The one who’s living with her now?”
“No. Her twin who left during college and never came back.”
Normally I’d be self-impressed for accomplishing something that takes my brother aback, but under the circumstances, the emotions I’m feeling are decidedly different.
“Fuck. You didn’t love her.” It’s a question, not a statement.
I shake my head. “Sleeping with Vi was a mistake. I was young and stupid.”
And I’ve regretted it ever since.
Sometimes, it’s hard to believe I met Daisy second.
Vi was the crazy one, the life of the party. You couldn’t stand in a room for five minutes and not notice her. They were both beautiful, with dark hair and eyes and full mouths, but it took me far too long to learn the second twin was more fascinating than the first.
Vi wanted your praise, while Daisy wanted your opinion.
Vi wanted you to watch her. Daisy wanted to watch you.
Before I learned their personalities were different, I could tell them apart by their clothes. Vi wore the shortest skirts I’d ever seen, heels designed to make long legs look even longer, and enough makeup the bouncers rarely asked for ID.
Daisy’s look was simpler. All she’d wear on her face was something dark around her eyes and the lip balm she took everywhere. She dressed more conservatively in tank tops, sweaters, and skinny jeans. I don’t think she realized how little they did to hide her curves.
Vi would hold court on the dance floor, trying to draw every male gaze in the room and largely succeeding. Daisy would hang out by the bar, preferably on a stool where she could survey the room.
I don’t regret many things. Not figuring out sooner that Daisy was the one who’d ultimately fit me is one of them.
“Well,” Tris goes on, “if you’ve finally wised up and decided to lock that down, you’re smarter than I thought. I expect to see this new relationship in action on Wednesday.”
I force myself to focus on Tris’s words. “Wednesday?”
“We’re going out for my birthday. We have a booth already reserved.”
Nothing good ever started in a nightclub. “I can’t make it. But I’ll send my regards in alcoholic form.”
“You’re my brother.” The edge in his voice has me wondering why he even cares.
“Fine. She can’t make it.”
He laughs silently. “Listen. I’m not saying I don’t believe you. But something strange is going on. If you are really dating Daisy, you won’t let an excuse to show her off go by.”
The smug prick could be right.
Holt strides in, nodding to me and clapping Xavier on the back.
“Now that you’re both here, I wanted to congratulate you on your nominations,” Xavier begins.
I frown. “Nominations?”
Holt grins at me. “You didn’t think you were the only one from the firm up for this award?”
Yeah, I fucking did.
“I can only give my reference to one of you,” Xavier goes on. “Fortunately, I don't have to write it for three more weeks. So don't fuck up in the meantime."
It's not a joke, and the fact that Holt’s being considered for the same award tells me the coming month is even more important.
“Good. Well, if we’re ready to get to business, I’ve got a lead on something in services that will fit beautifully,” Holt says.
“Better than Ben’s proposal?” Xavier asks.
He snorts. “Their balance sheet is a mess.”
“But the tech is exquisite. Someone stands to make a fortune on them. I’d like it to be us.” I rise from my seat, fastening my jacket and preparing for battle.
But as I launch into my pitch, half of my brain’s stuck on the fact that my competition just got harder. Which means the importance and urgency of convincing Xavier—and everyone else—I’m dating Daisy just dialed up.
After work, I take my car to the Parkwood Rehabilitation Center. It’s a low building in New Jersey with sweeping green lawns. It’s meant to feel like freedom, but it’s anything but that.
The woman at the desk is in her twenties and wearing scrubs. She looks at me appraisingly, her gaze lingering on my body.
I don’t walk around assuming every woman is attracted to me, but I’m smart enough it doesn’t surprise me when it happens.
I co-run a VC. I’m the perfect combination of exciting and safe. The guy a woman can bring home to her parents who’ll still sneak up to her childhood bedroom and fuck her after dessert. If I ever got serious enough for a woman to let her make me meet her parents.
“I’m here for Ramona Douglas.”
“We have no one under that name.”
I drum my fingers on the counter. “Try Gable.”
I hold out ID.
After lingering look at me, she turns to type on her computer, then sighs. “Follow me.”
She leads me down a hall, casting a look over one shoulder to see if I’m following or maybe if I’m checking her out.
I’m not. Not that I can’t appreciate women, because I do. But love fucks you up, and I’m not into that. I’ve seen it happen enough, including when my dad jerked my mom around for years before eventually leaving her.
Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad if he hadn’t convinced her so completely he loved her, hadn’t doted on her while leeching her money, while planning his escape.
The door to a room at the end of the hall opens and I step inside. Mom’s lying on a bed, wearing a tidy blue tailored pantsuit, legs crossed, shoulder-length gray hair styled.
I start to shut the door after the attendant, and she balks. “We’d prefer they be left open when people are visiting.”
“Right, because I came all the way to New Jersey to bring my mother drugs in rehab,” I say dryly. Still, I reach into my pockets, pull out the contents, and set them in a pile on the desk anyway.
The attendant shoots me a harsh look before leaving.
“I would’ve sent someone and smuggled them in the window,” I mutter as she goes.
My mom laughs, and I turn around. I survey my mother, a practiced study. Her eyes are bright, but the skin beneath is too smooth, concealed with makeup.
“I thought you wanted to marry Kirk Douglas,” I say.
“I changed my mind. Clark Gable would’ve been the one.”
“You were born thirty years too late for that,” I inform her.
“You were born right on time.”
That’s debatable. My mom got pregnant with me while she was still struggling to become an actress. She got her break when she was pregnant with Tris. Some casting agent wanted someone for the soap opera that made her famous and fell in love with Mom’s look. After years of bussing tables, her star was on the rise.
In some ways, that made it harder.
My dad was in sales and would come around for a few weeks at a time.
Mom did everything she could to look after us as a single mom in Hollywood. I never questioned her love. And from the time I was old enough to know how, I tried to fix whatever was wrong with her that week. I felt as if it was my job to do it. Tris never saw how things were before, never saw how strong and resilient she was.
Until what she called love broke her down, again and again.
“You were supposed to send money for the investment we talked about,” I remind her. “I was worried.”
“I’ve been looking into some other options. Your father sent along some ideas.”
The mention of him has my jaw clenching. “He’s not worth going on a bender."
At least, not enough of one that she felt the need to check herself into a facility instead of staying in her Upper East Side condo.
Tris thinks she uses drugs and lands herself in rehab for attention. I know it's not that simple.
I pace the room and pull open the closet door to reveal a half-dozen tidy outfits on hangers. Seems she’s planning to stick around.
“He doesn’t n
eed another dime of your money,” I state. I’ve managed her money since I was old enough to know how.
“Neither do you. I heard about your award,” she comments.
I shake my head. "I haven't won yet. The committee is considering new information and referral letters right up until the awards gala." Still, guilt flares in my stomach that she learned about the news from someone else. “How’d you find out?”
I turn to see Mom scoot gracefully to the edge of the bed and retrieve her phone from the desk drawer. “Someone I worked with on the show whose daughter runs events, including this awards gala, called to congratulate me once the nominees were announced. I didn’t even know you were under consideration.”
“You’re not supposed to have phones in here.”
“You think I haven’t figured out how to get my cell phone in after all these years?” She purses her lips. “This woman’s daughter is getting married at twenty-five.” Mom retrieves a picture of a smiling young woman and a man I assume is the fiancé. “I told her you were unmarried at thirty-one.”
Christ. “I own a four-thousand-square-foot condo.”
She sinks into the desk chair, draping an arm over the back. “All I wanted was for you to have the kind of family I never made for you.”
“Mom… I’m fine.”
“Well. I’m not going to burden you with more money to manage until you get your life in order.”
I want to tell her it’s not a burden, that I manage hundreds of millions, that I don’t take a cut on any funds she sends me.
“Come to the gala. You’ll see everything in my life is in order.”
Her gaze narrows. “Champagne and suits hide all manner of deficiencies.” At the desk, my mom goes through the contents from my pockets, lifting the three-inch dog. “What is that?”
“From Daisy.”
Mom turns the dog over in her hands. “She still sends me cards every holiday. This Easter, she said she saw a new network airing reruns of my show.”
I rub a hand through my hair. Of course Daisy would find a way to check up on my mom without making it seem that way. She’s the smartest woman I know. She has an eye for details and can read people. I’d love to have her at the negotiating table, except she’d never leave her company and I can’t blame her.
