“Gavin, the robotic process automation software isn’t ready. There are too many glitches to take this product to market.”
My lead designer sits across the long white table. I spent the morning reading the code for the new technology and I know Maisy James is telling the truth. She assembled a talented team to create this software. But shifting my company’s focus to products that rely on machine learning has been an uphill battle. We’ll win the fight in the end, but it won’t come easy.
“I know.” I raise my latte to my lips and take another sip. Behind me, at the coffee bar, one of the junior designers brews an espresso.
“We did our best,” Maisy says over the coffee machine’s noise. “But in order to sell this product it needs to improve productivity and—”
“Maisy.” I hold up my right hand in a universal stop gesture. “I know there is a problem. Do you have a plan to fix it?”
“Yes, sir.” Maisy nods and her team follows her example, their heads bobbing in agreement, even the junior designer who has returned to the table with his coffee in hand.
“How long do you need?” I demand.
“I would estimate about a month.” Maisy reaches for the Lego bin inserted into the table. Top of her class at MIT, Maisy’s talent likely surpasses everyone else on her team combined. But she can’t sit still. I had the Lego bins installed in every meeting space to keep her hands busy when she isn’t writing code.
“I’ll give you two weeks and I’ll read through everything myself. You’ll have my notes by Wednesday.” I push back from the table and rise from my chair, signaling the end to yet another trying meeting. This day has been littered with frustrations.
Movement near the coffee bar catches my eye. The object of my early morning frustration—the one I tried to eradicate in the shower—leans against the doorframe. When the design team moves to leave, Kayla steps inside the room. She looks as if she walked out of the country and into the boardroom in her sneakers, jeans, and fitted sweater.
But at least I can’t see her nipples.
“Kayla,” I say. “What are you doing here?”
She runs her hand over the white counters. “I love seeing you in CEO mode.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You came to watch me work?”
She shakes her head. “When did you transform your office space into a playroom inside a coffee bar?”
“After I toured the Facebook offices. If I want to attract the best and brightest, I need to provide a comfortable and attractive workspace. We took out the conference rooms and replaced them with coffee bars.” I step out from behind the table and meet her beside the snack bar. “I’ll give you a tour another day.”
She selects a vegan, gluten free granola bar from a wicker basket. “I’m not here for a tour.”
“Just a snack?”
“I thought you might need me.” She drops her voice so low that I step closer just to hear her. “In another minute or two, you’re going to get a call from Margaret.”
As if on cue, my cell vibrates against my leg. I fish it out of my suit pant pocket, glance at the scene, and take the call. “Margaret.”
“Your ex-girlfriend released her story online,” my publicist states. No hello. No how are you? Just a straight to the point, “you’re fucked” greeting.
“Where?”
“Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter,” Margaret reports. “But the local papers and society pages have started calling. At least two media outlets plan to run stories about New York’s Most Eligible Billionaire’s Secret Past.”
“I see.” I bite out the words. Then gnash my molars together. The fear I carried with me for my entire childhood comes rushing back. Someone is trying to tear me down and break me. And I’m powerless to stop them.
Kayla takes my free hand in hers. “I’m right here,” she whispers. “And I’m ready to fight back if you are.”
This is why I need Kayla in my life. She squeezes my hand and I’m no longer at my blackmailer’s mercy. I’m not helpless and weak this time. And I won’t be lying when I tell the world that the child in Alexandra’s pictures isn’t me because I’m not that person anymore.
“My ex can spread rumors to the press and try to convince them I’m the boy in the photos,” I say, my tone sharp and fierce. “We’ll see who they believe at the end of the day. My vengeful former girlfriend, or me and my fiancée.”
CHAPTER 11
KAYLA
“The anticipation is killing me.” Gavin calls through the locked door leading to my guest bedroom.
“You can’t wait to see the dress I picked out for tonight’s gala?”
“I can’t wait to leave for the event,” he says. “We’re thirty minutes behind schedule. Samuel’s been driving around the block for the past twenty minutes.”
I struggle to pull the gown over my head. The designer skipped the zipper so that the dress would fit like a glove. Of course, there’s always a chance I will get stuck trying to pull it on. Then I would need to ask Gavin to pull the dress off me while I’m wearing a black lace thong and no bra.
Please fit. Please fit. Please fit.
I haven’t worn this particular black tie gown in years. Not since my divorce. In After My Divorce World, I live in jeans and work boots. Gavin offered to buy me a new gown for our debut as a couple, but that seemed like a waste. Instead, I sent his driver up to raid my storage closet, and bring back this timeless black gown.
Finally, I pull the fitted dress into place. I smooth my hands down the ponte fabric. “I’m not sure this is the dress you want me to wear in public.”
“I don’t care what you wear. You can wear a Dogs Are My Life sweatshirt. It’s in the rules. Remember?”
I can hear the exasperation in his voice. But we can’t rush this. I need to look the part of Gavin Black’s fiancée. It will help if my husband-to-be looks at me as if he wants to steal me away to a quiet corridor and strip off my gown.
“Kayla,” Gavin growls through the door.
“Do you even know what this event is for?” I slip my feet into the two-inch black heels.
“I know there will be cameras and a red carpet outside,” he reports. “We’re going to the Cipriani space downtown.”
“Fancy,” I murmur.
“Wait until you see the food.”
“Hold the dogs. I’m coming out.” I wait until the sound of K-9 nails on the hardwood floor dies down. “Ready?”
“You’re clear. I put them in the other guest room.”
I open the door and step into the hall. Gavin’s lips part and his eyes widen. He scans me from head to toe. “You look good with your hair up.”
“I’m wearing a dress that resembles a spandex leotard, and you’re looking at my hair?”
“A leotard with long sleeves and a hem line that reaches the floor,” he fires back. “Your dress leaves a lot to the imagination.”
I turn and offer him a view of my back. The U-shaped opening dips to my waist. A Celtic knot pattern crisscrosses the opening. “As you can imagine, I can’t wear a bra.”
“No. You can’t,” he murmurs. There is a husky note to his voice that I feel should come with a warning. Something about his tone scrambles my common sense. I’m tempted to retort Want to see?
But then reality sets in. This is Gavin. I’m not pulling my dress over my head in the hallway to show my best friend my breasts. Even if I decide to toss sanity into the wind and reach for the hemline, I would probably get stuck—literally and figuratively.
I can’t live in Gavin Black’s world, not in the long-term anyway. Gavin runs from failure. Sure, his quest for perfection is different from my ex. Gavin’s emotional stability depends on his quest for success. He’s not fighting for money and status like Mr. Mistake. But success, especially at his level, demands control. And I can’t be a long-term pawn in his game, waiting for him to move me around the chessboard he’s designed for himself.
I turn around to face him again. His gaze briefly meets mine. I see the faint traces o
f lust but choose to ignore it for now because that’s what friends do.
“Head for the elevator,” he says, the husky note noticeably absent from his tone now. “Once you’re inside, I’ll release the dogs.”
“Then you’ll run to meet me?” I ask.
He nods.
“And the pet sitter will be here soon?” I refuse to leave all of my animals alone in the apartment for more than an hour.
“One of my assistants is on her way,” Gavin confirms. “Now go to the elevator.”
Twenty minutes later, I take Gavin’s hand and step out of the limo onto Wall Street. A large tent stands in front of the Cipriani building. He offers his arm and I place one hand on his tux sleeve. Together we head for the check-in desk.
The red carpet area is just beyond the row of iPads waiting to assign everyone a bidding number for the silent auction. I know how this works. I lived in this world once upon a time—until I realized my personal fairy godmother would turn the footmen into animals, not the other way around.
“Are you ready?” Gavin whispers.
I look up at him. His brow is drawn together as if he’s reconsidering our entire plan. I can practically feel the weight of his thoughts resting on his shoulders and leaving every muscle in his body tense. In his mind, everything—his reputation, his business, and his identity—rides on tonight.
“We’ve got this,” I whisper back. I don’t tell him not to worry or waste his time on being afraid. He has every right to be scared right now.
He escorts me to the desk and graciously accepts our table assignment and number. Then we waltz up the red carpet. I hear photographers calling his name. He offers a tight wave and a smile. There’s a photo op space before the revolving doors. The banner reads End Hunger.
“A worthy charity,” I say.
“I’m glad you approve.”
Gavin presses forward, and soon we’re standing in front of a long row of cameras. He lowers his arm and draws me close to him. His hand rests on my hip. I offer a smile to the cameras.
Click. Click. Click.
His grip tightens on me. I tilt my chin up and rest my gaze on his handsome jawline. Then I rise up on my toes and plant a kiss on his cheek.
Click. Click. Click.
I move my lips to his ear. “I’m not sure that was required, but it felt right.”
He looks away from the cameras and meets my teasing gaze. There’s fire in his eyes. I can see his desire to conquer the world—or at least the New York City rumor mill.
“Ready to go inside and have some fun?” I whisper.
“Damn right, I am.”
I wait for him to look away. Maybe flash another of his model-perfect smiles at the camera. But he ignores the event coordinators trying to politely move us away from the photo op space and through the revolving doors.
“May I kiss you?” he asks. His voice remains low, and likely unnoticed by the surrounding staff, photographers, and guests.
“Yes,” I whisper.
His lips brush mine and I close my eyes. His right hand holds tightly to my waist, drawing me closer, and his left cups my jaw. Briefly, I wonder if he’s trying to block the camera’s view of our lips so they will never suspect this kiss is a soft peck on the lips between friends.
His lips part, and the kiss takes an unexpected turn. His hand holds my jaw as if he fears I’ll pull away. I press closer. His tongue touches mine and I welcome the invitation. His stubble brushes against my face, and my body responds, arching against him. I can feel his kiss from the tips of my toes to my hard nipples. My breasts practically beg him to deepen the kiss, and touch me everywhere.
As if sensing the reckless abandon that replaced all reason when his tongue touched mine, Gavin releases his hold on me and steps back.
Click. Click. Click.
I open my eyes. Cameras fill my peripheral vision. Logically, I know that kiss was one piece of our performance tonight. But I don’t care. It doesn’t matter if Gavin felt he needed to kiss me. I’m ready and willing to kiss him again.
And all of New York and beyond will see my body’s response to a real Gavin Black kiss. I’m guessing the images will appear online in a matter of hours.
Gavin takes my hand and leads me away from the photo op area. He leans his head toward mine as we approach the revolving doors. “Good thing you didn’t wear a bra,” he murmurs.
I glance up and see his gaze still fixed on my chest.
“It wasn’t necessary,” I tease. My tone sounds coy and playful even to my own ears. But I’m not acting, not now. I’m still riding the high of the kiss. I’m letting desire wash over me.
“Neither was that kiss,” he murmurs.
I raise an eyebrow. “That was just for fun?”
“Yes.”
Fun—that’s never been one of my goals, in or out of a relationship. And I know it’s pretty far down on Gavin’s list too. After all, success at all costs and playtime don’t always go hand-in-hand.
“Are you ready for more?” I pull my hand free from his and step into the revolving door. Gavin follows me into the tight space. His front presses up against my back. It might not be as obvious as my nipples, but I can feel his excitement again my low back.
“Kayla,” he murmurs.
“We’re walking into this ballroom with a secret.”
I keep my voice low. I’m relishing the thrill of tricking the society that always turned a critical eye toward me—just like my ex. Whether their scrutiny was real or an idea planted in my head by Mr. Mistake to erode my confidence, it doesn’t matter. Tonight, I have the upper hand. I’m in control of what they see, and what they believe.
Wow, I get it now, I think. I understand why Gavin is willing to go to extreme lengths to maintain control of how the world sees him.
I step out of the door and into the ballroom. A sixty-five-foot ceiling soars above us, featuring elaborate murals. Marble columns line the perimeter of the grand hall, and tables fill the center of the room. The 1920s era space is a work of art, designed in the Italian neo-renaissance tradition.
“Beautiful,” I say.
“Let’s find the bar.” Gavin reclaims my hand and leads me through the swell of elegantly dressed men and women. At the far side of the rectangular space, we locate a bar.
“What would you like?” he asks.
“You’re ordering for me?”
“I’m not running the risk that you’ll be drunk under the table before they serve the main course. If I send you to the bar, you’ll order everything on the menu,” he says.
“I would not.”
“Would you like to start with a glass of champagne?”
I nod. The heady confidence that came with his kiss begins to fade. I spot a pair of gentlemen making a beeline for us. One of the men wears a tuxedo coat with tails. But the full evening dress does little for his looks, especially when standing beside his friend. The second gentleman’s blond hair and blue eyes would probably turn more heads even if he was wearing a plain suit. But in a tuxedo, he possesses an I’m-sexy-and-I-know-it look.
Gavin sees Mr. Tails and Mr. Too Sexy For His Tux. He doesn’t steer us out of their path as soon as we have our flutes in hand. Instead, he steps to the side, allowing others to place their orders and waits for the ambush.
Two guys in tuxes is not an ambush.
But I know they are just the first to approach.
“You could kiss me again,” I whisper. “Maybe when we’re done, they’ll go away.”
Gavin takes a sip of his champagne as the ambush gains another member, a slightly older gentleman probably fifteen years our senior.
“We’re going to have to face them at some point,” he says. “I can’t keep kissing you all night.”
“I think it might be the better plan,” I whisper. “You could make out with me and then steal me away to a quiet corridor.”
“Not yet.” He looks down at me, his expression a mask of concern. “But I’ll make sure we take a break before we
sit down to dinner. Fair enough?”
I nod and drain my champagne flute.
“Gavin,” Mr. Too Sexy says once he’s within arm’s reach of us. “I heard a rumor on the squash courts today. You’re getting married?”
“I am.” He places a hand in the small of my back. “Allow me to introduce my fiancée, Kayla Greene. Sweetheart, this is Jack Rosen.”
Gavin nods to the blond ringleader. Then he turns his focus to the other gentleman. He states Mr. Tails name and profession. I play my part, murmuring generic greetings. Before Gavin’s squash buddies—and I use that term loosely as I know Gavin only plays squash to maintain business connections—ask more questions, he launches into an elaborate retelling of our proposal story. I study the other men’s expressions. They are buying every word.
Gradually, I feel my confidence return. Let them judge me if they want. Tonight, I’m the woman who Gavin Black has loved for a long, long time. It just took a gunshot for him to realize it.
The conversation shifts to business, and I excuse myself to order another drink from the bar. I can feel Gavin’s gaze on me as I wait for the server to refill my flute. On my way back to my fiancé’s side, I stop for a few zucchini chips. Then I head back to the group.
A woman, who appears connected to Mr. Tails, has joined the group. I’m steps away when I hear her say in a theatrical whisper, “You are aware of the nastiness that Alexandra is sharing online, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I’m aware. We didn’t end on good terms,” Gavin says. “But I had to follow my heart, even if it meant hurting her feelings.”
The woman nods but remains silent as if waiting for him to reveal more. I take this as my cue to interrupt.
“Sweetheart,” I purr, borrowing his earlier endearment. “We should take a look at the auction before they ask us to take our seats.”
“Not much worth looking at,” the older gentleman says. “A bunch of art this year from painters I’ve never heard of. Modern stuff.”
“I love modern art.” I take Gavin’s hand. “If you’ll excuse us.”
“What do you know about modern art?” he asks once we’re out of earshot.
“Not a thing. I was saving you from a long, painful conversation about your ex.”
Mr. Misunderstood Page 10
