Hawke: Christmas in Paradise (Billionaire Boys Club)

by Ellie Masters

  I suppress the low growl in my throat and flash one of my devastating smiles. It’s one that never fails to make a woman blush, or loosen her tongue. For now, I’m only interested in what Iris can tell me, not what she can do for me. Nothing will ease this ache.

  “Do you remember a guest named Quinn Hayes?”

  “Yes, sir.” Her eyes brighten with the memory. “She had to cut her visit with us short.”

  “Did you handle the arrangements?”

  “Yes, sir. I helped her rebook her flight. I wish I could’ve saved her more money, but she insisted on flying out on the twenty-fourth.”

  “No doubt the holidays called her back.” I rub at the back of my neck. “Can you tell me where you booked her flight?”

  Iris gives only the tiniest flicker of surprise before bending her head to the task.

  One of the benefits of owning this place is there’s seldom a request I make that is questioned by the staff.

  “It was a straight flight into Atlanta.” She glances up with a smile.

  “I see.”

  Quinn’s dossier sits on my desk. I know far more than I should about my holiday fling.

  Fling? Is that what I’m calling this? Because I’ve never before been this obsessed about a fling.

  My mistake.

  “I suppose that makes sense. I need to change my reservations.” I pull out my phone and call up my fight information.

  “Of course, Mr. Sterling. When do you need to leave?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  Quinn flew home for the holidays, but she doesn’t live in Atlanta. It may be too late as it is. Christmas came and went with very little fanfare in the tropics.

  Iris changes my reservation.

  Less than four hours later, I’m on my way home. That brings all kinds of unpleasant sensations swirling in my gut, but I’m not here to see my family.

  My driver picks me up, asks where I want to go, and I pause. I could storm Quinn’s family home, burst in like a jilted lover, but there would be questions.

  I don’t answer questions.

  What the hell am I doing?

  Instead of having the driver take me to Quinn, I tell him the address of my sister’s group home. It’s been a few months since I visited Cherise. Hopefully, my surprise visit will bring a smile to her face.

  A short walk takes me to the front desk where I check in. The pretty receptionist behind the counter blushes furiously as she logs me into the visitor book.

  “How long will you be staying, Mr. Sterling? Dinner is at six. If you’d like, we can set a seat for you.”

  I shouldn’t, but it’s barely half-past four. There’s no way I’m getting out of here in less than two hours.

  “Please. That would be wonderful. Can you tell me where Cherise might be?”

  “Yes, sir.” She consults her computer and pulls up my sister’s daily schedule. “She’s out back with the gardeners.”

  No doubt fawning over her prize orchids.

  “Thank you.”

  “Do you need help finding the way?”

  “No, I know it well.”

  It’s been nearly a decade that I’ve been coming here.

  Mother put Cherise into this home a few months shy of our eighteenth birthday. It was right after I graduated from high school and the end of an era.

  The first few years afterward were difficult for me. I hated this place with seething resentment for Mother. She abandoned Cherise to a group home.

  Slowly, as the years passed, I understood how much Cherise loves her life here. She’s surrounded by friends who don’t see her disability as a liability.

  The staff are wonderful, encouraging her interests. Cherise may be simpleminded, but she’s living a good life. Some might call it a perfect life because she’s immune to the realities the rest of us bear.

  The lies and disappointment which litter my life. The mother who abandoned her. The brother who tries, but fails. I want to be her hero, the one who makes her life the most perfect it can be.

  But that’s not what I am.

  I fail Cherise each and every day, falling short of the hero she needs. I can’t fix her. I can’t go back in time and reverse the damage I caused. All I can do is visit when I’m able and let her go. Let her enjoy a life I don’t understand.

  This place brings Cherise a great deal of happiness.

  I wish I was half as content with my lot as Cherise is with hers.

  As for the orchids?

  My sister’s mind may have been stolen from her, but she’s a savant when it comes to cultivating orchids. Her passion for the delicate blooms is something I don’t understand, although I’ve come to accept it over the years.

  My purposeful stride takes me through the long corridors to the back of the estate. I cross a wide covered porch and take the steps two at a time, heading toward the greenhouse I commissioned five years ago specifically for Cherise’s orchids.

  A young man sees me. His hand goes high overhead and he gives a vigorous wave. “Hi, Mr. Sterling.” He doesn’t get up, too engrossed with the beautiful woman sitting beside him.

  “Hi, Freddy! How’s it hanging?”

  “To the left!” His smile spreads across his entire face.

  I taught him that, although his sister will never forgive me. Evidently, Freddy shared his joke with his sister’s mother-in-law who happens to be the Queen of England. But that’s a story for a different day.

  I don’t interrupt them and continue toward my destination. My mother’s threat remains ever-present on my mind. She’ll take all of this away from Cherise to spite me.

  That won’t happen.

  One way or another, I’ll see to my sister’s welfare, and it won’t be from some false wedding to one of the approved names on Mother’s list.

  Honestly, my mother can go fuck that list. No way in hell will I give her the satisfaction. In fact, I’ll find a way to support my sister without my mother’s interference. She may be my sister’s guardian, but everything comes with an expiration date. I’m more than willing to wait out my mother’s life.

  I rap lightly on the door of the greenhouse but don’t wait for an answer before heading inside. Made entirely of glass, the heat and humidity jump a notch. I tug on the collar of my suit.

  Intricate wrought-iron scrollwork provides the architectural framework for the glass wall. I commissioned the artistic iron myself. Built into the framework, sprays of wrought iron roses, irises, and orchids are everywhere.

  A beautiful, young woman with a flowing mane of the darkest, midnight-black looks up with tawny hazel eyes. Cherise and I share many things. Our hair ties us together as siblings, but it’s our golden eyes that set us apart.

  She’s simply the most stunning creature on earth. I wish life treated her differently. Cherise will never know true love. She’ll never have a family, children who will frustrate her, complete her, and make her life whole.

  I stole that from her. Me and the innocent mistake of a five-year-old boy.

  It takes a second before her mind processes what her eyes see. In that brief moment, while I wait for her to recognize me, intense grief washes through me. I did that. I caused the damage, which left her irreparably impaired.

  But the moment passes. I take a breath and her eyes widen with recognition. Cherise beams her brightest smile and shouts with glee.

  “Hawke!”

  My sister climbs to her feet and races over to me. She stops midway, looks confused, turns around, then glances down at the black and royal purple orchid clasped in her hands. I watch her mind as it toils to piece together her thoughts. It struggles to process the most basic information, working ten times slower than normal. Not that it matters to Cherise. She’s blissfully unaware when it comes to her handicap.

  I wish the same were true for me.

  She spins around and raises the orchid. Confusion fills her face. The orchid lowers. Then comprehension takes root.

  “Look what I made!”

&nb
sp; Cherise races into my embrace. I narrowly save the poor bloom from getting crushed, plucking it from her fingers, as she throws her arms around my neck and hugs me tight.

  “My dearest, Cherise, how are you doing?”

  She clutches me. Hard. Then releases me. Her brows tug together, intense thoughts storming through her mind.

  “You’re not supposed to be here.”

  “No. I’m not, but I wanted to surprise you.”

  I wanted to storm in on Quinn and demand answers for why she left me, but I’ll take a surprise visit with my sister any day.

  “Are you staying for the show?” Her eyes brighten with hope.

  “Show?” I bring her orchid to my nose and take a deep breath.

  Most orchids have very little to no scent, relying on shape and color to attract insects and birds for pollination. Some are very fragrant with scents that defy description. This one smells of coconut and the sea; two of my sister’s favorite scents. Two of my favorite scents.

  “I smell the ocean.” I pull the black orchid away and look at it with amazement. “Did you do that?”

  She nods furiously. “It’s right, isn’t it?” She looks to me for affirmation.

  “It’s heavenly. Show me everything.”

  I take in the rows and rows of flowering orchids. There must be over a hundred. Nearly every pot presents a bloom for my inspection. Some hold half a dozen sprays of tiny, delicate flowers. Some are a single stem with a solitary bloom the size of my palm.

  With the limitless joy of a child’s mind, trapped in a thirty-year-old body, we spend the next hour looking at every orchid in her collection. Her face radiates joy as she takes me around by the hand.

  I’m treated to a riot of color, from the palest white to the deepest black, and every hue in between. My senses are flooded with familiar fragrances of raspberry, lilacs, citrus, and smells I’m unable to place.

  Cherise tests me, proffering blooms with no scent at all to see if I’m indeed telling her the truth about how much I love her flowers. She hands me one with an impish grin. I don’t want to, but I play along fully knowing this is going to be one with an obnoxious scent.

  The taste of rotten meat floods my senses. I barely hold back from retching. She claps her hands together, pleased with her prank, as my eyes water.

  “It’s stinky!” Her bright eyes prohibit any reaction except an answering smile.

  “Come here.” I tug her into my embrace and rub playfully at the top of her head. “You got me.”

  “I did! You always fall for it.”

  It’s true. Every damn time because it brings her such joy.

  A knock on the door turns our heads.

  “Miss Cherise, it’s dinnertime.” One of the employees gently reminds her about dinner. “Mr. Sterling, will you be joining us.”

  “Yes, and can you please ask Mrs. Sampson if I could have a word with her after dinner?”

  “Of course.” He gives a slight nod and holds the door, waiting for us to head to dinner.

  “Oh, goody!” Cherise jumps up and down again, clapping with joy. My visit today will be the highlight of her month.

  One of the things I love about this place is how rigidly they adhere to their routines. Most of the residents have some degree of mental handicap, like my sister. Some are patients with Down’s Syndrome. Others, like Freddy, are on the spectrum. Sweet souls who thrive in a safe harbor, secluded from those who would torment them with taunts of being different, instead of special.

  We spend dinner with her friends. Freddy and his sister, Rowan, join us and we’re regaled with Freddy’s first trip out of the country and his newest, best buddy, the Crown Prince Richard.

  After dinner, Cherise leaves me for social hour with the rest of the residents. I watch her leave, with a smile on my face and my heart full and warm with her love. I pivot and march toward the administrative offices and my meeting with Mrs. Sampson. I need to find out how much it costs to keep Cherise here. How much power does my mother wield?

  Then I get an idea for how to arrange a meeting with Quinn.

  Thirty

  Hawke

  The chime of the antique grandfather clock ripples through the air. The first deep gong pierces the air as I step through the doorway of my childhood home. I brace for a flood of bad memories. When I was a kid, that clock ruled my world. Mother was punctual to a fault and demanded the same from everyone else. My life revolved around the metallic clicking of the gears and the deep booming gongs of the clock.

  I hate that clock.

  To be a moment late equated to an egregious sin, discipline followed by any number of painful punishments. Breakfast was set at precisely six. Get to the table after the last gong, and no food would be served until lunch at high noon. Again, twelve long gongs determined whether I ate or starved. Not that I ever really starved, but explain that to a six-year-old with an empty belly why he can’t eat the food on his plate.

  It was one more way Mother kept me under her thumb, and a way to show favor to my sister. Mother never let me forget that I was at fault for poor Cherise. My sister didn’t live and breathe by the ticking of that damned clock, but I did. It wasn’t until many years later that I understood how she used Cherise to punish me. My mother made the rules. We lived by them, and I couldn’t fault Cherise for my mother’s brutality.

  I tell myself I’m over the fear licking up and down my spine as the sound of those deep gongs vibrate through the air, but that is a lie. I’ll never get over the terror that clock held over my life for so many years.

  Eleven more strikes will announce high noon. I have that long to traverse the prominent southern home and make my way to the dining room in the east wing where I’m to join Mother for lunch. I slow my stride and admire the paintings of long-deceased relations. I use this time to brace myself against whatever recriminations Mother will use in her attack. A headache builds behind my eyes and I rub at my temples. I’m not up for verbal warfare with my mother.

  I’m tired and a little hungover. I’ve been licking my wounds every night since Quinn left. The visit to my sister buoyed my spirits, for a moment. There is a way out from under Mother’s thumb, but it’s risky. Honestly, I’m not sure I’ll follow through. The upside is getting out from the demands Mother places on me. The downside is condemning Cherise to overcrowded living facilities where her spirit will wither and die. Mother has me exactly where she wants me, which means I remain her obedient and dutiful son. That includes answering her summons for lunch.

  The clock counts down the seconds, and I hurry my step. I could arrive late and irritate my mother, but I decide against it.

  I’ve been stewing over what to do about Quinn. My anger stirs again, heating me up from the inside out. I want her to hurt the way she hurt me.

  By the ache in my arm from doing the five-knuckle-hustle, every morning and each night, my body would disagree. I ache for Quinn. We never really had a chance to get started. Needy, lustful thoughts fill my mind all day and through each of the lonely nights. I only had Quinn in my bed for one night. We spent it under the stars, making love all the way through dawn. One night, and I can’t stop thinking about her.

  Making love?

  When did I go from fucking women to making love?

  I know the answer to that. I just don’t want to acknowledge what it means. I don’t do relationships. They’re nothing more than traps.

  Bruce, Mother’s butler, snaps to attention as I approach the entry to the dining room. He takes in a deep breath to formally introduce my arrival.

  “Madame Sterling, Master Hawke has arrived.” He announces my presence as if we’re fucking royalty at court.

  I can’t wait to be free of the power and manipulation of the Sterling Matriarch. That it comes only after her death should bother me, but I’m eager to be relieved of the burdens she places on me. The last gong of the clock sounds through the house as I take my seat.

  “Good afternoon, Mother.”

  “Good afterno
on.” Her pinched expression says it’s anything but good. She picks up her napkin and flicks it open. The moment she places it in her lap, Bruce is on the move. He serves the first course while Mother and I sit in stony silence. “Thank you for coming.”

  I had no choice in the matter, so remain silent. She brought me here for a reason, and I’ll wait her out. The first course is removed, and salads are placed before us. We eat on the finest china, drink from priceless crystal, and wipe our mouths with only the best silk napkins.

  It’s a tedious bore.

  When the main course is served, Mother cracks.

  “You visited Sissy?”

  I hate that nickname. She spent my childhood trying to force me to use it. I stubbornly refused.

  “Yes, I visited Cherise.”

  Her eyes tighten, and her mouth pinches.

  “And how is your sister?”

  “She’s well. You should take the time to visit her.” According to the staff, it’s been well over half a year since my mother made the trek out to Cherise’s group home.

  Mother doesn’t take the bait. She takes a sip of water and flaps her hand until poor Bruce comes running. Pointing imperiously at her nearly full water glass, she demands he refill it.

  Nothing in the dining room has changed since I was a boy. Nor has the service. We ate on fine china and drank from crystal glasses ever since I can remember. I learned quickly to be exceedingly careful not to break a plate or shatter a glass. Perfection in her son, and impeccable table manners, were an expectation. A flood of memories wash over me. A young boy crying over another cracked glass. Desperate tears of a child who never understood why his mother hated him. She treated Cherise like a princess and me as a monster.

  My mother says nothing about visiting Cherise. My comment is summarily dismissed.

  “Tomorrow is New Year’s Eve.” She states the obvious without completing her thought. I play along.

  “Yes, it is.” She wants me to dig for information, but I sit back and wipe my chin. I wave Bruce away when he tries to refill my half-empty glass.

  “And will you grace us with your presence?” Her mouth twists as if she’s tasted something sour.