by Aly Martinez
“So are you,” I countered, but my voice was weak.
“I was in the beginning. But, now, I only come back because of you.” His lips swept mine, but I didn’t reciprocate.
I wanted to though. Or, more accurately, I wanted to want to.
Jon was a good man. He’d slowly become my best friend over the last six months. And isn’t that the foundation of a strong relationship? God knows that’s not how it had been with Roman. And look where that had gotten us.
With Roman, he’d proposed approximately five hours into our first date. I laughed and told him he was insane. But those silver-blue eyes and that wicked grin made me breathless for the first time in my life. Our relationship was based on an overwhelming desire and an unexplainable need for one another.
It had been nearly two years since we’d last spoken, and I still felt the invisible strings binding us together. I couldn’t explain my pull to that man any more than I could explain why I didn’t feel it with Jon.
But maybe this was exactly what I needed. Something new and fresh but without the risk of the all-consuming kind of love I’d felt for Roman.
It didn’t have to be like that with Jon. Hell, it had taken him months to even ask me out.
This was different.
Different could be good.
I needed different.
“Okay,” I murmured, opening my lids with a newfound resolve.
“Okay?” A mixture of relief and hope danced in his gaze.
“Okay, I won’t freak out about the bathroom.” I paused and shyly glanced to the side. “And okay, I’ll let you take me out.”
A wide, white smile split his mouth. “Okay, then.”
I abruptly stepped away from him and lifted a single finger in the air. “But! I’m paying you back for this.”
“I don’t want your money. I was trying to do—”
“No arguments. When I sell the house, I’m paying you back. I hope you kept receipts.”
He smirked. “I thought you said you weren’t going to freak out?”
“Yeah, well, I changed my mind. And you better agree to my caveat before I change my mind about you taking me to dinner at Harper’s, too.”
His tipped his head, his lips twitching as he asked, “Harper’s?”
I motioned a hand around the bathroom. “You can’t ask a girl out with a ten-thousand-dollar bathroom and not expect to take her to a fancy restaurant for dinner. That would be false advertising. You’ve set the bar. Now, let’s hope you live up to it.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “Harper’s it is, then. And it wasn’t ten grand, but I’ll let you pay me back for the materials only.” He pointed over my shoulder. “Except for the shower. That’s my gift to you.”
I smiled and extended a hand in his direction. “Deal.”
He stared at my hand for several seconds before clapping it and giving it a hard tug, dragging me in for a hug.
It was nice. His arms wrapped around me, securing me against his hard body as he stroked up and down my back.
So nice that I momentarily lamented the fact that I felt absolutely nothing in return.
It was just past seven when I got home from the old Victorian. Jon and I had stayed working on the guest bathroom that now looked like a hellhole compared to the master. Jesus, I couldn’t believe he’d pulled that renovation off while I’d been out of town. I also couldn’t believe I’d agreed to go on a date with him.
Shaking my head at myself, I tossed my keys in the basket and shut the front door. Loretta came barreling into the room as fast as her tiny legs would carry her.
“Hey, crazy girl,” I cooed, bending down to give her the attention she demanded. It was rare that I went to the other house without her, but we’d just gotten back from a trip to Virginia to see my parents. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. After an eight-hour car ride, we both needed a little space.” I smoothed the short, gray hairs on the top of her head down.
She licked my face then wiggled from my arms. I put her back on the floor, and she immediately pranced to the back door, watching me over her shoulder the whole way.
“All right. All right. Go play,” I said, sliding the back door open.
She’d missed her freedom while we’d been staying at my parents’ place. It backed up to a lake, and I was terrified she’d get busy chasing one of the ducks, fall in, and drown. Poor pooch hadn’t gotten a single minute off the leash over the last week.
After closing the back door, I began sifting through the stack of mail.
Bill. Bill. Bill. Advertisement. Chain letter?
I knew this because it had the words chain letter in handwritten block letters on the back of the envelope.
I smiled to myself as I ripped it open.
Dear Elisabeth,
I don’t normally believe in things like this, but it’s true! You must call your sister within the next thirty minutes or you will experience seven years of bad luck. Nancy Smith received this letter and she simply threw it away. The very next day, her hymen grew back, her cat ran away, and she slipped and fell in her bathroom.
Don’t be like Nancy. Call your sister.
<3 Kristen
I didn’t have a sister. And sure as hell not one as crazy as Kristen. But for the five years Roman and I had been married, I’d had her as a sister-in-law. I was an only child with parents who lived over five hundred miles away, Roman’s family had become my own. His parents had been amazing, welcoming me into their lives with open arms. Never once had I felt like anything but their blood. But I’d lost them all the day I’d walked away from him.
It’d been weird not having them in my life at first, but a clean break was what we’d all needed. Or at least it was what I’d needed—starting anew without the memories of the past hanging over my head with every step.
For the first six months after our divorce, I couldn’t stomach restaurants he and I used to frequent, much less keep a relationship with his family as they all carried on with their lives—with him.
However, the Leblanc family was a force to be reckoned with. His mom and his sister flat-out refused to accept the brush-off. In the beginning, they called daily, and when I didn’t answer, they took to showing up at my house with wine and sushi. If I’m being honest, they were the only reason I made it through that first year.
As time passed, they slowly gave me my space, recognizing that moving on would probably involve another man. It hadn’t. At least, not yet. Though, considering my date with Jon, that might be changing.
I reread her letter and settled on one of the wooden barstools that surrounded my large, granite island. It was a custom build—a gift from my parents when we’d first closed on our tiny starter house. I’d never forget the shock on Roman’s face when the contractor had accidentally left the bill. My parents weren’t loaded by any stretch, but I’d been born to them late in life, long after they’d given up the hopes of having children.
My father had spoiled the hell out of me when I was growing up. Fortunately—and unfortunately, depending on at what age you’d asked me—my mom was strict as hell, so I hadn’t grown up to be a little shit. My father had been wrapped around my finger before I’d even come out of the womb, so when I was twenty-six years old, marrying a West Point graduate, Army Captain, and all-around amazing man, Daddy went over the top.
I swear I thought his smile would swallow his face as he placed my hand in Roman’s on our wedding day. A day that had two hundred guests, a full dinner, an open bar, and an equally ridiculous price tag attached to it. But his little miracle only got married once, he’d said.
She apparently only got divorced once, too.
Fighting with my mind to stay grounded in the present, I grabbed the phone and dialed Kristen while I finished going through the stack of mail.
More bills. More junk mail. A Christmas card from an overachieving client seeing as we were still two weeks from Thanksgiving. And then my body jerked as I lifted a letter from Leblanc Industries into my
sights. My face flashed hot as ice formed in my veins.
I was tearing it open just as Kristen answered.
“You’re alive!” she greeted enthusiastically.
“Son of a bitch,” I snarled through clenched teeth as I pulled a check from the envelope.
“Shit. Did your hymen really grow back? I should have known better than to try my hand at the chain mail game.”
“Your. Brother,” was all I had to say.
She cursed under her breath. “What did Mr. Personality do now?”
Loretta began yipping at the back door, but I ignored her demands and headed straight for the fridge.
“Um…hello. What did Roman do?” Kristen called when I didn’t immediately reply.
But I needed to get at least half of a bottle of wine in my system for this chat.
“I’m drinking,” I explained.
She sighed, knowing exactly what that meant. “Shit. How much?”
I didn’t bother with a glass. Instead, I yanked the cork out with my teeth and then drank directly from the bottle.
“More than the last one?” she asked when I didn’t reply.
“Mmmhmm,” I mumbled around the bottle.
She groaned. “Dad talked to him. I swear. We’ve all talked to him. He doesn’t listen.”
I swallowed the mouthful of Chardonnay, making a mental note that wine should never be chugged. But that didn’t stop me from tipping it up once again.
Kristen waited patiently on the other end of the phone until I’d finished enough to gather my thoughts. I sucked in a deep breath, silently cursing myself for having given up the meditation bullshit I’d started when we were trying to get pregnant.
When I finally got my emotions under control, I very calmly opened my mouth and then yelled at the top of my lungs, “He doesn’t listen to anyone!”
So much for under control.
“I know,” she replied somberly. “How much?”
“Two hundred thousand dollars.”
“Fucking shit,” she whispered.
I dug through my fridge, praying that a mini bottle of wine had gotten lost somewhere in the back behind the mass amounts of Tupperware filled with leftovers. I still hadn’t mastered the art of cooking for one. A stray beer from God knows when was all I found, but I quickly twisted the top off and chugged it. Beggars can’t be choosers on the hunt for intoxication in order not to kill your ex-husband.
“This has got to stop!” I said, slamming the beer on the counter. Foam bubbled from the top. “Shit. Shit. Shit!” I rushed to the sink, making it just in time to keep it from spilling.
“You okay?” she asked.
I ignored the question. I was in no way okay. I was, however, pissed off, and she was the only one around to listen. “I don’t want his money. I didn’t get a say when he paid off the house. But I’ll be damned if I’m taking quarterly payouts.”
She was quiet for a minute. And I knew what was coming. It was the same bullshit his mom had spewed when I’d first called to ask her to make him stop sending me checks over a year ago.
“He’s trying to take care of you,” Kristen whispered.
I barked a humorless laugh as angry tears pooled in my eyes. “Don’t you dare feed me that crap. You know better than anyone that he could have taken care of me when we were married. Now, he’s lost that right.”
She sighed. “He started the company when y’all were still married. Technically, half of it should be yours.”
“Technically?” I snapped, squeezing my eyes shut and gripping the phone so tight I feared it would break. “You want to talk technically, Kristen? Because, technically, Roman started that little shithole company less than twenty-four hours after Tripp died. And, technically, he ignored me for six months to get it up and running when I needed him the most. Technically, I was grief-stricken and still went back to work three weeks postpartum so he could quit his job and play scientist. Technically, that fucking company ruined my entire life. So, you know what? Technically, I don’t want shit from Rubicon, Leblanc Industries, and, most of all, Roman.” I stopped to catch my breath when a sob tore through me.
“Jesus Christ,” she breathed.
“Just make it stop,” I choked out. “It’s been two years. Make. Him. Stop.”
“Okay. Okay. Calm down. I’ll talk to him again. I’ll make Mom and Dad give it another go, too.”
My hands shook as I pinched the bridge of my nose. “I’m trying to move on with my life, but I swear to God he won’t fucking let me.”
“You’re right,” she replied immediately, probably fearing another explosion. “I’ll take care of it. I’ll make it stop.”
I swallowed hard and did my best to collect myself only to give up and polish the foamy beer off instead. “Thank you,” I grumbled, tossing the bottle and the check into the trash can on my way to the back door to let Loretta back in. “And I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to call you just to bitch about your brother.”
“It’s okay if you did, ya know. We all know he’s a prick. It’s not a newsflash. Besides, I miss you, and if you’re only willing to call and bitch, I’ll take what I can get.”
A small smile played on my lips. “You know, I should have married you instead.”
“Damn straight. I’m a freaking catch. It’s a shame neither one of us swings that way.”
The anxiety slowly ebbed from my system, and my smile grew. “Definitely a shame.”
“Okay, now that we got the ‘Roman is an asshole’ out of our systems, what’s new with you?”
God, I’ve missed Kristen.
I toyed with the ends of my hair and then mumbled, “Jon asked me on a date.”
“What!” she shrieked so loud I had to pull the phone away from my ear. “Oh my God. What did you say?”
I sank down onto the stool and kicked my heels off. “I said, ‘Okay.’”
It was past seven when I’d last checked the clock. Still at the damn office, I was beyond fed up with my so-called “meeting.” With every intention of ending the bullshit once and for all, I extended my hand across my desk.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Simon Wells, the seventy-something-year-old founding CEO of Defender Armor, stared blankly at my proffered hand. “Mr. Leblanc—”
A slow grin grew on my lips. “Simon, I believe we’re way past the formalities. Please, call me Roman.” I pushed my hand farther across my desk and leveled him with a menacing glare. “Then get the fuck out of my office.”
His gaze jumped to mine, the corners of his eyes crinkling as they narrowed. “I’ll repeat: This is my final offer.”
It always was.
We’d been doing this song and dance for nearly two years. Ever since my team had created the most superior bulletproof material on the market. Rubicon, named due to its natural red coloring, was not only stronger than the competition but half the weight and thickness, making it easier to wear for long periods of time and conceal under uniforms during covert operations. In the last year, it had become the most sought-after product in the business.
I knew it.
And so did Simon Wells.
Which was precisely why he was sitting in my office for the tenth time in so many months, attempting to buy a bulk order at less than half of its current asking price.
Done with the games, I dropped my hand and stood from my chair. After fastening the top button on my suit coat, I strolled away while casually shoving a hand into the pocket of my slacks. I stopped at the door and gave him my full attention. “I hope to God this is your final offer, Simon. Because, if you come back with a number that low again, you may want to consider wearing some Rubicon of your own.” Arching an eyebrow, I dared him to argue.
I should have known better. Simon lacked the ability to quit. It was annoying as fuck when you were across the table from him, but I suspected it was what kept his company on top for the last decade.
The muscles in his jaw ticked as he remained in his chair. “Cops are dying ou
t there,” he seethed through his clenched teeth.
I shrugged. “Yes. They are. Because they’re wearing your vests. Maybe you should do something about that.”
His fist slammed down on my desk as he shot to his feet. “You bastard! Have you no conscience? I know for a fact you made a deal with the military for half of what I’m offering.” His hand shook as he raked it through his gray hair. “Sign the fucking contracts and let those officers dying on the streets go home to their families.”
I tipped my head to the side but otherwise remained impassive. “And how exactly would you know what the bottom line on my contract with the military read?”
He squared his shoulders and attempted to regain his composure. A flicker of pride hit his eyes as he assumed he’d guessed correctly. “I’m not stupid, Leblanc. Word gets around.”
He wasn’t wrong. The body armor community was small.
For nearly fifty years, Kevlar had dominated the market. But, as new weapons and ammunition capable of penetrating the material began flooding our battlefields—and then, eventually, our streets—it was time for a change. Always the entrepreneur, I saw the literal and figurative gaping hole in the industry and pounced.
I wasn’t a scientist though, and I quickly found myself nose-to-nose with the same brick wall most of the country was facing. Companies were pouring millions into research, knowing that the pot of gold at the end of the race was going to be astronomical.
I didn’t have millions, but what I did have was a life I refused to face, a marriage I was hiding from, and the idea that dollar bills could fix it all. I threw myself into research, took a few investors on, and then hired the best team of scientists I could afford: two ex-cons with MIT degrees and my old Army NCO, who had been struggling to find a job in the civilian sector.
It wasn’t exactly ideal.
But maybe that’s why we were successful.
Desperation was one hell of a motivator.
For months, the four of us spent every waking moment huddled together in a makeshift lab, running on cheap coffee and fueled by hopes and dreams. Research was extensive, and failures were a daily occurrence.
