Broken and Beautiful

by Ryan, Kendall

  Oh God, I wonder if he’s been in this situation before?

  I won’t let myself spiral with worry right now. Endorphins are still pulsing through my system, and I’m determined not to worry. At least, not yet. I’m sure there will be time for regrets and examination of my behavior come morning.

  Dominic gazes down at me fondly, touching my cheek one last time as he holds my gaze. I see the hint of a smile on his lips, and then he swings his legs over the side of the bed and tugs on his black boxer briefs. “I think I agree. Roger the others were about to call it a night too.”

  We dig our toiletries out of our suitcases. With two sinks, the bathroom is roomy enough for us to stand side by side while we brush our teeth. Normally, I’d be a little self-conscious, but it feels natural. Comfortable. Almost . . . domestic. I push away the dangerous thought.

  After changing into pajamas, I slip beneath the covers, wiggling a little to enjoy their soft, silky slide. Everything feels so good—I’m still languid and sensitive from earlier. Though I’m sure it doesn’t hurt that our guest bed comes equipped with linens worthy of a five-star hotel.

  Dominic glances up from his suitcase to shoot me a soft smile that I don’t dare call affectionate. “You look comfortable. Sleep well.”

  “You’re not coming to bed?”

  He pulls out his laptop and sets it on the desk. “In a bit. There’s a little more work I wanted to get done first.”

  I’m a little disappointed, but mostly just amused. How typical of a workaholic CEO. “Good night, boss.”

  He chuckles as he turns off the bedside lamp. “Good night, intern. Let me know if the light bothers you.”

  Although the night has worn me out, for a little while I let my gaze rest on him, silhouetted by the soft glow of his screen. He really is an amazing man. Hardworking to a fault, sweet when he wants to be, a skilled and generous lover . . . even though he’s made it clear that he doesn’t believe in love.

  My eyes grow heavier. I drift off to the quiet noise of tapping keys.

  * * *

  I’m woken by Dominic nudging me and saying something.

  “Wha . . . ?” I squint up at him in the bright morning sunlight.

  “We have to go,” he says insistently.

  I rub my eyes with one hand and grope for my phone with the other. “What time is it?”

  “It’s after ten.” Before I can ask, he adds, “You slept through breakfast. I had Roger’s valet put a few muffins in the limo for you to eat while we drive.”

  Wow, I almost never sleep this late. I guess he wore me out last night.

  I’m about to crack a joke about his prowess when I finally get a good enough look at him to realize something’s off. Dominic is unshaven, and his hair is disheveled. His face is tense, his brow furrowed and lips tight.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask. It must be bad if he’s this frazzled.

  “There’s been an incident. We need to get back to the city ASAP. Hurry and get dressed. I’ve already said good-bye to Roger for us.”

  An incident? I have no idea what he means, but I sense now’s not the time to ask any more questions. I roll onto my feet, then get dressed and pack as fast as I can.

  Outside on the driveway, the limo is waiting, its engine running. As soon as we’re seated and the door is shut, Dominic is on the phone before the chauffeur has even hit the gas.

  “How’s Emilia?” His tone is low and urgent, his expression grave. If I didn’t know better, I’d say there was fear in his eyes.

  The voice on the other end sounds like a woman, but I can’t quite make out her words.

  I try to eat my muffin without getting crumbs all over the upholstery or making it too obvious that I’m straining to eavesdrop. When he said incident, I assumed it was of a business nature. This sounds like something much more personal.

  “What did the doctor say?” he asks.

  He listens for several minutes, during which his expression gradually loosens.

  “Thank God.” He pulls his hand down over his mouth, suddenly looking much older than his twenty-six years. “So you’re still at the hospital?”

  The woman says something else.

  “Okay. I’ll go home, then. But first, can you explain one more thing to me?” A silent pause. “When she fell, just where the hell were you?”

  I almost flinch at the steel in his voice. Whoever is on the other end, she’s in deep shit.

  Several more minutes pass of her talking.

  Finally, he sighs. “I guess it couldn’t be helped. See you in . . .” He checks his watch. “An hour and forty-five minutes.” He hangs up.

  I ache to ask him what’s going on, but he’s staring out the window with a brooding expression, clearly not in the mood to be bothered. Confused, I fold my muffin paper into a smaller and smaller square as I try to piece together what I’ve overheard.

  Who the heck is Emilia? I know from my research that Dominic had a father and an older brother. His mother passed away when he was a toddler, and I’ve never heard about any other important woman in his life. Emilia’s falling made Dominic panic, so unless she plummeted off a building or something, she’s probably either very young or very old. A little sister? A grandmother? An elderly aunt?

  Whoever she is, the woman on the phone got this Emilia medical attention right away, and it seems like she’ll be okay. I’m glad to hear that much. But I still burn with curiosity, and I hope all my questions will be answered when we get to Dominic’s place.

  Dominic

  Sunlight flashes brightly through the windows of the limo. I keep my gaze on the passing landmarks and road signs, silently noting how much longer it will take to get home. My sweet little Emilia.

  Fran called to tell me that the smaller of my twins had fallen and smacked her head on the marble floor in the kitchen. She’d called the pediatrician’s office immediately. Apparently, it’s nothing major. Doesn’t mean I didn’t lose my shit at the thought of my two-year-old having a head injury.

  The sounds of the road and the glare of the sun don’t help this throbbing stress headache in the slightest. I don’t realize that my leg is bouncing incessantly until Presley puts a warm hand on my knee. She’s been sitting right next to me this whole time, quiet and close.

  At her touch, my knee stills, but I can’t force myself to look at her. I don’t want her to see me like this. I have a hunch that the moment she looks into my eyes, she’ll see through everything I’ve been trying to protect, right past the guarded walls and into my personal life. I’m trying not to panic about that.

  Presley is going to have questions. I had to pull her away from our arrangement abruptly, skipping breakfast and good-byes. Dragging her into my personal life was the last thing I wanted to do, at least under these circumstances. I appreciate how understanding she’s been, despite the strangeness of the situation, but she doesn’t need to be a part of this.

  But I realize we’re already here, at my apartment.

  I open the door before we’ve entirely come to a stop, ready to make a break for the entrance. Presley is scooting out right behind me. Before her feet touch the ground, I catch her hand.

  “Don’t worry, the driver can take you home.”

  “Is everything okay?” she asks in a small voice. The kindness in her eyes tells me she’s genuinely worried.

  That makes two of us.

  “I don’t know,” I admit. Eager to get inside, I make a snap decision I hope I don’t regret later. “Come on.”

  The car door swings closed behind us, and we move quickly toward the building. I use my keycard to unlock the heavy glass door. I hold it wide for Presley, who then jogs to the first empty elevator and presses the up button.

  She turns to me, her expression serious and calm. “Which floor?”

  “Twelve.”

  The usually charming ding of the elevator passing each floor is infuriating today as it rises excruciatingly slow and the doors take their damn sweet time opening. I jam my thumb
onto the button repeatedly, trying to force the elevator to move faster.

  Presley’s warm fingers find mine. My hand curls around hers, and I don’t miss the reassuring squeeze she gives me. When the doors finally open about ten years later, I drag her down the hall, then pull out my keys and unlock the door in one fluid motion.

  “Fran?” I call into the empty foyer.

  “Daddy!”

  The familiar squeals of my girls precede their running feet, and in seconds, I’m on my knees with my arms outstretched. They maul me with their little hands, burying their faces in my shoulders. I examine Emilia’s head, finding a large pink lump on her forehead.

  “Baby, what happened?”

  “Boo-boo.” She whimpers with a big frown, her eyes welling up.

  I pull her into me, kissing the top of her head. Lacey tangles her fingers in her sister’s hair.

  “I’m so sorry,” I murmur, wiping away the tears that spill from Emilia’s bright eyes.

  “Don’t cry.” Lacey hiccups, a sure sign she’ll soon be falling to pieces after her sister.

  “All right, girls.” Fran hobbles around the corner and down the hall. She stops in her tracks when she sees us, tilting her head with an obvious question as she stares at me. Who is this beautiful young woman you’ve brought home with you?

  It sure as hell doesn’t happen often. I don’t think Fran’s ever seen me with a woman, come to think of it.

  Presley is frozen, her hands grasped in front of her. I almost chuckle when I see her expression—with wide eyes and her mouth hanging open.

  “Hello, young lady,” Fran says, her voice warm.

  “Hello.” Presley gives her a cautious smile.

  “I’m the nanny, Francine.”

  “Oh, I’m the—I’m . . .” Presley looks to me as if to say, What the hell am I to you?

  “She’s a coworker.” I push to my feet, and the girls wrap themselves around my legs.

  “Oh, a coworker.” Fran raises her eyebrows to me.

  “So nice to meet you,” Presley says, one hand outstretched. It’s so fucking adorable how polite she is when she’s confused.

  Fran gives Presley’s hand a brisk shake. “Nice to meet you.” To me, she says with a wink, “I’ll be off, then. Too many cooks in the kitchen.” And just like that, Fran has her coat and her mammoth purse in her hands, and she leaves us.

  I imagine what the scene must look like from Presley’s perspective, her twenty-six-year-old boss with a tiny human clinging to each leg.

  “Presley, meet the two women in my life.”

  “Hi,” she says softly, wiggling her fingers at the girls.

  Lacey waves back, while Emilia buries her face deeper into my pant leg.

  “These are my daughters, Lacey and Emilia.”

  A small, incredulous smile creeps onto Presley’s face. “You’re a father?”

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, I’m at the kitchen counter, slicing grapes in half. The only way I could peel the girls from my legs was to suggest snack time. Of course it had to be their favorite—animal crackers and grapes.

  Presley sits across from Lacey and Emilia. She clearly has a mouthful of questions. But instead of asking them, she talks to the girls in hushed tones, telling the story of each animal cracker as it’s pulled from the bag.

  “Monkey is very good at climbing. He won all the competitions on the playground. Giraffe is a little annoyed about that, since he’s as tall as the highest ladder already.”

  Lacey and Emilia are completely enamored with her, hanging on her every word.

  “Ladder?” Emilia asks in a small voice.

  “You know like a slide?” Presley asks, and Emilia nods. Presley pantomimes gripping the rungs of a ladder, climbing up. “Ladders help you get up to the slide.”

  Lacey follows suit, as she always does.

  “See, you’re a monkey!” Presley says, and Lacey giggles.

  I bring two bowls of grapes to the table, handing them each one. My girls reach for them with greedy fingers, and soon juice dribbles down their chins. I use the corner of my sleeve to wipe Lacey’s mouth. When I glance over, Presley is staring at me with a look of . . . fascination? Admiration? I’m not sure.

  This is way too weird.

  “I’m sure you have to get back,” I say, trying to regain control of the situation.

  “Not really,” Presley says with a small shrug.

  “It’s no trouble. I’ll get you a car.” I pull out my phone to make the call, but both of my girls erupt into sheer outrage.

  “No! Presley, stay!” they cry, their eyes wide and pleading.

  Fuck. Now I’m going to have to deal with this all night.

  “Presley has work to do,” I say, unsure if that is even true.

  Presley frowns, but takes the cue and stands from the table. Good girl.

  “I’ll see you again, monkeys,” she says, tucking a stray hair behind Emilia’s ear and winking at Lacey. “Okay?”

  “Okay,” they mumble, scowling.

  After I’ve arranged the pickup, I escort Presley to the front door. When we reach the door, she turns to me. I can see the anxious and sensitive questions on the tip of her tongue.

  You’re a father?

  Why do you keep it a secret?

  Where is their mother?

  Anything she says will make my heart wrench uncomfortably, and I don’t want to feel that shit right now. So before the words escape her lips, I kiss her. Hard.

  Backing her against the wall, I let my mouth steal away anything she might have said that would make me feel anything. I lick her tongue and feel her shudder against me, her fingers grasping my shirt. Her hand slides up my chest to rest against my cheek in a gesture so tender, my heart clenches painfully.

  I release her, and when I pull back, her eyes are glazed with emotion. With expectation.

  I never should have brought her here.

  Fighting for control, I straighten my shoulders. I open the door and avert my gaze. Presley is an open book that I don’t want to read at this moment. “Thanks for your work this weekend. Extra points for giving good head.”

  She pulls in a sharp intake of breath at my crudeness. Even from my peripheral vision, I can see her stunned expression.

  I straighten my posture and hold open the door wider. “Look, last night was fun, but it can’t happen again. There are rules for a reason and we will not be crossing them. Come Monday morning, I’m your boss and you are one of the many interns trying for a position with Aspen Hotels.” The words leave me in a rush, but I’m thankful that I sound more composed than I feel. I’m fucking rattled. And I hate being rattled.

  Presley lifts her chin and gazes out the door, and without saying anything else, she leaves.

  Presley

  On Monday morning, I station myself at my desk, hoping that throwing myself into work will distract me.

  I was up half the night with my thoughts running wild. The topic? None other than my sexy-as-sin and equally infuriating boss. Which is so not helpful to my sanity.

  I walked into our deal knowing it was all for the sake of wooing a client, yet I thought we’d made a real connection, deeper than just boss and intern. The laughter. The flirting. The kissing. But it turns out our fake relationship really is nothing but fake. How could I be so naïve?

  My eyes burn for reasons that have nothing to do with sleep deprivation, and my computer screen blurs. I blink fast to chase away impending tears.

  Get a grip, Pres.

  Yes, I misjudged everything and it feels awful, but am I going to collapse or stand back up on my own two feet? I need to let go and fix my mistakes like a big girl. And that starts with cutting my losses, right this minute.

  From now on, I’ll refuse to see that prick except during business hours at the office. The next time he comes waltzing up to ask for a date, I’m telling him our deal is off. No more “overtime” for me. Let him figure out on his own how to lie to Roger about where I am. I�
�ve made some of the money I needed toward Michael’s bills, and I care about myself to much to get emotionally involved with such a total asshole.

  Well, to be fair, he’s not one hundred percent an asshole. Yesterday afternoon, he seemed like a great dad. The way he fussed over his daughters was pretty damn adorable. Watching his strong forearms as he lifted them. Fussing over their snack and slicing those grapes in half. It was downright disarming to see such a different side of him . . .

  I slam the brakes on that train of thought. Dammit, stop mooning over him like a schoolgirl. He’s already hurt me once—what more will it take to get it through my head that he’s a jerk? The way he thanked me for that blow job made me feel about ten inches tall. Like he was buying a pack of gum or something. Who talks about sex like that, as if it was just a transaction?

  But sex is a transaction to him, a nasty little voice whispers in my head. Did you forget that he only screws women he’s paid for? He told you that himself. You were just too blinded by infatuation to really believe it.

  My hands slow on the keyboard. Is that . . . how he feels about me? Does he see what we shared on Saturday night as something he purchased?

  I shake my head. No more dwelling on it. I’m here to work, and I need to pull my focus back to that. I just have to accept that we come from worlds too different to be compatible, and move on . . . no matter how right it felt to be in his arms.

  A knock on my cubicle wall mercifully interrupts my sour thoughts. I spin my chair around, expecting Jordan, only to see Aspen’s vice president.

  “G-good morning, Mister—”

  “I told you, there’s no need to be so formal. Please call me Oliver.” He flashes me a reassuring smile. “And relax, I came with good news. I just wanted to stop by and let you know what a great job you did on that budget proposal.”

  I blink, flustered that a VP would come praise me in person. “Oh, thank you. Jordan helped a lot, too.”