by Maria Luis
I like my life. It’s simple. Easy.
Zoe makes me think, makes me feel.
And that just won’t do.
I grind my teeth. Once upon a time, I considered Zoe my closest friend. Before I allowed lust to get in the way, before I was so desperate for her that I ignored all the signs that Zoe wanted more than I could give her, emotionally. Better to keep her at arm’s length now than to potentially get back in too deep.
I stare at the rink through the Plexiglas and swallow past the growing lump in my throat. This is the right move, for both of us . . . And if I happen to have saved some of the final texts she ever sent me, that’ll just stay with me.
King Sin Bin.
Man with a heart of ice.
My fingers dig into my thighs.
Yeah, we’re all better off this way.
If only I could forget the vision of her shocked face the moment she saw me today. Damn it, but it felt good to be in the same room as her.
Chapter Four
ZOE
I spend the rest of my day half fearful that Andre Beaumont will track me down and throw me into Boston’s Charles River. It’s March, and still frighteningly cold outside, and the black, murky depths of the city’s popular strip of waterfront does not look enticing, thank you very much.
But the look Andre gave me just before I left Walter Collins’s office this afternoon? Oh yeah. He’s planning something. The what, however, has eluded me thus far.
In fact, I’m so wound up after the entire experience that even my dad, who is perhaps the most unaware person I’ve ever met, notices that something is up during dinner.
“Zoe?” he says, as he dumps a lump of mashed potatoes onto his plate. “You okay today?”
Fred Mackenzie isn’t the sort to talk about those pesky things called feelings, and so I spare a quick glance at Shelby, my stepmother, who only shrugs and mouths, humor him. Right. My dad and Shelby married when I was in my teens, but since I’ve always lived with my mom . . . Well, time spent with my dad has always been on the fly. Random weekend trips here. A full week’s school vacation there. The last six months in Boston have proven to be an eye-opening experience, that’s for sure.
I’m already planning my escape the moment my first paycheck lands in my bank account.
I gird myself for his interrogation by shoving another slice of meat into my mouth, and use the time spent chewing (Shelby overcooked the pork chops) to prepare what I’m going to say. Finally, after I’ve managed to swallow the pork and not choke to death, I announce, “Well, I got the job.”
My half-sister, Tia, squeals and fist pumps the air. “Ohmigod, I knew you would!”’I love Tia. With her brown hair and dark eyes, she’s the spitting image of me. Just a younger me—with heaps more enthusiasm and a zest for life that adulthood hasn’t yet kicked to the curb.
“Thanks for letting me practice my interview on you, T,” I murmur, and a wide smile pulls at her mouth.
“What’s the catch?” Dad says, pointing his fork at me. “You look like someone ran over your dog, then did it again.”
“Fred!” Shelby shoots a pointed glance at their twelve-year-old daughter. “Let’s lay off the graphic images. Please.”
Dad’s gray brows pull down, like he can’t quite grasp the concept that maybe his youngest child shouldn’t be thinking about dying dogs—hell, I don’t want to think about dying dogs.
“Well, she does look like it,” is all he grumbles. I assume he’s referring to the dog comparison, which, you know, isn’t the worst non-compliment I’ve ever received from Fred Mackenzie.
There was that time he “accidentally” said I looked pregnant during one of my visits. I was fourteen, and he followed up that comment with bringing me to the drugstore and handing me a pregnancy test. Mind you, I was still a virgin.
There was also that time that he (drunkenly) told me that he wasn’t sure that I was his kid when I was sixteen.
I’ve since learned to take what my father says with a grain of salt.
Something that Shelby clearly hasn’t learned to do, despite the fact that she’s been married to him for over a decade.
“How about sad?” she prompts, her blue eyes locked on Tia in worry. “Zoe looks sad.”
“She doesn’t look sad,” my dad counters, color infusing his cheeks.
Oh, crap. Here we go again.
I try to catch Tia’s eye, but she’s too busy pushing the food around on her plate. Wanting to put a smile on her face, I kick her foot under the table with just enough force that she knows it wasn’t accidental.
Her dark eyes flick over to me, and she makes a “whaddaya gonna do” face, complete with a slack mouth and half-closed eyes, like she’s five seconds away from falling asleep at the table. I return the look, not caring how silly I appear, in sisterly camaraderie.
“She looks pissed,” Dad finishes, thrusting his fork in the air.
Now Shelby looks pissed. “Language, Fred.”
“Shelby, it’s my house. If I want to say ‘pissed,’ I can say it however many times that I want.”
Eyes narrowing, Shelby seethes, “Don’t you dare, Fred Elliott Mackenzie. Don’t . . . you . . . dare.”
Well, I think this is our cue. I nudge Tia again with my foot, jerking my head toward the doorway that leads to the living room. She nods curtly in silent agreement. We grab our plates, utensils, and glasses of water, and stealthily escape the fray.
Not that there’s need for any stealth, because Dad and Shelby have erupted into a fight that borders on the nonsensical. I enter the living room just as my dad breaks out into a song that consists only of the word, “pissed.” He hits the high notes like a champ, then drops his voice down to an Elvis-Presley-worthy croon.
Back in the day, before he opened an Italian restaurant and lost his soul to meatballs, fettuccini, and marinara sauce, I recall my dad having dreams of becoming a professional singer.
Apparently, this is as close as he gets nowadays.
I follow Tia up the flight of stairs to the second level of the house. Second door on the right is hers, and we quickly settle in on the carpeted floor, picnic-style, with the door half-cracked.
“I’m sorry,” she mutters, sounding so morose that my gaze immediately jumps to her face.
“For what?”
She points to the floor in indication of the adults who aren’t acting like adults. “You know—about Dad and Mom.”
I hide my wince. Growing up, it had only ever been my mom and I. Two women against the world. Marsha Mackenzie (she never reverted back to her maiden name) has never been inclined to date, perhaps because her relationship with Dad was so toxic. Even now, she prefers to go out with her girlfriends for cocktails over spending time with a man.
Sure, I never had the ideal family unit, but I would take my childhood over Tia’s any day. In the six months since I’ve moved in, there hasn’t been a day where Dad and Shelby haven’t broken out the figurative knives and sharpened them on each other’s flesh.
“It’s okay,” I tell my sister, as I kick off my shoes and tuck my legs under me. I still haven’t changed out of my interview outfit, so the slim-fitting dress inches up my thighs. Since it’s only Tia, I don’t bother to shield her from my black Spanx. “Don’t worry about it, T.”
Her thin shoulders lift with a shuddery breath. “But you got the job, and I know you’re going to leave soon.”
As much as I want to get out of this house on a permanent basis, the thought of hurting Tia breaks my heart. So, I go for the slip-around-the-issue option. “What? Where am I going to live if I do that? In the Boston Commons?”
She giggles, just as I intended her to. “Are you going to put up a tent?”
I fake-glare at my half-finished plate of food. “I don’t have a tent.”
The idea of me being tent-less sparks more laughter from my sister, evil creature that she is. “What if it rains?” she prompts.
“Guess I’m going to be soaked.”
&n
bsp; “What if it snows?”
I pin her with an expression of pure horror and she howls with laughter. “Are you trying to make sure that I never want to leave this house?” I demand.
“What if there’s a tornado and it whips through the park, and you get taken with it?”
“Boston doesn’t have tornadoes,” I gripe with a half-grin, “and you’re evil, you know that?”
“So, you’re going to stay?” She swipes a thumb under her eye to catch a tear (she laughed too hard at my expense), and proceeds to shovel the rest of her food into her mouth at top-speed. I both admire and envy her youthful metabolism. Around a forkful of corn, she asks, “Please?”
“Yeah, I’ll stay.”
For now.
At twenty-seven, I miss my freedoms of being completely independent. Walking around in my underwear and a T-shirt are at the top of the list, as is enjoying the company of men. But, since men haven’t really been on my radar for quite some time now, I guess I just miss the underwear/T-shirt bit the most.
The thought of men, however, makes me think of Andre. We’re due to have our first meeting tomorrow, and I’m both dreading it, and, strangely, also anticipating the thrill of being in his company.
The thrill of drawing his blood, I mean.
The thirty-day trial at Golden Lights Media looms large like a dark, gray cloud over my head. Whether Andre wants to or not, he’s about to become the most clean-cut hockey player the NHL has ever seen.
Game on.
Chapter Five
ZOE
Twenty-Nine Days Left …
Andre doesn’t show for our meeting.
Walter barks at Gwen, demanding to know where the company’s newest bad boy client is. Gwen, in turn, sidles up next to me in the office kitchen, red hair bigger than the day before, to ask if I’ve heard from him at all.
“Nothing,” I tell her.
I feel like I’ve been stood up at prom.
I spend the first thirty minutes, after our scheduled meeting time, at my new desk, rearranging the pretty flowers I’ve brought in to force life into my otherwise barren office. The floor-to-ceiling windows allow for a lot of natural light, but the walls are white, the carpet is white, my desk is white, the damn door is white.
I made the grave mistake this morning of wearing a white sweater dress and nude heels, which means that I fit right into the sterile-like environment that now belongs to me. For thirty days. If I don’t totally screw up.
After that exhilarating part of my morning, I spend the next twenty-seven minutes organizing the mess in the desk. Whoever had the office before me was a hoarder. Tampons, three iPhone chargers, ten packs of gum, six sleeves of Post-It notes, and four travel books about Paris are all crammed into the top drawer. When my fingers land on a square, telltale foil, I cringe and throw the condom packet into the waste bucket with a grimace.
Naturally, the following twenty minutes are spent sanitizing the entire office, starting with my (white) desk chair and ending with the (brass) doorknob. Who knows what kind of debauched crap went down in here—and, no, I don’t feel like a hypocrite by saying so.
At least Andre and I did it in the laundry room, where the laundry was dirty.
Ugh.
That doesn’t make me feel any better.
Gwen pokes her head into my office around two p.m. “Nothing yet?” she asks, and I feel the weight of my twenty-nine-and-a-half days like a guillotine poised over my head. “Did you try the cell phone number in the file?”
“Yes.” In fact, I called and texted the jerk no less than three times. He must know what this job means to me. Instead of pulling on his big-boy pants, however, he’s run scared. This isn’t at all like the Andre Beaumont I know, but then again, it’s been almost a year.
People change in less.
I have.
Whatever starry visions of Andre I had way back when are now nonexistent.
Gwen’s blue gaze flits over the office. “You cleaned?”
I shift on my bare feet, wishing I hadn’t kicked off my heels around the time that I started scrubbing the windowsill. “I needed something to do.”
“Want to clean my office?” she says, although I’m not sure that she’s joking.
With the Windex bottle clutched in one hand and a paper towel in the other, I say, “Will it keep me at Golden Lights for longer than thirty days?”
Her expression seesaws as she presses her back against the open door. “I’m sorry about that.”
I shrug. “I get it.”
Because I do—I’m a liability. I place the Windex bottle on my desk and throw the dirty paper towel away into the waste bin. The office smells like fresh lemon, its past sins all but wiped away.
“So, is it weird?”
My heart squeezes. Here it comes . . . “What do you mean?”
“You know”—she widens her eyes in that way people do when they want you to pick up the clue that they aren’t, actually, putting down—“with Andre. After everything that happened last year, it must be weird to know that you’ll be working with him again.”
Do I go for honesty? Play the oblivious tactic?
Not that I think Gwen would fall for the latter. She may sound like she’s interested in my answer as a friend, but her gaze is way too sharp for my liking. So, I do what any woman in my position would do: I play it cool, like seeing my one-time fling hasn’t completely rocked me off my train to Happy Land.
“It’s fine,” I tell her smoothly. “Of course, it’d be better if he showed up for our meeting this morning. But he’s a hotshot hockey player. I’m sure he just forgot.”
It’s unlikely Andre has forgotten anything.
All morning I’ve toyed with a new suspicion—that he didn’t show because he wants me to be fired. If that’s the case, he’s got another thing coming to him. Because I’m not going anywhere. If this is my last chance at a career in my chosen field, then I’m going down with fists flying.
Andre Beaumont won’t even know what hit him.
Seeing that she isn’t likely to get any information out of me, Gwen gives me a smile that verges on pitying. She knows. She knows that I’m a half-step away from stalking Andre down and forcing him to do my non-sexual bidding.
“If you want to take off for the day, feel free,” she tells me, her gaze falling to the fancy, rose-gold watch encircling her wrist. “You can’t really shape up Beaumont’s career without Beaumont, so you might as well head home and prepare for battle.”
My fingers twitch at that. I feel like I’ve been in battle for the good bit of a year, but this is something different. I need to be strategic. I need to get my ducks in a row and start my plan to wipe Andre’s stained reputation clean.
He doesn’t want to lose his sponsorships.
I don’t want to lose this job.
In theory, we should be on the same page. In theory, the next twenty-nine days should be easy.
In theory, I shouldn’t feel the least bit tempted to want another taste of Andre Beaumont after a year of radio-silence, but I do. What they say about thin lines between love and hate? Well, the line between lust and hate is even thinner, and as I stuff my laptop into my work bag, and stuff my feet back into my stilettos, I’m horrified to realize that I’m just as annoyed that Andre didn’t show professionally as I am at the sinking thought that he didn’t show for me.
And the latter just won’t do.
No way am I letting lust get the better of me.
Not even for Andre Beaumont.
Chapter Six
ZOE
I barely get my foot over the threshold at home before my dad comes flying down the stairs. In his arms, he juggles his striped chef pants, coat, and a set of large-as-my-forearm menus. The moment he sees me, his terse expression breaks like he’s seen the Second Coming.
“Zoe! Thank fucking God.”
It’s Thursday and a school week, which means that Tia is in class and Shelby is at work, but I nevertheless glance over my shou
lder. “Aren’t you supposed to be watching the language thing?”
“No time,” he grunts as he drops his armful onto the entryway table and shoves his feet into a pair of non-slip kitchen shoes. “The GM just called. My chef quit, took half the wait-staff with him, the bastard, and we’ve got a full house tonight.”
I decide to let the language thing slide for the sake of not starting an argument.
My gaze flicks to the menus. “So, you’re calling in the reinforcements?”
“I am the reinforcement.” With that, he snaps to attention and puffs out his chest, and it would have been somewhat adorable-dad cute, except that he ruins the Ideal-Fatherhood image by cursing like a sailor when the menus slip from the table and scatter all over the floor.
Still in my stilettos, I dip low and gather what I can.
“What are you doing home so early?” he demands roughly on my way back up.
“Early day.” Still no word from Andre. I’m starting to think that I was right—he’s totally sabotaging me. I plan to spend the night with a glass of wine, a heaping of chocolate, and my day planner. He can avoid me for one day; he can’t avoid me for thirty.
By tomorrow, I’ll have my plan sorted to get his butt toeing the line of respectability again.
“Come to the restaurant with me.”
At Dad’s random outburst, my jaw slackens. “What? I don’t cook.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’m not asking you to cook. Remember when you spent a summer or two being a server at the restaurant?”
I remember hating my life when I dropped a hot plate of steaming mussels and clams all over the mayor of Boston. Seafood went flying, smacking the mayor’s wife in the breasts and landing in the mayor’s lap.
The mussels were hot, the wine-infused sauce even hotter.
Dad promptly banned me from entering his restaurant, Vittoria, until just a few years ago.
You can see why I’m not too thrilled about the prospect of returning.
