Cross Check (Marriage Contract #1)

by Colleen Masters

  I glance back up at the billboard, an ad for some cologne that features Jay with three scantily-clad models draped all over him. Looks like retirement hasn’t been too rough on him. Now he spends all his time hanging out with models, posing for pictures, and appearing as a pundit on all manner of sports shows. I’m sure some part of him misses the game, but you’d never know it from the smile that graces his perfect features. One thing’s for sure—Jamison King is like the scotch we nipped from his dad all those years ago.

  He only gets finer with age.

  Not that I’d know from seeing him in person, or anything. Since our tryst in the gazebo on the night of our graduation, I’ve barely seen hide or hair of Jamison King. Sure, I’ve caught of glimpse of him across the room at a King Enterprises function or two, but that’s about it. Let’s just say there wasn’t much follow up after he disappeared to Boston. And by “not much” I mean zero. Even though we spent the next four years more or less next door (again) in Boston and Cambridge respectively, Jay made no effort to get in touch with me after we slept together the night before he left for school. Not like I had time for him, what with my entire mountain range of school work, but still. A text would have been nice.

  I catapult out of the cab the second it pulls up before the monolithic skyscraper that houses the King Enterprises offices. It sounds like Loudon is on the warpath, and that’s not good for anybody. By now, I’m in full crisis management mode. I email Elsie Walker’s agent and secure a Skype meeting, put everything else on hold, and sprint toward my office the second I step out onto the 42nd floor.

  “Leah! Thank god you’re here!” Pippa exclaims, leaping up from her desk beside my office door. Her tall, lanky form is pretzeled into its usual hunched over posture, and her eyes are wide and panicked beneath her blunt black bangs.

  “Did you give Mr. King my message?” I ask her, happily accepting the cup of coffee she has waiting for me.

  “I did,” Pippa confirms, “He said he’d be back in an hour, and said you should do whatever you have to to make this thing work.”

  “Perfect,” I smile, pushing open my office door, “An hour should be plenty of time. See you on the other side.”

  Elsie Walker’s Skype call is already ringing insistently on my laptop when I sit down at my desk. I straighten the cuffs of my navy blue blazer, give my red hair a tousle, and arrange my freckled features into my best “understanding but persuasive” expression. Mustering every ounce of energy and confidence at my disposal, I accept that call.

  “Elsie,” I begin, smiling at the bestselling author’s young, scowling face, “It is so great to see you again…”

  ***

  58 minutes later, I sink back heavily in my chair, letting out a deep sigh. Looking out over the expansive view of the Hudson River from my western-facing window, I let a wide smile spread across my face.

  Mission accomplished, I think happily to myself.

  And not a moment too soon, either. Just as I take a moment to catch my breath, I hear Pippa’s nervous knock on the door. I look up as she pokes her head into my office, looking like she’s on the edge of tears.

  “Um, Leah? Mr. King is here to see you,” she squeaks, “Should I send him—”

  “I don’t need to be announced in my own damn offices,” I hear Loudon King proclaim. The door swings open as my boss strides in the room, sending my assistant scampering back to her desk. I swear, the King family must be descended from the gods or something, because they are borderline immortal. Loudon King is in his early sixties, but he’s sit fit and charming as ever. A proper silver fox if I’ve ever seen one. Even when his brows are knitted in dissatisfaction, as they are now, he’s still as handsome as ever. It’s never been a mystery where Jamison gets his good looks from.

  “You’re gonna give her a heart attack one of these days,” I tell Loudon, as he lets the door slam behind him.

  “Who? Your assistant?” he asks, cocking a silver eyebrow, “If she scares that easily, she has no business working for me.”

  “That’s for damn sure,” I smile, as Loudon paces the length of my office.

  “So? Did you have words with the juvenile delinquent we’re trying to nail down?” he asks me.

  “You mean the talented young novelist we’d like to do business with? Yes, I did,” I inform him evenly.

  “And? Did you straighten her out?” Loudon demands, his shoulders tensed beneath his Italian wool suit jacket.

  “Ms. Walker had some very real concerns about moving forward with us,” I begin, “Did you really call her ‘little lady’ in your last meeting?”

  “Maybe I did,” Loudon shrugs, “What is that, a crime now?”

  “Not a crime, no,” I say diplomatically, “But maybe not the best tactic to use when speaking with a sharp, independent young feminist like Elsie?”

  “And what were her other ‘concerns’, besides my vocabulary?” Loudon huffs.

  “She was also worried that we’d turn her books into just another flashy YA movie trilogy,” I go on.

  “Right. God forbid we make her millions of dollars in ticket sales,” my boss says, rolling his eyes.

  “It’s not about that for her,” I press, “She’s done plenty well for herself from book sales alone. She doesn’t want to move forward if her story is going to fall into the wrong hands.”

  “Namely, old white guy hands?” Loudon says.

  “Pretty much,” I shrug.

  “So? What did you tell her?” he asks, arms tightly crossed.

  “Well,” I reply, “I assured her that I was a fan of her work. Which I am. I read the whole trilogy in a long weekend. Elsie and I talked for a while about science fiction and fantasy, and it turns out that she liked my take on how her series can be amplified cinematically.”

  “Since when are you a sci-fi expert?” Loudon asks, cocking an eyebrow at me.

  God, if you only knew… I think to myself, as a memory of pouring over Dune in the gazebo with a ten-year-old Jamison pops up in my mind.

  “Go on then,” Loudon urges, “Did you get through to her or not?”

  “I did,” I tell him, planting my elbows on my desk, “It wasn’t easy, but I managed to assure her that her work would be in good hands here.”

  A wide grin spreads across Loudon King’s face.

  “Fantastic!” he roars triumphantly, displeasure completely forgotten. “Well done, Leah. I knew you’d put this thing down in no time.”

  “That’s what I’m here for,” I smile, amazed as ever at the mercurial nature of Loudon King’s moods. This man has more ups and downs than a game of Whack-a-Mole.

  “That was too close a call for my liking, though,” Loudon goes on, sitting down in one of the chairs before my desk. “We need to make sure Elsie doesn’t balk again.”

  “I agree,” I tell him, holding my hands on the desk, “What do you have in mind?”

  “Well,” Loudon says, his blue eyes gleaming as they linger on my face, “I’m thinking we should make your position as the point person on this project a little more official.”

  My heart flies into my throat. “I like the sound of that,” I reply.

  “Good,” Loudon says, “Because I’m getting too old to deal with temperamental artists like Ms. Walker. From here on out, you’re in charge of our dealings with her. I want you overseeing the entire Huntress of Tomorrow project.”

  It takes every ounce of willpower I possess not to leap out of my seat and bear hug my mentor right then and there.

  “Loudon. Wow…” I breathe instead, leaning back in my desk chair, “Honestly, that would be a dream come true for me.”

  “Well. Wake up, Leah,” he grins broadly, “Because that dream just became a reality.”

  “I…I don’t know what to day,” I stammer giddily, letting my professional veneer crack just a hair, “Thank you, Loudon. I won’t let you know.”

  “I know you won’t,” he says, standing to go, “Why do you think I brought you around all those years ag
o? I’ve known since you were a kid that you belonged here at King Enterprises. You haven’t let me down yet. Just, don’t start now, OK?”

  “I won’t. I promise,” I tell him, eagerly shaking on our agreement.

  “Now that that’s settled,” he says, turning to go, “We should celebrate. Me at DeLeonardo’s at eight o’clock. I’ll have our usual table set aside. There are a few other things I’d like to discuss with you.”

  “Sounds great, Loudon. I’ll see you there.”

  My boss nods, striding back out of my office. I wait anxiously until the door has swung shut behind him before breaking out into an honest-to-goodness happy dance right there in my fancy New York office. Holding my arms triumphantly overhead, I spin around in outright glee. I’m going to be heading up the entire Huntress of Tomorrow project! Me. Leah Brody. Running the show on what is sure to be the worthy successor to The Hunger Games franchise. I shove my hands through my auburn hair, turning to take in the view from my office once more.

  After years of busting my ass here at King Enterprises, I finally have the opportunity to make a name for myself in this industry. And what’ s better, I’m absolutely sure that I’m the right person to be helming this fantastical sci-fi film series. I know that it’s going to be incredibly challenging, but right now I feel like I could take on the world.

  And no one, but no one, can take that feeling away from me.

  Chapter Two

  Pushing open the door to DeLeonardo’s—Loudon’s favorite Italian restaurant in the city—I nearly swoon at the delicious aromas of freshly baked bread and roasted garlic. I was so excited by my sudden promotion at work that I completely forgot to eat lunch, quite the rare occurrence for me. Only now do I realize just how hungry I really am. But I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather bring a hearty appetite than DeLeonardo’s. This place has been a staple in my life since I came to work for King Enterprises. I’m willing to bet that this kitchen feeds me more often than my own does.

  “Leah!” croons Franco, the handsome maître d’, as I step into the restaurant, “Lovely to see you. You look fantastic, as ever.”

  “Why thank you,” I smile, glancing down at my outfit of choice.

  I had just enough time after work to run home for a quick change. My studio apartment on Riverside Drive has become little more than a closet and crash pad as my hours at work have gotten more insane. My only roommate is a longhaired calico cat named Galadriel—Gigi for short. I’ve had her since I first moved to the city six years ago. She was a housewarming gift from my dad, who thought I could use an expert mouse-catcher on hand. I don’t know if Gigi’s ever actually caught a mouse, but she’s been a great pal through the years. She's none too pleased with my long hours lately, which she makes perfectly clear with her long, skeptical stares.

  “Don't look at me like that,” I cooed to her as I slipped into a flattering black cocktail dress back at home, “I’ll be home before midnight, I promise.”

  Putting my cat-imposed curfew out of mind, I follow Franco through the dining room of DeLeonardo’s. I can feel the eyes of the other patrons swivel to follow me as I walk along. My dark red hair is pulled into an informal up do, and my little black dress emphasizes the dip of my waist and full curves alike. Honestly, if I look half as good as I feel after today’s promotion, then I can understand the wandering eyes of the other diners. I guess confidence really is the best accessory, huh?

  “I have to say, it is such a pleasure to have you and Mr. King here together,” Franco says warmly, beaming over his shoulder at me.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, cocking my head, “We’re here together all the time.”

  “Hmm,” Franco murmurs, leading me toward Loudon’s preferred corner of the dining room, “That’s not my recollection."

  “Franco,” I laugh, stilettos clicking on the hardwood floor as I follow him, “Loudon and I were here just last week!”

  “Loudon?” Franco exclaims, raising his thick eyebrows. “Oh! My mistake, Ms. Brody. I was speaking of the younger Mr. King.”

  “The younger…?” I breathe, stopping dead in my tracks out of sheer surprise. “What are you—Do you mean—”

  “Jamison, of course!” Franco says excitedly, lightly touching my elbow to usher me along, “He’s waiting at the table for you.”

  The ornate oak-paneled dining room seems to waver on its axis as this news hits me like a punch to the gut. Jamison King is here. At DeLeonardo’s. Waiting for me. Loudon didn’t mention anything about Jamison being here tonight. Not a word. Why the hell would he spring something like this on me? And since when are the two Mr. Kings chummy enough to be breaking bread again?

  Though a veritable whirlwind of questions is running through my mind, every single one of them flies out of my head as Franco guides me around the corner. My eyes land hard on Loudon’s usual secluded corner table—but it isn’t Loudon I find there. A pang of recognition twists my core as I set eyes on Jamison King, in the flesh. I’m so accustomed to seeing his airbrushed form in advertisements these days that I almost forgot how beautiful he is in person. No photograph could ever capture the exact color of his cobalt eyes, the set of his jaw, his resting expression of sharp, knowing confidence.

  For a brief moment, I wonder if I should turn on my heel and book it out of here before he sees me. I’m not ready to be in his presence again. I need to prepare. And strategize. And figure out how to defend myself against the magnetic effect he has on me. But just as I start shifting my weight to run like hell in the other direction, I feel his gaze lock onto my face. Our eyes meet across the grand dining room, and for a second that connection we forged as kids hangs between us in its pure, original form.

  That is, until his crackling gaze rakes down along the length of my body, leaving searing tendrils of heat in its wake. There’s nothing childish about that look.

  “Well fuck me,” Jamison grins, rising to his feet, “Leah Brody.”

  “Hi Jamison,” I say, feeling my spine straighten like a steel rod as I hold out my hand for him to shake. “Good to see you.”

  But he ignores my outstretched hand completely. Instead, he closes the space between us with one sure step. Wrapping his arm lightly around my waist, he pulls me in and brushes his lips against my cheek. It’s all I can do not to turn my mouth toward his as it approaches, as every cell in my body begs me to do.

  “I think we’re a little beyond a hand shake, don’t you think?” Jamison murmurs in my ear, before he pulls away.

  It’s as though the mere sight of him has reduced me to a naive girl of eighteen once again. The overpowering sexual energy that was finally let loose on his last night in our hometown is roiling just under the surface of this very moment. But Jamison is no eighteen-year-old boy anymore. Time has been very kind to my old friend and rival. He’s at least four inches taller, for one thing, and broader in the shoulders to boot. His well-formed teenage muscles have clarified and hardened, but somehow he’s even more balanced and assured than he was back then. Even his facial features have grown more striking in their definition. His cunning blue eyes, aquiline nose, and sharp jaw have been enhanced by a smattering of stubble, just a shade darker than his sandy blonde hair.

  “Leah?” Franco prompts, dragging me out of my gob smacked reverie.

  I glance over at him and see that he’s been holding me chair out for me while I’ve been standing here gaping like a moron. I hurry to take my seat before Jamison can tell just how much of a loop his presence has thrown me for. As Franco disappears from our company, I draw in a deep, calming breath. So I happen to be sitting here with Jamison King, after twelve years of radio silence. So what? He may be a famous athlete and media personality to the rest of the world, but to me he’s still just Jay—my literal boy next door.

  Or so I try to tell myself.

  “So. What's good here?” Jamison asks, glancing down at DeLeonardo’s extensive menu.

  “Really? That’s what you open with?” I ask wryly.

  �
��What other sort of opening did you have in mind?” he challenges, lifting a perfect eyebrow—a gesture he shares with his dad.

  “How about you explain what you’re doing here, to start with?” I suggest bluntly. “Shouldn’t you be off getting your picture taken somewhere?”

  “Why so hostile, Brody?” he smiles, “Aren’t you happy to see me?”

  “Just surprised is all,” I shrug, not wanting him to know just how flustered I feel, “It has been twelve years, after all.”

  “And somehow you’ve only gotten sexier,” he replies, leaning back in his charcoal sports coat. “I wouldn’t have guessed that was possible.”

  “Oh, cut the shit,” I tell him, though a thrill sparks along my spine at his words. “Just tell me what you’re doing here, Jamison. Seriously.”

  “I’m having dinner with my father and an old friend,” he replies, not giving an inch, “Plain and simple.”

  “I don’t buy that for a second,” I inform him, plucking up my drink menu as the waiter approaches, “But then, I guess I should be used to you bullshitting me.”

  Jay’s blue eyes flash angrily. “When did I—?”

  “Something to drink?” the waiter interrupts, smiling down at our glowering faces.

  “Two scotches. Neat,” Jay snaps, not even looking up at the man.

  “Very well," the waiter replies, hurrying away.

  I stare at Jamison across the table, utterly astounded. “Did you just order for me? Who do you think you—”