Forbidden: a Contemporary Romance Anthology

by J. L. Beck

  A full week and a half passes with me biding my time, playing the long con, not even daring to open a drawer to search for the brooch. I catch him smiling to himself as he watches me gasp in delight at not burning the roast chicken, and I know I’m finally getting closer to being able to betray him.

  Colby takes a call at his desk instead of concealing himself behind a closed door. Another sign of trust. His face turns white while listening to the mumbling on the other line. He cups his hand over his mouth and shakes his head.

  My stomach flips at the sight of him, and my knife stills in my hands. A carrot rolls off my cutting board onto the floor with a sound as deafening as a bomb in my ears compared to his rapid breath.

  His voice is a whisper when he finally speaks. “Are you sure? Did they test everything?”

  I barely understand his calls, though I assume this one must be related to his dev team finding something really wrong with his newest app that’s set to go live next week.

  Colby stands up in a daze and shuffles to his office with the gait of a zombie. The door quietly snicks shut. I bite my lip, looking longingly at the empty spot he’d just vacated. Even though we rarely talk throughout the day, I’ve grown used to his presence in the room. A constant companion after I’ve been on my own for so damn long.

  I can’t shake the image of his scared face. He could use a pick me up, or at least something to potentially erase the moment from his mind thanks to black outs and a hangover.

  I abandon the carrots as well as the potatoes sizzling on the stove and grab a few bottles of liquor from the cabinet. This is second nature to me, muscle memory. When someone is upset, a bartender passes him some booze. I whip up the most comforting cocktail I can think of: a margarita on the rocks. Simple but effective.

  When he comes out of the room a few minutes later, red blotches rim his eyes. A half hour ago, he looked so put together, but now he looks as if he hasn’t slept in days. Wordlessly, I hand him the drink as he passes. He glances down at it, brows knitting, but then sucks back a sip. “Oh, thank God. How did you know I needed this?”

  “My culinary skills may need improvement”—I gesture toward the pan, where the potatoes are browning—“but my cocktail skills are always on point.”

  Colby’s nose twitches at the butter and sage aromas. He glances at his workstation for a second, then back at me. It’s already six P.M., so instead of sitting back at his desk, he pulls up one of the stools in front of the counter island. “Why don’t you make one for yourself too?”

  “I’m working.” I scoop the chopped carrots into another pan and douse them in maple syrup.

  “You’re almost done.” He nods toward the roast chicken is resting on the counter.

  I start to protest again, but he meets me with an intense gaze. “Distract me.”

  I switch off the potatoes but let the carrots sauté a little bit longer. He watches the way I mix two more margaritas, and I shiver under his appraisal. This is probably the only time in my life I’ve had someone impressed by the real me, not the fake one I’ve created with the intent of impressing them.

  He taps his glass against mine. “Cheers.”

  “Don’t toast me yet. You may regret it after you taste tonight’s fiasco.”

  “Hey, don’t sell yourself short. It smells delicious.”

  I scoop some of the potatoes on a plate, line a quarter of chicken beside it, and finish it off with maple-glazed carrots. I smile down at the plate, a sense of pride welling up in me. I’d taken this job because it was the easiest way to infiltrate Colby’s world, but it turns out I enjoy the work.

  He pats the empty stool next to him. “Join me for dinner.”

  A little thrill travels through me. Usually the moment I set his plate in front of him and clean up the kitchen, I’m done. Off the clock. Out of his life. But he’s giving me an open door. I don’t hesitate to seize it, scooping up some of the extras onto my plate.

  I pull up the stool beside him at the counter, the two of us side-by-side, dangerously close. There’s an electric pulse that crackles between us. My elbow grazes against his when I slice into the chicken. We’re on the same side here, instead of me staring at him from behind the enemy lines of the counter.

  “So,” he says, swirling his glass and marveling at it with intense curiosity. “How did you get so good at making drinks?”

  I flinch, the way I always do when I’m about to lie on the spot. But I steady my breath. I don’t need to deceive him on this one. The truth, for once, is exactly what I tell him. “I’ve been on my own since I was sixteen.” I look down, picking at the seam of my apron. “My mom—” My voice cracks unexpectedly on the words.

  When I dare to lift my eyes to meet his, he’s turned stark white, his mouth parted.

  “My mom kicked me out so one of her deadbeat boyfriends could move in.” By that time, my grandmother was already in an assisted living home. She couldn’t rescue me, so I had to rescue myself.

  “Oh wow.” He reaches out a rogue hand toward me, but stops himself just before he touches my shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

  I should stop here. End this conversation. A key rule of being a con artist is knowing when to dole out information and in what quantity, and I’ve reached the maximum here. I even suck back a few sips of the drink to keep my mouth occupied. The tequila stings as it slides down my throat, but it doesn’t do anything to shrink the lump forming there or my need to get this off my chest. “She stole my inheritance,” I add, despite my better judgment. It’s almost like I need to explain away my future actions. A pre-emptive sorry. It wasn’t you, buddy. It was the brooch. With a startle, I realize I haven’t answered his actual question. I’ve only voiced the excuses eating me from the inside that finally crawled their way out into the open. “I started bartending because it was the easiest job I could get that actually made more than minimum wage. Worked in a few shitty places before getting a job in a trendy cocktail bar up north.”

  A cocktail bar I quit without notice to head down to Miami for this con.

  “You’re really good at it.” He slices a piece of chicken and slides it into his mouth. “At cooking too, despite your insistence otherwise.” He grins.

  His sentiment leaves me breathless. I wave a hand dismissively toward him. “Don’t lie.”

  “No really. Your eggs, well, those left something to be desired. But in only two weeks, you’ve improved significantly.” His gaze burns right through me. “I really admire how you’re going after your dream.”

  A sloppy smile etches on my face, and I force myself to look away so he doesn’t see my blush. “What about you? How did you get a whole dev team in India working under you?”

  He stretches, his body relaxing beside me. “I was something of a programming prodigy in college. In other words, I was ridiculously cool.”

  I laugh and he does too.

  “Spent all my spare time working on my own projects on top of the ones due for my classes.”

  I raise a brow as I bite into the delicious hearty flavors of the potatoes. “So what you’re saying is you were king of the frat guys?”

  “What I’m saying is I’m really really good at playing video games. And developing them.” He pauses to sip more of the margarita. “Anyway, I continued the tradition after college, working on my own stuff after hours while toiling at a dead end web developer job that paid next to nothing. The augmented reality gaming app I designed for fun quickly went viral. In the first month alone, it earned six point two million.”

  I choke on my drink. “Holy shit.”

  “Two more viral apps followed. Ever heard of Geohunters?”

  I gasp. That game was the next big wave after the Pokémon Go craze died down.

  He nods. “Long story short, now I have two hundred employees working for me, a brand new marketing company on board to strengthen sales, and a group of investors begging me to develop the next big thing.” He swallows hard. “But I’m all out of ideas.” He shakes his head
and places a palm on his forehead. “God. I feel like a hack.” He lets out a breath, as if he’s relieved to finally say this out loud.

  He might have decided not to place his hand on my shoulder, but I take the risk. “You’ve had three viral apps. You’re not a hack.”

  “Shit.” He scrubs his hand down his face. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to burden you with this. I just—” His shoulders rattle when he sighs. “Don’t have anyone to talk to.”

  It was the same thing I had thought to myself only moments ago. I remember his earlier plea—distract me. Whatever’s going on with work, it’s not what he wants to talk about. “What about your friends?”

  He lets out a self-deprecating laugh. “What friends? I have employees in other countries, a small household staff I barely speak to, and that’s it.” His face darkens in the fading light. “Sorry, I—”

  Something painful shoots through me at his words. I squeeze his shoulder with my palm. “It’s okay. It’s the truth.” But this time, I wish it were just a lie.

  “I’m from Indiana.” He pins me with a gaze so intense, I can only hold my breath in response. “Small town. Only three hundred people, a number that I’m pretty sure includes a few cows.”

  “Sounds like my town. Minus the cows. But add about a hundred criminals.”

  We both grin at that and I gesture for him to continue.

  “When my app made millions, the first thing I did was follow my dream to live near an ocean. I’d never even seen one growing up.” Colby laughs with his eyes closed and it comes out like a grimace.

  “Why Miami and not, I don’t know, LA?”

  “LA, San Fran, New York…they all intimidated the fuck out of me. All that hustle and bustle. Miami is more laid back. More my speed. More of what I was used to.” He pauses to take a few bites, closing his eyes to savor the flavor. “I’ve been here now over three years and I still haven’t made a single friend. In order to keep momentum with regular app updates, I’m constantly working. Constantly alone. It’s miserable.”

  I lean closer to him, squinting against the sunset causing a glare through the window and caramelizing edges of Colby’s hair a glistening bronze. “When was the last time you went out? Just for fun?”

  He pauses for a second, his eyes lifted toward the ceiling in thought, before he shakes his head and sighs. “I can’t even remember. I’m always on calls at night. When Romania sleeps, Beijing is awake. My international partners are there.”

  “You need some boundaries. Some you time. Tomorrow, don’t take any calls from your dev team after five P.M. It’s never good news.”

  His face suddenly goes white in a way that makes the smile flatline on mine. “That wasn’t a call with dev.”

  The tone of the room shifts abruptly and the crackling energy that seemed to lift his spirits suddenly plunges into darkness.

  He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “That was my mom who called.”

  “Oh.” I bite my lip, realizing I never even asked him about his family after pouring out my sob story to him in a margarita glass. “I’m guessing you two don’t get along.” I keep my voice soft, in league with his. We’re on the same page here.

  “We’re super close, but—“ He grips the edge of the counter with white knuckles and gulps down a few desperate breaths. “Next month was supposed to be her one year anniversary of being in remission from breast cancer.”

  My body stills, and I stifle a twinge in my chest.

  “But she just called to tell me the cancer’s back…and it’s spread to her lungs.”

  “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” I throw my arms around him, pulling him so close I can smell his expensive soap and tea tree hair gel. He buries his head into my shoulder and shudders for a moment before ripping himself away from me.

  He scrubs his hands over his face. “I’m fine. I am.”

  “You don’t have to be.” My gaze slides to the drink resting of the table, now drained. A distraction, he’d asked for. And I’d just led him right back to the thing he was trying to avoid. “Let me make you another.” I reach for his glass but he rests his palm on my forearm to stop me.

  “Actually, I think I need to lie down.” His eyes slide to the dirty dishes in front of us.

  I nod, my heart thumping as my mind supplies its own ideas, none of which I let myself linger on because I can’t. It’s wrong. I can’t think about his beautiful lips this way or how nice it would be to lie down with him.

  5

  Every since our conversation yesterday, I can’t stop thinking about him. His words. His outlook on life. His smoldering eyes.

  His text message late last night: Hey, I just got a crazy idea. Don’t cook dinner tomorrow. I have a surprise for you instead.

  I’m giddy when I arrive at his house, practically bouncing up and down in anticipation of the surprise. Colby takes his calls and his meals in his office, and I know it’s for the best. But my eyes continue to fly toward his door, hoping, hoping, hoping. I need a deep breath to tamp down my excitement long enough to bring breakfast into his room and when I finally enter, it takes concerted effort to force myself to leave. Galina checks in but even her guard seems to have relaxed, her strict orders to glue her gaze to me minimized. I tie my hands and restrain myself from searching for the brooch. Not now. Not yet. Not when Colby might actually be starting to trust me.

  Even though he absolutely shouldn’t.

  I throw myself into meal prep for breakfast and lunch, lovingly admiring each plate and biting my lip against the hope that he’s impressed. Hell, I’m impressed with myself.

  “Stick around,” he tells me after I return to grab his dirty lunch dishes. Only a ring of handmade tomato soup remains in the bowl and a few sparse truffle butter grilled cheese crumbs dot the plate. When I first brought it in to him, Colby’s brows shout way up. I’ve been choosing the recipes for a few days now. “We’ll leave around four thirty.”

  I inch closer to him despite my brain’s protests. “I can make a dessert to kill time?”

  He waves his hand dismissively. “Nah. Just hang out by the pool or something. Galina can show you where a few unused bathing suits are from the last time my sister visited.”

  His words tangle in my chest. He trusts me to have free reign of his house. This is a con artist’s dream. Once you have their trust, it’s much easier to sneak behind their backs…or right under their nose.

  In the guesthouse, I do minor snooping, but I decide not to fuck him over just yet. If he catches me now, I’ll never get his trust back. I need to time my move right, when I know I won’t get caught. When he’s the most vulnerable.

  I prove myself to him by baking in the hot sun in full view of his office window. My languid muscles sink into the lounge chair, and for the first time in a really long time, I allow myself to do absolutely nothing except ignore the thrum of anticipation that beats in my veins. My mind supplies a thousand scenarios for what his surprise for me might be, and each one ends the way it absolutely shouldn’t: with his arms around me. I jump into the pool so the cold water can seep into my pores and knock some damn sense into me. I can’t be feeling like this around him.

  A quick shower does nothing to dissuade the thoughts either, and I tremble with something like nerves as I get dressed. If he has a surprise, I need to be ready, and the slinky black cocktail dress with lace trim I brought just in case is certainly ready. I swipe silver sparkles over my eyes and ruby blush along my cheeks, a reminder of why I’m here.

  At four thirty P.M., he comes out freshly showered and shaved. His sandy colored hair is perfectly coiffed with a trendy side part. He looks amazing in designer jeans that hug his thighs and a tailored button down. He clears his throat and I startle, looking away fast. I didn’t even realize I was staring.

  He raises a brow. “Ready?”

  My toes curl in anticipation, but I glance down at the floor. I’m not ready to spend more time with him. Not when his blue eyes make my knees wobble. “Sure,” I say. Casual. I n
eed to keep casual. Keep this casual.

  When we step outside, a stretch limo idles in the driveway, its black exterior gleaming in the hot afternoon sun. I nearly trip on my heels in shock, though I guess I should have expected this. The guy did drop several mil on an old brooch.

  He pulls the door open for me.

  I raise my brow at him. “And here I would have thought you were chivalrous with just an Uber.”

  He rubs his palm against the back of his scalp. “Oh. Actually. This is my driver, Leo.”

  I blink at him. “You have a driver? But, you never go anywhere.”

  He shrugs. “Well, if I ever need to, I’ve got Leo.” He pats the roof of the limo and a tinny sound reverberates.

  I slide into the plush seats and relax against the luxury of it, outstretching my arms across the entire length of the long row. He laughs as he settles in against the seat in the back, facing forward. There’s a pang of regret swelling deep in my gut, and I try not to look longingly at the empty space beside him, a space that would perfectly fit my body.

  “I’d offer you champagne, but—“ He leans in conspiratorially. “You’re going to want to be sober for this.”

  “Color me intrigued.”

  He bites his lip, hiding his adorable smirk, and oh God, I can’t look at him. My stomach does a little flip flop.

  The limo pulls up to the hottest restaurant in Miami, Osteria Romana, which boasts an exclusive eight-month waiting list and a menu designed by the most elite chef to hit the Miami market in a decade, Giorgio Buonarroti.

  I gasp. “Whoa. How many strings did you have to pull to get on the wait list?”

  Colby’s eyes sparkle in the sunlight. “I did you one better than the wait list.”