Imperfect Love: Unsupervised (Kindle Worlds Novella)

by Cora Kenborn

  The power that woman possesses freaks me out, I’m not going to lie.

  Had I known then what I know now, I would’ve never blindly jumped into her web. There’s an old Irish proverb that says,the future is not set, there is no fate but what we make for ourselves. Loosely translated, it means if you’re going to shite the bed, you still have to lie in it.

  Of course, I may be paraphrasing.

  So, here I am, lying in my own shite bed, and the bitch has me trapped. Now she’s watching me from the sidelines, biding her time until she can crawl over on her eight legs and devour me like the black widow she really is. I should’ve known then it would come back and bite me in the arse.

  “I’m just saying,” Vince reiterates, taking one last bite as he closes the clasp on his briefcase and drags it off the table. “You haven’t gotten laid in a while. Gloria’s no spring chicken, but there’s something to be said for the age and experience of a hen who’s been around a block fifty or sixty times.” Slapping a hand on my back, he tucks the pastry into one corner of his cheek and grins. “Think about it, Niall. She won’t leave you alone until you pay her back. Might as well get it over with.”

  He’s out the door and down the hall before I can think of a sufficient comeback, leaving me alone with the one woman no man should ever be left alone with, unless he’s wearing a cup.

  Or five.

  Gloria trails her fingers along the outer edge of the conference table with one hand, wiping the lipstick from the corner of her mouth with the other. She’s wearing a tailored black business suit with a red blouse underneath, making her look even more like her arachnid namesake. I have no idea what I’m in for, but by the hungry look on her face, it’s nothing good.

  “How is Sophie doing in school?” she asks, invading my personal space. The question sounds innocent enough, but I’ve been around Gloria enough to know that every word out of her mouth is backed by an agenda. Besides, with my track record, I don’t trust any woman as far as I can throw them.

  “Grand,” I answer, feeling my jaw clench as she closes the distance between us. “Cheers for the recommendation. She loves her teachers, her friends—”

  “I just love helping children,” she purrs, cutting me off mid-sentence.

  Helping them, or baking them in the oven?

  I have trust issues in general, but with Gloria, the minute she mentions my eight-year-old daughter’s name, warning bells go off in my head. The more I’m alone with her, the more I sense that Vince is right, and I’m about three seconds away from losing my shite and landing in the unemployment line. It’s not that Gloria’s a troll; she’s decent looking for an older woman, and if I’d met her in a bar and was desperate and drunk enough, I might even consider letting her get me off. At the end of the day, I’m still a guy. But I have a strict policy of not shitting where I sleep. Nothing good can come out of mixing sex and work. Especially with a crazy bitch like her.

  She sits on the conference table and crosses her long, toned legs. “So, the gala is getting closer. There’s so much to do before it gets here. I’m so humbled to be the guest of honor.” Pressing her hand against her chest, she feigns shock, and I can’t help but roll my eyes. There’s a moment or two of silence between us before she leans back on her palms and appraises me. “You don’t have to thank me for this opportunity, Niall.”

  I cock an eyebrow, irritation at being held hostage for a full five minutes now starting to overtake my forced good nature. “Thank you?”

  “For my arranging for you to be the official photographer for the social event of the year. I know you haven’t had a chance to thank me, but that’s okay, I have a way you can make it up to me as well as for getting Sophie into Ravenhill.”

  “Make it up to you? I was thinking a fruit basket would do the trick, to be honest, ma’am.”

  “It’s Gloria,” she corrects with a coy smile. “I’m not a woman who’s afraid to demand what she wants, Niall. When I do favors for someone, I expect favors in return. Sometimes those favors benefit me professionally, sometimes they’re of a more personal nature.”

  Shite. And here’s where I lose my job.

  “Personal nature?”

  I’m a relatively intelligent man. I was educated at Trinity College in Dublin, graduated with high marks, and consider myself to be gifted in both common sense as well as academics. However, for some reason, I’m standing there repeating everything she says like a feckin’ parrot.

  “An intimate nature,” she clarifies.

  Although I already know the answer, something compels me to ask anyway. “Aren’t you married?”

  Gloria gets up from the desk and wraps her index finger around the tie that I spent the entire meeting trying to prevent from choking me. Licking her lips, she pulls it out of my jacket and wraps it around her fist, pulling our chests together as she stands up on her tiptoes. “Technicality. We have an understanding. I understand his business ventures have to come first…and he understands that I have to come…repeatedly.”

  This…bitch.

  At first my heart thumps and sinks into the pit of my stomach. Then a hot blaze of irritation shoots through me. I’m about to shut this shite down right now. “While I’m flattered, ma’am—”

  “Gloria…”

  “I’m not interested.” An unwelcomed feeling pricks my skin. I’ve kept myself under the radar at Tate & Cane for two years. I’m the best damn photographer at this company and don’t get involved in anyone’s bullshite. I’ve prided myself on making my own way in this world and not bowing down to anyone. However, by the hard look in Gloria’s eye, a moment of weakness to ensure my daughter had the best education has now come back to bite me in the arse.

  Her gaze briefly lowers to my zipper and her mouth curves in a knowing smile. “It’s a shame about the overcrowding at Ravenhill, don’t you think?”

  “What?”

  “That’s the thing about gifts, Niall. What’s that phrase, easy come easy go?” Lifting a hand, she traces it along the waistband of my slacks.

  I think I’m a relatively easygoing guy. Give me a pint of the black stuff, Guinness, a good rugby match, and a regular piece of arse, and I’m a happy guy. I don’t bother anyone, I don’t start shite, and I’m not out to screw anyone over. However, screw with my kid, and I will become your worst nightmare.

  Reaching down, I smack her hand away from my belt with more force than necessary. “Are you threatening my daughter?”

  “Correction,” she says, raising a finger to emphasize her point. “I’m threatening your job and your daughter. One word from me and Sophie’s kicked out of Ravenhill and learning addition next to juvenile delinquents. And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it because you’ll be out on your ass peddling pictures in Central Park with a can and a cardboard sign.”

  I take a step back and stare into her cold green eyes. “You’re bluffing.”

  Annoyance flashes across her face and she laughs bitterly. “Am I? All I need to do is tell the headmaster that you falsified Sophie’s records and then tell Navarro that you offered sex to keep me quiet when I found out about it. Everything you have will be gone in an instant, Niall.”

  “I didn’t falsify anything and you know it.”

  “Who do you think they’re going be believe? A board member, or a second-rate photographer?”

  “Why do you even care?” I whisper, warning dripping from every word.

  “I’m bored,” she says by way of an explanation as she drops her eyes to my pants again. “And I want to know if your cock is as big as your sanctimonious Irish morals.”

  At this point I should’ve just told her to eat shite and die. Maybe to take the school and the job and shove it up her aerobicized arse. But unfortunately, that’s not what comes out. No, what comes out of my mouth is so much worse. So much more detrimental to my financial well-being.

  “I’m engaged,” I blurt out.

  I have no idea what possesses me to say the words. I obviously have
no forethought in the matter, or I’d have considered the fact that, eventually, I’ll have to provide an actual living, breathing woman as proof. And not the blow-up variety currently occupying Vince’s bedroom.

  “What?” Her voice shrieks a little as she pulls away and fists her hands by her side.

  “I’m engaged,” I repeat, putting a slight question at the end of my statement.

  Feckin’ hell, man up, Niall. If you’re going to sell this, stop being a pussy.

  Gloria’s jaw drops, then she quickly regains her composure and narrows her eyes in suspicion. “When did this happen?”

  Think, think, think.

  “Recently.” Yeah, like two seconds ago. “We met a couple of months ago. We’ve kept it low key.”

  Flattening her fire-engine-red lips, Gloria gives a hardened laugh, straightening her spine and running a hand down the length of her suit jacket. “I think you’re full of shit, Niall. I want to meet her. Bring her to the gala.”

  “That’s in four weeks.”

  “Is that a problem?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

  Shite. I can’t go back now. “No.”

  “Very well, then. Oh, and, Niall?” Weaving her fingers through my hair, she digs her fingernails into the back of my neck and stands on the toes of her red-soled heels. “Your fiancée is a lucky woman. I hope she knows that.” Gloria scrapes across my skin a little deeper and trails her hand down my chest.

  Having had enough, I grab her wrist and grip it with enough force to let her know I’m done being fecked with. With a jerk of her arm, she dislodges my hold and with a glare, she drags a pile of folders off the table and storms across the conference room without another word.

  I let out a harsh breath. What the hell had I done? What possessed me to tell her that I’m engaged? Of all the ridiculous things I’ve ever said, that may have just topped them all.

  The minute Gloria storms out, Vince trails in after her, his eyes bouncing back and forth between the two of us. “Dude, Gloria looks ready to kill someone.”

  “Vince, I need a date for the gala.”

  He grins and rubs his fingers together, obviously finding the challenge a welcome distraction from actually working. “Now you’re talking my language. I’ve got this under control. What kind of girl are you looking for…blonde, brunette, redhead, slutty?”

  I rub my hands over my face and sigh, knowing I’ve screwed myself in the worst way. “The kind who’ll agree to marry me in the next twenty-eight days.”

  Chapter Three

  Laken

  We regret to inform you that you have not made it to the second round of interviews for an internship at Tate & Cane Enterprises. While your skills are impressive, there were candidates with qualifications more suited to our immediate needs. Please feel free to reapply in the future.

  Increasing my pace across the snotty Upper East Side neighborhood in New York City, I ball the form letter in my hand and toss it into the nearest trashcan. Of course, I’ll reapply. The three previous attempts were just a practice run for the main event. No sweat. Fourth time’s the charm, right?

  Wrong.

  Fourth time will be a repeat performance of the epic failure that would soon be my professional career. After four years of undergrad and two years of busting my ass in graduate school at NYU, it’s now obvious I’ll live out the rest of my days as a nanny for Satan’s mistress. Even sucking up to Olivia Cane’s sister at NYU did nothing to advance me up the corporate food chain.

  Growing up, adults feed us all the same line of crap, and we fall victim to the biggest lie told on the face of the Earth.

  You can be anything so long as you work for it.

  Bullshit. I aced all the tests. I brought home all the medals. I was praised with the honors, and where did it get me? Hoofing it up the steps to the most hateful bitch in Manhattan. All the pie in the sky ideals I’d been force-fed by the authority figures of my youth backfired when I’d graduated college and had nothing to show for all that work but a stack of rejection letters.

  It’s always the same song and dance. You’re overqualified, Miss Cavanaugh. You’re underqualified, Miss Cavanaugh. You don’t have enough experience, Miss Cavanaugh. You’re wearing blue today, Miss Cavanaugh. You don’t have a dick, Miss Cavanaugh.

  Okay, I may have made that last one up, but still. You get how unfair it is, right?

  Pressing the numbered code to the massive wrought iron gate that leads to the estate I’d nicknamed Bitchtopia, I laugh at the irony that’s my life. The interesting thing about where I’ve ended up career-wise is that I’m not particularly fond of children. I’ve never had any desire for my own. However, when I don’t have my nose shoved in a book, I spend most of my time babysitting the kid from Jerry McGuire.

  Okay, he’s not really the kid from Jerry McGuire. That would be super creepy and a little disturbing considering that kid has to have a couple years on me, at least. He sure as hell looks like him though. What the hell is that actor’s name? Jonathan somebody?

  And what a great movie line about her completing him.

  Actually, it isn’t a great line. That line gives women unrealistic expectations of love and commitment. Screw you, Tom Cruise. Screw you and your meaningless bullshit. Renee Zellweger should’ve never fallen for that crap. The woman had a good, stable job with a respectable company, and just because old Tommy boy gave a rousing speech that stirred up her lady bits, she up and quit to work in a broom closet?

  No, thank you.

  I can’t help the involuntary eye roll as I climb the marble steps leading to the front porch. Front porch? Do four-million-dollar homes even have front porches, or is there some rich, pretentious name for them like podiatry landing plateaus? Rich people are funny like that.

  Thankfully, my eyes stop rolling for a second time before the door opens and dressed in a crisp, battleship gray maid uniform, Lollie forces a tight smile of sympathetic comradery on me. It means only one thing.

  Oh shit. Lady of Bitchtopia is home.

  “Seriously?” Dropping my head back, I shake it and sigh dramatically.

  Lollie just nods, the corners of her eyes pulling down with worry as she wrings her hands. “I tried to warn you, but you didn’t answer your texts.”

  In the year that I’d sold my soul to the devil, Lollie had become a sounding board for my disdain of all things Hammerle. She shares my opinions, yet remains less vocal, happy for me to take the lead in the Lady Hammerle character roasts. She’s a little skittish of any blowback, which I guess I understand considering she lives with the woman and depends on her for things like shelter and not being smothered in the middle of the night.

  And can we please talk about the name Lady Hammerle for a minute? Who the hell decided she was a Lady? The woman has no blood ties to royalty whatsoever, and if she’s British, I’m a Transformer.

  I pat the canvas backpack on my shoulder. “Turned it off. I didn’t want to deal with any more inquiries from home.”

  Her face falls as she smooths the gray-streaked hair in her tightly pulled bun. “Oh, dear, another rejection?”

  Groaning, I roll my eyes again, something that’s become a habit these days, when a shrill voice from inside the house carries through the foyer and invades my ears.

  “Preston Bartholomew Kingsford Hammerle! What is this vile thing?”

  I wince at hearing his full name.

  Did she want him to get his ass kicked?

  Preston’s little six-year-old voice floats past my ears. “It’s a butterfly rainbow, Mama. I made it for you.”

  She grunts, the loathing in her voice balling my fist on instinct. “Ugh, they’re dead and disgusting. Get that thing away from me.”

  “But it’s a present.”

  “Now, Preston! Don’t test me.”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  At the sound of the familiar sweet voice, I take in his crushed face and big, sad eyes behind his thick Coke bottle glasses. His lip quivers as his small hand balls up a piec
e of paper boasting dozens of meticulously taped butterflies, just as I’d done with my own letter only moments ago. Murderous thoughts fill my head as I shift my stare to the cold-hearted woman standing next to him sporting a well-honed bitch face.

  I mentioned that I hated children. Well, most children. All except for Preston. I had one focus in taking this job, and it wasn’t warm fuzzies from sticky-fingered hugs. Business was business. I’d wanted to stay detached, but I dare anyone not to love Preston. The kid reaches in and grabs your heart when you aren’t looking, rubbing it all over his squishy little face.

  “I think it’s beautiful, Pres,” I call out, hoping to erase his devastated frown. The moment he hears my voice, the corners of his eyes crinkle and his lips lift into a wide grin.

  “Butterflies,” he states, as if that says it all.

  And it does. To me.

  “Butterflies,” I repeat, returning his smile.

  However, blinding bleached teeth encased in fuck-me red lipstick ruins the moment. “Laken.”

  Mrs. Robinson…as I live and breathe.

  “Lady Hammerle. I’m surprised to see you home.”

  And sober.

  Glancing at her diamond-encrusted Rolex, she taps the crystal face and purses her inflated lips. “You’re late.”

  “Only a couple of minutes.”

  “A couple of anything in my world can mean thousands of dollars.” Her judging gaze sears into me as I fight to control my temper. “Time is money, and money defines your time.”

  Too bad your time is spent underneath anyone other than your husband.