The Playboy's Office Romance

by Karen Toller Whittenburg

  “Think of it as a tool,” Peter said, eyeing the slope with a narrowed gaze. “To aid you in making important decisions.”

  “Sort of like flipping a coin? Sink the ball, yes. Miss the putt, no?”

  “More like you focus on improving your golf game and allow your subconscious to deal with the decisions.”

  “Sounds a little risky considering I don’t play golf.”

  “You’ll have to start now that you’re a big mucky-muck.” Peter made a slight adjustment, then pushed to his feet and reached for the putter. “All chief execs play golf and they all have a nifty indoor green like this one in their office.”

  “Adam didn’t.”

  “Adam’s a workaholic.”

  Bryce smiled easily. “Are you saying I’m not?”

  Peter lined up the first putt. “You work harder at enjoying life than anyone I know, which is why I’ve brought you this little gift. It’s my way of saying congratulations and don’t let that big desk and leather chair go to your head.” He tapped the golf ball and sent it rolling unerringly down the strip of artificial turf. Peter was a natural athlete although he seldom bothered to compete. Bryce suspected his younger sibling had always tamped down his competitive nature in order to avoid any possibility of a confrontation with either of his big brothers. It couldn’t have been easy coming to the Hall as an overgrown weed of a boy and finding a whole new family with an intimidating set of expectations. Nine was hardly the best age for a transition from one life to another; from virtual obscurity to public notoriety; from a series of ramshackle homes to an ancestral mansion. But like both Adam and Bryce, Peter hadn’t been given a choice. He was a Braddock, even if the family hadn’t known he existed before the day James brought him home. The Braddock brothers were all orphans in one way or another; motherless boys all three. Bryce considered it a tribute to their grandparents—especially their Grandmother Jane—that they’d all grown up to be self-confident, caring and responsible men. Different as noon from midnight, but still solid and secure in who they were as individuals, and in their role as members of an old and prestigious family.

  “It’s a great gift, Pete,” he said, indicating the indoor green with a nod. “When I’ve been CEO long enough to actually get to make a decision, I’m sure it will come in handy.”

  Peter handed over the putter for Bryce to try. “Decision-making comes sometime after the second week, I believe, which leaves you at least the rest of this afternoon and all next week to goof off.”

  “I’m trying to impress people with my brilliant business style. Goofing off doesn’t seem the best way to go about it.”

  “Trust me, you’ve already impressed them by showing up every day for five days in a row. Even I’m impressed. To be honest, I didn’t think you’d last through the first eight hours.”

  Bryce was getting just a bit tired of people being surprised he had any work ethic at all. There had been little digs all week from friends and family alike. Sly remarks about stock prices taking a nosedive—which they hadn’t. Tongue-in-cheek remarks about long lunch hours and even longer afternoon naps. Remarks which were meant to be teasing—but weren’t. Little comments from the staff that told him the odds were running long against him. Drawing the ball onto the rubber mat with the putter, he debated tackling Peter on the subject. “You know,” he said, lining up the putt. “Just because I’ve never taken an active interest in running this company doesn’t mean I’ve never taken any interest in it at all. Until now, there was just no reason or opportunity to show what I do know.” Bryce tapped the ball toward the hole…and missed.

  “Adam’s a tough act for anybody to follow and I certainly don’t envy you the task,” Peter said. “What I want is for you to do this your way and not his.”

  Before he could follow through and assure his brother that he had every intention of playing this corporate game by his own rules, there was a tap at the door and Lara walked in. She’d been doing that all week, hadn’t hesitated, hadn’t waited for an invitation, had simply tapped on the door and entered. As if he couldn’t possibly be busy. As if it were inconceivable he might be on the phone or in a meeting. As if she couldn’t imagine any reason she should wait. He knew she did it partly to annoy him and partly as a subtle reminder that she believed she had more right to this office than he did. She would never have just walked in on Adam.

  But while she hadn’t exactly treated Bryce with all due respect this first week, she hadn’t been overtly hostile, either and he planned to choose his battles with her very carefully. He’d make his point when he was ready and not a moment before, because contrary to her long-held prejudice, he wasn’t as dumb as she believed him to be. He knew her knowledge of the company and her passion for it couldn’t be easily replaced and he didn’t want to lose her. Not yet, anyway. But that hadn’t stopped him from wishing many times over the course of the past four and a half days that he’d just let her resign on Monday and saved himself a good deal of grief.

  “Hello, Peter,” she said pleasantly, flashing a smile so incredibly warm it all but upped the temperature of the room by several degrees. But then her glance swung to Bryce, encompassing both him and the golf game in a coolly passive-aggressive disapproval. “I have some PBRs for you to approve and the contract amendment for the Boston Fidelity project.” She handed him a stack of papers the size of a small bomb, then her smile warmed again and swung back to Peter. “Great job on the Atlanta project,” she said. “I spoke with Ed Barnes yesterday and he couldn’t stop talking about how much he liked your work. A real rave review, Peter. You should be very proud.”

  “Thanks.” Peter smiled in response. “I am rather proud of that whole project…if only because Adam really liked it.”

  “And we’re all aware what a compliment that is,” she said with the teasing tone of an insider.

  And Bryce felt suddenly very much like an outsider. “I should probably take a look at that file,” he said.

  “Why?” Lara’s incredulous tone indicated her surprise that he even expressed an interest. “The deal’s done and the plans are already with the construction manager.”

  “I’d like to be brought up to speed on all our recent projects. I’m sure you can arrange that for me.” Bryce tried for an authoritative tone, the CEO simply making a request, telling Lara in so many words he didn’t want to be shut out of the loop. The Atlanta project was in the final stages of approval, with actual construction scheduled to begin next month. As the architect, Peter had worked very hard on the concept. As the CEO, Adam had worked very hard on guiding the project to a green-light status. As senior vice president, Lara would be the liaison between Braddock Construction and the customer. As the newly appointed chief executive, Bryce had nothing to do with any of it. Unless, of course, something went wrong, in which case, he figured the blame would somehow come to rest at his door. Which was reason enough to know the history on any project. He handed the putter over to his brother. “Take another turn while I go over these reports.”

  “I’ve checked the figures,” Lara told him. “All you need to do is initial beside Adam’s name.”

  Peter grinned. “It may take a couple of years to get your name on the stationery.”

  “It takes longer than a week.” Lara glanced at Bryce, her luscious lips curved upward in a smile, her eyes letting him know she doubted he’d be around long enough to have his name on the letterhead.

  “I’ll just read these reports anyway,” Bryce said.

  Lara was too professional to shrug, so she turned to Peter with another warm smile. “Any word from Adam and Katie?”

  Peter shook his head. “Not even a postcard.”

  “They are on their honeymoon, you know.” Bryce carried the stack of reports to his desk and put them on top of yet another stack. He was beginning to think the only thing Braddock Industries built, was a mountain of paperwork.

  “Honeymoon or not, it isn’t like Adam not to check in.” Lara took the putter from Peter.

&nbs
p; “I think we’re all seeing a new, wholly unexpected side of Adam.” Peter winked at Bryce in an exchange of fraternal understanding. “Our grandmother always told us, the love of a good woman would make us better men, but I thought she was being overly optimistic.”

  “I always thought she was teasing,” Bryce said. “It’s hard to believe she thought we could get any better.”

  “There’s always room for improvement, and some people have more room than others.” Lara bent to position the golf ball on the mat, her body curving like a slender willow, smooth and graceful.

  Bryce admired the view, deciding there was at least one thing in this office which needed no improvement whatsoever. “Are you a golfer, Lara?”

  “No,” she replied absently, lining up the putt and sinking it like a pro. “Never had the time to learn.” With a smile, she handed the putter back to Peter and dusted her hands, adding yet another accomplishment to her long list of efficiencies. No muss. No fuss. No bother.

  Bryce seemed to be the odd man out in this competition. He frowned and turned his attention to the reports, reading the first one in a glance and reaching for a pen to etch in his initials. His hand came up empty. “I need a pen,” he said.

  “A pen?” Lara asked as if he’d requested a breath of fresh air. “You don’t even have a pen?”

  He refused to let her needle him and offered, instead, his best and most professional smile. “Why should I keep up with my pens when I have a lovely assistant who will gladly fetch one for me?”

  She bristled. “I don’t fetch for any man, gladly or otherwise.”

  “Hmm,” Bryce said. “I thought surely I listed that under your new job description. I’ll ask Nell to check on it because if we left off fetching for boss, we’ll certainly need to make an amendment.”

  Her lips tightened. “Just give those reports to Nell when you’re done. Goodbye, Peter. It’s always a pleasure to see you.” Emphasis on the last word, of course. Take that! her body language said to Bryce as she walked to the door, head high, shoulders back, hips swaying tightly with her agitation. But he missed the point because even when she was angry, her backside provided a very intriguing view. The door closed behind her with a definitive click!

  “Some resistance to the new management style?” Peter asked, a grin lurking in his eyes.

  Bryce shrugged good-naturedly. “Change is more of a challenge for some than others.”

  “That particular challenge could turn out to be more than you bargained for, brother. I’d be careful with her if I were you.”

  “What could happen?” he asked with a laugh. “Are you afraid she might mastermind a mutiny? Instigate a paper clip rebellion? Murder me with kindness?”

  “I think it could be worse than that.” Peter picked up the putter and returned to the indoor green. “There was a lot of intensity in this office just now.”

  Locating a pen, Bryce initialed the first report and moved on to the second. “There always is whenever Lara and I are in the same space. I’m used to it.”

  “Mmm.” Peter positioned the golf ball on the mat. “She’s certainly a beautiful woman.”

  “Yes, and I’ve always thought that was particularly unfair. The soul of an ice maiden in the body of a sex goddess. Somewhere in heaven, the angels must be laughing at what a great joke that is.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe they’re just pulling up chairs for a ringside seat.”

  Bryce looked up. “To watch what? Don’t think for a second that I can’t appreciate her beauty without getting close enough to freeze to death. Right now, I need her business expertise. I know that. But if she gets to be more trouble than she’s worth, she’s history.”

  “Mmm.” Peter sank yet another putt. “All I’m saying is you need to be careful with her. Any time you see that much smoke, somewhere there’s a fire.”

  Bryce laughed, initialing faster as the reports became monotonous. “Thanks for the laugh, Pete, as well as the indoor golf. There’s been a dearth of humor in this office. Maybe I’ll ask Nell to subscribe everybody to the joke of the day on the Internet. What we need around here is more fun, don’t you agree?”

  “Next time I come by, I’ll bring a basketball goal.”

  “Great. I’ll have my lovely assistant suit up for a game.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather beat me yourself?”

  Bryce grinned. “Yes, but Lara would look much better in the uniform and I figure that’s a fair tradeoff, regardless of who wins.”

  SKIRT HIKED UP on her thighs, belly flat to the floor, Lara reached as far as she could under the bed in a fruitless attempt to nab her nephew. “Calvin, I mean it. Give me my keys right now.”

  He giggled with the high-pitched glee of a child who knows he’s in trouble, but is still pretending it’s all a big game.

  “Cal,” she repeated, extending her arm another fraction of an inch and wondering why she’d ever bought such a big bed in the first place. Stretching her fingers, she just managed to brush against the nubby flannel hem of his boxers. He flatly refuted any need for pajamas, stating he was a big boy and old enough to sleep in his underwear, sounding like something her idiot brother would have said to a four-year-old, but Lara didn’t feel pajamas were worth a struggle. Although on mornings like this one, she wondered why she didn’t put the kid to bed in a straitjacket.

  She wiggled her shoulder, scrunched lower under the wooden side rail and managed to gain enough ground to reach his bony elbow. But he jerked away with another giggle and her hand closed on the rim of a plastic bowl, her fingers plunging knuckle-deep into the slimy concoction Cal fondly called breakfast. “Oh, Calvin,” she said, disgusted. “Yuck. Couldn’t you at least have left your breakfast on the table when you took off with my keys?”

  “I’m eatin’ bre’kf’ss under your bed, Aunt Lara.” And he sounded plenty proud of himself for the accomplishment, too.

  Lara withdrew her hand, trying not to attract dust bunnies with the slimy pulp clinging to her fingers. Peanut butter and banana smashed into mush was the kid’s favorite food. He wanted it for breakfast, he wanted it for lunch, he wanted it for dinner, he wanted it for snacks. The pediatrician had said she should try to vary his diet, but considering the drama Cal’s life had been for several weeks, it wasn’t all that surprising the child wanted one thing in his life to remain constant, at least until he felt more settled.

  Settled seemed to be an elusive feeling for Calvin, though, because he refused every other option offered. It was peanut butter and banana or nothing. So Lara gave him peanut butter and mashed up banana in a bowl—bread seemed to be out of the question—with a spoon and a glass of milk, and hoped he’d ask for a hamburger soon. She was beginning to smell bananas in her sleep and somehow, little dabs of the peanut butter goo clung to her fingernails and wound up in the strangest places. Since Calvin’s arrival in her life, washing her hands was becoming an every-five-minutes occurrence.

  “Calvin,” she said sternly, as she headed into the bathroom to wash her hands, yet again. “Get out from under my bed right now. I’m not kidding.”

  “I’m eatin’ my bre’kf’ss, Aunt Lara.”

  “You come out from under there right now.” Her voice was as threatening as she could make it, and when she saw herself in the bathroom mirror, she realized she looked pretty threatening, too. During the chase, several strands of hair had fallen forward onto her face, escapees from the braid she’d twisted into a coronet at the nape of her neck. Her skirt was twisted and tousled, her nylons snagged and her silk blouse had lost its fresh-from-the-cleaners professional appearance. How, she wondered as she tucked the hair back into place, did mothers of four-year-olds ever get anywhere on time?

  “Mommy? I mean, Aunt Lara?” Cal appeared in the mirror behind her, his mouth smudged with leftover breakfast, his cowlick waving like a white flag, the plastic bowl nowhere in sight.

  Lara sighed, figuring she’d have ants by the time she got home from work unless she crawled under the bed again and retr
ieved Cal’s breakfast bowl. “What, Cal?”

  “I love you very, very, very, very much!” His gap-toothed smile flashed at her in the mirror and then his arms wrapped around her thighs in a boy-sized hug. The kid was a master manipulator.

  She could feel the stickiness of his fingers through her nylons, realized he was unintentionally wiping his mouth against her linen skirt, knew there was no hope of salvaging this outfit. She’d have to change clothes, which meant she’d arrive at work even later than she had the day before. Her reputation for being the first to arrive at the executive offices was suffering from a severe case of the mommy-track…a track she certainly hadn’t planned to take even as a slight detour. But as must be the way with real mothers, being late for work suddenly didn’t seem such a terrible compromise to make. “I love you, too, Cal,” she said and stooped to gather him in a fierce hug.

  The doorbell rang a cheery summons. “Bridget’s here,” she said relieved, but somehow also reluctant to hand over the rest of Cal’s morning to the nanny.

  But already his brown eyes were widening with excitement, his attention shifting. “Bridget,” he said and ran lickety-split from the room.

  Okay, Lara thought. She’d start over, redo her hair, change her clothes, get a broom or something with a long handle and retrieve the bowl from under the bed and, hopefully, her keys with it. Then she’d ask Bridget—beg her if necessary—to come a half hour earlier every morning.

  She couldn’t continue getting in late. Not when Bryce made a point of arriving on time. Not when he ignored her tardiness, acted as if it didn’t matter. But she knew he noticed, knew he marked it down on some cerebral scorecard, knew he would use it against her in some way, at some time in the future.

  Glancing at the clock, Lara reached around to unzip her skirt. When her hand encountered a gooey streak of leftover peanut butter and banana, she sighed as she stepped out of the skirt and turned to wash her hands one more time. Bryce might be the one keeping score, but Calvin was definitely his able accomplice.

  “MRS. FAIRCHILD, what a delightful surprise.”