by Brea Viragh
Hold My Heart
Brea Viragh
Hold My Heart © Brea Viragh 2019
All rights reserved. The moral right of the author has been asserted. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. Nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than the work in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction.
Cover Artist: Sweet N’ Spicy Designs
Editor: Deborah Anderson
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Hold My Heart
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
AFTERWORD
About the Author
A love she didn’t want. A child she didn’t expect.
Olympia Trumbald thought she had her life planned out. After her husband passed away, she resigned herself to a simple routine: work, home, repeat. Children are not a part of the equation, until her cousin dies and leaves his daughter in Olympia’s care.
She needs help ASAP. Enter Harlan Anderson, the only manny—male nanny—she’s ever come across. Her life is not only turned upside down with the addition of a child, but Harlan seems determined to keep her on her toes with his interesting opinions and odd way of doing things.
How can a small child, a stubborn male, and a strange new home dynamic help Olympia discover the truth about what she wants in life? And can she save her sanity before she loses it entirely?
Opposites attract in this steamy contemporary romance.
Chapter 1
She was in George Clooney’s arms. He held her close with his lips on her neck, alternating between kisses and whispering sweet things in her ear. Things like “you are the most beautiful woman in the world” and “I love voluptuous thighs on a woman. Please wrap yours around me.”
She was only too happy to oblige.
It was the best damn dream Olympia Trumbald had had in a long, long time. Until George opened his mouth and a harsh screech came out. Worse when she realized it was the smoke alarm going off. At work. Again. And she was fully awake.
“Will someone shut that off?” Olympia called out. “Maintenance!”
It went off intermittently, a technological game the alarm played where it decided to screech at random and inopportune moments.
She held her hands over her ears until the piercing scream of the siren silenced minutes later. With her ears ringing, she thought longingly back to George and wondered if she had a free second to return to his arms.
“Are you listening to me?”
Nope, apparently not. Olympia turned around with a half groan, half growl, struggling to follow her assistant Ashleigh’s conversation. “Of course I am,” she answered tersely. “Go on.”
She spared a look at Ashleigh, with her punk-ish blond hair and blue crop top. It would have been better to spend time with George, she thought, following the girl—“girl” because Ashleigh was a scant twenty years old—through the main portion of the gallery. The girl looked like she would be better suited playing with dolls than helping Olympia handle the biggest gallery fundraiser of her career. The event that would make or break her promotion.
“We have a few more pieces from James Wilko to hang on the wall, and I was thinking the sculpture by Dryer would be perfect near the window in the corner,” Ashleigh was saying, pointing as if she was in feng shui tune with the space.
Olympia shook her head. “No. The light in that corner isn’t right. His work is too intricate, too detailed. It needs a center space. It needs to steal the show.”
“With all due respect, ma’am, the piece isn’t large enough for the center of the room.”
“Then we pair it with a second sculpture, at differing heights to showcase each.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” a trembling tenor voice called from across the room. “I kind of think it would look good by the window. The natural light would highlight the details, don’t you think?”
Olympia stiffened. Her boss had a nasty habit of popping up when he wasn’t wanted. She had serious reservations about his creative vision most days.
He strode forward, standing a scant five-foot-three, hands in his jacket pockets and black-rimmed glasses perched on a hawkish nose. His white hair looked more Bea Arthur than Warhol, and his voice was more Pee-wee’s Playhouse than Clooney. Was she being bitter? Probably. Honest? You betcha.
“With all due respect, Carl,” Olympia said, finger impatiently tapping on the clipboard she carried, “we’re hammering out the last-minute bugs with the gallery layout for the fundraiser. This is the final crucial step of planning before we set everything in motion. If we move the sculpture again,” that part was said more to Ashleigh than to her boss, “then it causes a tidal wave of issues for the rest of the pieces. We only have a month left.”
She hated the way her last words cracked at the end because it meant she was stressed, and the last thing she wanted was to show off her nerves in front of those two. The show needed to go off without a hitch. If it did, it meant more money for the gallery, better artists coming in, and more media presence. It would mean the culmination of years of work.
If it failed? She’d be out. It was clear to her that young Ashleigh was after her position, and if the fundraiser was a bust...Carl would blame Olympia and she’d be out on her ass before she could tell him to shove it where the sun didn’t shine.
It was a risk she couldn’t allow.
Being the curator for the Parrish Art Museum in Water Mill, New York, kept her busy most days and drowning in boredom others. But it was her passion. She loved being surrounded by the masters. Paintings and sculptures by some of the greatest artists, remembered by history, cared for by her and her team. If it wasn’t the greats, it was local artists wanting a foothold, a chance to display the pieces they’d worked so hard to create.
An exhibit was coming up the following month and they were getting in pieces from across the country. For the most part, her concentration was focused on the details that tied the whole picture together. This week, however, she was all over the map. Scattered in a way she hadn’t felt since she was a teenager and unsure of where she wanted her life to go. Scattered like how she’d felt after her parents died.
Carl studied the area in question, the bright corner currently occupied by another piece standing nearly nine feet toward the vaulted ceiling. “Ashleigh might have a point, Oly.”
Ugh, she hated when he called her Oly. It was juvenile in the worst way.
“I mean, the piece in question—” he continued.
“Dryer’s Matriarch.”
“Yes, that one. Wouldn’t it be splendidly illuminated in the afternoon light? With the sun’s rays catching the red of the maple tree outside? I can see it now...”
“Sir, by the time the fundraiser starts, the leaves will be off the trees. The fundraiser is scheduled for November.”
And it wouldn’t matter whether the red light of afternoon hit the damn thing or not. It would be in the center of the room on full display, where it belonged. Because out of the three of them, Olympia was the onl
y one with a degree in art history and had at least an educated instinct about these things. But even her seven years at the gallery didn’t seem to matter when Carl got an idea in his head.
“Let’s move on, shall we?” Olympia swiveled around for a swift exit and rammed straight into Ashleigh. Knocked off balance, she stumbled back on her heels, dropping the clipboard, tripping over her own feet, stubbing her toe on the marble pedestal and then scrambling to keep the copper wire statue she’d bumped from falling to the floor.
She growled, trying not to give in to the stream of curses welling up in her throat. Her toe throbbed and at once her heels felt three sizes too small. One breath at a time, she told herself. It was a mantra she frequently repeated throughout the day. It probably added up to fifty percent or more of her mental chatter.
“I’m fine,” she said, more for her benefit than anyone else’s. Carl and Ashleigh were halfway across the room, chatting over a different sculpture, a different painting. Paying no attention to her. Thick as thieves.
It made her job harder, Olympia thought, straightening out her shirt and squaring her shoulders. Plastering a fake smile on her face. She retrieved the clipboard from the floor before walking over to join the duo.
“Ashleigh, I need the oils sorted for rotation this week.”
They stared at each other, neither looking away until Ashleigh forced an I-can’t-be-bothered-with-you smile. “Right now?”
The attitude made Olympia want to tear her hair out. She barely reacted but felt a muscle clench in her jaw. The girl was hardly twenty and had a serious authority complex. Olympia herself was pushing the tail end of her thirties and wasn’t used to children of any age. Hell, she hadn’t even been one. Her mother always insisted she’d burst from the womb with an agenda and a pen.
“Yes, right now. We have a lot planned for the day and I want to get it all in before we break for lunch.” She swallowed a sigh when the fire alarm went off again. “Maintenance!”
She was going out of her mind. Pull it together, she tried to tell herself when the breathing mantra didn’t work. She had another month and a little bit to get the details hammered out for the gallery show. A month and a little bit to prove she had what it took to not only run the gallery for Carl but bring in more revenue and eyes on local artists.
She was about to jog—in a very ladylike manner—out of the room and strangle the maintenance worker doing God knows what on the alarm system. Also in a very ladylike manner. She was interrupted mid-stride by her cell phone.
Carl swiveled in her direction with an eyebrow arched.
“It’s fine.” Olympia reached down and silenced the monster in her trouser pocket. “Probably just my mom again.”
Carl crooked a finger in her direction. “I want to talk to you more about the stencils in the hallway. I was thinking we could—”
Her phone rang again, and mortification didn’t begin to describe what she felt. Her insipid smile was the first step in covering up her embarrassment. She held out a finger. “One moment. It must be an emergency. She knows better than to call me at work.” Olympia fumbled for the phone, her clipboard determined to slip out of her hands again, and finally pressed the button to answer. “Hello?”
“Is this Mrs. Trumbald?” inquired a masculine voice.
So it wasn’t Mrs. Nunez, unless the woman had been secretly gorging herself on testosterone. “It depends on the person on the other end. May I ask who is calling?” She blinked bleary eyes at the red numbers of the clock across the room. Stifled a growl when they blurred together. Her staff would be breaking for lunch in thirty minutes. She didn’t have time to waste on telemarketers.
“Mrs. Trumbald, my name is Marvin Bower, I’m an attorney, and I’ve been appointed as trustee for your cousin’s estate.”
Olympia, with her finger still held high for good measure, sent an apologetic look to Carl and tried to distance herself by walking across the room. “Sorry, you have me mistaken for someone else. I don’t have a cousin.”
“Your mother’s brother’s only child? Joshua Salant?”
“My mother is dead.”
“Then who is it you thought was on the other line?” Carl called out.
Damn. Still within listening range. She didn’t have the time to explain her odd relationship with her neighbor and the way the older Hispanic woman had appointed herself Olympia’s guardian. Mrs. Nunez liked to be called Mom and settled for nothing less.
Her mind was still too focused on her to-do list to understand what the man was saying.
“Oh, yes, I’m aware. Miss Marianne Salant, married to Gilbert Crane, both deceased.” Papers shuffled in the background. “I have their death certificates in front of me, along with those of your aunt and uncle. I’m speaking of your cousin, Joshua.”
“Joshua...oh. Oh! Oh God, that’s right. Josh.” Olympia drew in a breath. “I haven’t thought about him in years. When was the last time we saw each other? Must have been when we were about five. His father took a job in...where was it? France?” She was rambling again. Why couldn’t she turn off her mouth?
“Paris, yes,” Marvin Bower continued. “However, I’m afraid this is not a simple courtesy call.”
“Wait a minute. You said trustee. Estate. Did something happen?” Her stomach lurched in the familiar way it did when she received bad news. Which happened more often than not in her life. One would think she’d be used to it.
“I regret to tell you there was an accident last week. Your cousin and his wife lost their lives.”
Another accident. More senseless death. Her mind flashed back to her parents’ car wreck. Her husband’s. “I’m...wow. I’m sorry to hear that. Were they in the States at the time? No, that doesn’t matter.” She was slowly coming awake to the situation, the gears in her mind clicking into place.
“As I’m sure you’re aware, you are your cousin’s closest living relative. Therefore, the task of managing the bulk of his estate passes to you.”
“Wait. I inherited property in France?” She struggled to understand.
“No, Mrs. Trumbald. I’m sorry to tell you any property must be sold to pay the debts—”
The phone crackled and the rest of his statement was lost. “Sorry, what was that?”
“I said—”
Static answered her back and she held the cell away from her ear. “Where are you? I can hardly hear a word you’re saying.”
When Marvin finally came back on, he was practically shouting. “I asked if you are free to meet me this afternoon!”
Thank goodness she had held the phone away from her ear. “I have a few appointments but I can push them back depending on the time. What works best for you?”
“Actually, now works best for me. Can you meet me at the Radisson? As soon as you can.”
“Now? Well...all right, I guess that works, but it has to be quick. I’ve got so many things to do today—”
“Yes,” he interrupted, “no problem.” They set up a rendezvous point to meet and Olympia signed off, stunned at the sudden turn of unexpected events.
Her poor cousin. She didn’t know the details yet, but it made her feel bad thinking about it. He wasn’t much older than she was. A couple of years at the most. Then again, she had become a widow at thirty-four. Maybe she needed to adjust her thinking a little bit.
Guilt rose over the years of disconnected distance between them. She’d never reached out once the family moved, except for the occasional Christmas card. Now she’d never get the opportunity.
Wow, she was a terrible cousin. Which was inexcusable because she didn’t have much family to keep in touch with anymore. Josh might have been her only living relative on the spectrum, barring of course those third- and fourth-removed type cousins and aunts and uncles in the greater range. With whom she’d also never interacted.
She should have done better. Reached out to Josh. Kept track and kept in touch.
Then again, where had he been when her husband committed suicide two ye
ars ago? Oh, that’s right. In Paris.
Olympia let her back hit the wall and thought about beating something for the emotional release. Sometimes the feelings were too much for her to handle, and she needed an outlet. This was why she’d toyed with the idea of setting up a punching bag in her basement, with the option for a similar but miniature model in her work office.
Pull yourself together. Maybe the good thoughts would work this time.
“Carl, I need to head out,” she called, glancing down at her clipboard and the workload for the day she hadn’t yet accomplished.
She heard the harried click of his heels along the floor. “You were just saying you had a full plate scheduled for today,” he told her almost petulantly.
“I realize what I said. However, an emergency has come up and I’ll need to step out of the office for an hour. At the most.”
He stared at her, one of those I-can’t-believe-you’re-serious looks similar to the one Ashleigh had given her earlier. What did they do, hang out together in their spare time?
“An hour, tops,” Olympia reiterated. “I’ll be back as soon as possible.”
Trying not to look at him, she strode past and into her office to grab her purse.
Josh was dead? Her only remaining close relative was now gone too? Why did this suddenly make her feel exceedingly sad? And more alone than ever? “Everything is going to be fine,” she told her reflection in the small mirror on the wall near her desk. Her reflection smiled back at her, earnest if somewhat strained. “This is just a standard meeting to finalize the estate. No big deal.”
At least she hoped it was no big deal. After everything she’d gone through after her husband passed away, she wasn’t willing to dive into that particular arena again. Hopefully, Josh had a better plan in place than Dan had. The same Dan who had assured her multiple times he had made a will and she would be taken care of if anything happened to him.
That hadn’t been the case. He’d lied about having his affairs in order. And instead of letting her in to help him handle things before it was too late, he’d shut her out on the important stuff. Like he’d shut her out on his struggle with depression and bipolar disorder. Like he’d chosen instead to self-medicate with illegal prescription drugs and alcohol until he succumbed to both.
