by Imani King
“Just had a phone call,” I say, somewhat defensively. I run my fingers through my hair and think that I might need to make an appointment to get that shit cut. I probably look like a pile of junk with my hair this long. Combined with the black t-shirt and jeans, someone might mistake me for a hipster guitarist. “I wasn’t—I wasn’t…’ I blather at Stacy. “Dammit, woman, what is it?”
“You have four interviews, starting in—” Stacy looks at her smartwatch. “Five minutes.”
“It’s a Saturday, Stacy. I was planning on going surfing.” I lean back in my chair and tap a pencil against the table, hoping I’m giving off the air that I actually remembered about the interviews. I was planning on sitting in here for a while, updating my stock profile, having a casual call with a couple of people whose tech companies I’m interested in buying, and heading out directly the hell after that.
“You can still go surfing. Later.” Stacy glares at me in what I hope is a good-natured way.
“Good then. I’ll just pack up my stuff and you can do the interviews…” I smile hopefully and Stacy just shakes her head as if to say, No you lazy douchebag—do your damn job.
To tell the truth though, I didn’t start a company or become a billionaire so I could actually work. I built a company that would run itself beautifully. I put in my one-hundred hour weeks for the past five years, and since we went public, I’m done with that crap.
I suppress another sinking feeling in my chest.
And then the hell what, Saint? Cruises and models and empty afternoons surfing and eating and going to Hyde to make sure you’re still relevant? The company is succeeding on its own, better than you ever thought. And here you are, planning on doing what—nothing?—for the rest of your life. There has to be something better.
I sigh and push the voice aside. I don’t even know where that asshole piece of my brain came from.
There’s a timid knock at the door, so I get myself together and stop feeling all these things I don’t much experience with. Regret? Some sort of lingering sadness that doesn’t have any damn explanation?
Saint Corbett doesn’t have time for emotions.
I stand up and bring in the first interviewee of the day—tall, blond, gorgeous. Her name is Bambi or Bitsy or something that I immediately forget. I can’t concentrate during most of the interview with Bambi because I can’t help staring at her teeth as I tap my pencil against my knee. They’re ultra-white, ultra-straight, and big like a rabbit’s. The whole time she’s talking I watch her teeth click and about half way through the whole response I’m supposed to be paying attention to, I realize that they’re all implants. I grin and then laugh a little.
“What was that, Mr. Corbett?” She leans forward sultrily, smashing her boobs together with her arms and batting her eyelashes in my direction. “Did I say something funny? All my friends say I’m really funny, but I think it’s because half the time, I have no idea what’s going on!”
“Excellent,” I reply, clearing my throat and glancing back at her resume. She’s plenty qualified to plan meetings for me and take some of the pressure off of Stacy, so I write “Maybe” in big letters on her file. “I’ll get back to you within two weeks...” I look down at her resume and note her name. “Barbie.”
Barbie? Really?
The concerned-looking young woman gathers her things and leaves nervously. I suppose I wasn’t really that welcoming, but she doesn’t seem that bad. After her, the next interviewee comes in, and then the next. Both of them look exactly like Barbie, and they have similarly ridiculous names. To my surprise, only one of them has breast implants. I write “Maybe” on each one of their files. None of them is particularly striking, nor do any of them have any visible flaws that would prevent me from hiring them. I pause and put the next file on the top of my stack.
Helena McKenna Landon.
“Interesting name,” I say, looking over her credentials. She has a fine job at UCSB, and she lives in Santa Barbara. Interesting. Her experience shows that she has all the capabilities I’d want in a personal assistant. With all of her experience over the past decade, she’s actually more than qualified, save for one gap of about a year about five years ago. Just when I’m wondering why in the hell a woman would uproot her life from a town that’s basically paradise, Helena Landon strolls in.
And when she does, I immediately stand up and stretch out my hand. She takes it in her cool fingers, gripping my hand firmly.
This woman. She has bravado. And flair. Helena McKenna Landon is wearing a sleeveless gray dress that could have come from any big box store, but on her, it looks like couture.
Helena Landon didn’t knock timidly like all three of the Barbies did. She took big strides, her kitten heels clicking softly against the hardwoods. Deep black-brown hair, highlighted with some soft red, falls in tight, perfectly coifed curls to her shoulders. She’s wearing some makeup to accent her rich, brown skin, but it’s not caked on like most of the women around her wear it. Just a touch of smokiness around her eyes, a hint of a deep red color on her lips. Like she’s just bitten into a cherry. And her body—her arms and legs are muscular, but every other part of that woman is curves.
“Mrs. Landon, I presume.” I hope there’s no shakiness in my voice, because something about her makes me feel odd, almost like I’m nervous. That’s insane. Saint Corbett doesn’t get nervous. He makes other people nervous.
“Ms. Landon, actually.” She takes a seat and crosses her legs, pulling some kind of file from her purse.
“Well, Ms. Landon, you are a sight for sore eyes today. Really, you are.”
Don’t look at her breasts. Stop thinking about her breasts.
I keep my eyes locked with her and awkwardly sit down across from her.
“That’s... That’s nice.” She looks at me like I might be a little insane. “I don’t really know what that means, Mr. Corbett. I presume you’ve been interviewing candidates all morning.”
“None of them look quite like you.”
Shit, shit. Stacy told me I’m not supposed to comment on anyone’s appearance. I cough and bring out her file, like I’m supposed to. She cocks her head to the side, the faintest hint of a smile on her lips. Her deep brown eyes are on mine, and I noticed that there’s a starburst of gold at the center of each iris.
“And—and by that I mean,” I continue, clearing my throat again. “I mean that you’re very professionally dressed.”
“That makes one of us,” she says, that faint smile staying on her lips even when she speaks. “Is this your work uniform, Mr. Corbett? Or is it just casual Saturday?”
I smile, and then I can’t help but laugh. I swivel in my chair again and take a breath. “Touché, I guess. One of my brothers—Rowan—he told me that when you’re starting you’re own company, always wear jeans and a t-shirt. It makes you look like you’re far beyond suits, like you’re Mark Zuckerberg.” I shrug. I realize I didn’t talk this much to any of the Barbies. And it’s not like me to mention my family. Up until recently, I’ve been overshadowed by each one of my ultra-successful younger brothers.
“And you think you’re Mark Zuckerberg?” She smiles, broadly this time. “I read that your net worth is just over one billion. I think Mark has you beat by a couple of miles on that one.”
“Well, I—” I pause. “Wait a second. I’m supposed to be interviewing you, Helena.” Before this woman gets in another word in, I launch into a question. Maybe not a traditional interview question. But even if I’m not Mark Zuckerberg, I can interview personal assistants however the hell I want. “It looks like you have a perfectly nice life in Santa Barbara. I’m wondering why you might want to move to Los Angeles.”
She pauses and smiles again like she’s thinking of an appropriate response. Laughing, she holds up the blue file folder. Los Angeles Fertility Center.
I know that name. I sift through the memories in my brain, and the connection comes instantly.
Shit.
“I’m not looking to
move from Santa Barbara, Mr. Corbett. I’m actually here to interview you.” Helena Landon looks at me with those golden starburst eyes, and for some reason, it feels like I’m locked in her thrall—even though she shouldn’t be here at all. “My colleague sent in my application, and you see, I’m a very honest woman. I’m not going to pull some stupid stunt where I pretend I’m something I’m not. That wouldn’t put me in a very good position, would it?”
She barely waits for me to respond, but I get in a brief shake of my head, and she acknowledges it. Pausing a second, she hands me the file. I take it, and inside, I find the record of a successful IUI procedure, the results of ultrasounds and blood tests showing that the tiny embryo was the perfect picture of health. In the back, there’s a picture of Helena—younger, very tired, in a hospital bed, with a tiny baby in her arms. She’s kissing the top of its head.
In the picture, she’s not wearing makeup, and her hair is up in a kerchief, beads of perspiration visible on her forehead.
I think for a second that—in that picture—she might be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
Still, being the man I am, some superfluous asshole garbage falls out of my mouth. “This isn’t the way you should have contacted me, Ms. Landon.”
If my heart should ever be dropping out of my chest, it should be now. Instead, my eyes are glued to that picture, and it feels like there’s something expanding in me instead, something warm and rich and decadent.
I glance up at Helena, and she sits back in her chair, folding her arms. “I’m aware, Mr. Corbett.”
“Call me Saint,” I say, managing a weak smile. A million things rush through my head, things that I should say to her right now.
Was it a boy or a girl? Is he—she—smart like my mom? Bossy and blustery like my dad? Does he have a tiny dimple in his chin like Rowan?
Instead, I fumble hard. And I watch her face fall, her idea of me crashing to pieces.
“You’re aware that your child isn’t entitled to any part of the company, correct? There’s no trust fund set up, no will, no money.”
I regret the words as they come out of my mouth, and in what seems like slow motion, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen—the mother of my little boy or girl—snatches the file out of my hand and strides back to the door.
“Correct,” she says, turning back to me. “I’ll go back to telling her she doesn’t have a dad.”
The floor falls out from under me, and I feel like I’m sinking. I stand up and walk after her, but I see the elevator doors are closing in, obscuring Helena’s face. Before they close completely though, I can read the emotion on her face. Pure sadness. Consuming disappointment.
“Wait!” I shout. “Wait!”
But she doesn’t hear me, and by the time I catch the next elevator, Helena Landon is gone.
As I stand out on the street waiting for her car to pass, the hot sun beating down on me, it hits me.
The kid—the one who has half of my genetics—she’s a girl.
A little girl.
A beautiful little girl.
When I get back upstairs, Stacy stares at me like I have a horn growing out of my head. “Stacy, I won’t be in tomorrow.”
“Good,” she says. “It’s Sunday. You weren’t supposed to be here anyway.”
“Now I just have to figure out how to—damn it all. I don’t know what the hell to do next.”
I walk into my office and close the door.
A girl, a little girl.
CHAPTER FIVE
Intolerable, utterly insufferable man.
What was I thinking? I don’t do things like this. I don’t do things I shouldn’t. I follow rules and make sure everything is on the up and up.
I’m used to being right, and this time is no different. I knew it was a bad idea. I told Celia it was, and I knew it as soon as I got that email. But for some reason, my curiosity got the better of me and I put on my Ann Taylor dress—the one with the cut out sleeves and the summer jacket—and drove my ass to Los Angeles. Two hours there and two hours back, not accounting for all the goddamned traffic. Combined with the five-minute interview with my child’s father, that’s four hours and five minutes of my life I’m never getting back again.
And to think—when I first went in there, I was utterly, stupidly entranced by that man and his ridiculously good-looking smile. Not an L.A. smile at all—none of those stupid, denture-y looking implants or unnaturally whitened teeth. Instead, his two front teeth were just the tiniest bit crooked. When he smiled, it made him look even more like he was up to something. When he was a little boy, I’d bet, he used that smile to get him out of trouble—or into it—more times than his poor mother could possibly count in one sitting.
A mother of five boys. God, I couldn’t even imagine. And I’d bet anything in the world that today I met the absolute worst one of all—the one she stayed awake praying would come home in one piece.
“Stop thinking about him,” I mumble as I change out of the gray dress and slip on a maxi skirt and my blue-scoop neck top.
“About who, Mama?” Trixie appears in the doorway to my bedroom, wearing a pink glittery Tiara and a superhero cape.
I crack a smile. “No one, Peanut. Did you have fun with your aunt Celia?” Cee walks in after Trixie, grinning like she knows I’ve been up to no good.
“Yeah,” Trixie says, twirling around. “We played princess superhero. I’m a princess superhero, and she was the bad guy.”
“She’s good at that,” I say, catching Celia’s eye. She shrugs. “And she’s the reason I’m home so early today. Why don’t you go play in your room while I chat with Auntie Cee?” I brush my fingers through Trixie’s gold-blond Curls and bend down to kiss her sweet forehead. Even though she hit the age of five a few months ago, she still smells like my baby—the one I brought home from the hospital all by myself. It seems like so long ago. She’s tall and lanky now, and quick as lightning. She skips off across the hall, going straight for her collection of fairy wands that she’s gotten from Celia. Cee and I listen as she starts casting spells on her stuffed animals. We both look in her direction and wait until she’s fully occupied. I close the door gently and usher Celia over to the sofa in my tiny living room.
“So,” she says, grinning broadly, “How was it?”
I sigh and sit back, holding one hand to my forehead. “It was—” I stop, not even knowing what to say.
“That bad, huh?”
That damn man. And damn him for being so stupidly attractive. It made me stupid. I shouldn’t even have stayed as long as I did. “He was disappointing?”
She cringes. “He was fat, wasn’t he? A big mole on like, the left of his nose?”
I snort. “Oh my God. No—”
“Really?” Celia sits back and crosses her legs. “Because I really didn’t know people could be that attractive in real life. Even in California.”
I cut my eyes at her. “Well, they can be, Cee. Apparently. He’s definitely that attractive—and more. Definitely more than the pictures allow.”
“Okay, so what was bad?”
I sigh. “The most important part. He was charming at first and seemed to be listening to me, enjoying my company and—”
“I still don’t see what’s bad about this.” Cee raises an eyebrow, and I can tell she’s marrying the two of us in her mind.
“I told him about Trixie. In hindsight, maybe I shouldn’t have led with that—”
Celia laughs and then puts her feet up on the coffee table. Her toenails are freshly painted, a deep burgundy color. “You think? Woman, you come off as totally charming at first. Just like an easygoing cool girl who’s going to banter with you and go along with whatever you want to do. But hell, then you open your mouth. And there’s this rule, that rule, the third rule, and why haven’t you met my daughter yet, Mr. Corbett?”
My heart sinks—not because it’s an insult, but because it’s a pretty good summary of my personality. “I’m pragmatic. I wasn’t abou
t to go in there and lie to him.”
Cee ignores my veiled insult of her plan. “Seriously, think about Saint Corbett—”
“I prefer not to at this point.” Still, when Cee says his name, an image of him flashes across my consciousness. Blond hair, messier than it should be. A body like he should be running track in the Olympics and then throwing the... what is that thing? A discus? Whatever it is, his shoulders show enough definition that if looking good were an Olympic sport, he’d probably win it before any of the other contestants showed up. And good God, that smile. Like there was no one else in the world as important as me.
“Seriously,” Cee continues. I still have that picture of Saint in my head, but I force myself to look at Cee, focusing on her dyed blond curls and trying to banish Saint entirely from my mind. “A woman shows up at his office, and she starts interviewing. She’s probably totally killing that interview, and she’s the sexiest woman to walk into his office in a long time—”
“Come on Cee—”
“Shush, I’m lecturing you.” Cee flips her hair to the side, and we both pause to listen to Trixie. She’s still talking to her stuffed animals behind her closed door, her sweet voice lyrical and sing-songy. “Now, this woman shows him the folder or whatever it is--something that says he has a daughter he never heard of--and this man. He’s a billionaire. A new one. One who probably wants to protect his assets. What is he going to think when someone comes in there with some sort of parentage claim?”
“It’s not a parentage claim,” I huff. “It’s just the truth. The genetic stuff is all right there. No need for a paternity test unless he doesn’t remember donating his own damn sperm.” I think of handing that folder over to Saint and the looks on his face as he processed what he was seeing. There wasn’t shock or anger. And it wasn’t apathy, either. It was something closer to joy, delight that he tried to quickly hide. It was followed by confusion--and then maybe he didn’t know what to say. But that couldn’t be, not from the things I read about him online. And then, as if she’s reading my mind, Cee’s voice comes to me as if from a long distance away.
