I watch, sipping my non-alcoholic swill, feeling a warm happiness in my chest. Less than a year ago, my life was completely different. As a divorce lawyer, I watched relationships collapse in the most bitter and acrimonious ways possible. Now, I preside over creating buildings, not tearing them down, and it feels remarkably fulfilling.
Thorne’s in jail. His confession was enough to convict him, but Miki wanted to make sure there were no problems, so she used her ninja-hacking skills to find the guy who drove the snow plow into our car. Facing the prospect of life in prison for attempted murder, the guy cut a deal with the prosecution and identified Thorne as the man who hired him. My half-brother received a fifteen-year jail sentence. He won’t be bothering us for a long time.
I was furious with Thorne for what he did to my mother, but once it was clear that she was going to be fine, I realized that I didn’t want Thorne to die at the hands of the Russian Mafia. So I sent Mikhail Vasiliev a message, asking him to spare Thorne’s life.
If I do this, he’d replied, that will be the last favor. After this, you’re on your own.
I’d agreed without hesitation. I didn’t want the Russian mob anywhere near Hancock Construction, and besides, I don’t need Vasiliev’s protection. I have Hudson and Asher watching over me.
Miki’s divorce has been finalized. She’s back in Manhattan, living in my former apartment. I still see her, and the rest of my friends, every Monday night. No matter what else changes, the Thursday Night Drinking Pack will remain a fixture in our lives.
At my old firm, Lara finally made partner in January and I couldn’t be happier. We try to meet for lunch once a month. “It’s not the same without you,” she always tells me. “Can I talk you into coming back?”
Not a chance in hell. Despite my initial misgivings, I’m really happy about my new job.
“Ready to get out of here?” Asher frowns at me. “You’ve shaken the hand of every single person here and told them they’re doing a great job.”
“Sounds good.” I’d never admit it, but he’s right. The heat has sapped away my energy, and I’m exhausted. I really want a nap.
His intent gaze sweeps over my face, and I know he’s on to me. I smile at him. “I know, I know, I should have let Jeff break ground.”
His expression softens. “No you shouldn’t have,” he corrects me. “This is your baby. Without you, this project wouldn’t have made it past the planning stage. You deserve all the recognition and praise in the world for your work here.”
My fingers lace in his. “I’d have been lost without Hudson and you.”
His lips curl into an amused smile. “So you say,” he replies. “Yet Jeff tells me you’re doing just fine without our help.”
“Maybe,” I pout, “but I miss working with the two of you on a daily basis.”
Asher and Hudson are still around to help me if I need it, but now that the contest is over and I’ve been appointed the CEO of Hancock Construction, they’ve both cut back on their involvement. I do miss them, but I think it’s for the best. It’s not feasible for them to split their time between their companies and Hancock Construction. They’re just too busy.
Of course, Asher still helps me with thorny legal issues, and Hudson’s my first choice of architect. Even though he has a two-year wait list, he’s promised he’ll design an apartment complex in Chicago for us next year. Let’s just say it helps to be in a relationship with the guy who heads up New York’s best architecture firm.
I feel a pressure in my belly, and there’s a weird popping sensation, followed by an immediate gush of warm fluid that soaks through my panties. Oh my God, I think in horror, I just peed in public.
Then it dawns on me that my water just broke.
Fuck me. The baby’s not due for another two weeks, but it seems that my little monkey is done waiting.
I clutch at Asher’s suit-clad bicep. “Don’t freak out,” I tell him, “but I think the baby’s coming.”
His face whitens. Hudson hurries up to us. “Is everything okay?”
Two men who love me. A little baby to expand our lovely family. Everything is more than okay. Everything is perfect.
Eighteen long, exhausting hours later, I hold my baby in my arms, marveling at my little miracle. She’s beautiful. She has ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes, and she can scream loud enough to wake the dead. “I wonder where she gets that from?” Hudson teases me.
I punch his bicep. “Cut it out.”
“Have you figured out her name yet?” Asher brushes his lips across the baby’s forehead gently, with so much love on his face that my eyes fill with tears.
Hudson looks up. We’ve been debating baby names for weeks. Somewhere at home, there’s a piece of paper with a list of our top five baby names for boys and girls, but I’ve held off making the final decision until the birth.
“Yes,” I tell them, holding the warm baby close. “Meet Natalie Janet Maria Williams.”
They’re lost for words. Natalie was Hudson’s mother’s name; Asher’s mom was called Maria. And of course, Janet is my mother’s name. Hudson and Asher’s mothers are dead now, but I can’t think of a better way to thank them for the gift of their sons than by naming our child after them.
I think Asher has tears in his eyes. He blinks rapidly and turns his face away from me, while Hudson clears his throat. “Wendy,” he says, “there was something we were going to do after the groundbreaking ceremony. Asher, you ready?”
Asher gathers his composure and nods. He takes a small square box out of his pocket, and my heart starts to hammer. “I know what we have is unorthodox,” he says, “but it works for us. The last six months have been the happiest of my life, and,” he pauses, “I want forever.”
Hudson laces his fingers in mine. “Wendy,” he says, “I love you. I love everything about you. I love living with you. Well, except for the low-fat ice cream you stash in the freezer. That stuff is just disgusting.”
“We’d go on our knees,” Asher adds, “but you’re in a hospital bed, and you’re holding Natalie. We should do this better, but I want to do this now.” He opens the box and pulls the ring out. “Will you make us the luckiest men in the world?” he asks.
“Will you marry us, Wendy?” Hudson’s expression is as serious as I’ve ever seen it. “Will you spend the rest of your life with us?”
The ring is beautiful. It has a large round diamond in the center, bracketed by two baguette-cut diamonds set on a platinum band. I barely have eyes for it; I can’t take my gaze off Hudson and Asher. “Yes,” I exclaim. Natalie twitches in her sleep, but doesn’t wake up. “Yes,” I repeat in a softer voice. “Of course I’ll marry you.” Tears trickle down my cheeks. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you too.”
They slip the ring on my finger. “We love you, Wendy.”
I look at my ring, then down at my peacefully sleeping baby, and finally up at the smiling faces of the men I’m going to marry. “I love you too.”
The Hack
The Hack
They’re my bosses, and I’ve been hired to destroy them.
Men are not to be trusted.
My father cheated on my mother. My ex-husband cheated on me.
I won’t let it happen again.
No more guys. From now on, all I care about is work.
Then I meet my two new bosses. My two wickedly hot, good-looking new bosses. Finn Sanders and Oliver Prescott.
Brilliant. Charming. Rich. Successful. And oh-so dangerous.
I’ve been hired to hack into their systems and destroy their company.
Not a problem. I can do this. I have skills. Resources. And I’m definitely immune to Oliver and Finn. I’m not attracted to their brooding intensity. I can resist the fire in their eyes. I can ignore this pull I feel toward them…
Then they find out who I am and why I’m working for them.
And it turns out that Finn and Oliver have a few secrets of their own…
Prologue
Miki
When it is all finished, you will discover it was never random.
unknown
Thanksgiving should be a time of gratitude and reflection.
Bite me.
The line inches forward. The terminals at Houston's George Bush Intercontinental Airport are always busy, but today, they’re practically bursting at the seams. Swarms of tired and cranky passengers are everywhere. Several freak storms in the area have disrupted flight schedules, and the ticket agents are frantically rebooking the travelers, doing their very best to cope with the melee.
Miracle of miracles, my flight is still on schedule. Probably the only thing that’s gone right in six weeks.
I queue up in the serpentine line, waiting to check in my luggage, two big suitcases, bursting at the seams with everything I own in Houston that I want to keep. My clothes, my computer equipment, my collection of silly and impractical shoes. My laptop I clutch to my chest—the the gate agents will pry that from me over my cold, dead body.
Twenty long minutes later, I finally reach the counter and hand the tired-looking agent my ID. She pulls up my details on her computer, and eyes my two suitcases dubiously. “There’s a fee for checked luggage,” she says, looking like she’s bracing herself for an argument.
Poor woman. It must suck to work on Thanksgiving. “I know,” I reply. “That’s alright.”
She punches in more keys, weighs my luggage, charges me for overweight baggage, and then prints out my boarding pass. I look at my seat assignment and wince. 31B. That’s the back of the plane, in a middle seat. On a four-hour flight.
Pasting on my friendliest smile, I give her a hopeful look. “You don’t have an aisle or a window seat open?”
She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hickman. It’s a full flight.”
Ah well. A middle seat is a minor bump in the shit sandwich that has become my life in the last month and a half. “I’ll deal with it,” I reply. “Oh, and it’s not Mrs. Hickman. It’s Ms. Cooper. The divorce will be finalized in December.”
In normal times, Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. It’s a day dedicated to eating. There are no crowded malls to wade through, no presents to buy. What’s not to love?
These are not normal times.
Six weeks ago, I thought I’d surprise my soon-to-be-ex-husband Aaron at work on a Friday evening. We’d barely seen each other in the last three months, and I’d planned to surprise him with a spontaneous date night.
Except I walked in on his assistant Peggy giving him a blowjob in his office, bobbing her big blonde head on his junk.
Even worse? They’d been doing the dirty-dirty for eighteen months. Yup. When Aaron and I were standing up in front of a judge, promising to love and honor one another, he was having an affair with his assistant.
Let’s just say I’m approaching the holiday with an emotion that does not resemble gratitude in the slightest.
Two hours later, we board the plane. I take my crappy middle seat. The other occupants in my row haven’t shown up yet. Maybe they missed their flight, I think hopefully, then scold myself for that uncharitable thought. Just because you’re in a craptastic mood, Mackenzie Cooper, it doesn’t mean you have to be a bitch.
Coopers do not complain. Coopers square their shoulders, hold their heads high and carry on.
My family lives in Manhattan, but I haven’t told them about the impending divorce. I’m sure my mother will try and talk me out of it, and I’m just not ready to deal with her yet.
I feel like such a fool. My friends tried to warn me that I was jumping into marriage with Aaron, but I wouldn’t listen. Aaron was tall and handsome, and I was the nerdy computer chick. I’d been so thrilled that he noticed me that my common sense had fled.
I’d been wearing love-goggles, and I was blind. And stupid. And now I’m paying for it. When I get to Manhattan, Wendy, Piper, Katie, and Gabby will give me pitying looks and ask me questions about what Aaron did and what I’m going to do next.
I’m not ready to talk about it. I’m not ready to face the future.
Enough brooding. I pull out my dollar-store notebook with its neon pink cover from my backpack and start making a list.
Top Five Ways in which I'm Going to Reclaim My Life.
Move away from Houston. I'm done with this town. I'll always be the woman who walked in on her ex-husband's assistant giving him head under his desk at work, and I'm never going to be able to leave that memory behind.
Move back to Manhattan. Find an apartment.
Find a job. Manhattan is not a cheap place to live, and my savings won’t last long.
Get a cat. I don't have to worry about Aaron's stupid and imaginary allergies anymore.
Sex is allowed, but love is off-limits.
I underline that last resolution several times until I stab a hole through the paper.
That’s when someone clears his voice. “Excuse me,” an amused male voice says. “If I could get to my seat—”
I look up, and my eyes widen. The two men standing in the aisle are absolutely gorgeous. The one laughing at me is big, blond, and broad-shouldered, like a modern-day Viking. He's wearing a carelessly un-tucked white shirt with dark blue jeans and worn sneakers, and he still looks like a million bucks. And his friend? His friend, with his custom-tailored gray plaid suit, dark hair, piercing blue eyes and lean, taut body, is just as drool-worthy.
I’ve won the plane lottery, ladies. Pity I don’t care.
I get up, and the blond man slides into the window seat. It’s a tight fit. His shoulders are broader than the seat, and his knees hit the back of the row in front of him. I’m five-feet-three-inches, and I don’t have enough room. The Viking is easily six feet tall, and he must be acutely uncomfortable.
“Are you together?” I ask the dark-haired one. “Would you like to change seats?”
“No thank you,” he replies. He has light blue eyes, the color of the sky on a cloudless day, and when his gaze locks on mine, my heart beats a little faster. The corner of his mouth quirks up. “I talk to Oliver all the time at work. Right now, you look much more interesting than he does.”
Well, okay then.
Is he flirting with me?
What should I do?
I’m a hacker. Ask me about registry settings, and I’m your woman, but put me in front of a good-looking guy, and unless he’s talking about brute force attacks or botnets, I’m a tongue-tied, stammering mess.
The noise that emerges from my throat is a mixture of a laugh, a snort, and a neigh. Lovely. Thank you, universe. You couldn’t make me smooth and sophisticated, could you? No. You had to make me sound like a donkey with a head cold.
My cheeks flushing with embarrassment, I slide into my chair, my shoulder bumping into Viking-guy. “Sorry,” I murmur and try to hunch so I’m not making contact with his body.
His smile widens. “Hi,” he says. “I’m Oliver. Tell me why you want a cat, who Aaron was and why he pretended to be allergic, and most of all,” he bends his head toward me, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “why sex is allowed, but love isn’t.”
“You read my list.” Shock makes my voice indignant. Aren’t people supposed to pretend they aren’t reading over your shoulder? “You’re rude.”
He laughs easily. “I’ve been accused of that and more,” he says. “But you’re right. That was rude of me. Allow me to make it up to you.” He raises his hand, and like magic, a flight attendant is at our side, beaming radiantly at Oliver the Viking.
Good-looking-guy-magic. Aaron had it too.
“I know it’s against the rules,” Oliver says to the attendant, his smile charming and ever-so-slightly-apologetic. “But you couldn’t grab some orange juice from your cart for us, could you? As well as three of your mini-bottles of vodka?”
She simpers at him. “Of course,” she says. “It’s a four-hour flight, and these seats don’t recline. It seems the least I can do.”
In about thirty seconds, she returns with a
handful of bottles. Oliver takes them from her with a smile, and the dark-haired guy slips her a folded bill. “Thank you,” he says. “I really appreciate it.”
Whoa. Smooth. I’m pretty sure that was a hundred dollar bill, unless they’ve started putting Benjamin Franklin’s face on smaller denominations.
Oliver hands me my share of the spoils. “Will you accept my peace offering?” he asks, his eyes twinkling.
It seems silly to pout for four straight hours, and this might be exactly what I need. Though I’ve cried and I’ve fumed in the last six weeks, I haven’t gotten shit-faced. Maybe I do need to get good and drunk.
Closing my notebook, I tuck it into the seat pocket in front of me. “Okay,” I say. Opening my OJ, I take a long drink from it before adding the vodka. “Truce.”
Two hours later, I’m chatty, and I’m well and truly on the way to being drunk. Which sadly only takes three of the little mini-bottles, because I’m a lightweight.
I’m sitting between Finn and Oliver, their thighs brushing against mine. Drunk-Miki is much better at flirting than Sober-Miki, or so I think. “Now that we’re friends,” Oliver says, a smile dancing on his lips, “Who’s Aaron?”
“My husband.”
Finn’s eyes fall to my left hand. I lift it up. “No ring,” I announce. “I’m getting divorced.” Unbidden, my eyes fill with tears. I was such a fool. I wanted so much to be loved that I ignored all the warning signs.
Ménage in Manhattan: The Complete 5-Book Ménage Romance Collection Page 85
