Sometimes he whispers in my ear about what my high heels are doing to him—or my pencil skirt. He loves the pencil skirts. We work alongside one another in the kitchen, serving breakfast, packing lunches, filling water bottles, signing permission slips, double-checking homework, going over the afternoon schedules, hurrying the kids out the door. It’s noisy and chaotic and sometimes difficult when one child or another is slow to get moving, or refuses to drink their juice, or realizes at the last second they forgot to tell us they need money for a field trip/canned goods for the homeless/a Betsy Ross costume for a book report. But it’s a lovely kind of chaos, and Ian and I handle it together. Lately, I’ve been driving the girls to school while he drops Christopher off just to save a little time. Sometimes we manage one last kiss on the cheek before racing out the door, and sometimes we barely exchange a parting glance, but it’s okay. We’re making it work.
“London, for God’s sake.”
I snap to in time to see Casey roll his eyes at me. “Ah. Sorry. I missed that. Can you repeat the last part about regulatory reform?”
He sighs loudly. “You know, I haven’t mentioned this, and maybe I shouldn’t because you’re not doing much to build my confidence in you lately, but there’s an even bigger spot opening up if we get that Atlantic City hotel and casino account.”
“There is?”
“Yes. I even thought about putting in for it.”
“What is it?”
“CFO.”
I suck in my breath, and my pulse races. “Really?”
He nods. “But it’s a lot of responsibility. And until a couple weeks ago, I’d hardly have hesitated to recommend you. Your credentials are excellent, and your performance here has been stellar. Your work ethic is exemplary, and your conduct has been professional.”
Pride fills me. “Thank you. I work hard, so that means a lot.”
“But,” he continues, ignoring my comment, “if I’m going to throw your name in the ring, I need to know you’d give this job a hundred and ten percent. Corporate won’t stand for any half-assed or distracted efforts. If you’ve got personal issues of some kind that are going to get in the way of your career . . .”
I bristle. “I don’t.”
“Good. I’ve always thought you had a good head on your shoulders. You’re not like a lot of women.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I explode.
“Calm down. It was a compliment.”
“Jesus Christ, Casey.” Although, it’s not like I’m surprised. The corporate world is full of men—even well-meaning men—who make clueless, insulting comments like that all the time.
“All it means is that your priorities have always been lined up the right way to advance your career.”
I cock my head. “Lined up the right way? Like a man’s, you mean?”
“Exactly,” he says, not catching my drift at all. “Most women wouldn’t work as hard as you have to get ahead because they’re more focused on getting married and having a family. You’ve moved up this far because you’ve never given any indication that work didn’t come first for you. It’s very professional.”
I don’t know whether to thank him or kick him in the balls under the table. What he’s saying about women in general makes me angry—a woman shouldn’t be held back just because she wants a family—but what he’s saying about me in particular is true. I have put work first. I have focused on advancing my career. I am professional.
But at what cost?
I think about my nights with Ian, my mornings and evenings with the kids. I’ve never had that. I didn’t even have brothers and sisters of my own. My mother was a showgirl who ran off with some tourist when I was four. I was raised by my dad, who was quite a bit older than my mom and much more introverted. Our house was quiet and organized, and I spent a lot of time alone there because he worked such long hours. I loved being at Sabrina’s, because her mother was always there, fussing over her children, homemade cookies were always in the jar, and Ian was always around to tease us. Being at his house in the mornings reminds me of those days.
“Look,” Casey goes on. “All I’m saying is that it would be good to keep your head in the game. It might take some sacrifice, but the potential payoff is big. You don’t want to fuck up this opportunity, not after you’ve come this far, do you?”
“No,” I say. “I don’t.”
“Good. Because there are others I could recommend for the job, London. You’re not the only qualified candidate. There’s Martin, and—”
“I get it,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Good. Then let’s go over those reforms once more. Pay attention this time.”
We finish up the meeting and I’m successful at focusing on the data for a couple hours. By the time we wrap up, it’s after five o’clock. “Casey,” I ask as we shut down our laptops and rise to our feet. “I’m curious why you decided not to apply for that CFO position yourself if the potential payoff is so big.”
He shrugs as he pushes open the conference room door. “I’m in my fifties. I’m too old and set in my ways to relocate. And my wife would kill me if I said we had to move.”
I stop and stare at him. “Move?”
He’s still holding the door for me and looks impatient. “Yes. To Atlantic City. That’s where the job is. Are you going to spend the evening in the conference room or are you coming out?”
I move forward and the door swings shut behind me “Would the move be mandatory?”
Casey gives me a strange look. “Of course it would. That’s where Corporate is. You can’t be a CFO from a remote location.”
“Right.” My stomach is balling up.
“Would the move be a problem for you?” He’s looking at me curiously. “I assumed you’d be up for it. It’s not like you’re married or have a family to consider. Was I wrong?”
“No,” I say quickly, unwilling to blow my chances even though the thought of moving across the country has me reeling. “Not necessarily. I’m just . . . surprised.”
“Good. I’ll let you know what I hear.” With a brisk nod, he heads for his office and I walk on rubbery legs toward mine. Once inside, I close the door and lean back against it.
Atlantic City. It fucking figures.
I tell myself not to panic—I haven’t even been offered the promotion yet.
But the conversation with my boss has left me anxious and confused. I finish up a few things at my desk and leave work with tension heavy on my shoulders. Since graduating from college, I’ve been on one path, because I’ve had one overarching goal: become CFO of a big company in the hospitality industry. I knew it would be an uphill battle as a woman, but I’m smart, driven, and armed with degrees from prestigious schools. I never doubted I could get there, and I never let anything get in my way, least of all my personal life.
Wait, what personal life?
I frown as I pull out of the parking lot. Sabrina used to poke and prod at me all the time. When’s the last time you went on a date? You’re never going to meet someone if you don’t put yourself out there. It’s been five/ten/fifteen years, London. Ian’s moved on—it’s time for you to do the same.
I’d laugh at that. Don’t be ridiculous, I’d tell her time and time again. Just because I don’t date very often doesn’t mean I’m not over Ian. I can’t stand him! I’m just busy, okay?
The look on her face would tell me she knew the truth, but she never pushed me.
“God, I miss you, Sabrina.” I say the words out loud as my eyes well up with tears. “And I need you more than ever.”
As soon as I get home, I sit at the kitchen table and take out my laptop. Maybe it’s ridiculous to keep emailing her, but I feel like it helps me to share my feelings with her this way. She still feels like part of my life. Eli wanders over to me and rubs against my leg, as if he knows I need a friend. I take a moment to scratch behind his ears the way he likes. “You’re a good boy, Eli. But I really need my bestie right now.”
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I open the screen and start to write.
* * *
Dear Sabrina,
You always said I spent too much time at a desk, but I’ve been happy concentrating on my career. I’m good at it. It gives me confidence and validation and purpose. Have I been lonely over the years? Sometimes. But I’ve taken solace in the fight to get ahead, in the knowledge that I know exactly who I am, what I’m doing, and where I want to be. The sacrifices have all been worth it.
So far.
Suddenly I feel like the path I’m on has led to a fork in the road, and I have to choose whether to keep working toward my professional goals—no matter the price—or admit that what I want out of life has changed and go in a new direction.
Toward a life with Ian and the kids. A family.
* * *
I realize I’ve been holding my breath and let it out in a whoosh. Then I keep typing.
* * *
I can see it so clearly, how happy we could be together. But is that even a possibility? We’re having fun, but what if that’s all we’re doing in his eyes? It’s not like we’ve made any plans or promises. What if he doesn’t want me forever?
* * *
My hands begin to tremble and the screen blurs because my eyes have filled with tears, but I go on.
* * *
I feel like I’m having an identity crisis. And I’ve got so much invested in my career—time and money and self-worth. I don’t want to risk everything I’ve struggled for just to be hurt and disappointed again. What if I make the wrong choice?
I want to know how Ian feels, and what he’s thinking about the future. But . . . it’s only been a month. Granted, this thing between us started nearly twenty years ago, but he might think I’m crazy to ask where he sees it ending up. For God’s sake, his divorce has only been final for a year! And you told me he vowed he’d never get married again. Do I want to turn down a huge promotion just to be his girlfriend for the rest of my life? It’s not like I’m 25 and can wait around—I’m 35, and if I want kids of my own, I need to have them soon.
But he’s the only man I’ve ever loved.
I’m so scared. I wish you were really here so I could cry on your shoulder and hear you tell me everything is going to be okay no matter what. That I’m going to be okay.
I don’t know what to do. Help me.
* * *
Choking back sobs, I click send, close the screen, and go upstairs to change. As I undress, I glance out my bedroom window at Ian’s house. He’s standing at the grill, his new favorite thing, which is giving off smoke. He’s also laughing at something one of the kids has said. I can see Morgan standing on the diving board and Ruby dog-paddling around in the shallow end of the pool.
I want nothing more than to throw my suit on, go over there, and join them. I want to open a bottle of wine and pour a glass for each of us, let it take the edge off this day. I want to help him prepare dinner, then sit down around the table and eat like we’re a family.
It scares me how much I want all that. It scares me so much that I tell myself not to go there tonight, not to depend on him always wanting me there, not to get used to feeling like I belong there, or like he belongs to me.
But I can’t stay away.
Five minutes later, I’m crossing the lawn, barefoot in my swimsuit, inhaling the delicious scent of whatever Ian has on the grill. He sees me coming, and his face lights up.
“Hey, gorgeous, I was wondering when you were going to get here.” He sets down the large metal tongs in his hand and comes to kiss me hello. “How was your day?”
“Fine.” I try to smile back.
“Fine?” He eyes me critically. “Doesn’t look that way. What’s wrong?”
I attempt a wry laugh. “I didn’t realize I was so easy to read.”
“I know all your expressions by now, babe. This one says, ‘I had a bad day but I don’t want you to know it.’”
Exhaling, I shrug. “That’s more or less it.”
“Aunt London, watch me!” Morgan shouts from the diving board before executing a perfect forward flip into the pool.
When she surfaces, I applaud and yell, “Great job!”
Ian is still looking at me. “Tell me what happened today.”
I wave a hand dismissively. “It’s nothing. My boss was being kind of shitty, but I’m used to it.”
“Shitty how?” He’s frowning, and his chest is puffed up like he might want to go kick my boss’s ass. “Did he say something to you? Or harass you in some way?”
“No, no. It was nothing like that.” I shake my head. “You know what, it was nothing at all. Just a bad day. I feel better now that I’m here.”
“Good. Can I get you a glass of wine?”
A genuine smile stretches my lips. “What does this expression say?”
“It says, ‘Ian Chase is a fucking god among men.’”
I roll my eyes. “Good Lord, your ego is massive.”
He smirks. “Almost as big as my—”
“Uncle Ian! Aunt London!” Ruby yells from the diving board just as I put a hand over Ian’s mouth so the kids don’t hear him brag about his dick.
Laughing, he grabs my wrist and turns me toward the pool, embracing me from behind. “We’re watching, Rubes!”
She takes a deep breath and runs off the end of the board, doing a little ballerina twirl in the air before landing in the water. “Beautiful!” I call out when she comes up. “Very graceful.”
Ian kisses my temple. “Be right back.”
I miss his arms around me as soon as they’re gone.
Seventeen
Ian
In the kitchen, I grab a bottle of white wine from the fridge, pull the corkscrew from a drawer, and open it up.
Mondays are currently my favorite day of the week. The club is closed, and while I used to go in anyway to do paperwork and inventory, now that the kids live with me, I don’t. Instead, I trained Toby to do inventory, and assigned the paperwork to Drea. I wish there were other nights I could blow off the club completely, but as good as Toby and Drea are getting, most nights I’ve had to at least put in an appearance.
London has stepped up for me every time. I don’t know what I’d do without her.
As I pour two glasses of chenin blanc, I wonder what happened with London’s boss at work. Something tells me it wasn’t just a bad day—London isn’t easily flustered, especially when it comes to her job. Maybe later, after we got the kids to bed, I’ll ask her about it again.
I put the wine bottle back in the fridge and head outside. “Here you go,” I say as I hand her the glass.
“Thanks.”
“Well, we all know how you love your wine,” I joke.
London rolls her eyes. “I love you when I have wine, so I guess that explains why you keep bringing me alcohol.”
Please, she loves me drunk, sober, and when I’m buried between her legs. “The lies you tell yourself.”
“You think I love you?” she challenges.
“I know you do.”
London pulls her head back. “Really?”
Fuck yeah, I do. I see the way she looks at me. I know she rushes over here for just one more minute together. There’s not much that either of us do right now that would dispute the fact that we’re both falling—hard.
“Do you?” I decide to ask instead of assume.
She takes a sip of her wine, seeming to think it over. “I don’t know, Ian. I know I feel very strongly about you.”
Yeah, that’s what every man wants to hear. “We don’t have to turn this into a serious conversation.” I decide to give her the exit strategy. “I know you had a tough day, I was just being a dick and trying to make you say it.”
“No.” She places her hand on my wrist. “I’m not trying to avoid this because I had a shitty day at work. I mean, I think we’ve done really well at being honest since we’ve been together. I don’t want to stop that. We’re having fun, and that matters to me. Do
you love me?”
Fucking hell. My palms start to sweat and my mouth opens and closes. Gather up your balls, Ian, and tell her how you feel.
Instead, I take the pussy way out. “We’re having fun, raising the kids we love, and there’s no need to label it, right?”
I mentally slap myself—hard. I’m such a fucking fool, but I’ve been here before. I’ve loved London and lost her. My brilliant way of getting over that was to marry a viper and have that bitch’s fangs stuck in my neck, sucking the life out of me for a long time.
There’s no way I’m jumping in both feet and getting taken under again.
Not happening.
“Right,” she says, batting her eyes, trying to hide the hurt.
“Good. I say we just keep doing what we’re doing and see where it takes us.”
London forces a smile and nods her head. “Exactly what I was thinking. It’s like you read my mind. Nothing serious for now, no need to really make this a thing. I mean, we live behind each other, see each other daily, so why make things complicated? I take care of things for you, drive carpool, am late to work and leave early.” Her voice shifts to more angry than understanding. “I wouldn’t want you to have to label anything since I’m sure that’s totally not your thing. It’s not like we’ve known each other our whole lives or that I’m basically killing myself to make life better for you and the kids, right?” She keeps going without giving me a chance to answer. “I’m just . . . doing what I can and clearly fucking it up. But you know, we’ll just see where this takes us. Yup. Sounds like exactly what I want.”
“Whoa!” I try to stop her. “What the hell was all that?”
“No, no, I get it. I see the writing on the wall.” She sets her wine glass down.
Hold You Close Page 16
