“I think you were right. We need time to get reacquainted,” I said. “We’re both different people now.” The Sam I’d married, the boy I’d loved, was a person of the past. This new Sam, arrogant and stubborn, was a stranger to me. Maybe I couldn’t love this new man the way I’d loved the old one. Sadness filled all the cracks in my broken heart. Maybe I would have to let him go again. I wasn’t sure I could withstand it the second time, but I needed to prepare for the possibility that we wouldn’t make it.
“Yes.” He stood, but not before a flicker of insecurity crossed his expression, as if he hadn’t considered I might have my own suspicions and doubts. “We need time. You need time. I get it.”
“Good.” He needed to know I wasn’t about to tumble headlong into a relationship with a man I no longer knew. He might have trust issues, but so did I. Even though the common thread of our past bound us together, our futures were headed in vastly opposite directions. No matter how much I’d loved him, I couldn’t be with someone I didn’t respect or trust.
I watched him walk to the door and tried not to focus on the width of his shoulders beneath gray linen, the narrowness of his hips, or the way his wavy blond hair brushed over the starched white collar of his dress shirt. When he reached the door, he turned. Our eyes met. The impact of our colliding gazes knocked the breath out of me. Sometimes he affected me that way, catching me unaware and unprepared for the strength of our attraction.
“Have you got a dress yet?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly.
The pit of my belly fluttered at the sound of it. One thing was certain, the physical attraction between us was just as strong as it had been our senior year in high school and every year of our marriage.
“No. I’m going tonight,” I replied, nervous at the thought of the weekend together.
“Good.” Silence stretched between us. “I thought maybe we could go to dinner tomorrow evening. Are you free?” he asked after a beat.
Was he asking me on a date? Perspiration dampened my palms. I pressed them together beneath the desk, desperate to appear calm. “I’ll have to check my calendar and let you know,” I replied. I needed time to think, and he needed to know I wasn’t at his beck and call. A little rumination might do him good.
HIs mouth twisted in a reluctant grin. One lone dimple flashed in his cheek. “Okay. You do that. I’ll be waiting.” With a quiet thud, the door closed behind him.
I stifled a squeal of mingled excitement and trepidation. The man infuriated, frustrated, and confused the hell out of me, but I couldn’t wait to see him again.
Chapter 9
Sam
I CARRIED Dakota’s wedding ring in my front pants pocket. It made me feel close to her even when we were apart. As I sat at my desk the next day, I withdrew the ring and slid it over the tip of my pinky. At thirty years of age, a man should know what he wanted. Beckett wanted security and happiness. Tucker wanted hot chicks and to attend the Burning Man Festival each summer. I’d thought I wanted to ruin my father and show him how badly he’d underestimated me, but revenge no longer satisfied the emptiness inside me. What did Dakota want? Two months into our reunion, I had no idea.
I’d seen the disappointment in her eyes over the situation with Harmony. It killed me to know I’d put it there. Before we’d divorced, I’d been her hero. I’d seen it in her smile and felt it in her touch. No one ever loved me the way she had. I wanted that feeling again. I wanted her to look at me the same way she had all those years ago.
“Are you ready to go over a few things?” Mark, head of accounting, stood in front of my desk, prepared for our meeting.
“Yes.” Shaking thoughts of Dakota from my head, I put her ring back into my pocket.
We moved to the conference table. Mark spread out a dozen financial reports, graphs, and statements over the surface. For the next two hours, he pored over the figures with impressive thoroughness. With each passing minute, my gut tightened a little bit more. Mark’s face was pale as he gathered up the papers and prepared to leave but not as pale as mine.
“Basically,” he said, “you’re broke.”
Alone in my office, I tried to make sense of my thoughts. I’d been so busy wreaking havoc on the corporate world, so bent on destroying my father that I’d failed to protect my personal assets. Over the course of the last two years, I’d spent every dime I had on blocking Maxwell Seaforth’s acquisitions. I kept thinking one more deal would be the turning point. I’d become a gambler, raising the stakes with every merger, borrowing money from one company to fund another in a desperate shell game.
Time was running out. If I wanted MacGruder, I needed to make a move soon or the window of opportunity would close. It was a risk I’d have to take. I didn’t care if I lost everything I owned. I just wanted to hurt my dad the way he’d hurt me, so I went after the most precious thing in his life—his business. He had big money invested in the development of a new stadium outside St. Louis. I’d been systematically buying up all the surrounding properties, hedging him in. I planned to zone the properties and sit tight on them, creating costly delays and years’ worth of planning commission issues. MacGruder held the final piece of the puzzle. I sensed victory, and old habits commandeered my thoughts. I wanted to win. I needed to win. It would cost me everything, but it was worth it.
“Mr. Seaforth? A courier just delivered a package for you,” Xavier announced over the intercom.
“Take care of it,” I snapped, too overwhelmed to be bothered with mundane things.
“It’s marked personal and confidential,” Xavier continued. “For your eyes only.” My bluntness never bothered him, or if it did, he didn’t show it. “You’ll have to sign for it.”
“Fine. Send him in.” With a groan of exasperation, I turned my chair to face the door. A young man entered the room, an express envelope in one hand. I provided my electronic signature, and he handed the envelope to me. There was no return address, nothing to indicate what it was for or whom it came from. I ripped open the top and drew out a manila envelope with Dakota’s name scrawled across the front in my father’s handwriting. A note was attached to the outside.
A cold finger of dread snaked down my back. The man never gave up. I considered tossing the whole thing into the shredder but stopped myself. What if it was something intended to hurt her? The man had no boundaries when it came to playing with people’s lives, mine included. I scanned the message and closed my eyes to process the intent behind such an act.
I thought you might like to see what your ex-wife has been up to in your absence. No need to thank me. Sincerely, Maxwell. It wasn’t lost on me that he’d signed the note with his first name, as if I wouldn’t know him otherwise.
I read the note again and again, searching for clues in the spaces between the words. What kind of father did something like this? My next instinct was to open the file and scour the information. I’d had a burning curiosity about where she’d been and what she’d done during our years apart. She’d been in my thoughts every day since I’d met her, even after our divorce. I turned the envelope over in my hands, undid the clasp, and ran a finger beneath the sealed seam.
I stopped short of withdrawing the documents. Maxwell wanted me to read this. The only reason he’d sent it was to hurt me or Dakota with whatever vitriol it contained. If I opened it, I’d be playing into his plans to derail my life. After a minute, I fastened the clasp and shoved the envelope to the back of my top desk drawer. I wanted to know everything about Dakota, but I wanted to learn it from her, in our own good time.
The right thing would’ve been to drop the entire package into the shredder, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. In spite of all the horrible things he’d done, I wanted to trust my father. I wanted to believe he loved me and had my best interests at heart. He continued to insist Dakota was my Achilles heel. What if he was right, and I was just being stupid about her—again?
Chapter 10
Dakota
THE NEXT morning, Rockwell
waited at the curb in front of my apartment. His sunny smile brightened the gray morning. I was disappointed to find the interior of the car empty. Sam’s schedule for the day was slammed with back-to-back meetings, Rockwell explained.
Sam and I hadn’t spoken since the previous day. He’d left work early to attend an off-site meeting. Rockwell had offered to take me home, but I’d taken the bus instead, needing the time to reflect. Although our conversation had ended on a positive note, the disparity of our opinions demonstrated just how different we had become. We were strangers who’d once been married. He was a predator and a destroyer, while I only wanted to help others build their dreams. He’d been that way too once, before his dad, before the divorce, before me. I wanted to believe that person still existed inside him somewhere. I refused to give up on us until I knew for certain there was no hope.
Rockwell dropped me in front of the office. The other employees were just arriving. Their gazes flicked to Sam’s car, to Rockwell then to me, fitting all the puzzle pieces together. No one met my eyes as I walked inside and up the stairs. Without anyone saying a word, I knew what they were thinking, and it wasn’t flattering. I got a cup of coffee and settled into my office, prepared to finish Sam’s research, and tried to push it out of my mind. Let them gossip and speculate. I had business to take care of.
It was mid-morning when my interoffice messenger dinged. I flinched at the unexpected sound. Curious to see who might be contacting me, I clicked on the icon and smiled to find Sam’s name.
Sam: Have you decided yet?
Me: About what?
Sam: About dinner.
Me: Yes
Sam: Yes you’ve decided or yes to dinner?
My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I decided to wait before responding, to build his anticipation. It wouldn’t do to appear too eager, especially when he always seemed to have the upper hand. I gritted my teeth and let five minutes pass before typing out my reply.
Me:Yes to both
It was my turn to wait. He didn’t reply for a full thirty minutes. I squelched the urge to bite my nails and returned my attention to work. Every ten seconds or so, I glanced at the messenger box until at last it dinged with his answer.
Sam: Stellar. So you aren’t mad at me?
Me: That’s still under debate.
Sam: Can we agree to disagree?
Me: Yes but I’m right and you know it.
Sam: LOL. Pick you up at 8. Don’t be late. You know how I hate that.
Me: Don’t be a dick. You know how I hate that.
The response had barely left my messenger when the phone rang. I stared at it. No one had called me since I’d started working there. In fact, no one had even shown me how to use the phone. After a few tense seconds, I found the pickup button and lifted the receiver.
“About damn time.” Sam’s deep voice sent a thrill straight between my legs.
“So impatient, Mr. Seaforth,” I said, biting back a smile of delight, feeling an instant relief of tension over our disagreement.
“Do you really think your boss is a dick?” he asked, laughter lilting in his tone.
“I know he is.” In spite of all my reservations about us, I dissolved into a simpering schoolgirl, twisting a lock of my hair around my finger as I spoke. “But I like him anyway.”
“And why is that?” His tone became throatier, more intimate.
“Well, he’s very hot.”
“Is he?”
“Yes. He’s got these fantastic green eyes,” I said, throwing myself into the conversation with reckless abandon. “And he’s got a very nice ass.”
His chuckle vibrated through me. “Does he now? Is that important to you?”
“Oh, yeah. The ass could be a deal breaker.” I bit my lower lip, waiting for his reply, wondering if I’d pushed the topic too far.
“Just so you know, I like your ass too.” The humor in his voice buzzed through me, giving me a drug-like high.
“Good to know.” I bit my lower lip, flushing with pleasure.
“Get back to work, Ms. Atwell,” he said, and hung up the phone.
By the time Sam arrived at my apartment, I’d managed to work myself into an unprecedented frenzy. I still didn’t know if this was or wasn’t a date. A pile of unsatisfactory clothing sat in a heap on my bed. I’d changed outfits a dozen times before settling on a pair of dark blue jeans, a white blouse, and low-heeled sandals. With my hair pulled into a high ponytail, I looked younger than my thirty years, a glimmer of my teenage self, the girl he’d married.
I took one last look in the mirror before heading to answer the door, stomach churning with anticipation. The sight of him, tall and elegant at my threshold, reminded me of all the reasons I wanted things to work out between us. He swept a lingering look from my head to toes, smile fading.
“I’ll go change,” I said, flushing with embarrassment at the miscommunication. He wore a beautiful navy blue suit, pinstriped shirt, and red necktie. He was ready for a night at the country club, while I’d dressed for a hayride.
“No. You’re fine,” he said, extending a hand to touch my arm. The tiny hairs above my wrist prickled at the contact. “My fault.”
“I assumed—I mean, you said I could pick the place. I thought we’d go for beer and pizza.” I floundered, feeling one hundred different kinds of foolish. It had been our favorite type of evening when we’d been married. But we weren’t married. Not anymore. We weren’t even the same people. How silly to think I could resurrect the past.
“I came straight from work.” As he spoke, he yanked on his tie and pulled the knot loose. He slipped out of his jacket and dropped it over his arm. “Better?”
I smiled, our gazes colliding. “Hang on a second.” I stepped forward and placed a hand on his chest. His breath hitched at my touch. The warmth of his body heated my breasts as I stood on tiptoe to unbutton his collar. “There.” His arm came around my waist to steady me. “Why do you wear these stuffy suits? You always hated them.”
“If you want to be successful, you need to look successful,” he said, smiling down at me. “Most people aren’t intimidated by a guy in jeans and a T-shirt.”
“Don’t you ever relax? Get casual?”
We stared at each other. My gaze dipped to his lips.
“I’m relaxing now,” he said. “I could go home and change if you like.”
“No. It’s fine.” I held my breath, wishing he would kiss me and knowing he wouldn’t. There were too many unsettled questions between us. We’d come a long way, but we had even further to go.
“Ready?” he asked. When I nodded, he threaded his fingers through mine. I held back the surprise I felt inside and let him lead me down the hallway to the elevator. Tiny tingles of pleasure climbed my arms and buoyed my hopes. Perhaps this was a date after all. Our hands stayed linked all the way to the sidewalk outside, his palm warm and strong against mine. The evening air was soft, redolent with the scent of newly awakened summer. I was surprised to find the Porsche waiting at the curb and not Rockwell.
“Where’s Rockwell?” I asked.
“He asked for the night off.” Sam released my hand to open the car door for me. “I think he has a girlfriend.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really,” Sam said, sliding into the car next to me. “He got a haircut today and borrowed my cologne. I think he’s hoping to get laid.”
I snorted, appalled and amused by the thought of steadfast Rockwell trolling for sex. “I hope it’s someone worthy of him.” The dash lights illuminated the planes and angles of Sam’s face. I placed a hand over my belly to calm the nervous twitter there. I had no idea how to act. I was hyper aware of his body, every move as he shifted through the gears, the sideways glances when I spoke.
We went to a nearby pizza joint, where the waitresses wore tight T-shirts and short skirts. It was a small, cozy establishment with large flat-screen TVs and dark, intimate booths. Sam ordered a pitcher of beer along with our pizza. It was
comfortable, familiar, and surreal all at the same time.
“How did your meetings go today?” I asked to break the awkward silence.
“Fine.” Beneath the table, his feet shifted until one of his knees rested between mine. The deliberate move caused a delicious clenching in my core. “I don’t want to talk about work.”
“Okay.” The way he stared at me, eyes intense and dark, caused the blood to rush into my face. “What do you want to talk about?”
He leaned back against the booth bench. The collar of his shirt gaped open to reveal a smattering of gold hair against sun-bronzed skin. “I want to talk about you. I know who you were, but I want to know who you are now.” His knee brushed against mine. Up. Down. Up again.
A rush of adrenalin exploded through my veins. I wasn’t sure why I was so nervous. We’d been married. He’d seen me without makeup, when I was pallid from the flu, sick with food poisoning, and in various states of undress. He shouldn’t affect me like this, but he did.
“I wouldn’t know where to start.” I bit my lip and blinked away, uncertain.
“How about from the beginning?” His hand found mine and squeezed.
I smiled at him, and he smiled back. With his hair ruffled and one arm thrown over the back of the bench, he looked like the carefree Sam of my memories. I began to think we might be able to work things out after all.
Chapter 11
Sam
AFTER WE ate, we walked along the boulevard and toward the park. It was a quiet street, devoid of the smells and sounds of downtown. Crickets chirped. A dog barked from a distance. Laughter floated out the open doors of bistros and wine bars. An occasional couple strolled past us, nodded and smiled, as if we were one of them. It reminded me of our walks after high school, the awkward silences, the thrill of an accidental brush of our shoulders, wondering if she’d let me kiss her goodnight. In this one respect, not a lot had changed over the years. The similarities put our situation into perspective for me with unnerving clarity. We still had awkward silences. I still thrilled at our accidental touches. I still wanted to kiss her goodnight. And I was arrogant enough to hope that I might get lucky.
Pretty Filthy Lies: An Unconventional Love Story (Pretty Broken Book 2) Page 5
