by Penny Reid
What would become of my grandfather’s company under Caleb’s tenure if left unchecked?
Whereas my brain and heart asked, Why not? Why not walk away?
I didn’t want the responsibility. I’d never wanted it. No one—especially not father when he was still fully cognizant—believed I was capable of it. Even on my best days, I doubted myself in the extreme.
Why not just wash my hands of it? Walk away. Live a normal life.
Eugene didn’t wait for me to respond. “I discussed that option with him, suggested a buyout of your shares. He . . . did not appreciate the suggestion. Firstly, he doesn’t have the money. As you know, the CEO’s compensation package is capped at five million, inclusive of pay-for-performance and share options. That puts him at far less than his contemporaries. Secondly, he said he wouldn’t pay you a single cent, that he’s taking what’s rightfully his. As he put it, ‘what I’m owed.’”
“Hypothetically speaking, not that I’m considering this,” I hesitated, choosing my words carefully, “couldn’t I just sign it all over? Free of charge? Just give it to him?”
“The bylaws disallow that. As the controlling shareholder, bylaws require you be compensated at least one hundred and ten percent the average stock price of the last two years, and current stock is at an all-time high.”
Well, there went that idea.
Despite the suffocating lump in my throat and tears pricking my eyes, I was able to whisper, “Eugene, there has to be another option. Talk to me. Give me some hope. What can I do?”
His chair creaked once more, this time giving me the impression he’d been struggling to find a comfortable position. “There is one more option.”
“What? What is it?”
“Do you have a boyfriend? Or a girlfriend?”
My eyes flickered over the neatly organized shelves of office supplies, my brain stuck on the word boyfriend. “What?”
“Are you seeing anyone?”
I thought about retorting with, “Other than a string of enormously substandard first dates last year, which make me question the solvency and continued relevancy of the male portion of the human species, no. Not anyone of note.”
Or, “How the heck am I supposed to find someone to date when I have work, school, and flying to Boston twice a month for heiress lessons?”
Or, “Do you really think it’s wise or even possible for me to date anyone when I know eventually what I’ll become? What they’ll have to put up with?”
Instead, I replied, “No. Why?”
“You could get married.”
“Married?” Panic resurged, causing me to shriek, “Eugene! I can’t get—” I stopped myself, swallowing, endeavoring to breathe. Breathe. Breathe . . . Calm down. “Sorry for my outburst. I apologize.”
“Caleb could try to contest a marriage, this is true.” Now he sounded less like his grimly pragmatic self and more like he was trying to soothe and pacify; this alteration in his voice did not help my mood. “But his chances of success are minimal, especially if you marry immediately.”
“I am not irrational, Eugene. You do not need to use that tone of voice with me.”
“Fine.” He sighed, and when he spoke again he sounded like good old grim Eugene. “In the absence of a valid medical power of attorney by a mentally competent person, your spouse would be the default for all medical decisions. Therefore, it’s not as though you signed anything over or admitted—or even implied—mental incompetence. In the eyes of the law, the bond of marriage typically surpasses all other relationships, familial or otherwise.”
“Married.” Now I definitely couldn’t breathe. I was dizzy. I needed to sit down. Spotting a stack of printer paper, I lowered myself onto the top ream.
“Yes. Married.”
“This seems implausible.” Married? What a ludicrous suggestion. “This isn’t a movie, Eugene. Sorry, but I do not believe people just get married to protect themselves from greedy family members’ nefarious scheming.”
“Yes. They do. People get married to avoid being deported, to obtain a green card, to avoid testifying in court, to secure medical insurance or other tangible benefits, and—yes—even to avoid greedy family members’ nefarious scheming. It’s why marriage fraud is against the law.”
“Marriage fraud? Are you suggesting that I commit a crime?”
“No, I cannot suggest you commit a crime. That is completely unethical and I could be disbarred.”
My head was spinning so I lowered it between my legs. The last thing I needed was to faint in the supply closet. “But you can break attorney-client privilege with Caleb and warn me about his intentions?”
“I was just one of seven lawyers present during Caleb’s last visit to Sharpe and Marks. Your family’s estate employs the firm, and you are the sole beneficiary of your father’s estate. I have—personally—been on retainer, paid by your father since before you were born, since before Sharpe and I founded the practice.”
“I thought you were retiring.”
“I will be next month, for the most part, with some exceptions. The most notable exception being Zachariah Tyson. I hold your father’s power of attorney and I’m the executor of his estate, the trustee. I have fiduciary interest in carrying out your father’s wishes. You are Zachariah’s sole beneficiary. Caleb assumes too much. I have no reason to believe Caleb is ignorant of my freedom to discuss estate matters with you, at my discretion.” If I didn’t know better, Eugene almost sounded like he was grinning. “Nor have I identified any cause to clarify this point with him or any of my colleagues—including Sharpe.”
Spoken like a true lawyer.
He continued, “As long as you intend to make a life with the person you marry, it’s not marriage fraud. If you marry immediately, Caleb’s request for guardianship will look like a reaction to your marriage rather than the other way around.”
“You’re serious.”
“As my billable rate.”
Darn. “I see.”
I lifted my torso, placing my elbows on my knees; my forehead fell to my hand.
“Again, you would have to intend to make a life with this person. Kathleen, this has to be someone you’ve known for a while. Trust that Caleb will have him—or her—investigated, how long you’ve known each other, etcetera. He may try to invalidate the marriage.”
Tears of frustration stung my eyes. “What if I don’t know anyone I can ask?”
Wait.
That wasn’t exactly true.
I did know someone. My good friend, Steven Thompson. I’d known him for two and a half years and I loved him dearly. He was my plus-one whenever I had a business function, or went shopping, or wanted to go see a play.
“Kathleen, I’m not exaggerating.” Eugene cut into my thoughts with more grimness, more urgency. “There has to be someone you can ask, and not a stranger or a casual acquaintance. Because, this is it. This is your only hope. This is the only way. But it is by far your best option. The chances of invalidating a marriage in situations such as these are very slim. The chances of Caleb—as your cousin—becoming your guardian are therefore also very, very slim. Sorry to break it to you, kid, but you need to get married, the sooner the better.”
I lifted my eyes heavenward, wanting to ask, “And just how does one propose marriage to a person in a situation such as this?”
Oh, hey. I know you’re gay, but my family thinks I’m crazy. Marry me, maybe?
“Let me reiterate, this person must be someone you trust implicitly because . . .” He paused, and when he spoke next his voice was laced with uncharacteristic urgency. “Caleb will try everything, even bribery, threats, everything. Please make sure he or she knows what’s expected.”
“Please explain to me how can I do that when even I don’t know what’s expected.”
“You misinterpret my meaning. Don’t ask a friend who might have feelings for you. We don’t need that kind of complication. Let them know a platonic, trustworthy affiliation is what’s expected for,
by my estimation, at least five years.”
I shut my eyes. Eugene didn’t need to worry, because Steven definitely didn’t have feelings for me. I didn’t have a choice. I had to ask Steven. If Steven wouldn’t marry me, I didn’t know who I would ask.
Maybe Marie? Marie was a good friend from my knitting group, and—more importantly—the only other single friend I had.
That’s not true.
Ms. Opal was also single; her husband had died a few years ago . . .
Am I really considering this? Asking my widowed coworker to marry me? Am I this desperate? Think of what you would be asking of her!
Whoever agreed—if anyone agreed—I knew Caleb would not hesitate making both our lives a complete hell.
How can I ask this of anyone?
I cleared my throat of sentiment and asked, “How soon?”
“With your father. . . you need to move fast.” I listened as he took another deep breath, palpable worry turning his tone a new, troubling shade of bleak. “Kathleen, please, please listen and understand. This blindsided me. I wish I could’ve given you more warning, but this will keep you safe. Getting married today wouldn’t be too soon. We’ll . . . talk soon.”
Eugene ended the call and it felt like I’d been tossed off a cliff. Numbly, I glanced at the screen of my phone. We’d been talking for twenty-three minutes. Twenty-three minutes was all it had taken to completely scramble my world.
My phone was almost out of battery.
I hastened to call Steven. He didn’t answer and I cursed, turning off my phone before it went dead. I then indulged in five more minutes of allowing myself to feel. Then another five minutes of hiding within the closet of despair while I collected myself.
When I stepped out of the supply closet, I had Ms. Opal’s number-ten envelopes. I was also calm, cool, and focused.
I was on a mission. I would hold myself together until that mission was complete, and that mission started with finding Steven.
Both Steven and I worked in the Fairbanks building in downtown Chicago; he worked on the top floor, I worked on the fifty-second.
Steven had a fancy job title at Cypher Systems—a corporate security firm—that translated to a senior accountant type of position. We’d been introduced by my friend Janie, a member of my knitting group (except she crocheted). Janie used to work with me at the firm, but she’d been let go when her ex-boyfriend’s father pulled some strings and had her downsized.
It had all worked out, because that’s how Janie met her husband, Quinn Sullivan.
Anyway, that’s a long, convoluted story with very little relevance on what was happening today.
Steven worked for Janie’s husband’s company and we all worked in the same building, that’s the important part. Moving on.
Wearing my detached resolve like armor, I tucked Ms. Opal’s envelopes under my arm and took the elevator to the lobby. Cypher Systems headquarters was on a secure floor and a keycard was needed to access the level. My plan was to ask the security guards to call Steven’s desk, and then have my friend escort me to his office where we would talk.
So I can propose marriage.
Acutely nauseous, I placed a hand over my stomach and walked out of the elevator doors as soon as they opened to the lobby. But then I stopped as soon as I saw who was standing at the security desk.
Dressed in all black, looking the definition of ruggedly gorgeous, was the man of my dreams. Literally.
It was Dan.
Dan the Security Man.
My façade slipped.
I did not appreciate his ability to discombobulate me by merely existing.
Daniel O’Malley was second in command at Cypher Systems and my . . . my . . . Honestly, I didn’t know how to describe him.
We’d almost had a thing, but I’d messed it up before anything real could happen. He was that guy. That guy I’d been successfully avoiding ever since I messed everything up. That guy I’d known for years and against whom all other men were compared.
Basically, I lusted him.
Before I’d ruined my chance, I used to frequently wish I were someone else. Anyone else. Maybe someone who’d grown up in a middle-class, two-parent household. With a family dog rather than a pack of German shepherd/wolf hybrids who ferociously guarded the gates of my grandparents’ compound in Duxbury.
And a mother who tucked me in at night with a kiss, rather than a billionaire heiress who hid me in the second attic in the east wing from the imaginary clown in her head for a week and a half when I was four.
And a father who took me to baseball games instead of having the house butler drop me off at boarding school when I was five and never visiting me. Or allowing me to go home to visit instead of me running away one too many times and being expelled.
But enough charming and hilarious anecdotes from my childhood, let’s talk about Dan.
As I looked at him, standing behind the lobby security desk talking to one of the guards, I hesitated. The call with Eugene had left me off-kilter.
The last time I was off-kilter and within Dan’s proximity, my brain had suggested topics like, Talk about the weather. My mouth had translated ‘weather’ to mean, hurricanes are a type of weather, let’s talk about death by drowning.
Did I want to interact with Dan while off-kilter?
No.
No, I did not.
But what choice did I have? It was almost noon. Eugene had been adamant, time was of the essence. Hurriedly, I made a mental list of subjects that were off-limits—basically, anything gross, illegal, or morbid—and propelled myself forward.
Dan was scanning the crowd in the lobby as he talked to his subordinate and his stare passed over me once. He immediately did a double take and, unsurprisingly, I was ensnared.
My steps faltered. Through sheer force of will, I recovered. But not before the expected eruption of awareness in my stomach and tightness in my chest.
However, given my reason for being in the lobby—my mission to thwart Caleb’s attempts to have me committed—disregarding the flustering sensations was relatively easy. Or maybe I was just getting really good at ignoring my emotions. Whatever. Either worked.
Time is of the essence. Steven. Marriage.
Dan stepped away from his employee and positioned himself at the edge of the high counter. Dark brown eyes—that always seemed alight with mischief—swept down and then up my person, as though conducting a quick assessment of my physical well-being. I ignored that too, determined to keep our interaction as perfunctory as possible.
But then he said, “What’s up, Kit-Kat?”
Oh.
Darn.
I gulped a large quantity of air at the unanticipated use of the old nickname, knowing I’d pay for it later. The price would be ruthless hiccups. But for now, the gulping swallows helped.
The way Dan twisted his mouth to the side lent him an air of amusement without actually smiling. He was adorable.
I hadn’t spoken to him in a long while. His chestnut hair was longer than its typical close cut and it was styled expertly, back and away from his forehead. Or maybe he’d been pulling his hands through it. Either way, it was an exceptionally good look for him.
We’d seen each other in passing, at Janie and Quinn’s apartment, in the lobby of this building, but this was the first time we’d traded words in six months. This was the first time he’d called me Kit-Kat in over two years, since before he started dating Tonya from accounting on the seventeenth floor.
“Sorry. Hi, Dan.” I gave him a tight smile. “Sorry. I just wanted to ask—”
Dan shifted closer and dipped his head, like he couldn’t hear me, and I caught a trace of cologne, just the faintest hint of something expensive and masculine. His new proximity set my heart racing. Inexplicably, I felt like crying.
But I didn’t. I wouldn’t. I never did.
Clearing my throat, I started again. “Sorry. I don’t mean to interrupt.”
His mouth did curve then, a slow spread
ing smile that usually would’ve made me forget what I was doing, because I loved this smile.
Dan didn’t have perfect teeth. They were a little crooked, like he’d never had braces, and maybe one or two had been cracked during a fight or while playing sports, and then capped. The dentist had done a great job with the repair work, but I suspected the reason Dan rarely showed his teeth when smiling was because he was self-conscious about it. That meant, when he did show teeth—like now—it was because he couldn’t help himself.
To me, his real smile was wholly genuine, devastatingly charming, and absolutely perfect.
Also perfect, his nose. It had been broken at least twice and was bent just slightly. His shoulders were also perfect, big and wide; how he moved paired with his stocky frame reminded me of a boxer, capable of both brute strength and remarkable grace.
His neck was also strong—but not in a disconcerting way—and provided the perfect pedestal for his exquisite jaw, which was perpetually shaded with a twelve o’clock shadow. Every so often, when he turned his head, I’d catch a tantalizing glimpse of swirling, black tattoos peeking out of his suit shirt.
But his lips . . .
No words could adequately describe the flawless beauty of his lips.
He was rugged everywhere that I could see, except for those lush lips.
I wanted to bite them.
“You’re not interrupting,” he said, gaze warm and a little lazy, eyelids at half-mast. Dan leaned closer, lowering his voice. “How can I help?”
Marry me.
Internally, I shrank from the unbidden thought. Holy wish fulfillment, Batman.
In the next moment, it occurred to me that Dan was recently single, having split from his longtime girlfriend—the aforementioned Tonya from accounting on the seventeenth floor—just two months ago.
When I’d first discovered they were dating, I’d been devastated and ate $47.31 worth of cheese in one sitting. While crying. I cried on my cheese. It was a sad day.
But when I’d discovered they’d split, I went home, did my laundry, did my homework, didn’t cry, and answered work emails while steadfastly refusing to obsess about it.
Presently, I was staring at him, unable to speak, as the idea solidified in my brain.
