by Tessa Teevan
Now, I just have to hope that she doesn’t mention to him about us being dates.
Because that little white lie has the potential to backfire in one hell of a dangerous way.
REMEMBER THAT plan? Turns out it was a pretty shitty one.
I thought my feigned indifference would push her towards me. I thought my going out of town and not contacting her would make her want me, give in when I finally approached her. But in truth, from afar, Alyssa appears to be completely content with keeping me at arm’s length. So I’d decided far away wasn’t cutting it, and went to Wellsley-Callahan to ask her to dinner in person.
Unfortunately, even though Cheyenne ushered me to Alyssa’s desk with maniacal glee, the woman I was seeking was nowhere to be found. Instead, a guy about my age, with hair a bit too long, was leaving a Post-it on Alyssa’s desk.
Cheyenne frowned and cleared her throat. “Bryan, what are you doing?”
He grinned when he saw her. “Well, since I lost you to Sawyer, I’m seeing if Alyssa’s down for sushi tonight. It’s my turn to cook and I’m just not feeling it.”
His turn to cook? What. The. Fuck.
Cheyenne rolled her eyes just as I’m wondering what he means. “We used to be roommates,” she informed me. Then she turned back to him, her voice getting low.
I took a peek at the note while those two hashed out whatever the hell they were discussing.
I know it’s my night to cook…so how do sushi and sake sound? Meet you at 7?
Yeah, the guy was too fucking familiar with the girl I want to be mine.
Without bothering to leave her a note of my own, I excused myself and left with a huff, vowing to talk some sense it to her—if I could ever get her to answer the damn phone.
It’s been weeks since the dinner with Alyssa and she still hasn’t answered any of my e-mails. I’ve nearly resorted to calling her office phone, since I don’t know her cell number, but even I know that’s going a bit too far. Hell, showing up at her office was probably already crossing that line.
Tough times call for extreme measures, however, which is why I’m leaving Branson another voicemail and wondering why he hasn’t returned my last seven calls. When I finally get ahold of his dad, who tells me Branson’s been out of the office sick, I’m instantly in my car and headed to Belle Meade.
If there’s one thing about my cousin, it’s that he doesn’t take time off work.
I’ve been on the road for nearly an hour when my cell rings. It’s a number I don’t recognize, so I answer with hesitation.
“Shane?”
Her voice is fucking music to my ears. Not sure how she got my number, and I really don’t care.
“Hey, sunshine,” I say, trying not to sound too damn enthusiastic. “Stalking me now?”
She scoffs. “I knew I shouldn’t have called you.”
“Wait, don’t hang up. What I meant to say was: It’s good to hear from you.”
Alyssa pauses on the other line, and what she says next tells me everything I need to know. I listen patiently as Alyssa informs me of the drama going on between Branson and Ariana, and when she asks if I’ll knock some sense into him, I let her know I’m already planning on doing that.
“Thanks, Shane. Usually I’d be happy for Ariana to stick up for herself, but what she and Branson have is the real deal.”
“Don’t worry about a thing, sunshine. I’m on it. Trust me, I’ve never seen Branson as happy as he is with your sister, and I’ll do whatever I can to fix it.”
“Is it possible you have a romantic bone in that body I didn’t know about?”
Innuendo is on the tip of my tongue and I can’t bite it back. “You can know about any bone in my body you want, but I’d rather—”
She doesn’t let me finish. “Shane…” she trails off.
And I go in for the kill. “Do you miss me?” I ask, because even though I only had two days with her, fuck, I’ve missed her every single day since.
Alyssa releases a slow breath, and in the faintest whisper, she replies, “Yes.”
Halle-fucking-lujah.
Before I can respond, she hangs up.
I don’t even care because what just happened is progress, promising.
And, now, I have her cell number.
Branson’s place is dark when I pull into his drive. I pound on the door, waiting for him to answer. When he does with a growl, I’m taken back by the sight of him. Disheveled is putting it mildly. I push past him and close the door.
“What the fuck do you want?” he growls, his voice gravelly.
That’s when the smell hits me. “Jesus Christ, Branson. Your dad said you were sick. He didn’t say you were medicating with—what is that, scotch? You smell like a fucking distillery.”
“Yeah, well, what’s it to you?”
This is much worse than I thought. He’s not hungover; he’s still fucking drunk. With an eyeroll, I place my hands on his shoulders, guide him to the kitchen, and force him onto a stool at the island in the middle of the room. He sits there in silence while I make coffee. When I place a glass of water in front of him and take a seat across from him, he doesn’t look at me. He just keeps his head hanging. I’d feel bad, give him sympathy, but that’s not how this is going to work. So I let him have it.
“I’ve been trying to call you for ten fucking days, asshole. If it weren’t for Alyssa, I’d have no idea why the hell you’re avoiding me. Which, by the way, good fucking going.”
Branson lifts his head, his eyes narrowed at me. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Alyssa doesn’t know the whole story.”
From what Alyssa told me, I have a feeling Branson’s wrong. I’m pretty sure he’s the one who doesn’t have the full story, and while it should be up to him to come to his senses, I understand the underlying damage in him. So if I have to give him the nudge he needs, I’m up for the challenge. After all, if your best-friend-slash-family can’t be honest with you, who can?
The coffee pot chimes, signaling that step one of Branson’s revelation is ready. I pour us both a mug and then sit back across from him. I’ll fill in the blanks for him, but first, I want to hear the story in his own words.
“I have all day. Spell it out for me.”
I sit back and listen as Branson spills everything, and I shake my head, knowing I was right. He has this all wrong.
“If you would’ve just called me back that day, all of this could have been avoided,” I tell him.
Branson scowls. “What the hell does that mean? I thought you were calling to warn me. After all, you tried to tell me before why they broke up.”
This is the moment I realize men genuinely are idiots. It’s a wonder women love us.
I run a hand through my hair and then lean forward, resting my forearms on the counter. “I was calling to warn you, Branson. I wasn’t the one overseeing the acquisition of his company and had no idea about it until he came storming into my office, demanding to see you. According to Alyssa, their father found out you’re a Wellington, and those two shitheads decided you and Ariana planned this takeover together. She knew nothing about it.”
Branson’s mouth drops open. “What?”
It’s one simple word. The way he says it lets me know he’s just realized what a dumb shithead he’s been.
“Ariana didn’t leave him because he didn’t have any money. She left because she overheard him saying he didn’t love her. That all he wanted was a trophy wife.”
“Fuuuuuck,” Branson moans, his head falling into his hands. “What the fuck have I done?”
Before Alyssa, I probably would’ve told Branson it doesn’t matter. Given some false platitudes about other fish in the sea. But, now that I get what having—and losing—a woman can do to a man, I sympathize. And I’m not even in love with the girl.
“Dude, I get it. You went through that with Megan and you didn’t want it to happen again. Only this time, you allowed yourself to fall in love with Ariana. You finally put a woma
n above the job, and at the first sign of trouble, you put your walls back up and pushed her away. And you fucked up. Now, my question is: What are you going to about it?”
Branson looks up at me. The dark circles under his eyes make him look haunted, and shit, he probably is.
“What can I do? I compared her to Megan. I… Fuck. I made her believe this whole thing was fake in order to keep Dad happy and become CEO. There’s no way in hell she’ll ever talk to me again, let alone forgive me. Fuck, I don’t even know if I’ll ever be able to forgive myself.”
I’m kind of at a loss for words, something that’s unusual for me. I rack my brain, trying to come up with something motivational, but Branson rises from his stool and leaves me alone in the kitchen. I’m just about to follow when he comes back out, holding a box and two pieces of paper.
“What are those?” I ask, eyeing the objects in his hand, especially the box, which looks like one from a jeweler.
Branson’s eyes meet mine, determination shining in them. “This is the kick in the ass I need to win my woman back,” he tells me.
I raise an eyebrow, unsure what the hell a box could do to save what he did, and then it dawns on me.
He doesn’t plan on losing Ariana.
He plans on marrying her.
Well, hell. That’s one way of winning a woman back. I just pray, for his sake—and selfishly mine—it works.
IT’S BEEN ten days since Branson showed up at my doorstep, and my sister hasn’t answered a single one of my calls. I decide it’s not a good sign, so I break down and get Shane’s number from Cheyenne, calling him to see if he can find out what’s going on. After we’re off the phone and I trust he’s going to smack some sense into Branson, I try to do the same with my sister.
I’ve tried to respect her wishes, giving her the space and the privacy she wants, but I’ve had enough. They belong together, no matter what, and I’m not letting a stupid misunderstanding get in the way.
Bryan’s out on a late-night beer run while I pace the floor of the living room, waiting for Ariana to answer. Finally, she does on the fifth ring, just as I’m about to give up.
“Hey, Alyssa,” she says, her voice sounding sleepy.
“It’s about damn time you answer,” I gripe, sounding harsher than I planned to. “I don’t know where you are, and you haven’t called me except to tell me you were fine when you got to wherever you were going.”
There’s a pause, and knowing my sister, she’s trying to come with some sort of lie. Except I also know my sister and lying isn’t her forte. Fortunately, she decides to go with the truth. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just… It’s been nice disconnecting from everything, from everyone. It’s been perfect for me.”
A truth I don’t find comforting. I sigh, pressing the phone to my ear. “Does that mean you still haven’t talked to him?”
“No, I haven’t. I’m not sure I’m ready.”
If she were here, I’d shake her. “Well, if you’d have answered your phone any time in the last week, I could’ve told you I had a visitor,” I inform her.
“Oh?”
The sudden interest in her voice lets me know not all hope is lost.
“He looked awful, Ari. I think this is really taking a toll on him.”
She snaps. “Then he shouldn’t have been so quick to rush to judgment.” It’s on the tip of my tongue to agree, but she continues quickly. “Sorry. I shouldn’t take it out on you. It’s not your fault.”
I brush it off. “I’m just saying. Instead of running, fight for him. Hear him out. Get everything out in the open.”
There’s a slight pause. Then I have to strain to hear her whisper. “I miss him.”
“Honey, he misses you, too. Don’t you think you’ve avoided this long enough? Haven’t you found yourself yet?”
Ariana actually laughs, which is progress. “I think I found myself on that highway a couple of months ago.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, unsure of where she’s going with this.
“I’ve had nothing to do but think, and it’s given me time to put things into perspective. With our parents, who was I? I was the dutiful daughter, went to the school they wanted me to go to, chose the major they wanted me to pick and the job given to me. With Benjamin, I did the same thing. Whatever he wanted. And when I left Atlanta, it was because, for the first time, I needed to discover who I was without someone dictating it. I’ve realized I didn’t need to be alone to do that. I just needed to find the right person. And I did. While I was with Branson, I discovered who I was because he drew that woman out of me. Sometimes, I think Branson knows me better than I know myself.”
“Oh, Ari. You’ve always been that woman. She was just buried way too deep. He was able to break through all the bullshit everyone else piled on top of you.” I sniff, wishing I’d come to these conclusions days ago.
“I know. And the first time we had a fight? What did I do? I reverted back to my old self and just took it. I should’ve yelled at him. I should’ve screamed. Instead, I just accepted it and left. I’ve had time to realize that it was wrong. This whole time, I’ve been expecting him to put his past completely behind him when I haven’t done the same. We’re both works in progress, and it just became to be too much.”
“And now?”
“And now…I have a fiancé to get back.”
I cheer, hoisting my beer high into the air and not giving a damn when the liquid sloshes over onto my hand. “Yes! It’s about damn time!”
Not only did Branson and Ariana patch things up, they got engaged, found out they were pregnant, and have planned a whirlwind wedding that’s happening in less than a week.
My sister—go big or go home, I guess.
In addition to that latest development, things have moved full steam ahead with both Bryan moving in and the Filiatrault account moving forward. In fact, today’s the day the man in question is finally coming to Wellsley-Callahan to hear part one of Cheyenne’s marketing spiel.
Before being added to the support staff on this account, I had no idea how much time, effort, and repeated time and effort went into trying to seal the deal for an acquisition. I was completely ignorant, just assuming that the company being acquired would go to the highest bidder. But no. It’s like a freaking Broadway audition, and one false step, you’re eliminated.
Just like with Mr. Wellsley, I’m surprised at the appearance of Giorgio Filiatrault. The Frenchman is shorter than my five feet six inches and carries himself tall, even on his lean frame. Thick, black hair falls in curls around his shoulders. He’s incredibly young-looking, and I have to reread his biography in the packet to recall that he took over the company at age twenty-one when his father suddenly passed away. Currently at age twenty-seven, he decided that running the family business was not for him. And since their small yet increasingly yielding wine production continues to grow, it’s become a hot commodity.
Part of me wonders if Mr. Wellsley plans on using Filiatrault to start a whole wine enterprise within the company. It makes sense to me. People have been drinking wine, or some version of it, for millennia. Evolution has changed many things, but not that. We love our wine.
The longer I sit here and listen to the spiel, the more I wonder why this is such a massive acquisition for the company. There are plenty of small, unknown, yet incredible vineyards and wineries all over the world. Hell, Ollie’s wine, God bless the man, is better than any of the Filiatrault ones they’ve had us taste.
They were rivals in college and have been ever since.
Shane’s voice fills my mind, and I realize, that’s precisely why. It’s not about building the business or setting up future generations of the Wellsley-Callahan group. It’s about knowing that Clay Wellington’s company is going after it and Wellsley wants to take it out from under him.
I’ve been avoiding Shane because of a decades-long rivalry. One that doesn’t have to do with Shane or me. So basically, for no freaking reason.
Ugh.
/> The realization makes me sick to my stomach. I was so blinded by rising to the top at WC that I didn’t stop to think about what I was turning down. Yes, I’ve always wanted to be a career woman, to show my parents, the world, that I don’t need a man to take care of me. But I don’t want to be the woman who puts work above everything else.
I have to fix this.
Except, the last time I said no to Shane, the expression in his solemn eyes told me it was probably the last time he’d ever make an offer.
So I’m going to do what I’ve always vowed never to do. I’m going to fight dirty.
Most people in this room are still focused on Cheyenne. So I take out my notepad, scribble a message to Bryan, then push it over.
Feel like a trip to Tennessee this week?
He reads the note then lifts his head, his brow furrowed. He knows what this weekend is.
You askin’ me on a date, Lyssa?
I roll my eyes.
Sure am.
Later that night, Bryan and I are lounging on the couch, watching Peaky Blinders, and trying our best—which is probably the worst—at British accents. He throws a peanut up into the air and catches it with his mouth just as the credits roll.
“Alyssa, can I ask you a question?”
I set down my glass of milk and look at him, an eyebrow raised. “When have you ever not been able to ask me something?”
He sits up, his back resting against the arm of the couch. “What’s your gauge on Wellsley?”
“What do you mean?”
He runs a hand over the back of his neck. “I don’t know. I thought this Filiatrault thing was cut and dried. Acquire the business, move on to the next venture. But it seems like he’s out for blood. I want to ask Sawyer. But I don’t want to seem paranoid. He’s got enough to deal with.”
I turn to face him, crossing my legs. “To be honest, I felt the same way in today’s meeting.” I wish I could tell him about the rivalry between Wellsley and Shane’s father, but I’m not ready to give away that connection quite yet, especially when I don’t know any other juicy details. “The good thing is he’s no longer CEO, and we know Sawyer has our backs. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
