by Cathryn Fox
“What...what’s going on?”
Will laughs. “Family. They don’t know when to mind their own business.”
I grip the edge of the bookshelf, the room closing in on me. “Will—”
“I don’t agree with my granddad’s meddling, and for the record, Summer was the one responsible for the French maid outfits.” I glance past him to see a pretty woman with long strands of honey-blond hair piled on the top of her head. She gives me a small wave and coy smile. “But how can I be mad?”
“Mad? What? The article... I didn’t...”
Will steps up to me and takes my shaky hands in his. And the second he touches me, tears fill my eyes. I blink through the haze, take in his handsome face, the way he’s looking at me with pure adoration.
“I know you’re an independent woman who likes to do everything herself, and that’s one of the things I admire most about you.”
“Thank...you. But... I just can’t understand—”
“I submitted the article, Khloe.”
My jaw drops, and filling my lungs with air becomes an impossible task. “No, you’re a private guy.” I shake my head hard. “You don’t want anyone knowing anything about you.”
“But your dream was to write for the New Yorker. Granddad told me.”
As understanding dawns, tears spill from my eyes. “Wait, you...you did this for me? You put yourself out there, let the world know your private life...for me?”
“Of course.”
But Naomi. After he accused me of trying to sabotage him, I’d run back to the patio to fight for him, to tell him how wrong he was about me, but he’d been on the phone with Naomi. He’d called her the second he sent me packing. So why is he doing this? Maybe because I told him the truth, and he wanted to do something nice to thank me? Maybe that’s all that’s going on here.
“Naomi,” I begin quietly. “Did you get back what you had with her?”
“I’ll never get back what I had with Naomi.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I don’t want that.”
“You don’t?”
“No, because you were right about everything. I didn’t really want to marry her, and something better did come along.”
Steph shrieks beside me, and I catch the way she’s holding her hands in front of her face like she’s trying not to shout. I make eye contact with every person standing behind Will. My God, why is his entire family here?
“Will?”
“This time, this time, Khloe, I’m not going down without a fight. When I said I didn’t deserve this, what I meant is I don’t deserve you. Not after the way I treated you. But if you let me spend a lifetime making it up to you, I will.”
He pulls something from his suit pocket and drops to one knee.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
“I love you, Khloe. I think I fell for you the minute you boarded Granddad’s plane all flustered and beautiful, and...your independent, wild self. Will you marry me? Will you make me the happiest man in the world?”
Our gazes meet and hold, and my mind races with everything that’s happened—how much I’ve changed, how much my wants have changed.
“It’s not what I want anymore,” I blurt out, and the room grows so quiet I can hear the clock behind the counter tick.
He swallows so hard it echoes in the room. “Khloe, I’m sorry about everything. I’m sorry I didn’t trust you. I’m sorry I jumped to the wrong—”
“The article,” I say, and drop the paper. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“I might have sent it to a buddy of mine, but he wouldn’t have printed it if it wasn’t great, Khloe. You did this on your own merit. Isn’t that what you always wanted?”
“No, you don’t understand.”
“Make me understand.”
I drop to my knees. “What you’ve done, exposing the private side of yourself for me, that’s just about the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me, but it wasn’t necessary.”
Confusion fills his features, and the muscles in his neck are so tight I’m sure they’re going to snap. “Isn’t it your dream to write for the New Yorker?”
I shrug. “Used to be, but things have changed.”
As his eyes roam my face, so lost and vulnerable, the love I feel for him bubbles to the surface. “Do you remember telling me that when I left Saint Thomas I’d know what I wanted and what I loved?”
My eyes drop to his pulse hammering against his neck. “What do you want?” he asks.
“My dream used to be to write for the New Yorker, but now I want to be with the children in Saint Thomas.” His eyes light up. “I want to go back. I want to help, to be a productive member of the Saint Thomas community.” I shrug. “And you know what, if I want to write the odd article for the New Yorker I can do that, too. Maybe I can even write the book I’ve always wanted to write.”
“Bevey and the kids will be happy to hear that.”
I cup his face, and my heart crashes against my chest. “You also told me I’d know what I love.”
“What do you love, Khloe?”
“I love you, Will Carson, and the answer is yes.”
Cheers erupt behind us as a huge smile tugs at his mouth and lights up his eyes. He lets loose a breath. “You know you had me scared there for a moment.”
I grin at him. “And maybe for a moment you deserved it.”
“You might be right.” He takes the ring from the box and slides it onto my finger. I examine the huge rock for a second and lift my gaze to his.
“I love you,” I whisper.
“I love you, too,” he says, giving me a kiss so full of warmth and adoration that my heart overflows with all the things I feel for this man. “I’m so happy you decided to take the job in Saint Thomas.”
“I realize you can’t always be there with me.” I cast a quick look at James. “You need to be close to family.”
James slams his cane onto the floor. “Don’t you worry, child. I’m not going anywhere soon.” He taps his head. “Still as sharp as a tack.” Everyone nods in agreement. “You two go live your lives. You’re only a flight away.”
“He’s right,” Brianna says, putting her hand on Luca’s chest. “We live in Italy, and I see Granddad more now than when I lived in New York.”
I pull Steph to me. “Everyone, this is Steph, my best friend. My sister.” I hug her. “Clearly she was in on all this, too.”
James glances at Steph, checks out her empty ring finger. “I was wondering if you could do me a favor—”
“Oh, God, James, no,” I say. “Your matchmaking days are done!” As everyone laughs, I inch away from Will and glance at his family. “Speaking of matchmaking.” I glare at the men and women watching me carefully. “Who was behind this?” I wave my finger back and forth between Will and me.
“Uh, well,” James says, and the rest of them shift from one foot to the other, all of them looking around the room sheepishly. I point my finger. “Let me just say one thing.” My gaze falls to Will, who has a worried look in his eyes. I wink at him, look back at his family and say, “Thank you.”
Before I even realize what is happening, his family is hugging and kissing me and introducing themselves as I’m passed from arm to arm. They even include Steph, and for that I’m grateful. Once the hugs are done, Will comes to my rescue.
He pulls me into his arms, places a soul-stirring kiss on my mouth and says, “Did I mention I come with a big, crazy family?”
I laugh and hug him. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
* * *
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by Regina Kyle
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CHAPTER ONE
Ainsley
I’VE SEEN A LOT of strange things in my line of work. Manhattan is full of oddballs, and I seem to be a magnet for them. I’ve taken each and every one of their, shall we say, eccentric requests in stride. You know what they say. The customer’s always right. Well, almost always. I do have some hard limits.
And this may be one of them.
I get down on my knees and look my newest prospective client in the eye. The trendy Tribeca loft is big by Manhattan standards, but he seems to dominate the space, his massive frame making the Mad Men–style furniture look like it belongs in a dollhouse. He’s impeccably groomed and sleekly muscled, coiled and ready to pounce like a jungle cat at the slightest sign of weakness.
Honestly, I’m a little afraid of him. He’s more than a tad overwhelming. I’m not sure I can handle that much raw, unadulterated power. I wonder not for the first time what he’s doing here, in this apartment. With his bulk and brawn, he seems more suited to country living than city dwelling. I can’t help feeling he’d be happier somewhere with more room to roam.
“So what do you think, Ainsley? Can you do it?” an uncertain female voice asks from over my shoulder.
Brie Lawson. I’d almost forgotten she’s there, that’s how uncharacteristically rattled I am. In truth, she’s the prospective client, not Roscoe. We met at a spin class in the Village. I made the mistake of telling her what I do for a living, and she insisted I was the only one who could help her.
And Roscoe.
“Please, Ainsley. I don’t know what I’ll do if you don’t say yes.”
“I don’t know, Brie,” I answer, not taking my eye off Roscoe, who’s been surprisingly quiet throughout this whole ordeal. “This is totally out of my comfort zone.”
“I’ll pay double your usual rate. Triple. Well, Jake will. Lord knows he can afford it.”
That’s right. It isn’t even Brie who’ll be my client if I accept her crazy proposal. It’s her mysterious, heretofore unseen brother who’ll be footing the bill for my services.
The very exorbitant bill.
I make one last head-to-paw assessment of the Irish wolfhound sitting on his haunches in front of me, then get back to my feet with a crisp nod. This may be an exercise in insanity given my spotty history with dogs, especially large ones, but three times my going rate is too damn good to pass up. Odds & Errands—the concierge service I started out of my apartment a little less than a year ago—needs the business. And mama needs those Louboutin striped leather sling-backs she saw in the display window at Saks.
“Deal.”
Brie starts to squee, but I rise, cutting her off with a hand held palm out, Supremes style. “I’ll walk him twice a day. Make sure he’s got food and water. That’s it. No snuggle time. No cleaning up any of his little—or not so little—indoor messes. No hauling fifty-pound bags of dog chow up five flights of stairs.”
“The building has an elevator.”
I arch a brow at her. “Do you want me to take this job or not?”
“I want, I want.” Brie throws her arms around me and I instinctively tense up. Such effusive displays of affection aren’t the norm in my family. Hell, any displays of affection aren’t the norm for the emotionally stunted Scott clan, and I’m still getting used to my new friend’s tendency toward over-the-top exuberance. I make a conscious effort to relax as she continues to sing my praises. “You’re a lifesaver. Seriously. I was dreading telling Jake I was dumping Roscoe on him. But he won’t take it half so bad now that you’ll be around to share the burden.”
I don’t like the sound of those words. Share the burden. But it’s too late now. I’ve already given my word, and that’s not something I take lightly. Besides, those Louboutins aren’t going to buy themselves.
The aforementioned burden trots on over and tries to worm his way between us, clearly wanting to get in on the action. I disentangle myself from Brie and take a step back from the pair.
“How did you get stuck with him anyway?” I ask.
She reaches down and takes hold of Roscoe’s collar, keeping him blessedly beside her and away from me. “My parents won a three-month cruise in some raffle fundraiser. They figured since I’ve been staying with Jake while making the audition rounds, we could take care of Roscoe together. I don’t think anyone—least of all me—considered the possibility I’d book something while they were gone. And certainly not something that was going to take me out of town for so long.”
Brie’s practically bursting with excitement, and I’m reminded what brought me here in the first place. I push aside my aversion to PDA—and Roscoe—and step back toward her to give her a quick squeeze. “Have I told you how jealous I am? Six months doing my absolute favorite musical—Les Misérables—in one of my favorite places, sunny San Diego? You’re going to kill it, girl.”
She totally is. Brie may be one of my newest friends—I’ve known her only a few months—but I had the pleasure of catching her semi-autobiographical one-woman show at Studio 54, and she’s damn good. I’ve seen enough Broadway musicals to know she’s got what it takes to make it on the Great White Way. That was one of the few perks of being a junior associate at Dwight, Kearns & Goodwin, attorneys at law. Free theater tickets when the partners didn’t need them to wine, dine and entertain clients. Yankees and Rangers, too, which Dale sure didn’t seem to mind.
No. I’m not going to think about Dale. And I’m not going to think about DK&G. I’ve left all that in the rearview mirror, on the side of the highway covered in road dust.
Brie blushes and returns the squeeze, pulling me back to the present. “Thanks, but I’m only in the ensemble. If it’s anything like either of the Broadway productions, the lighting will be so subdued I’ll be in shadow the whole time.”
“You know what they say.” I shake my finger at her. “There are no small parts...”
<
br /> “Only small actors,” Brie finishes, and we bump fists. That much PDA I can deal with. Although I’m not sure fist-bumping in front of a dog counts as public.
She lets go of Roscoe’s collar and gives his head a pat, and he flops down onto the floor like a drag queen doing a death drop. He’s way more chill than I expected. Maybe not all big dogs are high maintenance. I’m going to have to read up on the breed. Research is key to everything we do at Odds & Errands. Like I always tell my army of two—Aaron and Erin, and yes, I really did hire two people with pretty much the same name, albeit different spellings and different sexes—preparation is more than half the battle.
“So.” Brie rocks back and forth on the soles of her Vans pink glitter high-tops. “What happens now? Is this a handshake agreement or is there some sort of paperwork we have to sign?”
This is the part I hate. The business part. At least with friends. It’s awkward and icky and it’s why I tend to shy away from mixing work with my personal life. But Brie seemed so desperate when she asked—no, begged—me to bail her out. She’d had a mini-freak-out worrying how her brother would react when she told him she was leaving him with the responsibility of caring for a dog the size of a small pony. Made him seem like a borderline tyrant.
Unfortunately, since the tyrant is the one paying my tab, he’s the one I need to be dealing with.
“There’s paperwork, but since I’m on your brother’s dime, he’s the one who has to sign.”
“Well...” Brie rocks faster, twisting the hem of her Florence and the Machine T-shirt in her fingers. “That might be a problem.”
Great. Not five minutes in, and already a wrinkle in this half-baked plan.
I plop myself down on a retro-chic chair that’s more comfortable than it looks, figuring this has the potential to be a long, drawn-out discussion. Roscoe takes this as an invitation to join me, lumbering over and sprawling across my feet. Christ, he’s heavy. He must weigh close to two hundred pounds. Still, I humor him, scratching behind his ears, which earns me a tail thump.
