Pride and Papercuts

by Staci Hart

  When she found them, she took a breath and met my eyes. “When I was a little girl, we didn’t go to church—we worshipped Bower Bouquets. Bower has been the lifeblood of my family for generations, the cornerstone of every decision we make, personal or otherwise. It isn’t a company, not to my mother. It’s a religion. And that religion has shaped every part of me—my ambitions, my work ethic, my relationships, even my major in college. It’s shaped me in ways I probably don’t even realize. I’ve been conditioned to be a part of Bower. No,” she corrected. “I suppose it’s a part of me. And even though I’m ready to walk away, there’s this … I don’t know. It’s a fear, I guess, one that goes beyond money or family. There’s this irrational sense of foreboding, as if walking away will somehow upset the balance of the universe.”

  The weight of her words settled on me.

  “You must understand, as close as you are to your family,” she urged. “It’s a sense of devotion, though for me, that devotion is born of obligation.”

  “I do understand. Longbourne is so tied up with our relationships, I don’t know how to separate them. That flower shop is another member of our family. The thought of it ending or closing is unfathomable. We’d be lost without it.”

  “Exactly, though your commitment is founded in your love of your family. Mine is rooted strictly and deeply in fear.”

  “When did you realize it?”

  “Before I left for England. Out of college, I had this starry-eyed daydream of my future, the kind of thing only a kid would believe. A fairy tale. I’d come to work with my mother at Bower. I’d find a happy little nook, do what I’d been born to. Worse …” She hesitated. “I … I thought I’d win her approval. Sure, my mother was bitchy and overbearing, but wasn’t everyone’s? That first year that I worked for Bower, I was filled with blind hope. But when she took Harvest Center from me, something in me snapped. It was like rubbing sleep from my eyes—when she came into focus, I saw the unfairness of it all for the first time. She only serves herself, and I’m just a little, inanimate cog in her machine. An important cog but one without rights all the same.”

  I shook my head. “People like that aren’t born. They’re bred. I can’t imagine what happened to her to make her this way. I always assumed it was indoctrination by her mother—that, or the Bowers had some genetic predisposition to cruelty. But then I met you.”

  Her face softened, first her brows, then her eyes, then the line of her lips. “I think much of it was bred by my grandmother, but Mother hates her for it. Which is funny, seeing as how alike they are, particularly where their daughters are concerned. But … well, from what I understand, my mother wasn’t always like this.”

  “What changed?”

  Maisie squirmed, avoiding my eyes as she took a drink. “I … I’m not supposed to know. Dad wasn’t supposed to tell me.”

  I frowned. “Tell you what?”

  Her throat worked as she swallowed. “Has your mother ever told you about when they were young?”

  “Only that they went to school together but weren’t friends. Apparently, they weren’t enemies either—they left that war to their mothers until they were older, right?”

  “That’s part of it.” Another pause, and I officially needed to know. “Did she ever tell you that my mother used to date your father?”

  A hot slash of refusal hit me in the gut. “Impossible.”

  But she said nothing, only looked at me with deep, dark eyes.

  “No. There’s no way she could keep that from us, even if she’d wanted to. Even if she’d tried.”

  “But it’s not just that. My father dated your mother too.”

  I set down my glass with a clink, gripping the counter with damp palms as she told me the story of our parents. The real heart of the rivalry. She told me how her parents ended up married and why her father stayed.

  Thoughts pinged around my skull like gravel in a vacuum cleaner. My father with Evelyn Bower. No universe existed wherein that statement could be true. But it was. I could see it on her face.

  “I didn’t believe it either,” she said quietly. “I knew about my parents and the baby they lost, but not how your family was involved. He only told me now because my mother has put me in the middle, and he thought I should know why.”

  I scrubbed a hand over my mouth. “It would explain … well, it would explain just about everything. But goddamn.” After a pause, I joked, “Bright side—you won’t lose a man to the Bennets.”

  She didn’t smile. “But I could. One day, you might be asked to choose, and I don’t think you would choose me.” Before I could argue, she continued, “And if not, she might lose me to the Bennets. I can’t imagine that would be much easier for her.”

  I stepped around the island to her. “I knew telling you what I wanted would put you in a position to have to choose. How could I ask so much of you?” I shook my head. “I couldn’t. I still don’t know if I should.”

  “Well, that isn’t your decision to make, is it?”

  “But isn’t it my responsibility?”

  She shifted in her seat, face upturned as she took my hands. “Is there anything I could say that would convince you that you aren’t responsible for my feelings, for my happiness?”

  “Nothing.”

  With the shake of her head, she said, “But you aren’t.”

  “Maybe I want to be.”

  She stood, stepped into me until our bodies were flush, her hands on my chest and mine on her waist. “I love that you want to be. So few people in my life ever have.”

  “And fuck every single one of them who haven’t. You deserve everything, and I want to give everything to you.”

  Her cheeks flushed. “You don’t even know me, not really.”

  “You don’t believe that,” I whispered, sweeping her jaw with my knuckles. “I may not know your favorite color or your middle name, but I know you, somehow. I know you are filled with goodness. I know what you do is for others before yourself. I know your life has been hard for being so privileged, and I know you have not received the love you’ve given to the world. And as far as I’m concerned, that ends right now.”

  Her lips parted to speak, but I swallowed her answer with a kiss, unwilling to let her speak, knowing I’d said too much. I kissed her, not understanding the fierce devotion I felt for someone so new to me. All I knew was that no one had ever protected her, and she didn’t know her worth.

  And I was exactly the person to show her.

  It was a compulsion, a deep and instinctive impulse to keep her safe. To make her happy. To show her a better life than the one she’d been living in the long shadow of her mother. I understood her, and I believed she understood me.

  I’d spent my life feeling separate from the family I loved, different, unlike them in almost all ways. I’d found my place by being useful, dependable. And though we knew each other well and loved each other unconditionally, we never understood each other.

  I hadn’t realized just what that meant, to be understood. I hadn’t known just how much it meant, not until that moment, holding Maisie in my arms, knowing she saw me just as distinctly as I saw her.

  In my world, this was a rare and impossible gift.

  One I didn’t intend to waste.

  I kissed her to prove that point, kissed her until we were noisy breaths and thundering hearts. Kissed her until her hands were under my suit coat and mine sought the hem of her skirt.

  Kissed her until the goddamn timer on the oven went off.

  I broke away with a pop and a swear on swollen lips. She sank into her seat as I marched to the traitorous oven and temped the stupid pork loin, which was inconveniently done.

  “Dinner’s ready,” I said flatly, glancing at her when she laughed.

  Her face was bright, her cheeks high, chin resting in her palm. She gazed at me like I was the most wonderful thing in the world.

  With her looking at me like that, I even believed it.

  I let the meat rest while I pl
ated the vegetables, then carved the loin into juicy medallions, lining them up in the center of the tray. And once it was all ready, she followed me into the dining room with our wine in her hands.

  “Blue,” she said as she sat, taking the servingware to fill her plate. “And Ann.”

  My brow quirked, and she laughed.

  “My favorite color and my middle name. What are yours?”

  “Also blue, though I prefer the darker shades, navy or cobalt. And Antony.”

  Her fork paused midair. “Marcus Antony? Mark Antony? As in Cleopatra’s lover?”

  I sighed. “My mother is a romantic with a penchant for Roman names.”

  “I hope that’s not a bad omen. I’d hate to end up in a double suicide.”

  I snorted a laugh as I served myself. “I don’t think we’ll ever be in it so bad as all that. And please, don’t ever call me Mark.”

  “Don’t ever call me Margaret, and you have yourself a deal.”

  She popped a bite into her mouth with a teasing smile that dissolved into a moan. The sound sent a wave of heat through me. “This is incredible.”

  “Thank you. I derive odd pleasure from physically putting food on the table.” I took a bite of my own, savoring it for a moment. “Does anyone call you Margaret other than your mother?”

  “My grandmother did, but that’s all. Everyone else calls me Maisie. My mother hates it.”

  “I can imagine she does.”

  “Just another thing she blames my father for.”

  “I don’t know how he does it. How he stays with her. Thirty years,” I said to myself. “That’s no life to live.”

  “No, it isn’t. I’ve tried to convince him to leave, but … he’s afraid to leave me with her, even now. Anyway, it’s always been the two of us. The truth is, he’s only been around Mother for a year out of the last eight. When I left, so did he, and we only came home on holidays to pay our dues so we could leave again in peace.”

  “When I was a kid, I always daydreamed about being an only child,” I said as we ate.

  “That’s funny because I always daydreamed about having a big, rowdy family.”

  “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

  “And how about now? Do you still wish you were an only child?”

  “Not for a second. I spent my childhood trying to control the chaos that is my family. Five kids in four years didn’t help my mom’s general lack of organizational skills, and I’m smack in the middle of us in age. Jett and Laney have their twin thing. Kash and Luke have their Irish twin thing. And I’m just … well, just in the middle, is all. But it makes me happy to help them. It fulfills me to see their happiness.”

  “And you all get along?”

  “We do. I mean, don’t get me wrong—we fight but not with teeth. I might punch Luke in the kidney, but I don’t mean it any more than he does when he choke-holds me for not telling him who I’m dating.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “Don’t worry, I haven’t told him who I’m dating.”

  She swallowed what was in her mouth and said, “I’m more worried about the punching and choke holds.”

  I chuckled. “No real harm—it’s just roughhousing. You can’t have that many boys in one house without some brawling. It was never over anything important, just seemed like a joke turned into a swing, which then turned into grappling.”

  “I somehow can’t imagine you getting in a fight. You’re so …”

  “Stiff? Aloof? Formal?”

  “I was going to say refined. That, and I can’t picture you fighting in a suit.”

  “Would it help if I told you I usually took my coat off?”

  “A little,” she said on a laugh. “I think I would have taken the occasional busted lip over being alone all the time. My house is big and cold and empty, and my only happiness as a child was school and my father. Isn’t that sad? My best friend growing up was my dad.”

  “I don’t think that’s sad at all,” I said quietly. “He must love you very much to go through what he’s gone through.”

  “He does. He’s sacrificed his happiness in love for me. I wish he’d get a girlfriend, but I don’t think he wants to drag anyone into the mess.”

  “Think he’ll ever leave her?”

  She sighed. “He says he will. In a year, I’ll be out from under her, and he promised me he’d leave too. Until then, he insists on being a buffer between me and my mother. Speaking of,” she started, setting down her fork, “my mother has a plan I thought you should know about.”

  The pork turned to dust in my mouth. I swallowed it in a lump and took a drink.

  “I was in the room for a conversation with her lawyer as they outlined their strategy, which currently consists of them doing what they can to bankrupt you in legal fees.”

  I took another pull from my wine without speaking.

  “The plan is two part—delay and interfere with depositions so you have to pay to redo them and run you around for excessive information for discovery. They’re going to call for depositions of every single person you’ve talked to or worked with in the last decade. They’ll ask for paperwork and records they don’t need just to bury you in costs.”

  I sat back in my seat, eyes on my wineglass, hand on the stem. “I can’t say I’m surprised.”

  “Is there anything you can do to stop her?”

  “I’ll have to talk to Ben, but I think so, yes. We can file a motion to have the judge intervene.”

  Her bottom lip slipped between her teeth. “That might not be easy. The judge’s wife is one of her friends, if you can call it that. They’re on a few charity boards together, which is how they’ve been able to get this case taken as far as it’s come.”

  I swore under my breath. Because if the judge wouldn’t do his job, Evelyn Bower would most definitely bankrupt us in fees alone.

  We’d be stopped before we even started.

  “I’m sorry,” she said sorrowfully.

  “Don’t be sorry—you aren’t her keeper. I’m sorry you’re in this situation in the first place.”

  “I’m just glad there’s something I can do to help. Possibly help. Maybe help?”

  At that, I smiled. “You definitely help.”

  “Good,” she said, relieved as she picked up her fork to finish her dinner.

  And for the first time since we’d been in each other’s company, we fell silent.

  Music played over the speakers wired throughout the house—no matter what I did, I couldn’t deprogram from the noise of my childhood. In fact, quiet drove me a little crazy, and in that moment, I was thankful for the habit of keeping music going.

  Something crackled between us in the sweet silence, questions and thoughts, wonderings and anticipation. What were we doing, and why couldn’t we help ourselves? How would tonight end, and where would we go from here? What would we do together, and how would we spend our time? Could I really keep her safe, or would I just be another complication in her already complex life?

  “Is this crazy?” she asked, reading my mind. “Are we crazy?”

  “Without question. Do you care?”

  “Not even a little. I know I should. I just … don’t.”

  “I won’t lie to you and say I’m not worried about what will happen to you because of me. I can’t pretend I’m not selfish and self-serving for wanting you. I won’t take away your choice, but I don’t want to willingly put you in danger either. And refusing you seems to be beyond my ability. Past that, I’ve never wanted to lose my mind more.”

  I earned a small laugh. “You trust me, don’t you?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” I asked.

  She shrugged one shoulder. “You don’t seem to be the type to trust easily.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “And even though we might feel as if we know each other, we don’t. You don’t know me, Marcus.”

  “I know you well enough to know you’re different.”

  “Why? I’m just plain old me. W
hy would you trust me without a reason?”

  I cocked my head as if inspecting her, a tilted smile on my face. “By my count, you’ve defied your mother, decided you’re willing to walk away from your life and inheritance, and you are currently spying on your mother for the sake of my family. You stood up to her in front of all of us, defended what you felt was right. Your actions have spoken nothing but trust. Why do you trust me?”

  “I don’t know. Because we’re allies, that’s part of it. Because I can’t stand by and watch her decimate your family over some tired, pointless grudge she’s held on to rather than moved on from. But mostly because when I’m with you, the world seems full of possibility when I’ve lived without hope for so long. I trust you because I want to trust you, and you’ve done nothing but prove you’re worthy.”

  I watched her for a protracted moment, one spent searching for words. “I have never met anyone like you, not in my whole life. And that you’re sitting here, that you’re with me, is the most terrifying and satisfying thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  She rose from her seat, her eyes locked on mine as she approached. Reaching for her, I pushed my chair back to make room, and in a single, fluid motion, we connected in a slide of her arms, the slip of her body into my lap, the sweetness of her lips against mine. We were a mingling of breaths, a seam of lips, a tangling of tongues, the bounds of the world shrinking to just us, just this. My hands roamed as the kiss deepened. The silken strands of her hair in my fingertips. The soft curve of her jaw. The dip of her waist. The shape of her thigh beneath my palm. Her skin, hot and smooth, my curious hand seeking the end of her thigh like a cartographer seeks the shore.

  When the curve of her ass rested firmly in my palm, I squeezed and was rewarded with a moan into my mouth. There was little I could do with her sidesaddle in my lap, but when I skimmed the hem of her panties, she shifted to grant me access.

  The heat of her mouth arrested my senses, leaving my hands to act on their own, and they took that opportunity before I could consider. My thumb slipped into the cleft of her ass, the silken fabric barring me from more than a delicate exploration. I traced that line down until I found her heat with my thumb, nestled in the valley of her body, found the peak of her and stroked. The arch of her back rocked her in the crook of my hand, my thumb holding steady and fingers splayed on her ass.