by R. R. Banks
A surge of white-hot anger rushes through me as I stare at the man through the computer screen. Ted is a good guy and an excellent project manager. I know that he's joking with me, but I don't appreciate having my work ethic questioned. Not by Ted, not by anyone.
I do not want people within my company getting the idea that I've become lazy, and that in turn, it's okay for them to slack off and do the same. I work hard, and I expect my employees to work just as hard. I pay them very well to do just that. I don't want to be in the city for a while and I don't need to be there to run the company. And I don't feel the need to explain to anyone working for me why that is.
“I will come into the office when I need to be there,” I say. “And I don't need to justify myself or my work habits to you.”
“No, Liam, that's not –”
“I do not appreciate having my work ethic questioned,” I say, my voice growing colder with each syllable. “Furthermore, I am still very much involved with every detail of every project. I know everything that we are doing inside and out. Probably better than you, Ted. Nothing is overlooked, and everything is done in a timely manner.”
“I know, Liam,” Ted stammers. “I was just –”
“How I choose to run my company is up to me,” I cut him off again. “And it is not for you or any of my other employees to question that. If you do not like how I'm running my company, I'll be happy to provide you with a reference on your job search.”
“I apologize, Liam,” Ted says, sounding incredibly uncomfortable. “I didn't mean to offend you. It was a poor attempt at a joke. I'm sorry.”
“Have the contracts emailed to me,” I say and end the call.
I lean back in my seat and let out a long breath. Hemingway pads over and lays his head in my lap, so I scratch him behind his ears. I'm not all that angry with Ted. Like I said, I know he was joking with me, and ordinarily, I can take it. I like to keep things a little loose around the office and I'm fine with people having some fun. I don't believe the workplace needs to be a silent, solemn place where people spend eight hours a day, dreading each minute they're there.
I want my office environment to be a place that people can enjoy. Where they can have fun – within certain limits, of course. But, in my experience, people who enjoy their job, and enjoy their workplace, are far more productive and more likely to give you one hundred and ten percent.
So, no. I know that my anger at Ted was misdirected. I lashed out at him and I shouldn't have, and as a result, I feel like a bit of an ass. But, it's not like I can take it back now.
Hemingway looks up at me with his soulful eyes and gives me a wag of his tail. His presence comforts me and always calms me down. It's crazy and I know most people don't understand, but Hemingway helps restore the balance in my own mind and keeps me on an even level.
Usually, anyway.
I know my frustration and anger with Ted is a result of my encounter with the bookstore owner the other day. Paige Samuels. The way she lashed out at me had surprised me. The woman was rude, arrogant, and condescending. She was also presumptuous as hell and spoke as if she knew me – when in fact, she doesn’t know the first thing about me.
It's been a couple of days since that run-in, but it's still irritating me to no end. I know I should let it go. That, in the grand scheme of things, it means nothing. I shouldn't care what somebody like Paige Samuels thinks of me. She obviously has issues with people in my industry, but it has nothing to do with me.
I should let it go and move on. I know this. And yet, for some reason, I can't quite seem to do it. It's like a splinter that's stuck under my skin – a constant irritation.
I run a hand over the stubble on my chin and look down at my dog. I should probably shower and shave it all off. Though, going the other way and growing a full lumberjack beard is tempting as well.
“What do you think, buddy?” I ask Hemingway.
He licks my hand and whines but offers no other insight into the great facial hair debate. I reach into the jar on my desk and pull out one of Hemingway's treats.
“Sit,” I say and hold up the treat.
Hemingway immediately sits down, and his eyes light up at the prospect of a treat.
“Good boy,” I say.
I ruffle his ears again as I feed him his reward. There's a soft knock on my office door that causes me to look up.
“Come in,” I call.
The door opens and Janice, my house manager, peeks her head inside. Janice has been with me for a long time. She worked for me at the Seattle house, and when I told her what my plans were and offered her a glowing recommendation as well as a generous severance package, she declined. Instead, she volunteered to come here and continue working for me.
Janice is a little older – probably in her mid-forties or so. She's got blonde hair that I've never seen in anything but a polished bun and green eyes. She's only about five-foot-two, but the woman has a personality that's well over six-feet tall. She's incredibly effective, organized, and runs my house – everything from having my meals prepared, to making sure the housekeepers are doing their jobs, to making sure Hemingway keeps grooming appointments – with a brutal efficiency.
Employees like Janice are few and far between, and I know how fortunate I am to have her. She's been an absolute God-send and I honestly don't know how I'd function without her. She's my right-hand and I appreciate the hell out of her.
“Yes, what is it?” I ask.
“There's somebody at the front gate,” Janice says. “A woman. She says her name is Paige Samuels?”
Speak of the Devil and the Devil does appear, I think to myself. I'm pretty surprised that she has the nerve to show up here after the tongue-lashing she gave me. What in the hell could she possibly want? To take another crack at me?
“Show her in please, Janice,” I say. “I'll be on the back deck.”
“Very good, Mr. Anderson,” she says and disappears.
I stand up and stretch my back a bit before starting for the door to my office.
“C'mon, Hemingway,” I call over my shoulder.
My dog falls into step beside me as we pass through the house. I stop at the bar in the living room and grab a cold bottle of water from the refrigerator before continuing on toward the back deck. Pulling open the sliding glass door, I step outside and take a deep breath, relishing the scents of pine and ocean that are thick on the slight breeze.
The day is overcast and a bit on the gloomy side with a thick blanket of clouds covering the sky and obscuring the sun. Hemingway paces up and down the deck, holding his head high as he sniffs the air. He lets out a low whine and then barks as a fat squirrel scampers out onto a tree branch not too far from us and starts chittering, making a noise that sounds angry as hell. I half-expect it to raise its fist and start shaking it at us.
“Mr. Anderson,” Janice says. “Ms. Samuels is here to see you.”
“Thank you, Janice,” I say without turning around.
I hear her feet on the deck behind me, but I don't turn around. I stand there, overlooking the town of Port Safira down below me. With so much development going on down there, the town is beginning to sprawl a bit. It's growing quickly, there's no question about that.
Paige clears her throat behind me. “Mr. Anderson?”
I turn around and give her a smirk. “Sorry, just surveying my kingdom and all of the peasants in it,” I say. “Trying to decide which piece of your beloved town I want to carve up next since I'm such an evil son of a bitch.”
Color flares in her cheeks and she looks away for a moment. But she straightens up, looks me in the eye and holds my gaze. In that look, I can see the hidden core of steel in the woman before me. I can tell that she is not one who is easily intimidated or pushed around. She thrusts a bottle of wine out in front of her towards me.
“I brought a peace offering,” she says.
I look down at the bottle and am impressed by her selection. “Merlot is my favorite,” I say. “Opus One is a ve
ry fine winery.”
“It's for you,” she says. “As a way to say I'm – sorry – for going off on you like that the other day. It was unfair and uncalled for. I was out of line and I apologize, Mr. Anderson.”
I take the bottle from her and look at it for a moment and then turn my eyes up to her. I have to say I'm incredibly surprised by her apology. I can see the sincerity in her eyes – and I can see how difficult this is for her. Hell, it's difficult for anybody. Admitting that you jumped the gun and behaved badly isn't easy. And for being able to do that, I have to respect her.
“Please, call me Liam,” I say. “And thank you – for the apology and the wine. Both are very much appreciated.”
We stand there staring at each other in an awkward silence for a minute, neither of us sure what to say to each other. Thankfully, Hemingway intercedes and defuses the tension – at least, some of it – by stepping between us and leaning his head against her legs. His tail wags and he looks up at her with an expression of adoration on his face.
Paige kneels down and scratches him behind the ears, talking softly to him. Hemingway's entire body wags as he enjoys the scratches and attention.
“If he has his way, you'll be stuck there giving him attention all day,” I say.
“Oh, there are far worse ways to spend a day.”
As she loves on my dog, I start to see Paige in a different light. At least, a little bit. The other day, when she was in my face yelling at me, I didn’t get a chance to notice her. But now I can see that she's an attractive woman. A very attractive woman, if I’m being honest.
Her smooth, alabaster skin looks soft to the touch and is a stark, striking, contrast to the midnight black of her hair. Her eyes are dark and bottomless – the kind of eyes that you can lose yourself in if you're not careful. She's got generous curves, beautiful hips, and full breasts. Judging by a body that looks firm and toned beneath her clothing, I'd guess that she was an athlete at some point in her life.
Paige Samuels looks like a woman who takes care of herself but doesn't seem to be obsessive about it. She's fit but doesn't look like somebody who's in the gym twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. She seems real. More down-to-earth.
She really is a knockout and the polar opposite of Brittany – which can only be a good thing. I wouldn’t say she’s the kind of woman I'd usually date, but I honestly don't know who I should date anymore. I was with Brittany for so many years – well, at least, it felt that way – and now that I'm not, now that I'm a free agent, so to speak, I don't even know what sort of woman draws my interest anymore.
Not that I should really be thinking about that.
I tear my eyes away from the raven-haired woman and look down at the town again, collecting my thoughts. I'm not currently looking for somebody to date, so sizing Paige up against my preferred dating profile – or lack thereof, actually – is pointless. Right now, I need to focus on my company and getting my own head right.
The absolute last thing I need at the moment is a romantic entanglement. In my current state, I know that I am not good for anybody and any sort of relationship I found myself in wouldn't end well. And that is something I'd like to avoid.
“Would you like some coffee?” I ask.
She stares at me for a beat and then gives me a small smile. “Sure,” she says. “That sounds great.”
Chapter Ten
Paige
“Cancer,” I say. “It took them both within months of each other.”
“That's awful,” he says. “I'm so sorry.”
“Thank you,” I murmur.
I fight back the wave of sorrow that threatens to overwhelm me. I can't help it. After all this time, I know I should be able to move on, but it remains an open wound.
Liam runs a hand over his face, the stylish stubble on his cheeks making a scratchy sound. He gives me a rueful smile.
“Jesus,” he says. “I'm sorry is such a trite thing to say, isn't it?”
A small smile touches my lips and I shrug. “What else are you going to say?” I reply. “It's the socially accepted norm.”
“Yeah, I suppose so,” he replies. “It just feels so shallow and meaningless though.”
He shrugs and looks away, staring through the windows to the land beyond. I take a sip of my coffee and sit back on the large, oversized, plush sofa. We're sitting across from each other in the sunken living room. There's a large fireplace to my right, and stairs that lead up from the living room and into the rest of the house on my left.
The floor plan is open and spacious, with lots of large, floor-to-ceiling windows that provide an amazing view of Port Safira, the Olympic Mountains, and the Strait of Juan de Fuca. And his house is tastefully decorated with art and photographs – many of them incredibly striking and beautiful. For a multi-billionaire though, it's all very restrained and understated. Which surprises me. It surprises me a lot, actually.
It's quiet up here. Tranquil. The house sits alone atop Sapphire Hill and although some in town have always said it seems lonely and isolated, now that I'm sitting up here, I can see the appeal. It's reflective, not lonely. I guess maybe, some people aren't wired to deal with solitude or an atmosphere that invites introspection. I'm not one of those people. I can easily picture myself being happy up here.
“What about your family?” I ask, trying to change the trajectory of the conversation.
“Well, I have three brothers,” he says and leans back on the couch. “Brayden, Aidan, and Colin. I'm the eldest of four.”
I laugh. “Your mother must have been beside herself.”
A wide grin crosses his face. “Yeah, you could say that,” he says. “We were little hellions. Though, to be honest, we weren't as bad as we could have been. A healthy respect and fear of our father and that thick leather belt he had in the closet kept us in line. Most of the time.”
“Oh, your father was a spanker, was he?”
Liam shrugs. “Not normally,” he says. “The threat of the belt was usually enough. But, I can remember a few times when I may have crossed the line too far and caught the business end of it.”
“Oh?” I ask. “And what did you do to cross the line?”
“Well, there was one time I took his prized car – a '65 T-bird – out for a spin and ran it into a telephone pole,” I said. “I was thirteen. That stunt earned me a good striping.”
I laugh out loud. “Yeah, I probably would have whooped you too.”
“Yeah, I deserved it,” Liam says, a wistful note in his voice and a veil of sadness in his eyes. “I make them sound like monsters, but they were good parents. The best, actually. They taught us the most important lessons in life – lessons that I'm incredibly grateful for as an adult.”
“Were?” I ask, knowing it's an insensitive question, but unable to stop myself.
He nods, the look of sadness in his eyes deepening. “Car accident about eight years ago,” he says. “Drunk driver crossed the median. Hit them head on. If there's one saving grace, it's that it was instant. They didn't feel a thing.”
“God, I'm so sorry,” I say, understanding his pain and relating to it.
He gives me a wry smirk. “There's that word again,” he says.
I laugh because he's right. Saying “sorry” when somebody passes away does seem pretty trite and meaningless.
I give him a small shrug. “I guess I'm still bound by those pesky socially accepted norms.”
He looks at me evenly over his cup of coffee as he takes a sip. It's like he's appraising me. Taking my measure. Ordinarily, I don't like it when people scrutinize me. I mean, I really don't like it. But, for some odd reason, it doesn't bother me that Liam is doing it. I don't feel like he's doing it to judge me or look down on me in any way. I get the feeling that he's more curious than anything.
“Can I ask you a personal question?”
He nods. “Shoot.”
“What brought you out here?” I ask. “I mean, if it's not to conquer my town like the rest of the Capt
ains of Industry in the real estate development world who've set up shop here.”
It's subtle but I see him tense up a bit at the question. His eyes narrow slightly, and I can see his jaw set. I'd obviously touched on an open wound he's carrying. For some reason, that only makes me more curious.
“If you don't feel comfortable talking about it, that's okay,” I say quickly. “I was just curious. You seem more like the big city, cosmopolitan type. Not the kind of guy who'd be happy settling in a sleepy, small town.”
Like a cloud moving past the face of the sun, his eyes brighten, and he smiles. It's a warm, genuine smile that makes his crystalline blue eyes sparkle.
“The big city, cosmopolitan type, huh?” he asks, clearly amused.
I shrug again. “Yeah, I mean, you're the owner of a multi-billion-dollar company –”
“One of four owners, actually,” he corrects me. “My father divided up the empire equally between my brothers and me.”
“Smart man,” I say.
“That he was,” he says, that wistful tone back in his voice. “Most brilliant man I've ever known.”
“Well, you're still obviously worth a mint,” I say. “And as much as I love my hometown, I don't see the appeal for somebody who's got to be used to the glitz and glam that comes with being so wealthy.”
He laughs softly and shakes his head. “Wow. Stereotype much, Ms. Samuels?”
I feel the heat flare in my cheeks. He's right, I'm stereotyping him. Of course, I've been making assumptions about him since the moment I found out he was living up here. And to be fair, although I still barely know the man, he is defying all stereotypes I have of the rich, but most importantly, the preconceived notions I have of people in his industry.
I'm mentally kicking myself for getting called out on something that I usually call out Skyler for. She's notorious for stereotyping people and it never fails to bother me. She's gotten better over the years because of my constant harping, but now that the shoe is on the other foot, I feel like an ass. Not to mention a hypocrite.
