So I was going to keep it professional. And stay out of that kitchen.
The only thing is, according to the YouTube videos, kitchens are what sell homes. And even if I wasn’t actually a real estate photographer, there was a part of me that still wanted to do a very good job. My father used to say that if a job is worth doing, it’s worth doing right. So I was going to take some badass pictures that would help Eric sell his condo, and then I would be on my way. But Eric was standing in the kitchen, and getting anywhere near him would mean breathing him in, and entertaining fantasies that I wasn’t about to let myself enjoy.
“I’ve just got to take a few of the kitchen and then I’m done,” I said to him, suggesting in the gentlest way possible that he should remove himself from the shots. To my relief, he did, but watching him move out of my way was kind of…distracting, to say the least.
And when he moved, he moved to stand behind me. Not a few feet behind me, either—he stood directly at my back, close enough that I could feel his warmth through my clothes, which made me tingle all over and imagine all of the things that I wanted him to do to me. I couldn’t look at him without thinking about him bending me over the little kitchen island and tearing off my clothes. I’d submit happily under his demanding touch, letting him pull off my jacket and shirt, slide his hands up my skirt to peel off my panties, and spread my legs wide to use me like a toy. For the better part of a decade, I had been imagining what it would feel like to give myself to him like that, and now that he was standing there, so close I could grab him, it only made my fantasies more rich and intense. I’d relish in his attentions, submissively bending forward and letting him pull my hair and put me just how he wanted me. He’d take me roughly, first with his fingers and then with his mouth. Only then—when I was dripping wet, and desperate with need of him—would he fuck me. Hard. We’d thrust against each other with an animalistic abandon, finishing together, and releasing everything that had been pent up between us since that night when we met.
After every picture I snapped of his beautiful open-concept kitchen with its marble countertops and chef-style cooking surfaces, he would look over my shoulder at the two-inch screen on the back of my Nikon, sometimes making appreciative noises in the back of his throat that seemed more to serve the purpose of reminding me of his proximity than telling me how much he liked my work. By the time I had finished taking my photos, I’d played through several different fantasies, each more lurid and detailed than the last. My body was screaming for him, and if I spent even a few more moments that near to him, I could not be held responsible for what happened next.
He was so close that his cheek brushed against my ear, tickling it ever so lightly. So close, in fact, that if I turned my head to the left, even a few inches, I would be unable to avoid kissing him, trapping myself permanently in his embrace. I knew that there would be no escape for me once we began, and so I steeled myself, faced forward, and pretended I was elsewhere, because that’s what I had to do to finish the job and get the hell out of there and back to the relative safety of my apartment.
9
Eric
When Grace told me that she’d email me the pictures, I thought I was going to have a stroke. For whatever reason, I hadn’t been banking on that possibility, and thought for sure that I would have to see her again to get them. So, my brain had to work quickly to think up another excuse.
“I can bring a check by your office to pay you,” I told her.
“Oh, that’s ok. You can mail it,” she replied. I could almost hear the sound of my ego crashing and burning on the marble floors of the condo. I considered insisting but thought better of it, lest she think I was creepy, and instead let her give me the address of her office so that I could mail it. And then she was gone, leaving me alone in the cold, empty apartment to wallow.
I had never been this sprung over a girl, and I was definitely beating myself up for it. But that didn’t change the fact that there was work to be done on the Vance merger—a fact that my father reminded me of in a text message only a few short minutes after I watched Grace climb onto the elevator as quickly as she could to get away from me.
Where are you? his text read.
I considered ignoring it. After all, it was my father, and while he was a very capable real estate developer, his skill with technology definitely left something to be desired. I could probably convince him later that he had never sent the message at all. But if I didn’t answer, I’d probably never hear the end of it.
Out, was my reply.
Vance is here. He’s pissed. What did you do?
My father had known Sebastian Vance for as long as I had. I couldn’t even count the number of times that our families had vacationed together. He should have known what a hothead Vance could be. Thank god I was in town to clean up after everyone. What the hell would they have done if I was still in Zurich?
I texted him back, Nothing. On my way, and then put my phone on silent for the trip to the office. I wasn’t about to listen to it blow up through the entire twenty-minute drive while my dad tried to figure out what to do with Vance.
Often, I envied my brother Andrew. He had been smart to get out of the family business and forge his own path. Too many kids from families like ours—myself and Vance included—just ended up taking the path of least resistance and doing whatever our families told us. As a result, we got nice houses and fancy cars, but our lives were not our own. If I could have my own way, I would spend the rest of the afternoon wandering aimlessly around the city, sulking over the fact that I had basically just been rejected. Or maybe I’d change into pajamas and watch old episodes of That ’70s Show all day. I don’t know. But I do know I wouldn’t be headed into the office to calm down the crazy asshole that I used to think of as a brother.
I could hear Sebastian yelling before I even stepped off the elevator. He was in my father’s office screaming at the top of his lungs because I’d taken his CFO, Francine Fields, out for brunch, and gotten her to come over to our side. It hadn’t even been difficult; Francine was a smart woman who knew that Sebastian was running the company into the ground. All I had to do was promise her a place in the executive suite, which, truth be told, we were probably going to do anyway, because Francine was one bright spot among a confederacy of dunces.
But knowing Sebastian like I did, I knew he put a lot of faith in the loyalty of the people who work with him. I supposed you had to in order to get away with half the stuff he did. And so now that he knew that Francine was no longer completely loyal to him, he was flying off the handle. It was pretty typical behavior for Sebastian Vance.
In college, there was a girl that he liked. He didn’t date her. He had barely talked to her, in fact, but in his mind, she was his. The thing is, she didn’t see it that way. And, once I was about eight beers into a full bender, I didn’t really see it that way either. The girl was hot, and I was so wasted, I didn’t even remember her name the next day. (It was completely possible that I had never asked her for her name). But, when Sebastian found out what I’d done, he took it so personally, they heard the yelling three floors up in the dorms, and at the end of the semester, he requested a different roommate. I’d argue that it was all a big misunderstanding, but to him, I had betrayed his trust. And yesterday, when I took Francine Fields out for brunch to talk about her future in the merged company, I was betraying his trust all over again. What I couldn’t explain, though, is why he was yelling at my father about it. My dad didn’t even know that I had gone to meet with Francine; he had thought I would take care of the whole thing with Vance between the two of us. But neither my father nor I had correctly estimated how bad Sebastian’s drinking, pill-popping, and whatever the hell else he was doing had gotten. If we were still friends, I’d take him to the hospital, but as it was, he wasn’t going to listen to anything I had to say anyhow. He had proven that when he showed up at our meeting already toasted the other night.
“Hey, Sea Bass,” I said cheerfully, using a nickname for
him that I hadn’t used in years to try to de-escalate the situation.
But the moment Sebastian turned toward me, I knew it had been the wrong move. His face was gaunt, his eyes were bloodshot, and it looked like he hadn’t slept since I’d seen him last. If I had to guess, I’d say it was cocaine. Whatever it was, it had definitely eliminated his sense of humor.
“Fuck you, Eric,” he said in a voice that sent chills up my spine. It’s a strange thing to hear someone that you’ve known almost your entire life use a voice that is filled with more venom than you have ever heard from anyone—especially when it is directed at you. And yet, somehow, I stood my ground.
“Fuck me? Really? Have you finally run out of skanks to fuck? Well, that’s not really my scene, but thanks for the offer.”
“Eric!” my father admonished from behind Sebastian. I hadn’t actually seen him there, but I figured that he must be—that is, unless Sebastian had gone completely off the deep end and begun yelling at the air.
Before I could respond to my father, Sebastian continued spewing his vitriol in my general direction, pointing at me with a hard index finger in my face as he spoke. “You had no right to go behind my back with Francine,” he said. “She went to the board, and they’re taking my company from me so they can hand it to you on a silver platter.”
I wanted to smile and maybe even dance at this piece of news, but I forced myself to refrain from celebrating while a very pissed off Sebastian literally had his hand in my face, ready to strike. Instead, I put my energy where it might actually be useful, pushing his hand away and saying, “It hasn’t been your company for a long time, Sebastian, and you know it. Francine said you literally show up at meetings hammered, and you were hammered the other night when I saw you. If you’d stop snorting anything in front of you and fucking everything with tits for five minutes, you’d see that this is what’s best for your company. Even Francine thought so.”
The fact was, a few years ago, I’d pretty much been doing the same—not the drugs, but the drinking and the women, for sure. The difference was that I’d grown out of it, and Sebastian hadn’t. Besides, over the past few days, I’d been preoccupied with one woman in particular, and that had taken my mind off of all others. I still knew they were there, and was fairly certain they would sleep with me if I asked; I just wasn’t so interested in it anymore.
I couldn’t tell any of this to Sebastian Vance, of course.
“Fuck Francine,” he said dismissively, adding, “I did.”
That is when my father—never one to stand for a woman’s reputation being “sullied” in his presence—spoke up. “Sebastian, we have known each other for a long time,” he began. “There was a time when I thought of you as my third son. But if you do not leave this building right now, I am going to call the cops, and your face is going to be all over the news.”
Sebastian turned on my father angrily. “I could never be your son,” he said. “My giant brain wouldn’t fit through your wife’s tight cunt!”
My father has never been a violent man. I can count on my fingers the number of times I’ve even heard him use foul language, but when he drew back to clock Sebastian Vance, there was absolutely nothing that I, or Sebastian, or the US Marines could have done about it. The punch landed square in Sebastian’s nose, which made a loud, painful crunching sound before he fell to the floor.
I had never loved my father more than I did in that moment.
I watched in awe as Sebastian writhed on the floor, grabbing at his face and trying to stop the blood that was quickly covering his hands. I was instantly reminded of all of the times I had wanted to punch him so badly, but stopped myself out of some kind of vague respect for the friendship we’d once shared, that he clearly no longer had any respect for, and it was enough to make me smile at the sight of him in very real pain at the hands of my father—who was, by most accounts, an old man.
My father rubbed the knuckles on his punching hand distractedly as he stared at Sebastian whining at the floor, and shook his head. He picked up the phone, dialed a few numbers, and told the person on the other end of the receiver to “come get this sack of shit on the twentieth floor, and take him the fuck out of here.”
Whoa. Dad’s a boss.
I stood for a long moment, surveying the scene before a thought had set in. Sebastian said that Francine had gone to the board and the merger was going through. A wave of relief swept over me. That merger had, in fact, been the reason I was summoned home to Chicago, and now, I was free to leave again if I wanted to.
I wanted to celebrate.
Only, I didn’t want to celebrate alone.
There was only one person that I really wanted to share this moment with. I just didn’t know if she’d want to see me too.
10
Grace
“And he stood up and all I see is just pale, wrinkly old-man ass!” Lana finished. We were laughing hysterically over pad thai and a bottle of wine. She had brought the both of them to my office apartment at lunchtime in a transparent attempt to get me to spill the details about the guy I’d been getting dressed for that morning. I’d remained pretty tight-lipped so far, but I was also on my second glass of wine, so we both knew I’d be spilling my guts soon.
Lana was a nurse at a senior center in the Northwest suburbs where she lived. Most of those places got a really bad rep, but the one that she worked at seemed nice. Admittedly, I had never been there, because old people smell funny and the idea of so many people in one place being that close to death really creeps me out, but from the stories that Lana told, it sounded like a pleasant place to spend your final years. It did not, however, sound like a pleasant place to work.
“Ugh, Lana. I’m eating.”
I wasn’t eating, really. We had finished the pad thai and were well on our way to finishing the bottle of wine. My brain was in that fuzzy space between sober and drunk where my body felt warm and the volume of my voice was getting louder. If I drank more often, a couple of glasses of white wine might not have that effect on me, but as it stood, some light day drinking had me halfway toasted.
“So tell me about what’s going on with you, and I’ll stop talking about old men’s butts.”
The truth was, I didn’t even know where to begin. If I told Lana I’d been randomly spending time with her very hot, very rich cousin, she’d remind me of how awful he was and warn me off, but maybe that’s what I needed. I wasn’t having any success getting him out of my brain on my own.
As fate would have it, however, the moment that I resigned myself to telling her the truth, my phone began to vibrate on my desk. I looked at the caller ID; it was Charles Fields. I apologized to Lana before answering.
“Hello,” I said. “This is Grace Silver. How may I help you?” I was still working on my professional voice. This one sounded somewhere between a Kindergarten teacher and a nun with a stick up her ass. But Mr. Fields didn’t seem to mind.
“I know who it is,” he said. He was out of breath, like he’d been running. But I had seen him get winded coming up a few flights of stairs, so that didn’t really mean anything. Still, the words coming out of his mouth didn’t make any sense.
“Excuse me?”
“The guy that’s stealing my Francine away from me. I know who it is,” he repeated.
I was glad that he couldn’t see me roll my eyes through the phone. If he could, I’d surely be fired, because the guy was a ridiculous control freak, and I secretly hoped his wife was cheating on him. Good for her; my client was a tool. Still, he was a paying tool, so I humored him.
“Who do you think it is, Mr. Fields?” I asked.
“I know who it is,” he repeated for the third time. His voice sounded a little crazy and desperate. If I had to guess, I’d say that he was also on his way to getting good and drunk.
“So who is it?”
“It’s that bigwig real estate developer, Sorenson,” he said.
I almost fell out of my chair. If I had been taking a drink when he said
it, I would have bathed Lana in wine from my nose.
There was no way that Eric was having an affair with Francine Fields. I was sure of it, and I said as much through the phone to Charles.
“I know it’s him,” he insisted. “I have proof!”
I swallowed hard, wondering if Mr. Fields really did have proof that Eric was screwing his wife. He was a lawyer. Certainly, if he said he had proof of an affair, he meant it. But I had to ask anyway. “What kind of proof?” I demanded.
“His card was in her pocket,” the desperate husband explained, “and he had written his personal number on the back.”
I breathed a sigh of relief that I hoped was not audible through the phone. That meant nothing. People gave out their private numbers all the time—especially when they wanted to make sure to get your call. That proved nothing.
“That doesn’t mean anything, Mr. Fields,” I began to console him, but he cut me off, too convinced of his own theory to listen to anything I had to say.
“It’s him, I’m telling you,” he insisted, adding, “and I’ll prove it, too.”
There was something in the tone of his voice that gave me pause, but I tried to push it out of my mind. It didn’t really matter anyway, because as soon as the words were out of his mouth, I heard the phone click loudly, signaling that he had ended the call.
“My client is convinced that your cousin is sleeping with his wife,” I told Lana after setting the phone down. She had watched my end of the phone call with great interest, and I felt like I owed her an explanation for what had just happened.
When I said it, though, Lana’s eyes went wide. “Hmm,” she said after thinking about it for a moment. “Well, I wouldn’t put it past him.”
Keeping Her Safe: A Billionaire Second Chance Romance Page 5
