“Sarah.” Hannah’s voice was in my ear, soft, lilting with the accent of our mother tongue. I looked up at her through my fingers. “It’s all right. I know how scary this can all be. But you do have admirers, and that’s not such a bad thing, is it?”
I wet my lips. “I don’t think that’s the case,” I replied in strangled, appropriated Dutch. “They’re probably looking at you, not me.” Even as I said it, I knew it was a lie. The one with the black hair had stared right through me. We’d locked eyes. I could still feel the heat of his gaze, still see the glitter of his irises in the dark. They were terrifying, those eyes—filled with forbidden knowledge, witness to the kind of things I couldn’t even imagine, yet things that were perceived as normal here. The way they’d made me feel, though… like I was the only woman in the room—no, all the world… That delicious beat he’d inspired low in my belly, and further south still…
Hannah pulled my hands down gently and looked into my eyes. I remembered how she’d always protected me, growing up—Beth, too. Hannah was our guiding star as children. She was so tough and so wise. Now was no different except that she was also worldly, educated in matters beyond my and Beth’s comprehension. We were not on equal footing, Hannah and I, nor had we ever been… but the gulf between us seemed wider now.
Still, her protective embrace brought me comfort. Softly, I told her, “Even if he was—looking at me, I mean—he’s got a beard, Hannah.”
She blinked at me. “And… that matters why?”
I frowned. Had she really forgotten? Two years was a long time, but was it really that long?
“That means he’s married,” I whispered, and Hannah’s jaw dropped just a tad. Her lips moved, as if she wanted to say something… and then she laughed. At me. Again. I slumped forward into the bar, trying to find a way to curl up and disappear. I felt so foolish here. So much like I didn’t belong.
“You’re talking about Amish standards!” Hannah said, pushing my wine glass closer to me. Even that was strange and new. I’d never seen a glass that looked like that before. “Out here, men grow beards for fun, not as a symbol of their availability.” She eyed the stranger I’d been intrigued by. “Anyway, I’m willing to bet he’s single as can be. Guys like that usually are.”
I tucked a strand of hair back into my bonnet. “Guys like what?”
“Bad boys,” she said with a shrug, picking up my untouched glass and downing its contents all in one go. I widened my eyes at her but she just shrugged. “Cocky. Sexy. You know.” She gestured vaguely. “Hot. Eligible! And they like to stay that way. For as long as they can, at least.”
“You’re not exactly pleading his case,” I replied as Hannah waved to Jake to fill up her glass again. This time, she handed it to Beth, who took a long sip. I slapped her arm and gave her a look, but she ignored me—I even caught her shooting me a petulant glare out of the corner of her eye. The nerve… Looking back at Hannah, I added, “By the sounds of things, I should stay far, far away.”
“Oh,” Hannah said, smiling slyly, “I don’t think that will be possible.”
I wrinkled my nose at her. “And why is that?” Did Hannah think I couldn’t resist whatever temptation that man offered? Did she think I’d get a taste of the world beyond our borders and vow never to return, as she did? I wouldn’t have put it past her. Hannah often believed her way was the right way, and there legitimately was no other. I wasn’t so sure that in this case, she was right.
But she just grinned at me a little wider and said, “Because he’s on his way over here, kiddo. And he hasn’t stopped staring at you the whole way.”
My stomach dropped to my feet and I whirled so fast on my stool I almost lost my balance. Hannah was right. The tall, dark stranger was on his feet and swaggering over to me, running a hand through his black hair to push it away from his chiseled face. Wolf’s eyes, I realized—he had the eyes of a wolf. Of a predator.
And judging by the way he was looking at me, I was his prey.
Pride is FREE and available everywhere now!
Bonus Book 1 - Billionaire’s Bombshell
Love is the one thing I can't afford.
Before I met Elizabeth, I was living by two simple rules.
1. Drink, f*ck and be merry.
2. Don’t get attached.
Having more money than I could ever spend meant I could go on like that forever.
Which is why I knew I should have tossed her out the moment she reappeared at my door, eager to get to work on upending my whole damn life.
She was trouble, and letting her stay could only lead to me breaking all kinds of rules – including the only two that mattered.
But making her leave threatens to break something even more important. My heart.
No matter what I do, she’s destined to destroy all I've ever known. That's what bombshells do. They bring everything around them to ruin.
I should know. I have a bombshell of my own.
And yet I can’t help but wonder… what if obliterating the life I have now is the only way to build something better?
Chapter 1
Elizabeth
My feet pounded against the ground, sending pebbles skittering across the blacktop. I channeled the focus of an Olympic sprinter, though I doubted any of them had ever had to book it up the world’s longest driveway, clutching a portfolio and hoping to hell their hair still looked fine when they stopped.
I am so late.
The mansion loomed ahead of me. Close, but not close enough. I pushed on.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. I tore it out and answered it, trying to sound casual. “H-hello?”
“Ms. Paulson,” the cool voice answered. “This is Todd Franklin.”
“Mr. Franklin! I’m so sorry! I haven’t forgotten, I just forgot the code for the gates so I parked at the bot—“
“That’s fine,” he said, cutting me off. “I see you now. I just wanted to make sure you were well.”
The front door of the manor, a creaking oak behemoth, swung open. I was close enough to make out the features of the man standing in the doorway. Average height, salt and pepper hair, and a kind of condescending smile.
“There’s a call button on the keypad,” he noted, still talking into the phone I could see he was holding.
“I didn’t see it and I kind of panicked.”
The distance between us closed enough for me to make out a stern brow and a prominent, hooked nose. I finally started to slow my pace.
“So you scaled the gate?”
My lungs were heaving, making it an effort to continue talking. “I would have called, but your number just showed up as private when you originally called me, so—“
Instead of cutting me off this time, he just hung up his handset. We were only a few yards apart now, and I could have continued with my hurried explanation, but it didn’t seem wise.
“Follow me,” he instructed. “We’ll conduct our interview in the library.”
Todd turned and disappeared into the house. I rushed after him, hurriedly tugging my hair through my fingers in an attempt to look at least moderately presentable.
I could see why the mansion needed renovating. It reminded me of what the Addams Family manor might have looked like if Gomez and Morticia had favored crushed red velvet instead of cobwebs. It even smelled as I imagined the Addams mansion would have. Musty. Old.
We reached the library and Todd turned, gesturing toward a desk and two chairs. “Sit.”
“Again, Mr. Franklin,” I said. “I’m so sorry for being late. I feel like an idiot.”
His thin lips curved into a smile. “It happens. You’re not the first person to miss the call button.”
“I brought this for you to look through,” I remembered the thin portfolio clutched in my death grip, and slid it across the table.
Todd began to flip through it, his face betraying nothing about what he thought. Was he pleased? Irritated? Constipated?
“Your portfolio is impressive,” h
e said, closing the ringed binder with a light snap and sliding it back to me. “I am, however, concerned by your lack of experience.”
My mouth was dry. My hands were sweaty. But I did expect this objection.
“I understand your concern,” I replied. “That’s why my bid is less than your budget. This project would be beneficial for my career and I’d like to incentivize hiring me as much as possible.” I sat forward in my chair, capturing his chocolatey gaze. “I’m the least experienced, yes, but you won’t find anyone cheaper, more motivated, or more eager to please.”
Todd nodded with what I hoped was an approving smile. “I can tell. I’d like to help you, Ms. Paulson, but this is a high-profile renovation.” He gestured around him. “This place needs a lot of work. I want to make sure you can handle it.”
“I can handle it.”
I sound too eager. There’s no way I’m going to get this job. It’s out of my league.
My self-respect was telling me to shut up, but desperation was urging me on. I made one last attempt.
“Listen, Mr. Franklin,” I said. “I’ve worked my ass off to get where I am. I wouldn’t even be applying for this job if I didn’t think I could make this mansion breathe again.”
Amusement glinted in his eye. “I wasn’t aware a house could breathe.”
I glanced at the dust motes swirling in the thin strip of light from the mid-afternoon sun, then back to Todd. “Of course they can. But right now, this one’s wheezing.”
“Tell me, then,” he said. “What changes would you make to this library?”
I didn’t even need a minute to think about it. “Right now, the focal point is the fireplace over there,” I pointed to the south wall. “Is it even functional?”
Todd nodded. “As long as one doesn’t mind billowing smoke. The chimney hasn’t been cleaned in years.”
“Okay, well that should be sorted out first.” I shifted my attention to the colossal east-facing windows. They were covered in thick, velvet drapes. Barely a crack of sunlight made it through. “The library should be centered around those windows. We’re lucky to live somewhere with all four seasons, people should be able to see them.”
“I’ve often thought the same,” Todd agreed. “There’s a garden on the other side of that window.”
“And this carpet makes the place look dated.” My toe rubbed against the burgundy flooring. “I’m picturing cherry hardwood instead, to match the bookcases, with shag rugs in the seating areas.”
Todd smiled. “I think Mr. Bentley would approve of those changes.”
Right. I’d forgotten the client was actually the mysterious Mr. Bentley. I couldn’t remember whether Todd was Bentley’s personal assistant or his butler. Probably a bit of both.
“I’ve got tons of ideas and drive,” I said. “I’m the right person for this job.”
I hoped I sounded more confident than I felt.
“There are other aspects of the job that don’t involve designing,” Todd reminded. “What kinds of challenges have you faced with clients in the past?”
“All the usual ones,” I deflected diplomatically. What challenges hadn’t I faced? I may not have a lot of experience, but every client brought their own difficulties. The problem was, it never sounded professional to complain about past clients to future ones, and until he gave me a firm no, this man was still a potential client. He didn’t need to hear me complain about clients who changed their minds about colors partway through painting, or customers who couldn’t make up their minds in the first place.
There was something odd about the way he smiled. “My employer, has been known to be... difficult.”
The elusive tone he used gave me the feeling Mr. Bentley was a little bit more than just difficult.
“The designer I hire will need to have a strong backbone,” he finished.
I chuckled. “If there’s one thing I’m known for, Mr. Franklin, it’s my backbone… and my sensational interior design skills, of course.”
That earned me a pleased smile. “What do you do in your free time, Ms. Paulson?”
What the hell difference does that make?
The question caught me off guard, but I tried not to let it throw me off my game. Was it a test? Was he looking to play armchair psychologist and try to judge my personality based on how I spent my off hours?
A million different answers spun through my head as I tried to second guess how they'd be interpreted, but in the end, I just decided to go with the truth.
I'd never been a good liar anyway.
“I watch a lot of cooking shows and true crime documentaries.”
There. I said it. Judge as you will.
To his credit, he didn’t look completely put off. “So you like to cook?”
"No," I replied, hoping I successfully stopped myself from wincing noticeably. After all, that was everyone's usual assumption. "I just find it soothing to watch other people cook."
He chuckled, and I couldn’t tell whether it was a with-me or an at-me situation. Had I just completely blown the interview by not having a life? I knew I should have taken up Cressida on her suggestion to try hot yoga.
“What’s your favorite cooking show?” He threaded his fingers together on the desk, looking as if he had all the time in the world.
“Anything Jamie Oliver does, probably. He’s got a really easygoing way of looking at life and cooking.”
“Jamie Oliver’s an idiot.”
“And to think, he speaks so highly of you,” I retorted. Then I realized what I’d said and my mouth dropped open. “I’m so sorry! I shouldn’t—”
Todd put up a hand, halting me mid-apology. “That will do, Ms. Paulson.” This time when he chuckled, it was definitely at me. “That was just a little test to see how you handled your opinions being questioned or mocked.”
I knew there’d be a test!
“And I passed with flying colors?” His smile was neither an affirmation nor a denial. This guy was impossible to read.
“I have a few more candidates to interview,” he said, “but I should be able to let you know within a few days if your application has been successful.”
I gulped. I was being dismissed and we’d barely even spoken about the job.
Crap.
“Thank you, Mr. Franklin. I appreciate your consideration,” I said, accepting my defeat.
He rose from the desk, sending his chair scraping across the hardwood. “Follow me please. I’ll show you out.”
He walked me back the way we’d come in, and the thoughts I’d had upon entering the space resurfaced.
“This antechamber is a waste of space,” I mused, more to myself than anyone else.
“Why do you say that?”
I flinched, not having expected Todd to be listening, and pointed to the small desk in the corner—the space’s only occupant. “All this space for a little desk? I know these kinds of rooms had purpose back in the day, but they’re outdated now.” I pressed a hand against the wood-paneled wall. “These will hold if you take the dividing wall out. I’d suggest adding more space to the library.”
“Interesting,” he noted, continuing on to the foyer. “Anything else?”
I snorted, pointing to the resplendent crystal chandelier that crowned the grand space. “Unless Andrew Lloyd Webber lives here, the chandelier has got to go. If the person you hire tells you different, they’re a fool.”
He waited politely by the front door. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Amusement glinted in his eye.
“Final word of advice,” I said, pointing to the curving staircase up to the landing on the second floor. “Gut the whole foyer. Put in a double L staircase with a pendant chandelier.”
“I think Mr. Bentley is quite fond of the foyer as it is,” Todd replied.
I laughed and shook my head. “He might be, but I guarantee you his guests aren’t. It’s pretentious.”
Hell, if I was going out, I was going out in style. Even if he didn’t hire me, Todd would reme
mber me.
“There’s another keypad on this side of the gate,” Todd said, opening the door for me. “If you press the call button on it, I’ll open it so you don’t need to exert yourself physically again.”
“Uh, thanks.” I stepped out onto the front porch and waved at him. “I hope to hear from you.”
I turned away, keeping my face bright until he couldn’t see it. My hope could not compete with the doubt that hung heavy in my stomach.
Dirty Jock Page 27
