Sweet Life

by Lane, Nina

  He put his hands on the desk and leaned closer, his gaze pulling her attention to him again. Her nose tickled with the familiar scent of him—spicy shaving cream, the aroma of cloves and citrus. She forced herself to meet his eyes, to quell the racing of her heart.

  “I’ll tell you again,” Warren continued evenly. “You’re doing too damned much. You did not need to take over Deck the Halls this year in addition to everything else.”

  Julia expelled a breath of frustration. “If I hadn’t, there wouldn’t be a festival finale since Jessica overspent last year and got herself fired, which means we have a lousy budget this year. No one else stepped up, so I had to.”

  “That doesn’t mean you have to do it all yourself,” Warren said, his features still hard with his strict schoolmaster expression. “And you sure as hell don’t need to help Tyler with his car show. What you need to do is delegate.”

  “I did.” Irritation tightened her neck. “Mia Donovan is handling the Sugar Rush holiday party this year.”

  “You mean she’s helping you because you won’t turn it over to her completely.” Warren pushed away from the desk, a deep crease appearing between his eyebrows. “If I could ban you from the foundation events, I would.”

  “You would not,” Julia replied curtly. “All the work I do raising money for the foundation comes to fruition during the holidays. You’re not taking it from me.”

  “You need to let something else go.”

  It was his command tone now, not his gentle suggestion tone.

  The tenuous thread holding Julia’s composure together stretched tighter. Warren Stone had been an exemplary leader for years—both of his company and his family—because he knew exactly how to balance control and delegation. He’d trusted his son Luke to take Sugar Rush’s reins when he needed to be with his daughter in the hospital, but even then, no one had ever doubted the fact that Warren Stone was still in charge.

  In the thirteen years following the car accident that had killed Warren’s wife and Julia’s sister Rebecca, Warren had achieved a legendary status as the kingmaker, the final authority his sons always consulted before making decisions.

  And while Julia was well aware of Warren’s mythical reputation, she’d known him since she was fourteen years old. He and Rebecca had started dating at nineteen and were married at twenty. No one more than Julia admired all that Warren had become, but she also remembered the cocky teenager he’d been with a thousand-watt grin and plans to change the world. She remembered the protective brother-in-law, the nervous young father, the dedicated boy working his way up in the family company, the husband devastated over his wife’s tragic death.

  No one but Julia knew all the complex layers that made up the Sugar Rush kingmaker and president—which was exactly why his criticism of her stung deep.

  “You’re telling me to delegate when you just spent two weeks in Switzerland working with Sugar Rush’s chocolate division,” she remarked. “Sounds a bit hypocritical, doesn’t it?”

  “I’m finalizing projects before I retire.”

  “And I never take on anything I can’t handle,” she informed him. “I’ll thank you not to believe otherwise.”

  “I didn’t say you couldn’t handle it. But if the stress is triggering your headaches, something has to change.”

  “Thanks, doctor.” She sat back down and turned to the computer. “I need to get back to work. Good luck talking to the boys.”

  She felt him watching her for a second before he turned and strode to the door.

  “We’re not finished,” he said.

  The door closed. Regret knotted Julia’s chest that his return had been discolored by their bickering. Though she appreciated his concern—he was the only person outside of her doctor who knew about her increasingly severe migraines—she still disliked him pointing out her weaknesses. Maybe because, aside from his children, he’d never seemed to have any of his own. And she never wanted him to discover her biggest weakness of all.

  She sent a few emails, then shut off her computer and picked up her satchel and coat. Buttoning it up, she walked out to where Marco was studying a photo layout on the front desk computer.

  “I’m taking off early today,” Julia told him.

  “What about Catherine Markham?” Marco asked. “She’ll be here at six for her styling.”

  The last thing Julia wanted was to face a wealthy, inquisitive socialite who was likely to interrogate her about her projects. While she still handled a great deal of personal styling for Indigo Bay’s elite, more and more she’d been wanting to return to her design roots.

  “This is me delegating you to handle Catherine Markham.” She waved her hand in Marco’s direction. “Just don’t let her tits pop out of her dress. She’d love to have a wardrobe malfunction, but I’ll eat a dozen donuts before I let my name be associated with the public baring of Catherine Markham’s surgery-enhanced breasts.”

  “Let’s not get carried away now,” Marco muttered dryly. “At most, you’d lick off the powdered sugar.”

  “Sticking one’s tongue out is both crude and visually unappealing.”

  “That’s why we only do it behind your back.”

  Julia shot him an icy glare, then turned to the door before he could see her crack a smile.

  Julia dropped her satchel onto the foyer table and kicked off her shoes. Usually her tension drained the instant she stepped into her house with its pale hardwood floors, white walls, and décor that was a mixture of high-end investments and personal items she had purchased in her travels.

  Now, however, not even her own space made her feel better. Nothing could. She was out of wine, it would take too long to make waffles, and her hot water heater was still broken. Her vibrator was charged, but after her shitty week, even masturbation seemed like too much effort. And that was saying something.

  Outdated. Tired. Passé.

  Vincent Peck’s remarks echoed like bullets. She hated that she was letting him get to her—she’d taken plenty of criticism in her time without letting it dent her armor one iota—but this was personal.

  She stripped out of her linen suit and changed into black yoga pants and a fitted red Givenchy T-shirt. She splashed water on her face, squinting at her reflection in the mirror.

  Despite her approaching milestone birthday, the girl Julia was still evident in her bone structure and the angles of her face. She’d always paid exceptional attention to herself, and her care showed in her smooth, taut skin and tight figure. She’d learned early on that everything about her—from her shoulder-length, honey-blonde hair to her designer clothes and flawless makeup—reflected both her company and her family. Short of actual surgery, she went to great lengths to look her best.

  But right now, she both felt and looked every minute of the past fif—no, forty-fucking-nine years.

  Julia reapplied lipstick and returned to the living room. She had no desire to mope around the house feeling sorry for herself. Since Warren would still be with his sons, she’d go to his house and add her Christmas decorations to his. She never bothered decorating her own house since all the family gatherings took place at Warren’s. And he was certain to have a bottle of excellent wine on hand, which she could certainly use right now.

  She went into the garage and opened the storage closet. Shelves were stacked with worn cardboard boxes, several labelled Christmas Decorations. She set one in the truck of her car and took a second box down from the shelf.

  A tattered old shoebox fell to the ground. She bent to pick it up. Her heart suddenly stuttered. She stepped into the garage light and opened the box.

  Why had she kept a bunch of mementos? A small dried bouquet of wildflowers. Old photographs of her and Sam—one of Julia wearing a worn patchwork maxi dress and a bandana, of all things—a few trinkets, torn concert tickets. So many years ago, all those memories now distilled to the contents of a shoebox.

  A folded, wrinkled piece of paper lay at the bottom. Julia smoothed out the creases to read
her own handwriting, still bold and vivacious despite the thirty-year-old faded ink.

  Things To Do Before I Turn Fifty

  She’d totally forgotten about the list. She’d written it somewhere out in the desert when she and Sam had been on their way back from Vegas. Hot dry air blowing into the car, her bare feet sticking out the side window, her head resting on Sam’s shoulder. He’d laughed indulgently at her as she wrote out her list in a notebook and drew little pictures in the margins. Giddy, full of anticipation and hope, she’d detailed all she’d wanted to accomplish before the fifty-year milestone.

  She scanned the list.

  Learn to say the alphabet backward.

  Make a working volcano.

  Memorize all the verses of “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear.”

  Learn the etymology of my name.

  Color an entire coloring book.

  For God’s sake. What a silly girl she’d been. She’d have been much better off writing a list of practical, ambitious goals, like Become senior editor at Style, Travel to Paris, Milan, and Tokyo, Start my own business.

  Or even Learn how to dress like an adult woman and not an airy-fairy little hippie girl.

  If she’d written a list like that, she could have marked all the items as completed.

  With a huff of irritation, she crumpled the list and tossed it back into the shoebox. She strode to the trash bin and dumped the box on top of a filled garbage bag.

  Just as she was about to slam the lid down, she grabbed the wadded-up list from the shoebox and let the trash lid fall.

  What the hell was she doing? She had no interest in an asinine list she’d written thirty years ago. Yet she found herself shoving it into her handbag before loading the other boxes of Christmas decorations into the trunk.

  She drove to Warren’s house, the tension in her shoulders eased a bit as she navigated the winding, hilly roads and passed the gate leading into his estate. The ten acres of land were a haven of nature and wildlife. The Tuscan-style villa fit beautifully into the landscape, the stone siding and curved windows radiating stately warmth and peace.

  She brought the boxes inside. After Thanksgiving, she’d put up lights, candles, Christmas figurines and pillows, but they hadn’t yet gotten the tree since the boys and Warren had wanted to wait until Hailey returned this weekend. A stack of fresh boughs, mistletoe, and wreaths sat by the door, waiting to be placed.

  Julia opened a box and took out several Christmas candles. She tried not to think about the list crumpled in her purse. The one detailing all the ridiculous things she’d wanted to do before she turned fifty.

  How many of them had she actually done? Her birthday was next month.

  Not that it mattered. She had no need for a decades-old list that she’d created during the most irresponsible phase of her life. The last thing she needed right now was the unearthing of all her bitter regrets.

  Especially the ones involving Warren Stone.

  Chapter

  TWO

  “This is a joke, right?” Luke asked.

  Warren Stone turned from the vast windows overlooking the ocean from his eighth floor corner office at Sugar Rush. The noon sunlight spilled into the room. Four of his sons stood in varying stances of surprise and frustration—Luke with his arms crossed, Carson with his hands shoved in his pockets, Evan unconsciously rubbing his chest, Spencer slouched against the desk. Tension stretched the air.

  “This is not a joke,” Warren said. “You knew I would retire eventually.”

  “Maybe ten or fifteen years from now,” Evan replied. “And we figured you’d give us some notice, too. Like a year or two.”

  Warren frowned. “I’ve no intention of giving you a year or two to replace me. I’d be useless within a few months. A lame duck presidency isn’t the way I intend to end a thirty-year career at Sugar Rush.”

  “You don’t have to end it at all,” Carson pointed out. “If you want to step down from the presidency, fine, but you can take another position. Or work as a consultant. Right?”

  “No. My career at Sugar Rush is at an end.”

  “Dad, you can’t just quit.” Luke paced across the room, his forehead creasing. “You have a job here.”

  “I know that.” As president, Warren had overseen the day-to-day Sugar Rush operations and developed strategies to fulfill CEO Luke’s vision. He loved the work, he loved Sugar Rush, and God knew he loved his sons. He’d also spent almost his entire lifetime working for his family’s historic company. Which was exactly what had made his decision so damned hard.

  “Besides, you’re way too young to retire,” Luke continued.

  “Age has nothing to do with it. I’ve worked for Sugar Rush since I was twenty-five. My first job was on the lollipop production line in the factory. I made my way up like everyone else. But with you boys running operations now, I’m ready to step down. Any one of you can take over as president.”

  “What if none of us want to?” Evan shook his head. “I’m not leaving the Cocoa Bean Team.”

  “Then bring in someone else. It might be better if the president was someone from outside the family anyway.”

  “You want us to headhunt?” Carson spread his hands out in bafflement, like he couldn’t imagine an outsider coming in to run the family company.

  “If necessary. Or you’d be a great fit for president, Carson, if Evan doesn’t want to do it.”

  Carson and Evan exchanged scowls.

  “I’ve expanded the chocolate division and increased revenue by thirty percent,” Carson said.

  Warren nodded. “Exactly. Imagine what you could do as Sugar Rush president.”

  “I don’t want to imagine it. You’re the Sugar Rush president.” Carson’s scowl deepened, and for an instant he looked like the rebellious ten-year-old boy who had been caught ditching school while his identical twin took a math test in his place.

  Affection eased the tightness in Warren’s chest. He hadn’t intended to upset his sons with the news, but he hadn’t expected their resistance either.

  He could understand it, though. Both their family and company had withstood massive trauma and upheaval in the past thirteen years, and it had been through Luke’s leadership that Sugar Rush was not only still standing but had flourished into one of the most prestigious companies on a global scale. Warren’s retirement meant a major structural change that the whole company would have to navigate, following the lead of his sons.

  “I understand your reluctance to restructure,” he said. “But if companies… and people… don’t change, they stagnate. I won’t let that happen to Sugar Rush. I sure as hell won’t let it happen to me.”

  Silence fell. The boys shuffled, casting glances at each other.

  “Look.” Warren gentled his voice. “I know you’ve all worried about me over the years. My lack of socializing, the time I spend making these…” He gestured to the model boats and airplanes lining the shelves of his office. He completed the models in his home office/workshop, but had brought some to display at work. “My focus on you and Sugar Rush. So this is a new start.”

  “But why now?” Evan asked. “I mean, this is out of nowhere.”

  No. Warren didn’t tell them he’d been wrestling with the idea of retirement for the past year. Ever since his old college buddy Theo had died after a lengthy battle with cancer. Even in the midst of chemo, Theo had been planning one last “Great Climbing Road Trip” after his treatment was completed. He’d never made it.

  And now with Luke happily married, Evan’s health prognosis excellent, Tyler successful with his new business, Hailey now graduated from Stanford… Warren had seen more and more the value of letting his children find their own way. He had no intention of becoming irrelevant, but it was time for him to step away from the company that had dominated his entire life.

  “Sugar Rush is yours,” he told his sons. “It’s time for me to leave it in your hands.”

  Luke frowned. “What’ll you even do if you retire?”


  Warren shut down his computer. Their reaction to his announcement didn’t bode well for their reaction to his post-retirement plans. “Does it matter?”

  “Well, yeah,” Luke said. “You’ll be bored stiff. You know that. How many model airplanes can you make?”

  Warren’s jaw tightened. He’d taken up making model boats and airplanes after Spencer had brought him a model to work on while he was at Hailey’s side in the hospital after the accident. He’d built dozens of models over the years, though his sons saw the hobby as a way for him to isolate himself from the world instead of as a creative pursuit. He didn’t like thinking they might have been right.

  And he sure as hell didn’t want to spend his retirement holed up in his home office, making model airplanes.

  “Why don’t you start with an extended vacation?” Carson asked. “You’re taking a ski trip to Zermatt after Christmas, right? So stay for a few weeks, travel a little, then make your decision when you come back.”

  “I’ve already made it.” Warren stood, deciding now was not the best time to tell them that his ski trip was much more than that. “I’m announcing my retirement at next week’s board meeting. And to the rest of the company at the holiday party. I strongly recommend you start the search now. I’ll stay on through the holidays, but on an as-needed basis.”

  His sons all exchanged glances of exasperation. Warren’s shoulders tensed. He neither wanted nor needed them to think he hadn’t thought this through. He sure as hell didn’t want them to try and talk him out of it—because they might succeed.

  “That’s my final word,” he said. “I leave Sugar Rush to all of you.”

  He picked up his suit jacket and briefcase, then walked out of the office. Their voices rose in heated conversation behind him. Warren ignored his instinct to return, to mediate the arguments and make things right.