Forbidden Love (Venture Capitalist Book 1)

by Ainsley St Claire

  “Then you need to tell her that. Your Aunt Ginny overheard her tell Emerson at the wake to back off.” She waves her finger at me. “She has her eyes set on you, and she wants you. Leading her on isn’t fair to her. I love you, but I raised you better than that.”

  “I hear you.”

  “Now, it sounds like you’re going to be here for a while. Why don’t you get into the shower? I’ll have a list of things you need to do while you’re here.”

  I wasn’t expecting to work while visiting with my mom, thinking we might just hang out, so I’m shocked. “What?”

  Getting up from the table, she rinses her coffee cup and puts it in the dishwasher. “This isn’t a free ride. I need you to do a few things your dad would normally do.”

  I reluctantly get into the shower, the warm water spraying my face and body, relaxing it a small bit at a time. Telling my mom about what happened helps.

  In that moment, I realize I’ve managed my life all wrong. I keep replaying what my mom said. San Francisco has turned me into an asshole.

  As I return to my childhood bedroom, sitting on my bed, I see a list of about twenty chores that need to be done around the house: painting, planting, weeding, plant and furniture removal. It’s a lot of everything.

  She suggests we start with removing all the juniper bushes in her front gardens. The huge shrubs have been here as long as I can remember. It takes me an entire day to cut the bush down to a stump, and then another day to dig out the root ball. There are over a dozen she wants removed.

  As I analyze and think through everything that’s happened, I realize I don’t like the jerk I’ve become. I miss my friends and my work. I decide I’m going to use this time to get myself together. First on the list: no more Celeste.

  Each Tuesday like clockwork I receive a package from home. I swear each time I open the envelope I can smell Emerson’s perfume—spicy vanilla with a hint of carnations, maybe? She always includes a note. Most tell me she misses me. I want to call her, but I don’t know what to say.

  I fucked up bad.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Emerson

  With the distance, I have more clarity. Dillon is the person who helped me through the darkest time in my life. He’s my rock, my friend, and my business partner. He’s also a man. I grew up with four brothers, so I know they don’t talk easily about their feelings, but I’ll be here for him if and when he’s ready or needs me.

  Molly and I make it part of our routine to walk to his house every few days and pick up his mail. He gets a lot of junk mail. I bring the bills into the office and once a week overnight them to him at his mom’s. It’s my only contact with him. I include a note each week making sure he knows I’m here.

  I’m back to taking Muni to and from work every day. I miss riding with Dillon, but I do enjoy the solitude the bus provides. It’s the only time I have to read anymore. I’ve been reading these wonderful romance suspense novels. Comparing my life to the characters in my book, I wish it were as easy. Why does love need to be so much work?

  When I arrive at the office, my assistant meets me at the door with a chai tea in hand. This isn’t good. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Mason’s on a rampage. The partners have a meeting in fifteen minutes in his office.”

  I can feel the bile rising in my stomach. Giving my assistant a weak smile, I thank her and boot up my computer to do a quick cursory check of my email for anything that needs to be handled immediately. I forward a half-dozen emails to various members of my team and to my assistant. At least those fires have been pushed back and are at bay. For the moment.

  Gathering my leather composition book, a pen, and my tea, I walk down to Mason’s office. My feet feel like they’re encased in concrete with each step. I’m not sure I can manage any more bad news.

  Sara comes rushing in, her coat and briefcase in hand. She’s usually turning the lights on in the morning, but I think she’s like me, overwhelmed and struggling to keep up.

  Joining the partners meeting is Vice President of Finance, Tim Watt. He was trained by Dillon and is under enormous pressure from the partners, and it’s beginning to show. In a pair of gray dress pants and a light green pressed shirt with the shirtsleeves rolled up, he’s perspiring profusely and is obviously nervous.

  Mason begins the meeting by thanking everyone for coming. I can hear the stress in his voice. He turns to a whiteboard and points to a list of four companies I’ve never heard of. “Perkins Klein announced this morning that they had invested almost five million dollars in each of these companies.”

  We’re all speechless. I sit back in my chair and let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

  Cameron asks Tim, “Why didn’t the financial teams see this and help us approach them? This is our sweet spot.”

  Tim stutters, “W-we’re fielding over a thousand requests a day. I’ll have to check, b-but the names aren’t familiar, and I’m not sure they approached us for funding.”

  Mason can only shake his head, clearly not happy with the answer. “Tim, go check with your team and find out.” Tim nods and practically runs out the door. Mason continues, “To make matters worse, we were outbid on another round with Tim Connor’s new venture.”

  Sara sits back in her seat. “Shiiiiit. Does anyone else see a pattern here?”

  Cameron nods. “You’ve read my mind. Perkins Klein is gunning for our business. Looks like we may have a mole.”

  We all lament the companies, and Cameron makes a solid argument about espionage that’s hard to ignore.

  Sara shares, “A few weeks ago, presented with this argument, I would’ve thought Dillon was our spy. Not on purpose, but maybe in a drunken stupor where he might’ve had some pillow talk. I don’t believe it now. We need to figure out who it could be.”

  A knock sounds at Mason’s office door, and we see Tim through the glass. Holding a spreadsheet, he goes through all four names. They all approached us the week after Dillon left. We had face-to-face meetings with each of them and requested additional information we never received. All four were considered “strong buys,” which means we wanted them in our portfolio, but they were in preliminary stages, and Perkins Klein has already funded them.

  This is beginning to scream corporate espionage. We have a big problem.

  Sara asks, “Tim, can you get with your team and find out where the information went and why it wasn’t followed up on?”

  He nods and leaves the room.

  Cameron sits back, staring out the window at the Bay Bridge and a large tanker floating underneath. “I agree with you, Sara. We can’t blame this on Dillon. We have a mole. But the question is how do we ferret them out? And more importantly, how do we make Perkins Klein pay for what they’ve done?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Dillon

  I see my cell phone ringing. It’s Celeste. I look at it and have an internal debate on whether or not to answer it.

  I’m weak. “Hello.”

  “Hey there, big guy. How about we grab a pizza from your favorite spot and hang out at my house and see what happens?”

  I know it’s not a good idea, but I agree. “Sure. You can get pizza from wherever. I can be there about seven.”

  “Perfect. I’ll see you then,” she breathes.

  “Bye.” Looking around, I see my mom standing there. “Eavesdrop much?”

  “I guess you have dinner plans with Celeste?”

  “Yep. I don’t want a lecture, Mom.”

  “I’m not giving any lectures. I already told you my thoughts.”

  Getting up from the table, I tell her, “I heard what you said. I haven’t decided what to do.”

  When I arrive at Celeste’s house, she opens the door wearing only a short pink satin robe. Her nipples are erect and begging to be pinched, sucked, and handled. She looks good, but she isn’t Emerson.

  We sit in the living room and she gets on her knees, unzipping my pants.

  “It's been a rough
day,” I tell her.

  She laughs as she pulls out my soft cock, her lower lip stuck out in a pout as she starts stroking me. “What, not happy to see me?” She tugs harder on my shaft. “It’s gonna get rougher.”

  “We shouldn’t,” I tell her, but I’m not forceful and she doesn’t stop. I gently touch Celeste, halting her assault on my flaccid member.

  She pouts as she glides her mouth over me, her tongue edging around the rim of my cock. It feels good—she always feels good—and I’m relieved when I start to harden.

  Feral grunts escape me as I thrust into her throat, but my mind is on Emerson. I’m envisioning myself pulsing into Emerson’s mouth as I hold her head and start quickening my pace.

  I need this ache to end, and I know Emerson is the only one to do it. My longing for her increases as her unique mixture of tenderness and strength goes into every touch.

  I shoot my load deep down Celeste’s throat, and she chokes and runs to the bathroom.

  I shouldn’t be here. I need to go home. My mom is right—I’m still a jerk.

  Sitting on Celeste’s couch, I close my eyes and all I can see is my mom. The look when she told me I needed to be fair to Celeste. Waves of guilt rock through me like the tide crashing on the beach.

  When Celeste returns from the bathroom, I ask her, “Celeste, we were great once, weren’t we?”

  She looks confused. “We still are great.”

  “Why do you think we’re still great?”

  “Because despite the distance, we still love one another.”

  I take a deep breath. “I understand you met my friend Emerson at my dad’s services.”

  Her eyes cloud over, and I see the green monster of jealousy in her eyes. Very clipped and strained, she says, “I did. She’s a skank.”

  With my elbows resting on my knees, I put my face in my hands. “Actually, Emerson isn’t a skank. She’s been a friend to me despite my not deserving it. I haven’t treated her well.”

  “What are you trying to say, Dillon? We agreed when we were fourteen years old that we would get married one day. I’ve been waiting for you to get your act together and grow up.”

  “I love her, Celeste. I’m here in Michigan sobering up and pulling my life together so I can get Emerson back.”

  “You’re a fucking asshole!” she yells. “I can’t believe after all this time, you’re telling me to get lost now. I’ve given you the best years of my life.”

  “I didn’t ask you to, Celeste. I’ve even encouraged you to date other guys.”

  “Fuck you!” she screams.

  I wanted to have the conversation, and she derailed me when she answered the door. I can’t talk to her when she’s like this. “I need to get home.”

  She drops her robe and says, “Just remember, there will be no more of this,” as she displays her considerable breasts with brown areolas and large nipples, and her well-trimmed pussy.

  “Goodbye, Celeste.”

  “Fuck you, you fucking drunk. Go to hell!” And she slams the door.

  I broke up with her before going to college but continued to keep in touch with her. My mom is right. I should’ve probably cut off contact with her years ago.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Emerson

  Work continues to be crazy busy. I’ve managed to get my team at full strength, but we’re still struggling with too much work and too little time.

  Sara stops by my office. “It’s after eight. It’s just the two of us and Mason. Any interest in grabbing a drink downstairs with me?

  I think about it for half a second. “I could use a nice bottle of merlot. I mean a glass,” I say with a big smile.

  “I could use a bottle myself, so I understand. Should we invite Mason?”

  “Absolutely. The more, the merrier.”

  She goes off to find out if he’s interested in joining us, and I pull up my Facebook page and search for Dillon. He hasn’t made any recent posts. It’s hard to stalk him if he isn’t going to tell us what he’s doing.

  Sara sticks her head in my office once more. “He’s going to join us. We’re meeting in ten minutes by the elevators. Don’t be late!”

  We walk into the bar in the lobby of our building. It’s packed full of people, but Mason sees an empty table in the corner and grabs it so we can have a bit of privacy but also watch what’s going on.

  The waitress approaches us. “Dinner menus?”

  Sara says, “Yes, please.”

  She puts the menus down, and we look at them and order drinks: a glass of merlot for Sara and me, and bourbon for Mason.

  Staring at the menus, Mason asks, “Have either of you spoken with Dillon? Or at least heard from him?”

  We both shake our heads. “I’m collecting his mail and sending it to him at his mom’s each week,” I share. “I always write a short note to let him know how things are going and encourage him to call, but he never does.”

  “I’ve texted him a few times but haven’t heard anything back. How about you?” Sara directs at Mason.

  “I talked to him at his place about two months ago. I went over to tell him about our suspected mole, but he was drunk, his house was a wreck, and he was watching ESPN. He was still raw and angry. We exchanged words. Cameron and I talked about it, and we decided it was time to call in reinforcements. I called his mother to tell her how worried we were. Looks like she got him to come home.”

  The news makes my stomach roll. I want to call Dillon and beg him to come back.

  “What will happen to us if he doesn’t come back?” Sara asks.

  “We’ll worry about that if it comes, but I’m trying to be optimistic and wait. Pushing him to take a break was brilliant. Thank you both for coming up with the idea,” Mason says.

  I suggest, “Let’s talk about something different or I’ll drink a whole bottle of merlot tonight. I promise you don’t want to see me be that ugly.” We all laugh. “Sara, how is your dating life going? It can’t be any worse than mine.”

  “I hope yours is better than mine, because mine is going positively nowhere. What a mess it is to be single in this city,” she bemoans.

  Mason, whose eyes are a bit glazed over, says, “Sara, you have too much to offer. There’s a good guy out there for you.”

  Sara blushes and gently elbows him in the side. “I’m not giving up yet. But if you know of anyone who isn’t a client or competitor and is a reasonably nice guy—and single, of course—introduce us already.” She turns to me. “And what about yours?”

  Taking a big breath, I admit it isn’t much better for me and I have no dating life. “I know. Terrible. I’m doomed to only be a dog mom forever. What about your love life Mason?”

  He turns beet red and says, “I have someone I like, but I’m not sure she knows I exist. But you both know better than anyone the hours this job takes. I was thinking the other day how much I could use a sabbatical like Dillon.”

  “You know, six months is a long time, but what if the partners rotated through, each taking a month electronics-free. It’s a good break. Maybe you can go climb Machu Picchu, Mason?” I suggest.

  “I agree,” Sara chimes in. “I mean why not? We work eighty to ninety hours a week, fifty-two weeks a year. It’s well deserved.”

  Mason, apparently not sure about the idea, concedes, “The problem is there’s never a good time. Let’s look at some data once we know what’s happening with Dillon.” He’s closed the discussion for now, but knowing he’s interested in the possibility means it isn’t closed forever.

  We stick around until almost ten, talking about everything and touching on each of our suspicions as to who our mole is. None of us agree that it could be the same person, and then Sara says, “What if it’s all of them?”

  “I can’t believe that’s the case. We’re a good employer, we do work with several companies, and there are some that aren’t good.” I look at my watch. “I need to get home. Poor Molly needs to get outside and have some quality time.”

&
nbsp; Mason pulls up his Lyft app and calls us three rides home.

  Sitting in the back seat of the Acura MDX, I rest my head on the window. Watching the streets go by, I think about Dillon— his warm smile, bright blue eyes, and his blond curly hair. I miss him so much it hurts. I’m spending too much time thinking of him. I love the team at SHN, but I’m trying to be realistic with myself. If Dillon returns and we can’t work together because of our history, I’ll need to leave the company.

  When I begin to cry, the driver asks if my boyfriend broke up with me.

  “No, it’s work related.”

  “You need a much less stressful job.”

  I can see him looking at me in the rearview mirror, and I meet his gaze, telling him, “You’re probably right.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Dillon

  I’m still not sleeping well, but I know my mom isn’t sleeping well either. I can often hear her at night wandering the house, smell the coffee she makes, hear her cry. It’s difficult to not be able to help her better with her grief. Lying in bed, the silence of the dark night moves my brain into overdrive.

  I’m unable to quiet my mind, reliving conversations, occasionally with my dad or with Mason, Sara, Cameron, and Emerson. Mostly I think of better comebacks and retorts. Tonight, I’m primarily focused on the fight I had with Mason, all the things I should’ve said. But I know I should’ve said something simple like “I screwed up. I’m sorry.”

  I’ve been lying here for over three hours. My book doesn’t interest me, but maybe if I watch some television, I can get my mind off the mess I’ve created and finally get some sleep.

  Getting out of bed, I wander into the kitchen. I’m surprised to see my mom in her pink fuzzy bathrobe cinched at her waist, her eyes red and puffy from crying. “Hey, Mom.” I put my arm around her shoulders and kiss her forehead.

  “Hi, sweetie. Can’t sleep either?”

  “Nope. Work and how I need to fix it is weighing on my mind. And you?”