by Ava Claire
And then there was Megan and Mark. I could barely keep my eyes off him. I was sure I caught him winking, savoring that fact. I couldn’t deny that he was attractive. All-American good looks paired with his blond hair and bright baby blues. He was dressed in head to toe Abercrombie and Fitch, reeking prep and holding himself like a man that had been told he was cute one too many times...and all but ignoring his date like a man who’d broken one too many hearts.
He was so obviously sketchy it was ridiculous. Just what was Megan trying to prove by bringing him to this private function? I’d barely been engaged for 24 hours and I was already feeling Bridezilla coming on, but of the eloping variety. At the moment, I didn’t want to see anyone’s face but Jacob’s.
Jacob. I pulled the pillow close and inhaled deep. Catastrophic dinner or not, no one could take away that moment. The first bars of that song hushing the crowd. My heart skyrocketing to my throat. My brain officially on the fritz because it was happening. Eyes locked, souls so in tuned that I just knew, before I took a step toward the stage, what would come next. He was going to ask me that question. The question I knew I’d say yes to before it even left his lips.
And we were gonna get married.
“Married.” I said out loud, the words bouncing off the walls and settling back on me. “Mrs. Leila Whitmore.” Or would I keep my name? Hyphenate? It all seemed to pale in comparison to the greater thing. Marrying him. After the contract, the worries, Rachel Laraby, and Cade Wallace, we’d figured it out and it would be just he and I, just like this. Always.
My arms slackened on the pillow. Just like this? Me snuggling with a pillow? I threw it back on his side of the bed and unrolled myself from the covers. I stretched my arms wide and let out a lazy yawn.
Jacob better have all kinds of coffee...
I froze just outside the door, hearing hushed, nearly muted voices filter up to the second level. I glanced at the clock on the nightstand. 10:35. Not the wee hours of the AM, but definitely too early for visitors. I was infinitely closer to a morning person than Jacob was, especially on the weekends. Everyone at the office knew to not even send him an email before 10 am. He spent the first few hours of his day replying to messages, checking out the financials, things that didn’t require human interaction.
But I could hear the disdain in his voice. He wasn’t just interacting. He was arguing with someone.
I hovered at the landing, fingering a hole in my old, worn t-shirt. I felt like I was eavesdropping, even though Jacob had told me a million times that this was our home, what’s his was mine and vice versa. But he had so much. It was easy to forget, to be overwhelmed and feel like I was a visitor.
I heard ‘Leila’ ring out in a female, uncomfortably familiar voice. A voice that was speaking my name like it was a cuss word.
Alicia.
I don’t know if it was the fight end of ‘fight or flight’ kicking in or a desire to look her in the face and tell her I wasn’t going anywhere (again), but my legs were moving down the stairs at lightning speed. They were in the library, Jacob at the fireplace, dangerously close to the fire poker. Alicia was sprawled out in one of the chairs like she owned the place.
Naturally.
Jacob was the first to notice me, his expression softening almost guilty. “Leila...I didn’t know you were up.”
Alicia tossed me a wilting look that she exacerbated with a perfectly disgusted scowl. “Well, at least she bothered to put on a bra this time.”
The annoyed, slightly juvenile part of me wanted to whip it off and toss it in her self-righteous face with a whoop, but I didn’t want to give her the pleasure of the added effort. “Alicia.”
“It’s Mrs. Whitmore,” she corrected, her tone frosty enough to make hell freeze over.
I wished I was better at playing this game, at pretending being around people I hated was easy as pie, but I stalked over to Jacob, knowing every bone in my body was spoiling for a fight. When I stepped up beside him, I realized that he probably wasn’t at the mantle because he was considering something homicidal but because it was the farthest point from Alicia.
Somehow, it still wasn’t nearly far enough. The woman could turn a glare into poison. I felt queasy just being on the receiving end of it.
I took Jacob’s hand and nudged him toward me. I didn’t care about her. I knew the number she’d done on him. The life he’d lived that almost drove him to suicide.
“You okay?” I asked softly.
“Did you just ask my son if he was okay?” she said indignantly. She pursed her lips into a thin, no-nonsense line that matched the two piece charcoal gray suit she wore. “What are you implying? That a mere conversation with me would do him harm?”
I kept my eyes on him, but directed my answer at her. “I’m implying that your negativity isn’t good for anyone. This is a happy time for us.”
“A happy time for you, maybe,” she replied coolly. “Mrs. Jacob Whitmore...as soon as you say ‘I do’ your net worth increases substantially.”
His eyes were pleading. Well, as close as Jacob’s stark blue eyes got to asking for anything. Asking wasn’t even in his dictionary--Jacob commanded. But they were soft and I knew he was telling me to keep my cool. She just wanted a reaction, like all bullies did.
I spun to face her, ignoring my own little voice that told me I was just feeding the fire. “I know your marriage was about money. But that’s not why I’m marrying your son.”
“You’re marrying for love, right?” Her voice dripped with sarcasm.
“Right.”
“So there will be a prenuptial agreement.”
Jacob and I both rushed to answer her, each reply on the other side of the coin. He said absolutely not--my answer was missing the whole ‘not’ part.
We exchanged a look and she let out an airy, condescending laugh.
“Engaged, and you haven’t even discussed one of the most important things.”
I hated to admit it, but she was right. Everything happened so fast; being swept into Jacob’s world. Living, loving...being dumped in the lap of luxury had its perks. The jet, the fancy restaurants, the clothing, all the trappings of wealth and prestige. But I’d fallen in love with the man. The strong, confounding, dominant man. I wasn’t expecting some payout on the off chance that our marriage came to an end. I only wanted my fair share, whatever that meant.
I could tell the prenup conversation was far from over, but whatever frustration the topic brought Jacob was hurled at his mother. “I never should have allowed you to come here.”
“You could have denied me access to the elevator. Had me thrown out like you threatened the last time I was here.” Her gray eyes glittered like she had something up her sleeve, one last trick that would change the whole game. “You try to make me the bad guy in all of this--a bad mother. But if that’s so, why did you invite me here?”
I had no words, gaping, waiting for the answer to that question myself. Last night after everyone left, the one thing that brought a smile to my face was a joke he’d made before whisking me up to bed to make me smile for a totally different, R-rated kind of reason.
“You know what the party needed?” he’d said, stroking his chin thoughtfully.
“More booze?”
“Another guest.” I’d frowned and he’d finished, “My mother.”
I’d recoiled like he’d just said the most ludicrous thing ever before he laughed. Jacob, my gladiator of a man who was so used to hiding away anything that made him vulnerable, had thrown his head back and laughed.
It was a joke; one I’d agreed was a good one because I thought we were on the same page--Alicia Whitmore in our home=a very bad idea. But he’d called her. He was the reason she was lounging in our living room like she was some goddess come down from Olympus, gracing us with her presence and infinite, useless knowledge.
Jacob ran a hand through his dark locks and I noticed things I’d missed because I was so tuned into Alicia. He was in a navy button down shirt and deep, nea
rly caramel colored khakis. To the passing eye he was the picture of collected. But I saw now that his shirt was riddled with wrinkles as were his pants. His hair had the rough, I’ve-been-running-my-hands-through-it-for-hours look about it. And I saw the shadows beneath his eyes. I couldn't be mad because he didn’t tell me about wanting to talk to her and invited her here. He’d already beaten himself up about it.
“I asked you here because I don’t believe you can look us both in the face and say no.”
Alicia frowned, confused. “What?”
“I want you to tell me why you won’t give me my grandmother’s ring. To tell us.”
I brought my hand to my heart, almost like I was trying to remember it was there. That I was alive and this was all happening.
I wanted to move to Jacob, to tell him to brace himself for the worst because despite the animosity he held for her, it was clear he still cared about his mom. That he believed that somewhere, somehow, she could still be reached. And I knew from the way her lip curved upward, her eyes lingering on me before they returned to her son, that she was about to do something she thought would hurt me but would really just hurt the person neither of us truly wanted to bring any pain.
Jacob.
“Your grandmother left the ring to your father and he entrusted it to me. When you meet someone worthy of her memory, I will give you the ring. But I’m telling you, both of you, as long as I have breath in my body, Leila Montgomery’s fingers will never touch it.”
****
After an engagement dinner filled with my mother finding several different ways to ask about the lack of a wedding ring, having to play nice as Mark cozied up to Megan, and Alicia Whitmore reaffirming her dedication to keeping me away from the family ring as long as possible, I couldn’t wait to get back to work. Mia Kent, Whitmore and Creighton’s newest client, would be just the challenge to take my mind off the disastrous evening.
Mia couldn’t keep her name out of the tabloids lately. Golden hair, cherubic features and a voice that gave singers twice her age a run for their money made her a household name. She starred in bubblegum pop TV series on a kid friendly channel until she hit eighteen and decided to shed her good girl image in favor of something on the other side of the spectrum. Shots of her public intoxication, flipping cameras the bird, and unabashed drug use had everyone playing Dr. Phil, trying to save Mia from herself. But public scrutiny intensified and she spiraled further into dangerous territory. She shaved one side of her head, let some poor excuse for a tat artist doodle all over her body and started hanging on the arm of a different skeevy guy every night of the week.
While her public image had taken a beating, she hadn’t alienated the music industry. Top executives were still clamoring to sign her, hoping to be the launching pad for her unreleased album.
She’d come to us herself, the first sign that all hope wasn’t lost--she could admit there was a problem.
I pulled up the agenda, scribbling a couple of notes. There were several charity functions coming up--one of which was a concert for needy children. If we could get her in a gorgeous dress...
“I think I owe you a cup of coffee.”
I nearly snapped my pen in half. I didn’t even have to look up to know it was Missy. I recognized the entitlement, the subtle notes of ‘I’m better than you’. The edge that cut when she deigned to speak to me, making it crystal clear that she’d rather be doing anything other than giving me her precious time. But why was she here?
I narrowed my eyes, confusion lasting for a split second. Coffee--that’s right. We’d attempted a truce before and she tried to buy me coffee. I made it clear that I wasn’t good at pretending and didn’t want to owe her anything. It was no secret that she thought my input was worth less than nothing, so I was surprised she was standing at my door doing the exact thing that caused drama the first time around.
She held out the cup. “I wasn’t sure how you liked it so I just threw some splenda and a little bit of skim milk in.”
My mouth twitched at the skim and zero calorie sweetener, “What are you trying to say?” on my tongue. But I remained silent, my eyes trained on her as she strolled in with no invite and plunked the coffee on my desk. This woman had some serious nerve.
“It’s not spiked,” she said with a smirk. “I promise.”
I didn’t accept her peace offering. Maybe she wasn’t trying to poison me, but I didn’t believe that her intentions were honorable either. “I’m good.”
Her face twisted like she was sucking on a lemon before she shrugged and picked it back up. “I’ll be more than happy to drink it myself.”
“You do that.”
“It’s not always you against the world, Leila. Why can’t I do something nice for you?”
“Oh please,” I scoffed, leaning back in my chair. “I would be all kinds of stupid to believe you’re completely above board. You’ve had it out for me since I walked through the door. And you’re buddies with Rachel--”
“Friends with Rachel?” She laughed like that was the funniest joke she’d heard in a long time. “I know you’re not talking about Rachel Laraby.”
I didn’t even crack a grin. “I think we both know that’s exactly who I’m talking about.”
Missy flipped her bone straight midnight hair over her shoulder with a snort. “Rachel Laraby and I aren’t friends. She treats anyone that works for her like they were born for the sole purpose of being at her beck and call.”
I faltered. I hadn’t been expecting our Rachel’s to line up. I was expecting her to sing Rachel’s praises and talk about how they bonded over caldrons, full moons, and a mutual dislike of me. But they’d been together at the party...it didn’t match up with the slighted disposition in front of me.
“I thought...” I swallowed, making sure I stripped any emotion except for indifference from my voice. “I just assumed you were friends.” And that’s why you were trying to make friendship bracelets with me over coffee. Rachel’s little spy.
“No,” she replied, raising her chin. “Rachel Laraby is a client and nothing more.”
Putting together the pieces of the puzzle that was Jacob Whitmore had sharpened my people reading skills. I didn’t even have to try to tell that something had gone down between Missy and Rachel. Did Missy see a kindred spirit in the Head Bitch In Charge department and try to strike up a friendship only to get shut down? The idea of Rachel putting Missy in her place brought me more pleasure than it should have.
Still, I was a little leery about letting bygones be bygones. “I was trying to get ready for the meeting, so if that’s all…”
“Oh,” Missy’s high cheekbones darkened as her lips ticked awkwardly. Message received. “I guess I’ll leave you to it.”
She turned on her heels, stilettos tapping on the floor as she left the way she came. I watched as she went, wondering if she’d whirl around and tell me that she was tired of kissing my ass. Jekyll and Hyde and prove that showing her the door was obviously the right choice. But there wasn’t indignation coloring her features when she turned back to me at the door. She was genuinely remorseful. I almost swore her eyes were glassy with tears.
“I know that I’ve been downright cruel to you,” she started. “But I’m trying to make up for it. I hope we can climb over this hurdle at some point.”
Great. Now I felt guilty.
“Missy,” I called out before she could exit. “I’ll take that cup of coffee after all.”
She turned around, dark eyes double their normal size. But she didn’t ask questions, walking back to my desk and holding out the cup.
I took it and put it beside me. It was more a gesture than anything else.
She scanned the room as she worked her way to the armchair in front of my desk. “It looks nice in here. Understated. But every piece has a function.”
“I guess that intro to decorating course paid off,” I said with an almost smile. Wow. Was I really here, playing nice with Missy Diaz? Relaxing when she flashed me a l
egitimate grin?
“It’s good that you’re putting down roots,” she said after a minute. “The others didn’t even unpack their cardboard boxes. It was like they knew it was temporary. But not you.”
“Not me,” I said quietly, glancing away. There were moments when I wondered if it was all a dream, that Jacob would snap out of it and send me packing. But my heart had other plans. It wouldn’t let me walk away. And even though Jacob set up an obstacle course around his own, I couldn’t take the easy way out either. Sure, working for Whitmore and Creighton was my dream. I lived for tough situations, careers to fix, and going to Cade’s movie premiere was like a pilgrimage to the Promised Land. But hands down, I wouldn’t trade a single moment with Jacob. That was worth everything.
I realized I was zoning out and Missy was watching me. I cleared my throat and smoothed my hair away from my face. “I’m sure you’ve seen a lot of faces coming and going. You’ve been with the company for…five years?”
She snorted. “I started working here after I graduated and I wish that was only five years ago. It’s closer to fifteen years.”
“Fifteen? So you worked with...”
“Mmhm,” she answered with a hint of reverence that rubbed me the wrong way.
It was crazy how neither of us said Carlton Whitmore’s name. Hers was out of some bizarre sense of respect--and for me, it was like I was afraid he’d rise from the dead and eat my flesh.
I leaned forward, intensely curious. “How was it? Working for him?”
“Carlton Whitmore was amazing,” she said with stars in her eyes. “He knew how the business worked since he was a part of the establishment.” She stopped, giving me a peevish look. “Between you and me, I think the fact that Hollywood chewed him up and spit him out drove him. He knew what it was like to have his movies on the marquis. To be big time--and he knew what it was like to lose it all.”
