Racing Heart (The Billionaire Brothers 1)
“Erica?!”
Through the bathroom door, and the noise of the shower, Megan’s housemate was somehow able to hear the plaintive yell. “They’re on the coffee table!” she called back.
It was a morning routine established almost as soon as the two twenty-something nurses had moved in together: Megan Peterson lost her keys, and Erica Newbold knew where they were. “Thanks! See you tonight!”
Running late, hair still damp, Megan stuffed textbooks into her bag and danced down the wooden stairs of the town house which she shared with Erica, and the two Croatian dentists on the first floor. The car started after its usual whining, and Megan got her day started with coffee which tasted of plastic, but was packed with enough caffeine to awaken even a sleep-deprived trainee nurse.
“Let’s go, Boston, I’m a little late here,” she said, urging the traffic forward. Megan had been developing a theory about Boston’s drivers, whose reputation for rudeness she had found very well deserved; the road layout, not to mention the haphazard, nonsensical traffic lights, generated an irritation which created torrents of abusive behavior. It wasn’t that Bostonians were assholes; their roads just sucked.
But growing up here had inoculated Megan against the Boston-accented tirades and ceaseless, impatient honking. She navigated through the busy morning traffic, passing through a couple of neighborhoods before grinding to a halt in a sequence of red lights seemingly designed to slow everyone’s morning commute. Like everyone around her, Megan checked her phone. A recent innovation was the daily list of ‘things to do’, now as indispensible to Megan as her morning coffee. It brought planning to a life so hectic she scarcely believed she was able to live it.
. Meet w/Prof. Hunter, 11.30. Piano, Andrea, 3.45. Call Mom. Groceries
Greg Hunter wouldn’t take more than twenty minutes, she thought. This afternoon’s lesson would mean picking up Andrea from her school; she could grab groceries on the way. Strategizing like this, Erica had taught her, gave the day structure and ensured against those embarrassing phone calls of the, ‘Hey, didn’t we say 11.30?’ variety.
Megan battled Boston’s traffic all the way to the University of Massachusetts and steered her cantankerous Fiesta into the lot. Finding a parking place was an art form long since perfected – Megan had completed her undergraduate nursing degree at U-Mass – and within moments she was dashing to the classroom, dregs of her coffee quickly drained and cellphone carefully silenced, lest she receive another lecture from Prof. Mills on the importance of ‘focus and maturity’.
Pharmacology was a mix of lecture time, group problem-solving and practical experience, and today’s class included a little of each. In the break after the first hour, with her classmates making a bee-line for the coffee machines, Megan filed out, rubbing tired eyes, and joined the line alongside her equally sleepy friend, Della.
“You remember that comic,” Della asked, tying back her long, black hair, “the one where the kid in the classroom raises his hand and says, ‘May I be excused please, sir? My brain is full’?” Megan nodded with an understanding smile. “That’s me, right now. I don’t think there’s a cubic millimeter of brain space left.”
Della had joined U-Mass as part of an exchange program to train Egyptian nurses, and was finding life in the States enjoyable, if occasionally very challenging. “Relax,” Megan advised her. “The more we use this stuff, the more we’ll get the hang of it.” She meant it, but felt the same grinding, constant overload as her classmates. There was never enough time to absorb the sheer quantity of information, and these important, background classes were only part of their training. As Master’s degree students, they spent hundreds of hours on the wards, dealing with anything and everything. No two shifts were alike, which suited Megan just fine, but the work was exhausting.
“Well, I can think of plenty of things I’d rather do tonight than bone up on anti-coagulants.”
Megan handed Della a cup of coffee from the machine; it was barely drinkable, but the caffeine infusion was priceless. “I hear you.”
Della grinned knowingly. “What about a date with that gorgeous friend of yours?”
Eyes rolling, Megan stood, hands on hips. “We’ve been friends for twenty years, Della. I’m friends with his daughter, too, for heaven’s sake. Do you really think I want to screw that up just for a...”
“Much-needed releasing of tensions?”
“Quick roll in the hay,” Megan corrected. She shook an admonishing finger at her Egyptian colleague. “You met him once, and you thought he was great. And you’re right.”
“So, why not take things further? You both need it. And, well, he’s not just a pretty face.” Della had a habit of bringing this up, much to Megan’s irritation; she seemed determined to see the two of them together, despite Megan’s protestations. So did every other friend Megan had, really.
“He’s brilliant,” Megan agreed.
“And rich,” Della added.
“Never really cared about that.”
Della laughed so hard she nearly spilled her coffee. “Oh really, Nurse Peterson? The man is the emperor of high technology, with a mansion on every continent, and you’ve never cared about it? You forget that these,” she said, tugging at her earlobes, “may look like ears, but they’re actually very finely tuned bullshit detectors.”
She shrugged. “I know, I know, Nurse Samaha.” She elbowed Della, risking a spilled coffee. “Whatever. He’s barely on the market anyway, as you well know.”
Della thought for a second. “Hasn’t it been...” She looked to Megan for a number. “Two years? More?”
The loss of Tom’s wife Mary had been the lowest point of his life, and certainly one of Megan’s. “Nearly three,” Megan said quietly, not without sadness. “He’ll decide when he’s ready. And whoever it will be,” she said, more brightly, “it won’t be me, OK?”
The two returned to the lab and got down to their work. Megan managed to plod through the experiments without disaster, but found herself oddly distracted, wishing once again that Della would leave well enough alone. She’s just trying to help you to be happy, the Voice of Reason maintained. Besides, how many months has it been since...
Packing her battered, brown book bag, she realized with a distinct shudder that it had been a year and a week since she’d shared a bed with anyone other than the faithful Mario. And he was a giant, stuffed panda. Holy crap. Maybe Della’s right. A red-hot fling might be just what I need.
Glancing around at her classmates as the professor shooed them out of the lab, she was downhearted to note that there really wasn’t a single eligible guy in their group. “Della?” she asked, taking her friend’s arm. “Is it just me, or are we surrounded by a depressing mix... The unattainable, and the simply unattractive?”
Della sighed, descending the stairs with leaden feet and a tired posture. “All the more reason to let Tom... or someone else, I don’t really mind... jump you this weekend. God knows I need it, too.”
“Maybe we should go clubbing on Saturday, pick up a couple of hotties?” The two laughed their way to the cafeteria for yet more urgently needed, and probably terrible, coffee. She could joke about it, but Megan found herself feeling, yet again, that need... the very same need she’d been feeling for a year and a week.
***
Boston’s glacial afternoon traffic conspired to suck just as badly as the morning commute, but at least Megan had her lesson with Andrea to look forward to. Texting whenever the gridlock stopped completely while growling at the sluggish traffic, Megan confirmed she was on her way and tried to move quickly without getting honked at
. It seemed that half the soccer moms in Boston had congregated on the slender stretch of real estate outside Patrick Gavin Middle School, and despite everyone trying to collect their kids as quickly as they could bundle them into the car, it took long, frustrating minutes to reach the pick-up zone. Megan’s bright reward was a grinning Andrea who flung open the door and jumped into the backseat as though finally allowed onto a bouncy castle.
“Hey Megan!” she trilled. “Guess what I did today?” Andrea buckled herself up and pulled her curly red hair back into its usual ponytail.
Megan loved this refrain and played along, as ever. “Hey, Andrea! Hmmm... Let me think.” The Fiesta found a gap and was propelled headlong into it. “Did you meet a wizard who turned homework into cupcakes?”
“No...” the girl answered, her tone rising to encourage another guess.
“Let’s see... Did you find a potion which turns bullies into the nicest people in the world?”
“No, not today...” she said, welcoming another try.
Megan wracked her brains. “Did you see a flying, purple elephant trailing a banner which said, ‘Andrea is Awesome’?”
“Yes!” she cried. “But it was yellow.”
“Yellow, you say? Well, did this flying, yellow elephant help you practice the piano?” There was silence from the back seat. “Hello?” Nothing. “Earth to Andrea, come in, please?”
“I did a little bit,” she said, unwilling to lie. “But I think I know that piece now.”
Megan chuckled skeptically. “You do? Well, I guess we’ll see about that. How was your day, sweetie?”
Andrea ran through the details of a school day with the attention to detail, and celebration of the mundane, known best to nine year-olds and savants. “Mrs. Parker made us sit very still for five whole minutes!” she reported, alarmed. “All we did was breathe, in and out, in and out.”
“That sounds like a nice, quiet five minutes for Mrs. Parker! Do you think she just wanted a break?”
“I don’t know! She said we had to try not to think.”
Megan changed lanes and prepared for the turn onto her street in Jamaica Plain, a recently gentrified neighborhood of Boston. She had liked the area ever since first driving through to look at apartments, finding a nice contrast here with the intense traffic and bustle of the U-Mass area, and the barely imaginable bedlam around Andrea’s school. “Maybe she’s right. We all need to take time out. Thinking is over-rated, I’d say.”
“No way!” Andrea objected. “I love thinking!”
“Too much will fry your brain,” Megan warned, half-serious. “A calm five minutes sounds like a good way to relax. You should try it before you play the piano, just to calm everything down.”
“OK,” she replied, noncommittally. Megan pulled up outside the apartment building, glad that her space hadn’t been commandeered by a Croatian dentist.
Andrea waited until Megan had unlocked the door before bounding up the stairs and into the apartment with an absolute familiarity. “I’m going to the bathroom,” she announced. Megan opened the piano, ready for their lesson. A few chords showed her keen ears that it had kept its tuning well despite the changing humidity as winter finally gave way to spring. Andrea had, at the very least, remembered to bring her music this time, whether or not the pieces had actually been practiced.
A precocious and obviously talented young lady, Andrea had been through a lot but seemed able to soldier on, optimistic and endlessly curious, her horizons broadening more quickly each year. Megan very often found herself simply amazed.
“Bach first!” Andrea proclaimed.
“No... What have I always said?” Megan said with a wagging finger.
“Ugh!” Andrea huffed. “Scales...”
“Come on, now. What are scales, really?” she asked, seemingly for the ten millionth time.
Andrea pulled a face. “The building blocks of music,” she groaned in her dullest, most boring voice.
“But... If you can play scales...” Megan prompted.
“... You can play anything,” Andrea parroted back. “OK, but only the major ones.” She slowly but assuredly executed C-major, then G-major, before Megan growled at her to play at least one minor key scale. “I hate the minor ones!” she wailed, but performed a proficient, if slightly halting, A-minor.
“And if all music was always happy, all the time, we wouldn’t need minor, but it’s not, is it?” Megan asked, determined that Andrea received the fundamentals, despite her objections. Andrea harrumphed her way through E-minor before insisting that they turn to the pieces.
They were about a third of the way through a Bach two-part invention when Megan heard the vibration of her phone in her bag. She waited for Andrea to come to a halt, at a place where her otherwise decent muscle memory let her down, before starting her off again and checking her texts.
Hey Megan, I’m sorry but I won’t be able to pick up Andrea tonight, but... Surprise! Jake is coming instead. Usual time. Tom.
The remainder of the Bach could have been flawless and Megan might not have noticed. Jake McMahon. Old memories quickly resurfaced, images of a geeky, intelligent young man, made shy by acne and female rejection. Tom had bullied his younger brother as they grew up together, but upon reaching their late teens, the pair found a grudging but genuine and mutual respect. A flare for engineering, coupled with newly-acquired marketing and public relations specialties, had formed the ideal team and, within a year of graduation, the two young men were poised to stamp their inimitable mark on the world of Information Technology.
“There! Wasn’t that perfect?” Andrea wanted to know, hands above her head in self-congratulation.
Snapping back to the present, Megan replied, “Much better, Andrea. You’re keeping a good tempo, but I want you to remember that this isn’t just a string of notes, it’s...”
“A conversation,” Andrea said, repeating a well-worn refrain. “Mr. Right Hand,” she said, wiggling her right fingers, “is talking with Mr. Left Hand.” She mimed the two chattering to each other. “I remember.”
“OK, well. Let me hear some of that new piece we tried last time.”
Andrea made a face. “Sure, if you want.”
“What’s wrong with it?” Megan asked, opening the book of Easy Modern Piano Pieces and placing it on the piano’s music stand.
“I dunno. It’s just a bit boring,” Andrea replied, her shoulders slumped.
“Let me play it for you again, OK? Maybe you’ll like it better.”
Having come close to bullying Andrea into sight-reading the short piece once more, Megan glanced at her watch and found their time almost at an end. “Your uncle Jake is coming to pick you up today. Isn’t that cool?”
Andrea’s face was a flurry of happy excitement. “Really? Oh awesome! I love his car so much.”
“Well, I’m sure he’s got more than one,” Megan observed drily. Jake’s partnership with his brother had created the industry-leading Goliath range of disk drives, among other runaway successes, and the two men had become fabulously rich before their mid-twenties.
“You’re jealous because you drive a Fiesta,” Andrea told her.
“I love my Fiesta!” her teacher responded, hurt by the remark. “It gets me from A to B, so don’t you disrespect it.”
“I’m just saying,” Andrea said, sounding many years beyond her age, as she often did. The young lady hopped down from the piano bench and wandered into the kitchen for her traditional post-lesson snack while Megan enjoyed another chuckle at the girl’s precautious dynamism. Never a dull moment.
“So,” Megan began as she sliced up a ruby-red apple for Andrea, “have you seen Uncle Jake much, lately?”
Andrea slurped her orange juice. “Sometimes. He visits on Sunday to watch football with Dad. They always drink beers and throw the cans in the trashcan from across the room.”
“Yeah,” Megan said, “that sounds like boys.”
Then, out of nowhere, “Uncle Jake brought me a panda.”
Megan stared at her. It was these cryptic, inexplicable utterances which added such spice to the life of anyone who spent time with The Great Andrea McMahon. “Really.” It wasn’t a question. “A panda.”
“Oh, Megan are you getting so old you’re losing your memory? Can’t remember what a panda is?”
Megan slid the plate of apple slices in front of Andrea and flicked her ear. “I’m younger than your Dad, by the way. And I know what a panda is, Missy. This was a cuddly toy, right?”
“Not a toy!” Andrea insisted. “A panda!”
“A real one?” Megan asked, hands on hips.
“Yeah!”
“No way.”
“Way!” Andrea exclaimed.
“Not true.”
“Is so!”
“I call shenanigans,” Megan announced, resolutely.
Andrea cocked her head. “What’s a shenniguns?”
Megan’s bout of giggling was interrupted only by the front door bell. “Better late than never,” she commented to Andrea. “You ready to go?” Andrea stuffed music books into her bag as Megan answered the door.
She was not – even in the slightest – prepared for what she saw.
***
“Megan Petersen,” Jake remarked with a broad smile. “How long has it been?”
Jesus, Mary, Joseph and all the Saints. Where along the way did Jake McMahon get gorgeous?
Megan froze in her doorway for an embarrassingly long second before erasing the stunned look from her face and giving her visitor a warm smile. “Jake, it’s so good to see you. You’re looking...” Chiseled and mouth-watering? Immaculate and neatly groomed? “Looking well,” Megan managed lamely. “And to answer your question,” she said, beckoning him inside, “it’s been seven years.”
“You’re kidding,” Jake marveled, regarding Megan closely. “It can’t be. You don’t look a day older than when we graduated high school.”
“Get outta here,” Megan countered. “If a coupla nursing degrees haven’t put years on me, I don’t know what would.” They arrived together in the kitchen. “Andrea? You ready to go?”
Racing Heart (The Billionaire Brothers 1) Page 1
