by Cat Carmine
“Everything okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, yeah. Just lost my train of thought for a minute.”
“Okay. I’m going to get Libby out of the tub and into her pajamas. Do you want to hold her a bit before we put her down for the night?”
I take a step backwards. “No, no, that’s okay.” Just watching Trent with Libby is giving me crazy thoughts about Bree — God only know what’ll happen if I actually hold the kid.
Trent looks at me funny again, but I just plaster a grin on my face. “All the water — she’ll be slippery. I don’t want to be responsible for dropping her.”
“Sure.” Trent doesn’t look convinced, but I just back out of the bathroom.
“Can I grab you a beer?”
“Oh, yeah, sure. Thanks.”
I make my way back to the kitchen where Hannah is sitting at the counter reading a magazine.
“That’s one cute kid you’ve got,” I tell her.
She smiles. “Thanks. The husband’s not too bad either.”
“I won’t comment on that,” I grin as I grab a couple of beers out of the fridge. “I’ll say that I honestly never thought I’d see Trent like this though. I guess all it takes is the right girl.”
Hannah looks at me funny, in almost the same way Trent did just a minute ago.
“You want a beer?” I ask, to distract her.
She shakes her head. “Libby’s going to need to eat again before she goes down, and I don’t have any extra pumped.”
“Extra what?” Then I figure it out. “Oh. Right.”
Hannah laughs. “Breast milk, Luke. It’s a thing.”
“Not in my life it isn’t.” I grin as I crack open one of the bottles of craft lager I pulled out of the fridge.
“Just give it time,” Hannah says, smiling to herself as she turns back to her magazine.
“Yeah, right.” I love how people always assume that just because they settled down that everyone else wants to as well. I’m not about to start an argument with Hannah about it — I know she means well — but I wish she knew how wrong she was. Thankfully Trent chooses that moment to stroll back into the kitchen with a pajama-clad Libby.
“You want to put her down?” he asks Hannah.
“Sure. She’s going to want to eat anyway.” She hops up off the stool and takes the baby from him, then disappears down the hallway. I hand Trent the open beer and then twist the cap off the second one for myself.
“So, work’s going okay?” he asks, taking a swallow.
“Good. Great.” I take a sip of the beer. Not bad.
“When’s your meeting with Shapiro? I got the paperwork Lottie sent over.”
“Oh — tomorrow, actually.”
“Do you want me to come?”
I wave him off. “Nah. I got this.”
“Let me know how it goes.”
“I will. Speaking of meetings — I had that meeting with Trinity Central today.”
“Oh, that’s right — how was it? How’s Tomas?”
“Good. Seems like a good guy. Very passionate.”
“Ha. Yeah, he is.”
“Actually, they’ve brought on a second sponsor this year.”
Trent pauses with the bottle halfway to his lips.
“What? We’ve been doing this event alone for years.”
“I know. But I got there and found out they’ve brought Bailey Living on board too. I couldn’t say anything because I figured it would look worse to make a fuss about it or try to pressure them into reversing the decision. I can see why for them it’s a good thing.”
Trent nods. “Yeah, good call. Damn. This is that new woman, isn’t it? Lyle’s daughter. Did you meet her?”
Oh, I met her. In fact, I fucked her the other day and fingered her in the elevator after the meeting was over.
I take a sip of my beer. “Yeah, I met her.”
“What’s she like?”
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“She sounds like a ballbuster,” Trent says.
“Not really.” I don’t really want to say anything else but Trent is clearly waiting for some kind of response. “She’s a redhead,” I offer.
He laughs. “Well, say no more. A redhead. Just our luck.”
Yeah. Just our luck.
“In other news, Tomas wants to do all kinds of events to go along with the lottery,” I tell him.
“What do you mean? It’s usually just the kick-off and a couple of photos.”
“Yeah, well, seems like my good luck continues, because this year they’ve got some whole audience engagement thing planned. Design bloggers, TV hosts, decorating challenges …” I tell him all about Tomas’s plan for us. He looks more and more skeptical.
“That’s ridiculous,” he says when I’m done.
“I don’t think it is,” Hannah chimes in. She’d wandered back into the kitchen while Trent and I were talking, and now she’s twisting the cap off a beer and climbing back on her stool. “I think it’s smart. I’ve been telling you for ages that you guys need to do more of this kind of thing.”
“It’s a waste of Luke’s time,” he sputters.
“No, it’s not. This is actually better — instead of just donating tens of thousands of dollars worth of furniture and making an appearance at a party, you’re going to get Luke’s face out there. The whole collection. People get excited about this kind of thing. It’ll build a buzz that’s good for Loft & Barn.”
“Your wife sounds like she knows what she’s talking about,” I point out helpfully.
Trent rolls his eyes, but he’s laughing. “She usually does,” he says. “I don’t know about this though. It just seems kind of pointless to me.”
“Well, luckily it’s not up to you,” she points out. “You put Luke in charge, remember? And I’m sure he’s perfectly capable of handling this on his own.” She tips her beer bottle at me, and I clink mine against hers before taking a sip.
Trent looks over at me. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s your call, however you want to play this. It’s a little hard for me to leave all the decision-making up to someone else, but I trust your judgement.”
“It’s a little hard?” I tease. “I believe they call people like you control freaks.”
“I am not!”
Hannah raises her eyebrows and he shrugs.
“Okay, maybe I am a little. But I promise you have my complete and total confidence. I know you won’t do anything that’s not in the best interest of Loft & Barn.”
“Of course I won’t,” I promise him. I take another long swallow of my beer, trying to drown out the uncomfortable feeling that’s growing in the pit of my stomach. All I can think about is Bree, and the many, many things I would like to do to her — none of which are in the best interest of Loft & Barn.
The next morning I’m at the office bright in early in order to prep for my meeting with George Shapiro. He’s coming in to go over the initial documentation for the prospectus. Lottie pops her head in before he arrives.
“Have everything you need?”
I nod. “I think so. I’ve got all the paperwork here.”
“In triplicate.”
I grin. “Yes. Thank you for that.” Lottie had coordinated a couple of the assistants into staying late and copying and collating everything last night. It was a surprising amount of paper — then again, it was five years of complete accounting records, human resource records, business projections and forecasting, annual reports, catalogues, and risk analysis reports.
From out in the hallway, Lottie’s phone rings.
“That’ll be reception,” she says, scurrying out.
A minute later my own phone rings.
“George Shapiro?” I ask.
“Yes, Mr. Whittaker.”
“Send him in.”
I close my laptop just as a very large, very sweaty man strolls into my office. He’s got black hair that’s pressed down flat to his skull, and black wire-rimmed glasses that are a bit too small for his
face.
I stand and reach my hand out. “Mr. Shapiro. A pleasure,” I say smoothly.
“George is fine,” he says, shaking my hand. He’s got a firm grip, but when he lets go I have to resist the urge to wipe the sweat off on my pants.
“Please, take a seat.” I discreetly wipe my hand as I pull my own chair in under the desk.
“I won’t take up much of your time, Mr. Whittaker,” George says. “I just wanted to meet to ensure we had all the appropriate paperwork. In my experience, it saves time if we can sort this out up front rather than going back and forth. I hate things that waste time. Do you understand, Mr. Whittaker?”
His voice is stern and I shift in my seat. I feel as if I’m being reprimanded for something I haven’t even done.
“Of course,” I say smoothly. “We aren’t exactly fans of time-wasting around here either.”
“Good. I’m glad we understand each other. Let’s begin.”
I grab the file folders Lottie left on my desk and George and I make our way quickly through them. He doesn’t say much but he nods a lot as he thumbs through them so I can only assume we’re on the right track.
Finally he sits back and gives one last nod.
“Very good. Please have everything couriered to my office. We require three copies.”
“Already assembled,” I say with a grin, gesturing to the stack of folders on the side console.
He sniffs. “Very good. Just one other thing before I go.”
He sets his briefcase on my desk and snaps it open. He rummages through it and then eventually extracts a sheaf of papers, which he hands to me.
“Our investors tend to be very conservative,” he says carefully as I flip through them. It seems to be a media scan — every article about Loft & Barn that’s ran in the past … what? Two years? Not to mention press coverage of our competitors. My heart stops for a second when I see Bree’s face smiling up at me, until I realize it’s an article about her taking over Bailey Living.
I drop the papers down on the desk and lean back in my seat with my arms folded, waiting for George Shapiro to go on.
He steeples his fingers together and narrows his eyes. They were already beady before, and now they practically disappear.
“The fact that your brother has stepped down from the helm is very concerning to our investors.”
Ah. So that’s what this about. I lean forward.
“I can assure you that I’m more than capable of running the business in his absence.”
“Yes, well, our media scans and issues analyses suggest that you enjoy a much less … corporate lifestyle than your brother does.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I grit my teeth, but George only flashes me a rare smile.
“I’m sorry if I’m being obtuse,” he says. “So let me be perfectly clear. We’ve looked extensively at your business, at your competition, at the marketplace. The biggest risk to the future of Loft & Barn is you, Mr. Whittaker. You don’t have the business experience your brother does, and your womanizing ways are well known within the industry.”
“My … what?” I sputter. Is he fucking serious?
“I’m sorry, but I prefer not to mince words,” Shapiro says. “And it’s an open secret that you’ve slept your way through the industry.”
My hands curl into fists and I try to restrain myself from bodily tossing George Shapiro from my office.
“My personal life is no concern of yours,” I say slowly. “But I can assure you that it certainly has no impact on my ability to run this business. I’ll have this paperwork sent over to your office this afternoon.”
I flip my laptop open and turn to the screen indicating that this meeting is over.
George Shapiro doesn’t move from his chair for a moment, and I can feel his eyes still on me. Finally he hefts himself up and lumbers towards the door. He pauses again before he leaves.
“Mr. Whittaker,” he says, pausing at the door. “I urge you to heed my warning.”
I don’t look up, but my fists curl tighter.
“Oh, and Mr. Whittaker?”
I finally look up and sigh. “Yes?”
“Ensure the paperwork is delivered in triplicate, please.”
As soon as he’s gone I stalk over to the door and slam it closed before Lottie can wander in to ask how things went.
What an arrogant asshole. As if my personal life has any bearing on our business. It’s absurd.
I open up Trent’s console and take out the bottle of scotch he keeps stashed in there. Sure, it’s only ten in the morning, but George Shapiro has driven me to drink.
I glug out a thumb’s worth of the liquid, and then take a sip. It’s such a high quality drink that it doesn’t burn going down, and I take another sip as soon as I’ve swallowed the first.
It does nothing to calm my rage though. The nerve of that guy.
I slide back into my chair and flip angrily through the folder of media material he’d left behind. There’s more to the package than I’d initially realized. Besides the usual media articles, there are photos. Mostly of me. In every photo, I’ve got a new girl on my arm.
I shuffle through the pages faster and faster, overwhelmed by the sheer number of them. There are a few older ones of Trent and I, but most of them are from the past couple of years.
I drop the papers on the desk and sit back, taking another sip of the scotch. Trent and I had always enjoyed our fair share of conquests — it came with the territory when you were young, good-looking and wildly successful. But since Trent had met Hannah, he’d settled down, and I’d hit the town on my own.
A lot.
There never seemed to be a shortage of women. In fact, they tended to throw themselves at me. And far be it for me to turn down an enthusiastic woman.
But to suggest that has anything to do with my ability to run a business was just … well, it’s ridiculous. Idiotic.
Yet … Trent is checking up on me constantly. Almost as if he doesn’t trust me either.
I lean back in my chair and sigh. Luckily, I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge. If George Shapiro and his ilk think I’m irresponsible — hell, if Trent thinks I’m irresponsible — that just makes me more determined to prove them wrong.
Trent had left me in charge. He’d trusted me to manage our IPO, to not just keep the company running, but to take us through one of the biggest transitions we’d ever gone through.
No way in hell am I going to let him down.
No matter what I have to give up.
12
Bree
“Gin and tonic, please.”
The barman nods at me and turns to make my drink. While he’s doing that, I take a moment to glance around the room again.
I tell myself I’m not looking for him, but I can’t quite convince myself of the lie.
There’s still no sign of him though. I sigh and turn back around. The bartender slides a short crystal tumbler towards me and I smile gratefully and take a long sip.
I’m at the Trinity Central Hospital fundraiser kick-off, it’s at the Grand Windsor Hotel. The same place as the Design Times anniversary party. The same place I met Luke.
I look down at the eggplant-colored dress I’m wearing and smooth an invisible wrinkle out of the skirt. This is another of my original designs, with a halter neck and a knee-length pleated skirt. The crepe fabric is light and flowy, and, except for the color, the dress has a sort of Marilyn Monroe feel to it.
I try not to wonder what Luke will think of it. Because I don’t care. I definitely don’t care. And I definitely didn’t wear brand new lacy underwear for any reason having to do with him. No sirree.
I turn and scan the crowd again, but still nothing. Maybe he’s not coming? He has to, I think, though. Maybe he’s just running late.
And maybe I’m just paying way too much damn attention to whether he’s here yet or not. I turn back to the bar, more than a little irritated with myself. I make myself a deal: finish my drink
, and then I have to go mingle. After all, I’m supposed to be here representing Bailey Living.
I take another sip of my drink. I’m just plucking the lime off the rim and squeezing it into the cocktail when his deep voice comes from behind me.
“Fancy meeting you here.”
My entire body tenses in an instant. I can practically feel his breath, warm on the back of my neck. For a second I close my eyes and let myself remember the way he pressed me up against the wall of the elevator, the way he could be so forceful and commanding, yet so sensual at the same time.
I force myself to wear a neutral smile and turn around. Then I burst out laughing.
“I see you decided to eschew the dress code?” Luke is wearing dark jeans and a red and black plaid shirt.
“Technically there is no dress code.”
“Well, I think this look works for you.”
“Thank you — from you, I’ll actually take that as a compliment.”
“You should.” My smile is more genuine now. “I like a man who owns his style.” I laugh as I see his reaction. “Luke Whittaker, are you blushing?”
“No! I’m always this color.”
“Millennial pink?”
“It’s the color of the moment, you know.”
“I’m … impressed that you know that.”
“There’s a lot about me that would impress you.”
“I think I’ve already experienced a couple of them.” The words are out of my mouth before I realize what I’m saying. Luke grins.
“Now I think you’re the one blushing.”
“No. I’m just trying out the millennial pink thing.”
He keeps smiling as he studies my face. “Can I get you a drink?”
“It’s an open bar.”
“Even better.”
I wave my glass at him. “I already have a drink. And I promised myself I would go mingle when I was finished it.”
“You are mingling.”
“With you?”
“Yes. Now keep that sweet little ass of yours in that chair, please, and join me while I have a drink.”
“Fine.”
I shouldn’t agree. I know I shouldn’t. And yet it’s like the words come out of my mouth entirely on their own, without any direction from my brain.
