Players to Lovers (4 Book Collection)

by Ketley Allison

“Very briefly. And very unknowingly. I had no idea she was with child.”

  Whiskey pours over the square ice cubes like liquid bronze, and I’m reminded of Sophie’s eyes. “We wanted to talk amongst ourselves before bringing you and Dad in, considering it’s Sophie’s and my business, after all.”

  I say it dryly. Pointedly. As usual, Mom ignores it. “I’m relieved you finally brought it to our attention. We’ll help you get this resolved, Asher.” Her blue eyes, lighter than mine, darken. “No woman is going to—”

  “Eleanor, dear.” My father lightly admonishes Mom as he saunters into the sitting area, the crackle of the large, wood-carved fireplace the only sound as he steps onto plush carpeting and between my mother and me. It’s August in New York, but the ceilings are so high, the floors and vast expanse of the hallways so wide, it’s almost necessary to add more heat to the central system when hosting company.

  I picture Sophie shivering under the gazes of my parents, and I swallow a growl. This is the right thing to do. It has to be. She has to know.

  My dad pats my arm as he reaches the bar, and I fight against any flinch.

  “Let’s wait for the girl to arrive, at least,” he says, and crafts the same drink as me, with the same amount of ice cubes.

  We hear the crunch of tires against gravel at the same time. I head to the front door right as my mom says, “Let Marcela get it, dear,” but I ignore the request.

  I open the door at the same time Sophie reaches it, escorted by Charlie. She’s said something humorous, because Charlie is smiling in a way he never does. When he sees me, that smile dies. He gives a grandfatherly pat to Sophie’s arm, nods to me professionally, and departs.

  I offer my arm as Sophie steps over the threshold, but she pretends she doesn’t see it. Or, maybe she truly missed it, because she’s scanning the foyer with a wide stare, her head swiveling, and then her feet, as she takes in the expanse of the home.

  “Holy spitballs,” she whispers. “This is where you used to live?”

  “No. My parents bought this after I went to college. It’s more of a summer home. They reside in England, for the most part.”

  At last, Sophie’s eyes meet mine. I feign boredom, despite the clash of her browns to my blues. “How many homes does your family own?”

  “Too many.”

  Sophie opens her mouth for more questions, more information—she always pursues every avenue she can—but is interrupted by my father.

  “And here she is,” he says, but I’m not watching him enter onto the Italian marble flooring. I stay on Sophie, reading precisely how she’s reacting to my father’s presence.

  Tall, slim, and commanding, he takes up the room with his all-inclusive smile. A Silver Fox with all women who are not his wife, in three minutes of conversation, he’ll know who in your family is wealthy, who has passed away, and which kid you’re trying to get an academic scholarship for. Friendly at first, he’s a man you let your guard down with. And he is the exact replica to what I’ll look like when I’m older. Save for all my tattoos.

  “Patrick Whittaker, my dear,” he says as he approaches, holding out his hand.

  Sophie moves as if to shake it, but he cups her palm, twists it around, and kisses the top of her hand. She laughs uncomfortably but isn’t put off. “It’s lovely to meet you, Mr. Whittaker.”

  “You as well, dear. You as well. Come, let us have a drink before dinner.”

  He leads her to the sitting room, and Sophie looks over her shoulder at me as if to question why I was so reluctant to have her meet him in the first place.

  I follow behind, staring at her back, wishing she would’ve noticed the fact that my father never once looked at her stomach. Offered no congratulations. Provided no excitement for his impending grandchild. Doesn’t ask if it’s a boy, or girl, or a surprise. Something you’d expect any new grandparent would do as soon as they realized the next generation was on the way.

  Dad gestures to a long, deep scarlet, Victorian-style couch near the fireplace. “Sit. What can I get you to drink?”

  “Oh, a sparkling water with lime will be fine.”

  Sophie perches on the velveteen fabric, hands politely folded. She’s surrounded by carved gold and hardwood, and despite all the finishes in the room, she’s the only soft one. Her hair is down, her curls wild from the humidity. She has a glow about her that has nothing to do with the fire brimming on her left.

  She does not belong.

  “Sophia, a pleasure to see you again.”

  My mother drifts from the shadows, her pearls on full display and in stylish contrast to the emerald green of her long dress. Her hair, dyed an exact shade of burnished blond, is in an updo.

  “Elen—I mean, Dame Eleanor. Lovely to see you again.” Sophie rises to greet her, but Eleanor stops her with a wave.

  “No need to stand. I’ll come to you.” My mom’s attention doesn’t stray from Sophie’s face. “Asher, do sit. Your hovering in the doorway is giving me anxiety.”

  I sit, not because my mom told me so, but so I can claim the seat beside Sophie before she does. “It’s Sophie, Mother. Not Sophia.”

  “Yes. Of course.” Eleanor sits delicately in a wide chair across from us. Everything is cushioned enough to receive our ass, but never too comfortable to suggest you stay. “Tell me, how did you and my son meet? Asher has been scant on the details.”

  Sophie’s posture becomes erect. She glances at me, then back at my mother. “Well … uh, we met through friends, I guess. My best friend started dating his best friend and fell in love, and we sort of fell into the same group. Also, I made a lot of excuses to be around when Ash cooks. He’s a wonderful chef, by the way. You must be so proud.”

  “Mm.” Mom’s attention doesn’t divert from Sophie, but her chin lifts, ever so slightly, as if to prove her refinery over Soph’s. And to barely acknowledge my career choice.

  “We were hoping he’d take over the family business,” my dad says as he hands Sophie her drink and takes the chair beside my mother’s. “But, alas, our boy had other plans.”

  “What is it you do, exactly, Mr. Whittak—uh, Sir Whittaker. Sir Patrick? I’m not sure what to call you.” Sophie laughs in the silent room, a bright sound that I want to cup around myself and keep hearing throughout the night. It makes me want to throw an arm around her, pull her close, and let her know that while she’s not in her element, I’m not in mine, either.

  “Patrick is fine,” Dad says kindly. I narrow my eyes at him. “And we do a lot of investments in big businesses. Whittaker Enterprises. Take over companies that need it, mergers and acquisitions, financial contracts, that sort of thing. Professional and competitive maneuvers probably quite over your head.”

  There’s the first jab, but Dad laughs as if it’s a complimentary joke.

  Sophie laughs along, but I catch the glint in her eye. “I majored in business and almost received my MBA a few years ago. I know exactly what you mean. Tell me...”

  Sophie launches into questions about Whittaker Enterprises that, quite frankly, stun us all. I’m ashamed to realize that while I knew she worked data at a pharmaceutical company in Florida, I never got her background, or why she chose such a thankless job when she’s clearly qualified for more.

  I sit back and listen to her and my father as they talk, my mom commenting on occasion, but choosing to watch the conversation like me. I note my father’s expression become shrewder the more detailed Sophie’s questions are, and I regret the feeling of pride floating around my head the moment I realize my father is gaining respect for Sophie.

  It’s only to cut her down.

  “And so, I took up traveling, instead,” Sophie says as I focus my attention back on her.

  “May I ask why you left behind an MBA in order to pursue … travels?” my mom asks, and I stared pointedly at her, silently begging her not to pretend any interest in Sophie, however vague it may be.

  “Frankly, I felt trapped.”

  I’m surprised by Sophie�
��s honesty.

  “There was—there’ve been—issues in my family,” she continues, “and I felt the need to leave that behind for a while and focus on what’s beautiful around me. Like the world.” She shrugs. “It sounds corny, but it’s the only thing that’s really healed me. Made me happy. Exploring countries, on my own, making new friends, testing boundaries. My favorite, I think, at least food-wise”—she offers me a gentle smile of inclusion—“was Italy. I was taught the true way to make tagliatelle by a woman who owned an olive tree plantation. She taught me the difference between hard flour and soft, and her rolling pin, Ash, it was like holding history in my hands—”

  I’m so absorbed by Sophie, the activity on her face and her excitement for pure ingredients, that I don’t save her in time. And I’ll forever regret the moment I didn’t choose to take Sophie by the hand and lead her out of this cold house, never to return again.

  “Now I see how much you two have in common,” my father says, crossing a leg at the ankle.

  Second jab.

  “So, you used travel as a form of escapism,” my mom says. “And left your problems, and parents, behind.”

  “I wouldn’t call it that,” Sophie says. “My parents always encouraged independent growth.”

  “I’m sure with you, it was the only choice they had left,” Mom replies, and there’s a cutting undertone I don’t like. Sophie stares at Eleanor sharply.

  “Sir? Madam?”

  Marcela takes the moment to step in and announce dinner’s ready. Grateful, I stand, assisting Sophie and allowing my father and mother to enter the dining room first. I deliberately linger behind, and when I pass Marcela, I lay a warm kiss on her cheek.

  “My boy,” she says, squeezing my arm. “I’ve missed you so.”

  “Not as much as I miss your dumpling soup,” I say.

  Her face lights up. “Sweetness, you’ve far surpassed my cooking prowess and you know it.”

  “Never. Your soups are what made the difference in my life.”

  We share a knowing look, and Marcela’s eyes briefly film over before she breaks away and takes in Sophie beside me.

  “Oh, my dear! Sweet precious!” Smiling wide, she holds Sophie by both shoulders and looks her up and down. “Nobody told me we had a fifth dinner guest.”

  This time, Sophie’s laugh is genuine and comfortable. “I still manage to fly under the radar when I’m sitting. I’m not too big, yet.”

  “Oh, give it time. You’ll be the size of a Volkswagen soon.” As Marcela says it, her face loses color. “Mon dieu, Monsieur Whittaker requested sashimi as an appetizer. I didn’t think to provide an alternate dish. I’m so sorry, Miss Sophie. I didn’t know…”

  Third jab of the night. While my parents can no longer be seen, they are experts and making their presence very obvious.

  Grimly, I take Sophie’s arm while saying to Marcela, “It’s not your fault.”

  “Honestly, I’m too nervous to eat much, anyway,” Sophie admits to Marcela as we move along, and another rush of shame hits my center, at the idea that Sophie’s anxiety is all due to my actions. “I’ll pick at it, pretend I’m eating it. Ash’s parents couldn’t have known I’m…” Sophie looks at me uncertainly. “Could they? Did they know I was pregnant when planning the dinner?”

  I nod.

  “Okay, then,” Sophie says, but it’s brimming with confusion. Once Marcela goes back into the kitchen, she adds, “Is that your cook? She’s wonderful.”

  This time, my nod is less curt. “She’s more a grandmother to me than anything else. She helped raise me. Took on the brunt of it, if I’m honest.”

  “Is she the reason you found a love for cooking?”

  Sophie’s perceptiveness is still a shock. “She is. I spent a lot of time with her in the kitchen as a kid. More than I did on any field or playing any sports.”

  “I can see it. When you look at her.”

  I want to ask Sophie what she means, but we’re no longer alone.

  We enter the dining room, and I pull out a chair for Sophie on the other side of my parents, in the middle of the long table that normally seats thirty. It’s been set for four, and as my parents murmur, I lightly touch Sophie’s shoulder as I sit down next to her. I don’t want to leave her side.

  For the first time, Sophie glances at me questioningly.

  When the sashimi is laid down in front of us by the serving staff, I’m sick of it. I want to rip off the band-aid and stop this sham. Sophie doesn’t deserve any more of the Whittaker charade.

  I wish we were sitting with Marcela in the kitchen, kneading dough, sharing bites. Becoming family.

  I’m sorry, Sophie.

  “Sashimi, Father? Really?” I say.

  Patrick looks up from his chopsticks. “Do you no longer enjoy the delicate flesh of yellowtail, son? As a seasoned chef, I’d assume you’d have appreciation for all culinary cultures.”

  My fork clatters to the plate. I didn’t realize I’d picked it up. Was clenching it. “You know that’s not the reason. Sophie’s pregnant.”

  Sophie jerks at the mention of her name.

  “We’re well aware,” Eleanor says tightly, “of your mistake. The next one, at least, in your long list of shaming this family.”

  “Shame?” Sophie whispers it, not looking up from her plate, but her fingers curl around her stomach.

  “Yes, let’s get right into it, shall we?” I say, glancing between my parents. “Where’s the contract? You must have one drawn up by now, considering I told you of Sophie’s pregnancy this afternoon.”

  “Ash, what are you doing?” Sophie asks.

  “Did you use your in-house notary, Dad?” I say. “Get all the i’s and t’s dotted and crossed? Revoke any rights this baby may have to the Whittaker fortune?”

  “We’re only trying to protect you, son,” Patrick says. His knuckles are white against the tablecloth.

  “Patrick,” Eleanor murmurs, putting a hand on his forearm.

  “Protect me from what? My own decisions? I will choose how this baby is taken care of, not you,” I say.

  Patrick bangs the table with his fist. Cutlery and porcelain rattle. “This isn’t one of your foolhardy tattoos, son!”

  “No, it’s a real-life fucking decision, and if I want to provide financial assistance to this child, I damned well will,” I say quietly. The low tone is the only thing tempering the rage boiling inside my gut.

  “My estate is not your money,” Dad snarls.

  “Ash,” Sophie whispers beside me. “Stop. It’s okay.”

  “Thank God it isn’t,” I say levelly. “And I’ve made my own success. I don’t need your money, just like I didn’t need your fatherhood.”

  “You do not talk to me that way!” Patrick stands, his skin flushed—a trait rarely shown in investors, clients, the public eye. But to his son? Always. On instinct, I risk a glance to his belt.

  He continues, “This girl will sign the form disclaiming all rights to our fortune. Including yours.”

  “Come again?” Sophie’s voice cuts in, strong and steady. “Who says I want your money?”

  “Don’t play coy with us, little girl,” Eleanor says. Seated, she remains as predatory as a curled-up snake. “There’s a reason you chose Asher to get yourself pregnant. You knew his history, his wealth, and you targeted him, just as you’re targeting us. Your sweetness is overwhelming, but the pauper you come from, the low-class life you’ve crawled out of, is what I smell the most.”

  Sophie sucks in a breath.

  “We’re leaving,” I say, standing and offering my hand to Sophie.

  “No,” Sophie says, but she stands with me. “How dare you talk to me like that? You barely even know me, and you certainly don’t know what it takes to make a baby. It required two of us. Me and Ash. This baby isn’t some pawn I’ve created to take down his inheritance—”

  “I know women like you better than I know my own son,” Eleanor says, and also stands while pointing a shaking, trembli
ng finger. “I was a woman like you. And I will not let my son fall victim to your seduction, and whatever bastard you create lay a hand on what we have.”

  “Bastard? You—this is your grandchild!” Sophie shouts.

  “It is no grandchild of mine,” Patrick says. “I don’t support spawn of harlets and whores—”

  My father gets no further.

  He can’t, because I’ve leaped over the table, candles flying and plates shattering, Sophie and Eleanor screaming.

  “Not again, Asher!” my Mom shrieks, but she skips out of the way.

  I fly at my father’s throat, but any attacks, I learned directly from him, and he ducks, lashing out and hooking my collar. He slams me down onto the table, hands at my throat, squeezing.

  I recognize the man on top of me. The red-veined rage, the sheer demon looking back, eyes popping, neck bulging out, as he takes my oxygen and enjoys every second I’m without air.

  “Ash! Ash!”

  Sophie’s cloudy voice sounds in the background. My hands claw at my father’s clothes, ram into his face, but he’s a rock. A solid piece of granite lifted directly from hell’s workers, and despite my height, my age, my moving past this, my father continues to hold me hostage.

  “Stop! Stop this!” my mom cries.

  Red—not blood, not my father’s flush—enters my periphery, and it’s Sophie, grabbing at my dad and trying to push him off. He lifts a hand off my throat to push her away, and she stumbles.

  I bare my teeth at the sight, my eyes so wide they hurt, vision going purple. And the very act of my father abusing Sophie gives me the strength to buck, kick, and punch my father in the jaw.

  He flies back and my mother runs to him, steadying my father as he breathes like a bull, and stares at me like his target.

  “Asher.”

  The voice stops the blind rage. The urge to ram my father through the walls.

  “Asher. Look at me. Look at her.”

  After a painful swallow, I glance over to Marcela, who’s holding Sophie.

  Sophie’s crying, and Marcela’s steady gaze on my own tells me everything.

  Do not become him. You are not him.

  Breathing, I take a step forward, and Sophie flinches back.