You Can Have Manhattan

by P. Dangelico

  “Yes, Sydney. They really do.”

  “Like…with other men?” Because this I had to know.

  His face pinched. “Yes––” A headshake. “I mean not like that. I don’t have…” He exhaled sharply. “Forget the orgies. Are you going to call him or what?”

  Suddenly boneless with fatigue, I moved to the foot of the bed and sat on the end. Only then did I realize the mistake because Scott looked ten feet tall, looming over me like a grumpy Paul Bunyan. A sexy one…unbelievably fit and, well…virile. Pushing all wayward thoughts aside, I stood back up.

  “As long as you choose people who can keep their mouths shut, I don’t see why you can’t carry on with your…orgies. I can even draw up an NDA for you if you’d like…” My words faded to silence when Scott frowned. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Why are you whispering?”

  “Oh––” For a moment there, I’d forgotten that Scott wasn’t like other people. He had no shame. I mean, literally––no shame. I doubted he’d ever once experienced the emotion. It wouldn’t even occur to him to try to keep his orgies low-key.

  “Right,” I started again in a regular volume. “My point is that I’m not here to get in the way of your personal life, Scott. I’m fully aware that you require a lot of…entertainment. Is it going to take effort to make this work? Yeah, sure it is. If we’re going to live together, concessions need to be made. But if it benefits Blackstone, what’s a mere three years? And when Frank…” Emotions piled up in my throat. I swallowed, and after a deep breath, started again, “When your parents…well, you know. Blackstone will be yours and Devyn’s. You benefit from this arrangement too.”

  He continued to stare at me with a mix of skepticism and irritation on his face, and the tension thickened. Oddly, he seemed more upset about the marriage arrangement than his father’s diagnosis. He hadn’t even mentioned it.

  “Have you spoken to your father?”

  His expression turned guarded. “I’ve spoken to him.”

  Ooookay. Then again, everyone had their own way of grieving and I respected that. That he showed no outward appearance of it didn’t mean he wasn’t struggling. If anything, I could sympathize since I tended to bottle stuff up as well. It wasn’t my place to pry if he wished to keep his feelings private.

  “What about you?”

  I didn’t like the tone he used, or the attitude he was suddenly giving me. “What about me?”

  “No boyfriend? Fuck buddy?”

  The last was said with too much sarcasm to ignore, the question nothing short of a taunt. I’d almost forgotten whom I was speaking to there for a moment. How callous he could be. It instantly cooled whatever sympathy I was feeling for him.

  “No. None.”

  His eyes narrowed. Like he was making a great effort to get to the bottom of something. A beat later, without explanation, he abruptly moved past me, headed for a quick exit.

  “Where are you going?” I heard myself calling out. Before I could even work out what the heck I was doing or saying, which was par for the course whenever he was around.

  “We’ll talk more tomorrow,” he said, facing the door, hand paused on the handle. “Put the security latch on.”

  The door banged shut, leaving behind a charge in the air. My head swam in confusion. Mostly over the very real possibility that I may have talked Scott into marrying me.

  d

  Scott

  * * *

  “I’m getting married.” It sounded strange, even to my own ears.

  There. I’d done it. Announced it to the world. And still, it felt wrong. Brushing a palm over my face, I exhaled tiredly. A nuclear meltdown was developing between my eyes and it was not something a strong cup of black coffee could cure. Regardless, I tried anyway. Sitting in one of the club chairs across the couch in the office, I drank my third cup.

  Meanwhile, two very blank expressions stared back at me. One belonging to Laurel who peered around her desktop monitor. The other to Ryan who looked barely alive lying next to Romeo on the leather couch in the office. The information took a moment to clear away the early morning brain fog. Once it did, Laurel’s blonde brows lowered over suspicious gray eyes while Ryan’s shot up to his hairline.

  “Who’s the baby mama?” Laurel sounded put out. Like it was her job to clean up this mess.

  Ryan’s response was less concerned. “I need coffee for this.” Expression unfazed, he dragged himself across the room to the kitchenette as if the mess was not his to clean up.

  “There’s no baby mama and no baby,” I told her in a somewhat offended tone. My life might’ve officially gone to hell, but at least I’d managed to remain childless over the many years I partied hard.

  Laurel took off her reading glasses and placed them on her desk. “What’s going on, Scott? Seriously.”

  The conversation was making me restless. Standing, I walked to the picture window. “Neither of you can breathe a word of this to anybody else––” I stared pointedly at Laurel. “That means if you tell Pete and a word of this gets out, I’ll know it was him.”

  Laurel rolled her eyes. “Stop being so dramatic. Pete can keep a secret.”

  “Pete cannot keep a secret,” both Ryan and I responded in unison. Laurel’s husband, the ranch’s assistant manager, was well-known as the town crier. Everyone agreed Pete had missed his calling as a gossip columnist.

  “I mean it, Laurel. There’s a lot at stake here.”

  “Top secret. Got it.” She made a locking motion over her lips.

  “My father is retiring and has chosen someone to take his place as CEO of Blackstone.”

  “Oh my gosh! You’re going back to New York?!” Laurel looked stricken, her tiny hand falling over her chest.

  “Now who’s being dramatic?”

  “Well then, get to it.”

  “A woman. Her name is Sydney Evans.”

  “Then what’s the problem?” Ryan cut in. Yawning, he ran a hand through his shaggy dark blond hair.

  “The problem is the board of directors. There could be a legal battle. One that could last for years––unless she’s a Blackstone. Which is why I have to marry her. It’s either that or move back to New York to fill the position myself and I would sooner cut my throat.”

  Laurel nodded as if it all made perfect sense. “I saw something very similar to this on the Hallmark Channel the other day. Alicia Witt was––”

  “Laurel––” It was either cut her off or let my tension headache explode into a full-blown migraine.

  “Fine. Continue.”

  “Nobody can know the marriage is not legitimate. Nobody. You get me?”

  Laurel nodded like this was all perfectly ordinary.

  “It’s gonna get out,” Ryan remarked. “Mark my words. Somehow, this is gonna blow up in your face.” Ryan Sutter was as straightforward and sensible as they came. It was one of the things I admired most about him. The truth of his words hit home.

  “Not as long as you two keep your mouths shut.” But the thought continued to nag. Between smartphones and social media, secrets were nearly impossible to keep these days. And, whether it was New York City or the wilds of Wyoming, people were the same everywhere––meaning nosy. “We haven’t hammered out the details yet, but she’ll be living here part-time.”

  “So it’s not only on paper?” Laurel asked. “You have to live together? Like it’s a real marriage?”

  “Not real. But we’ll be living together.” The words tasted bitter.

  “For how long?”

  “Three years.”

  Laurel’s eyes went wide. “Goodness gracious.”

  “Is she hot?” my closest friend questioned, which was not out of character.

  “She’s my wife, asshole. No hitting on the soon-to-be Mrs. Blackstone. Nobody’s supposed to know it’s a sham marriage, remember?”

  Ryan smiled. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “More importantly whatever I do or don’t say in front of
her, I expect you two to go along with it.” My attention darted back and forth between the two of them, driving my point home. “Are we clear on that?”

  Laurel got the same expression she got when the dogs farted in the office. “What is that supposed to mean? Am I being forced to lie again?”

  “The entire thing is a lie, Laurel,” I explained, exasperated. The land constantly on my mind. My father had, to my knowledge, never once issued an empty threat. It’s what made him so effective in business. “A worthy white lie. What’s a few more for the greater good?”

  Chapter Four

  Sydney

  “Are you sure there’s room in there for me?” I asked the man standing next to me––the same man who was sporting a suspiciously neutral expression.

  Scott had knocked on my door at 7 a.m. I’d opened it to find him leaning against the doorframe wearing a bitter smile and a black Henley shirt that clung to his chest like white on rice. “I’ve come to collect my wife,” he’d drawled, reticence all over his face. “You need to get a good look at what you’re signing up for.”

  It was the first semi-wise thing he’d ever said to me.

  My eyes traveled back to his vintage baby blue Ford pickup truck, the one parked in front of the hotel. Two gray dogs the size of elephants stared back at me from the interior.

  “What’s the problem? You don’t like dogs?” the grouchy one asked.

  “I like dogs,” I replied sharply. I loved dogs as a matter of fact and resented the snide look he gave me. “I just don’t think there’s any room for me to sit in the cab––unless you’d like for me to ride in the flatbed?”

  “Listen up, babydoll. If you plan on living with me, you better get used to them. Now, are you getting in or not? I’ve got work to do.”

  Had he said work? I would’ve sworn on a Bible that Scott did not have that word in his vocabulary either.

  “What kind of dogs are they?”

  “Irish Wolfhounds. C’mon, in you go.”

  With a hand on my lower back, he nudged me forward while holding open the door of the truck. I took a few more reluctant steps, glanced inside again, and noticed that the top of the dogs’ heads grazed the ceiling of the cab.

  “Are they friendly?”

  “Romeo and Juliet are lapdogs.” Then, turning to the dogs, “Kids, meet your new stepmonster.”

  I mean, really? I threw a glare askance and squeezed onto the bench seat of the truck with a tiny flutter of fear in my belly. Not for nothing but the dog’s head was bigger than mine. “Nice, doggo. Sweet, doggo.”

  The dog next to me––the one practically sitting in my lap––panted in my face, a pink tongue as long as a tube sock hanging out the side of his mouth. And then the smell hit me. I’d bet a hundred bucks they hadn’t been washed in months.

  “What’s that smell?” I asked as Scott climbed behind the wheel. There were so many competing pungent odors I couldn’t say which one was worse.

  “That’s the sweet scent of ranch life, Mrs. Blackstone,” he shot back with a cynical smirk. “Better get used to it.”

  Smelled like bullshit to me, both literally and metaphorically, but I kept the commentary to myself.

  He tore out of the Four Seasons’ driveway like his ass was on fire. The dogs slammed into me, I slammed into the door handle. There’d be bruises later but I didn’t make a sound. Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Scott Blackstone had no idea who he was dealing with. I’d let him discover it in due time.

  * * *

  “This is the southern pasture. We graze our cattle by rotation method, try to raise our beef to leave the smallest footprint on the environment as possible…”

  I leaned forward, to get a direct line of sight on him since the dogs were in the way, and found a perfectly bland expression on his face. He’d been talking for hours. Hoouuurs. He’d shown me the barn, the stables, the storage buildings, the pastures, the pens. He’d explained that the Lazy S Ranch was named for the Lazy Snake River that ran through the property and not Lazy Scott as I’d assumed. An honest mistake when one knew the owner. He’d described every freaking blade of grass he owned.

  There was no denying the drop-dead beauty of the place. God had pulled out all the stops with Wyoming. But it was early afternoon and we hadn’t stopped for a cup of water yet. Not even a potty break! Thus, my appreciation for the magnificence of Mother Nature was hidden under a thick coat of resentment and a truckload of low blood sugar. I was starving and it was dropping faster than Kong off the Empire State Building.

  The truck dipped and bounced. “…getting car sick?” he shouted over the music blasting from the radio. Kelsea Ballerini was singing something about some guy never growing up, calling him Peter Pan. Which basically summed up the man sitting two dogs down from me.

  We’d driven over muddy land and ditches, over hills, and bushland. It was a miracle we hadn’t gotten stuck yet, and I was starting to wish we had because I’d be going Kong on him soon if he didn’t cease this obnoxious game he was playing.

  “…hello?”

  Was he still talking? I’d tuned him out an hour ago, when my bladder started to speak up.

  “Did you say something?” I absently queried as I glanced down at my phone for the umpteenth time, the coverage still spotty. That had to be remedied immediately if I was going to live here for any length of time. The work was paramount. Wouldn’t it be the cruelest fate of all if I married the manchild and then was vetoed as CEO because the quality of my work fell off? That would definitely be grounds for spousal homicide.

  My phone finally rang and one glance at the screen told me it was the lawyer representing my grandmother’s estate, not the office as I was hoping. I sent it straight to voicemail. He’d been trying to get a hold of me for weeks, since my grandmother passed, and so far, I’d done my best to avoid him. This was after I’d explained in a lengthy email that I wanted nothing from her––from them. And yet the phone calls hadn’t stopped.

  “You want to get out and walk?” I heard him shout over the music.

  “Sure.” I was more than ready to walk back to the hotel at this point. No less had I finished speaking than the truck hit another pothole, and in an attempt to save my phone from flying into the windshield, my forehead crashed against the dashboard.

  “Heads up.” He was struggling to keep the humor out of his voice, the bastard. I looked over as I rubbed the sore spot and found him suspiciously pressing his lips into a forced straight line.

  Twenty yards away, a log cabin appeared. It had a wraparound porch, a stone chimney, and was surrounded by grass as far as the eye could see. Scott pulled over and parked the pickup. Under my long black cashmere coat, I had on skinny jeans and running sneakers. Not the best outfit for traipsing through pastureland wet from a thawing layer of snow. Then again, I hadn’t exactly anticipated an Outward Bound excursion when I packed the bag I always left at the office. Most emergency trips took me to cities like Rome, Dubai, Tokyo. Not…the middle of nowhere.

  As soon as my right sneaker hit the ground, it sank up to my ankle. Powerless, all I could do was watch it disappear into the muddy abyss. At least, I hoped it was only mud. By then, Scott had already walked around to my side of the pickup and stood there watching me try to extract my foot without losing my now ruined brand-new ASICS. The pretty neon orange and black shoe was indistinguishable from a pile of dog doo-doo. My gaze rose to meet Scott’s.

  “Watch your step,” he said, lips twitching. Before I could respond, he turned and headed for the cabin.

  You’d never be able to guess that he was getting under my skin though. I had practically invented poker face, wore calm indifference so effortlessly it had become second nature. And over the years, it had served me well. I’d been trained by the best after all. My grandparents.

  There were a handful of things I could count on growing up in their house. Steady punishment for sins I hadn’t committed, strict rules, and Sundays at church––the one day of the week the beating
s stopped. Everything else was a myth I read about in the books I found at the town library. Scott and his antics were child’s play in comparison. If this was a competition in determination and discipline, he was fighting way out of his class. I’d won the heavyweight title in my teens.

  A sharp chill made me shiver, the temperature cooler than it was in New York. As I flipped up the collar of my coat, I watched Scott walk ahead with his elephant dogs trotting after him. Then I noticed the knee-high muck boots he wore, his jeans neatly tucked inside. A few minutes later we both stood before the cabin with the wraparound porch. Scott with a smirk on his face. Me with a wrinkle between my brows.

  “Home sweet home,” he said, and my back stiffened.

  This was his home? Impossible. Scott was a hedonist in the truest definition of the word. He loved his creature comforts. That he drove that old jalopy of a truck had initially surprised me, but then the smell and the dogs had stolen that sentiment away. This couldn’t be his home. No way.

  “How…quaint.”

  Knocking the mud off his boots on the side of the steps, he glanced over his broad shoulder and grinned. A full-blown one with dimples and everything. Even under the neat scruff, they refused to stay hidden. It was the first time since I’d arrived that he looked like the Scott I used to know. Tilting my head, I offered him a fake one instead. The retaliation brainstorm, I’d conduct later. Possibly frame him for murder. It was worth considering. Not before he signed that marriage certificate, though. And not before I was named CEO.

  “Leave your shoes there.” He jerked his chin at a copper mud tray lying next to the front door he pushed open. It wasn’t locked and why would it be? There wasn’t anything other than cow shit, solitude, and wildlife in the hundred-mile radius.

  I toed off my now brown sneakers and peeled off my muddy socks, entering with a strong dose of dread swirling in my gut. Judging by the exterior, there couldn’t be more than three full rooms in the cabin. I looked around; an exercise that took all of a second to determine I was wrong. Only two full rooms––the living area and a single bedroom across the way.