Breach of Contract (Kavanagh Family Romance Book 1)

by Elizabeth Miller

  “You’re welcome here every day, Mais. And I wish I could fly in to save you from your mom, but that’s the weekend of Cara’s baby shower.”

  Oh, right. Caden’s sister. And I’d already declined the trip to Oregon because of my work schedule and limited time off due to the Blume case. All hands on deck, so to speak. “You’re forgiven because it’s family. Get your January plans together, Pidge, because I need some time with my BFF.”

  Piper nods, and my smile returns. Just the thought of being with her eases my nerves.

  “I’ll email the dates that work for us. Bye, Mais. Have safe sex and get as many orgasms as you can while it lasts.”

  While it lasts. The truth to Piper’s statement stops me in my tracks, just inside the door and as the bell above it jingles to announce my arrival. Sasha waves from behind the counter and I push away the disappointment simmering in my heart.

  It’s just sex. Even when it feels like so much more.

  MONDAY MORNING ROLLS around without a word from Mr. Kavanagh. The lack of contact was good for my perspective. I realized a few things between Saturday morning and Sunday night.

  One, sex complicates everything. I’d had no idea how much having a dick readily available could make me a pussy to my feelings. So I got my emotions straightened between shopping at Sasha’s and sewing costumes for the playhouse’s version of Macbeth. A gently used pair of Louboutins and a needle and thread can be very cathartic.

  Two, the arrangement between Mr. Kavanagh and me will only be fun if I let it. I don’t care that he left unexpectedly and I haven’t heard from him since. He owes me nothing. I’ve never been a needy girl. Hell, at ten I lived at boarding school. When that first summer rolled around I was as liberated as an emancipated minor. I came and went as I pleased. Albeit, my foray into the wild world was the backyard—but still, it was a whole acre of freedom-filled suburbia. I’m not about to clasp a ball and chain around Mr. Kavanagh’s ankle. For goodness’ sake, I just want his body. Remembering that between Vinnie-induced orgasms cleared my mind.

  And three, I’m twenty-four. This is my first job after graduating with my MBA. He is my first lay, and yes, his dick is mesmerizing, but I’m too young to fall for a big cock and an attitude. I’m not looking for forever and always. I’m looking for Mr. Right Now. I have oats to sow, men to bang, and notches to add to my bedpost—or I would, if I had a bedpost. Which I don’t, because outside of college, I’ve lived on my own for exactly three months and I can only afford a futon. I don’t even have a kitchen table, for crying out loud.

  Falling in devoted and desperate love is not stacked in my deck. From the ages ten through twenty, I dreamed of nothing else. One summer internship at Walker and Daniels, Attorneys at Law LLC., cured that nonsense. Or rather, Nathan Daniels did. Twelve years my senior, he was every girl’s knight in shining armor. With a jaw that could cut glass and the greenest eyes in the history of green eyes, he was the legal god for the underprivileged, and I wanted to be his goddess.

  I rocked that internship. He asked for research; I gave him an encyclopedia. Long hours meant nothing to me, as long as it was for the benefit of the firm and Daniel. I paid attention. I knew his litigations better than he did. Case precedence was on his desk before he asked for it. I greeted him with coffee and a smile every morning, eager for him to layer on my assignments. Every damn day I served him, until one late August morning.

  School started in a week. Piper had already moved in to our off-campus apartment but I was at home suffering with my mother. I woke late, grumpy because of the rain, my uncooperative hair, and the skirt that fit six weeks ago but was too tight to slide up my thighs. As the queen of self-sabotage, when I stopped at the Coffee Creamery I ordered an apple fritter and a double latte just to say, “Fuck you, skirt. Fuck you for your lack of spandex and elastane.” But I also got Daniel an espresso, like I did every morning.

  I’ll never forget walking in the office. A group had formed by his door. They oohed and ahed, and I thought for sure he’d got a settlement in the Williams case, but I was wrong. As I drew near, I saw a willowy woman nearly as tall as him standing by his side. She wore a grin that split her beautiful face from ear to ear, her cheeks flushed from praise bestowed by the unprecedented entourage.

  I’d never seen her before, yet I had. At fashion week, on the cover of all eight magazines I subscribed to, billboards, and television commercials. This lady was everywhere. Kate Stapleton. Supermodel, and now, Nathan Daniels’ fiancée. So said the ginormous rock on her left-hand ring finger, and the palm he had cupping her ass. While I was busting my rump, and apparently making it bigger from too many fritters, he was schmoozing the fashion elite. Turned out he’d snagged himself a wife, and I caught pneumonia from walking out my disappointment for eight hours through cold and rainy Manhattan.

  My dejection was ridiculous. Absolutely. Nathan Daniels had never once looked at me with adoration. Yet, somehow I’d let myself believe that he was mine. I’d wished he would crave me in the way I desperately loved him. Reality, though, is different. Reality for me is the Walker family—loveless marriage and strained dinner conversations.

  These thoughts see me through the door of Drake, Otter and Kavanagh at exactly eight a.m., wearing a new-to-me Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dress that slays my curves in all the best places. That and my black lace lingerie spur my confidence. Chin up, shoulders back, chest out, I drink in the stares and every good morning thrown at me while heading to the hole in the wall in the back office.

  I don’t make it past the library. Two rather beefy men in jeans and yellow hard hats destroy the Hen House using sledgehammers. The wall separating it from bookshelves dissolves one blow at a time.

  “Mais.”

  I whip around with wide eyes to find Dee walking toward me with a stack of files tucked to her chest.

  “What? Why? My desk?”

  “They moved us. Come on. I’ll show you.”

  “Oh, my God,” I say, while panic tingles up my spine. Walking with Dee doesn’t lessen the numb paralysis taking over my mind. The many reminder notes I had tucked in my top drawer flip through it one at a time. I know them all by heart:

  Keep calm and don’t palm his dick . . .

  Do NOT give your V-card to the boss . . .

  Don’t think about Mr. Kavanagh in a suit . . .

  Do concentrate on a powerhouse recommendation for law school . . .

  Don’t accidently on purpose corner Mr. Kavanagh in the breakroom . . .

  “Jesus, Dee. What about our confidential things?”

  She doesn’t miss a beat, steering me past the first years. “The office renovation was expedited this weekend. Drake warned me it was happening. I should have told you, but I . . . I was distracted.” She glances at me quickly and then points to the executive suite. I stop in my tracks. Taking her by the arm, I turn her my way and she blinks her big brown eyes—a picture of innocence.

  “When did he tell you?”

  She shakes her head as Keller passes by within hearing distance. We both smile, return his “Good morning,” and wait until he’s moved down the hall. “When did he tell you, Dee?”

  “Saturday.”

  “While you were working?” There’s really no need for her to answer; the pink crawling up her cheeks does it for her. “While he was working you over?” I correct, poking her shoulder and then pointing at the smile bursting through her features.

  “Mason signed an initial agreement.” She squeezes the files closer to her chest and happiness radiates from her like the sun on a hot summer day. “One court date and it’ll be done. Lucas came over to give me the good news.”

  “Uh-huh.” I nod. “What else did he give you?”

  She bites her bottom lip in response, but the blush that won’t quit tells it all. With her silence on the subject, I suddenly wonder if she had to sign a contract too?

  “Okay, alright. Spare me the details for now. But when the divorce is final, I want full disclosure. Now what
about this remodel?”

  “I don’t know anything.” She turns and we walk on. “Other than Mr. Kavanagh demanded construction start today.”

  But why?

  As it turns out, Dee’s desk is outside Drake’s office. Duh, that’s a no-brainer. Otter and Carla are two peas in a pod. Both beautiful creatures, now inhabiting their own pretty little universe. And the space by Mr. Kavanagh’s door has been rearranged so I’ll sit side by side Lisa.

  She welcomes me to her neck of the office with a smile and a fake daisy in a pot that sings “Happy” by Pharrell Williams when you press a button. “You’ll need it around here,” is all she says.

  I sink into my chair to find everything arranged exactly how it had been in the Hen House, computer and all. Rushing to locate the notes, my heart thumps, thumps, thumps. They’re exactly where I left them in the top drawer. But oh, shit.

  Scribbled over my neat print is Mr. Kavanagh’s handwriting. I would recognize the looping scrawl anywhere. In bold red ink he’s written ‘Too late’ above the missive on palming his dick.

  Too late.

  Fudge cracker. I look at notes number two and three. All have comments as if he was correcting me. All of them except number four. On the comment about a powerhouse recommendation there is only a dot. Just a large blotch in which it seems his marker stayed for so long it bled and bled into the paper, making a bright red starburst.

  Shit.

  I didn’t want him to know about the reference until we had more time. Until he had more time to learn that my work spoke for itself. In this case, the words he placed on paper would simply be consistent with my performance. No fancy contract here.

  But he looked through my desk. Maybe someone else did too. Who knows how many people moved me to my new surroundings? An area where I can glance up and see inside Mr. Kavanagh’s open door. Where I can stare at the opulent credenza. The one I was bent over. I remember the warmth of his hand as he held me in place. His raw, gruff voice in my ear. “You’ll beg for it. Do you hear me, Ms. Walker? You’ll beg for me to fuck you harder.”

  Damn it. Damn him. Anger spikes my pulse. The silent weekend catches up to me with red words and a dot on notes that were private. My temper simmers as I prioritize my day’s work with research for the Blume case topping the list.

  Meticulous is my middle name. I review freedom-of-speech case precedence for the hundredth time. I follow up with the history of Follow Me to Heaven, Blume’s Christian ministry that started ten years ago and grew to Sunday-morning television spots across the nation. When searching her public website, the posted financials as mandated for nonprofit organizations pique my interest. I dig a little deeper. Numbers have never been a problem for me—Dad made sure of that when he had me complete his legal firm’s taxes once a quarter. I started when I was fifteen. He said it was a good exercise for the brain, and according to my mind’s calculations, I think I’ve found something. The numbers don’t add up.

  Lisa is not at her desk. Drake and Otter are nowhere in sight. Neither is Mr. Kavanagh. A partner meeting is my guess. His door remains open, the stack of files on his desk exactly what I want. I just need a look at the investigator’s report for comparison, so I rush in and rustle through the documents until I find the right binder. It’s thick, and contains the intricate particulars of Blume’s business and personal assets, investments, bank account combos, and so many numbers my eyes cross.

  I grab it and go, bumping into Carla on my way out.

  “Oh, hey,” I say distracted.

  “Where’s Mr. Kavanagh?” She eyes the file in my arms and then glances behind me into the empty office.

  “Your guess is as good as mine. Probably with Otter and Drake.”

  She nods and watches me walk to my desk. I don’t care about her and her wandering eye. This is too interesting. Too important.

  I read through every page and track down additional questions online. It takes me hours. The entire morning is lost until finally I think I’ve figured it out. Just when I do, Mr. Kavanagh returns to his office.

  My pulse picks up. The last time I saw him, my teeth grazed his shoulder. My nails dug into his clenching ass as he pumped into me, hard and slow.

  I drag my eyes over his narrow waist and wide shoulders. The man wears a charcoal suit like the boss that he is. A perfectly fitted vest covers what is a freaking eight-pack of rippling abs that flex under my nails and the grip of my fingers. His neck is thick, and his throat bobs when he swallows. I’ve tasted him there, sunk my teeth in that corded muscle, and felt him shiver under my touch. I know the rush of his breath, the punches of hot air that escape him just before he comes. Oh, God. I swallow the memory and hop out of my chair.

  “Mr. Kavanagh?” I knock on his open door. He’s bent forward with his arms stiff and propping him up. Dark hair falls on his forehead and he pushes it back, but he doesn’t look anywhere except at the document on his desk.

  “Not now, Ms. Walker. Lisa,” he calls her name louder than his response to me.

  “Mr. Kavanagh, this is impor—”

  “I’m working.”

  “So am I.” My response is as quick as his, but not as hard as his eyes when he glances up. I find his heated gaze and mumble asshole under my breath while leveling him with my own scowl. His nostrils flare, and his hand twitches and flexes into a fist. I squeeze my thighs together as my ass feels the imaginary burn of his palm, which makes me wet and edging on the brink of furious. How dare he turn me on when I’m pissed at him!

  The same rumbling anger I have boils behind his glare. I feel it with every heartbeat as he looks, and looks, his features tense and unreadable.

  “Mr. Kav—”

  Lisa walks in, and I hang in the balance. I have something to say but it sticks in my throat as his expression says he wishes I was out the door. I stare back, imploring him with a silent plea to listen but he shakes his head, not giving me an inch. Lisa nods for me to step out so I do with my pulse pounding in my ears. I’m stuck there as the resounding latch of the lock closes me off from any further communication.

  Disappointment rumbles in my stomach. My shoulders slump on the way back to my seat. Not good enough rumbles around my head. His brush-off is a complete dick move. And so was Saturday morning. Dejected and angry about it, I print my findings and file them away in my folder.

  Ash Crawford waltzes in around noon, more glamorous than any woman has a right to be. With her shoulders back, and her blond hair slicked into a tight bun, she wears sunglasses to cover her eyes even as Lisa opens the boss’s door. He greets Ash with a smile, a soft one. One he couldn’t spare for me. One that burns a hole in my chest even as I tell my heart to stop caring. It all pisses me off.

  One o’clock comes and goes with Lisa up and down, constantly at Mr. Kavanagh’s beck and call. She orders lunch and it’s dropped off for the partners and the woman of my nightmares.

  I pick at my sandwich. PB&J on white fuels my rage. Drake stops in, and more calls go back and forth from Lisa to Jayce. I try really hard to eavesdrop, but she’s so good at keeping her voice down I hear nothing.

  Just before two, she rushes to the conference room and returns twenty minutes later with a light sheen of sweat on her brow. “God, I can’t wait until this is over.” She falls in her chair with a sigh, swiveling toward me.

  “Blume v Spears or Ash Crawford?” I mumble, wrapping the last half of my uneaten sandwich for the trash. The sour taste of jealousy made lunch lousy and I hate myself for it. What happened to girl power and all the shit I talked myself into for the last two days? I don’t need a man. I don’t need my boss for anything other than a job. But today it seems I can’t even do that right.

  “Both. Blume will be here with her counsel in an hour.”

  More importantly . . . “What about Crawford?” I ask as casually as my tight tone can muster. “She’s been in a lot lately.”

  Lisa shrugs, her curly auburn hair frazzled and pulling out of its twist. “Ash is a longtime clien
t,” she says in between sips of Diet Coke. “Something must be up. He called me Saturday when they were together to pull some phone num—

  “Saturday? Saturday when?” I fumble, trying to cover my interruption. “I mean, does Mr. Kavanagh always work on the weekends?”

  Fuck my heart. Oh, shit, it hurts just a little, but that jab. That one right there. I grab at my chest to soothe the spot.

  “Morning,” Lisa says as if the truth doesn’t ruin the walls I’ve meticulously built. She turns to her calendar, unaware of the crumbling disaster I once called hope.

  So now I know. He left me to be with her.

  I stare when the door opens. Nothing could pull me away. His hand meets the curve of her back as he guides her out of the executive suite. I keep watching, waiting. Minutes pass until I hear his voice mingle with Keller’s and then I make myself busy, busy, busy.

  I type anything. Words flow from my mind to my flying fingers: I will not kill my boss. I will not stab him with a razor-sharpened number-two pencil.

  But Jayce interrupts my recitation to grind out, “Ms. Walker. A word?”

  My head whips up, eyes colliding with his. “A word,” I mumble under my breath. “How about dickhole?”

  I haul myself out of my chair, straightening my dress as I follow behind his perfect ass. I’d like to smack it, punish him for making me feel beyond shitty.

  “Close the door behind you.”

  I slam it, but the self-fastening lock clicks it closed before it can make the noise I wish would rip from my lungs. He stops behind his desk. I remain rooted in front of it, taking in three deep breaths. Something my dad told me to do whenever I felt overwhelmed or unsteady.

  “You lied to me,” he starts. Wait, what? “I don’t like liars, Ms. Walker.

  “Hold up.” I use my hands to make a T, the universal sign for time-out. Is this why I didn’t hear from him all weekend? “I’ve never been anything other than completely honest, maybe overly forthright, but that’s what you want. Please explain in more detail, because I don’t understand.”