Breach of Contract (Kavanagh Family Romance Book 1)

by Elizabeth Miller

  My ridiculous supplication fails and she cups my cheek—amused, if her smirk is any indication, but tempted, if the flush on her chest can be trusted. My heart rate spikes and I try again, certain I can muster the words to convince her we have time. “I can be fast.” Fuck.

  “Not fast enough.”

  “Give me thirty seconds.”

  She throws her head back on a laugh and pushes me away. “No.”

  “Twenty-five. I’m a great negotiator. We can come to some kind of agreement.”

  “We already have an agreement. Do I need to remind you of stipulation two? I’d love to fuck your brains out but I can’t right now. I have to help my friends. It’s opening night, and the leading lady split the seams of her gown. And that was the backup to the backup. The first two outfits had mysterious mishaps. One with paint and the other is just missing. Missing. Who steals a gown?”

  I’m frozen in Maisie’s shoebox apartment while she tugs on an oversized bubble coat, covering her luscious hips and the dark jeans they’re encased in. I drop my gaze to the stiletto leather boots pulled to her knees and my heart threatens to leap out of my chest, a feeling I’m getting used to. She straps a bag over her shoulder and then a fuzzy pink hat comes down over her hair while she continues her rant. She’s fucking adorable, however, her place is not.

  It’s the size of my bathroom, and that’s being generous. I catalog a deplorable futon that doubles as a bed if the pillow and folded blanket sitting next to it are any indication. Betty White, her beloved sewing machine, is on a table by the opposite wall, which is a total span of about ten feet. Then there is a rack for clothes, all hung meticulously and in color-coded order, in the corner next to a doll-house kitchen. I’ve never seen anything this small. I take it all in while Maisie continues her explanation as to why we can’t fuck now instead of later. And by later, I mean somewhere we have room to spread out.

  “They all think they’re cursed because Sasha said the play’s name out loud in the theatre, which everyone knows you can’t do. But she did, and now tons of shit is haywire. A set of track lights fell on stage yesterday. It caused hysterics amongst the cast. Anyway, I have to run over to the theatre to stich her in.”

  “By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.”

  “Did you just quote Shakespeare, again?”

  By her widened eyes, I’d say she’s confused. But I know two things. She’s leaving. And being with Maisie is much better than being without her. “Yes, I did, and how can I help?”

  Her head tilts to the side as she stares, pulling one glove on and then the other. “You want to come with me?”

  I shrug. “This sounds like an emergency, and I’m good in crisis mode.”

  “But stipulation one? Confidentiality. We can’t be seen together.”

  “I’ll just happen to show up outside the theatre.” I hate myself the second the words pass my lips. I know by the flash of disappointment in her eyes that she doesn’t want to hide. This secrecy is on me. I have to recover but I don’t know how to protect the firm, myself, and give Maisie what she wants. “Then again, I highly doubt anyone I know is hanging around backstage for an off-Broadway production of M—”

  She holds her hand to my mouth. “Have you not been listening?”

  It’s Macbeth that saves me. Her superstition is enough of a distraction to dig me out of the hole I’ve dug.

  “Don’t say it. The name. It’s bad luck. Given the circumstances, I’ve expanded the rule to cover anywhere. Even here.”

  “Maisie.”

  “Jayce.”

  The standoff is ridiculously cute, and I give in to her illogical demand when her fists land on her hips. “Fine. No name-calling will take place.”

  “Good. So you like the theatre?”

  “Not particularly. I’ve seen Les Misérables. I’d rather have my balls waxed than go for a repeat performance. Life is depressing enough. I don’t need the reminder sung to me with an orchestral accompaniment.”

  Her mouth opens and shuts, and then a second time before she spurts out, “You can’t be serious. Les Mis is a masterpiece.”

  I laugh and take her hand. “Come on, Liza Minnelli. You can explain everything on the way. And then, when we’re done, you can find me some dinner and I’ll feed you my cock for dessert. What do you say?”

  “Dessert is my favorite part of every meal,” she counters while locking the door behind us. “And I’ll look forward to it tonight. But, Jayce, I don’t understand how you can quote Shakespeare and not love the theatre?”

  Her hand slips back into mine when she turns toward the stairs, and I’m gratified by the simple gesture, like we should touch—it’s inevitable, we’re gravity, and the pull is too much to ignore. On our way down, I peel off her glove so I have the smooth warmth of her skin against mine. “It’s a gift from my mother.”

  “Shakespeare is a gift from your mom?”

  “She was an English lit professor. I’m pretty sure Shakespeare spoke to her soul. She could recite everything he’d ever written, and she did. All the time. But not only that, she knew the meaning and she made sure to share it with us as if everyone should be bilingual, Shakespeare as their second language.”

  I tug her forward and into the lobby. I hadn’t meant to go there, to dig into the past and share details that haunt my heart, but here we are.

  “I last saw my mom at the kitchen table grading papers. It was mid-winter. Snow was piled high on the ground, the eaves, the awnings of the neighbor’s house as dusk settled outside the window behind her. A steaming cup of tea sat next to her, and she murmured, ‘Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.’” The crisp air loosens the knot in my chest when we step outside.

  “What happened?”

  I glance at her earnest expression and regret weighing down our moment with memories. But they’re a truth I can’t escape. “She was killed the next morning. A student at the college lost control of his car in the snow. There’s a hill, and Mom walked to class every morning. He couldn’t stop.”

  Her fingers lace through mine, and she tightens her grip. “So you memorized Shakespeare in her honor?”

  “Somehow, it keeps her alive. I hear her voice when the words are spoken.”

  “They’re beautiful words.”

  “She was beautiful.” So beautiful that when she died she took Dad with her. He’s a shell of the man he once was. Loving her destroyed him. Another painful truth that mapped out the rest of my life, and one to make note of.

  So are her last words. Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.

  I’m holding myself back. I’m holding us back. Isn’t that what my mother was saying, as if she knew I’d need her advice all these years later? Don’t be afraid to go after what I want. I’ve lived that way my whole life. Harvard, Columbia, the firm. Why stop now?

  I’ve worried over my reputation should a relationship with a subordinate be found out. It’s the reason for the contract. But something this big, this real trumps that fear. I won’t let it cripple my shot to feel more than I ever have. This—I look at our joined hands, up to Maisie’s pink cheeks and those eyes—she is definitely worth the risk of losing.

  But I have every intention of winning.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “A Little Too Much” 3:08

  Maisie

  J: What color thong are you wearing?

  M: Happy Thanksgiving to you too.

  J: I’m thankful for your ass

  M: Just my ass?

  J: And your mouth. God, that mouth

  M: What comes out of it or what goes in it?

  J: Both.

  M: BTW, if I didn’t tell you last night, you’re delicious. Best. Dessert. Ever.

  J: Peach . . .

  J: For a novice, your oral skills are top of class.

  M: I watched many how-to videos to ensure success.

  J: . . . />
  M: I like to be thorough in my research. Next up, 69. I have movies cued for exploration on the subject.

  M: Would you like to teach me how to ride your face, Mr. Kavanagh?

  J: . . .

  M: Pussy got your tongue? I mean, cat. Cat got your tongue?

  M: Jayce?

  J: Where are you?

  M: Greenwich. My parents’ place.

  M: It’s torture. Besides my sister and Henry, the guest list contains my dad’s business associates. Yawn.

  J: You’re thinking about my tongue on your pussy with your dad in the room?

  M: I always think about your mouth on me. This is nothing new.

  M: I thought about it in the shower. When I pulled on my thigh-highs and my nude thong. It doesn’t look like I have panties on. I thought you would like that.

  J: Get on the next train to the city. I’ll meet you at my apartment.

  M: No can do, silly. I just got here, and dinner is about to start. Mashed potatoes and stuffing are my fav. Do you like corn pudding or green bean casserole?

  J: I like your tits. Let’s connect so I can feast on them. I’d like to make you come from sucking on your nipples.

  J: Then we’ll watch videos.

  J: And get to the riding.

  M: My panties.

  J: What about them?

  M: They’re wet.

  J: Show me.

  M: . . .

  J: Go someplace private, pull up your dress, and spread your legs. Show me how wet your pretty pussy is. Show me.

  J: Show me, peach. Show me how hungry you are. Don’t think. Get reckless.

  J: Get reckless with me.

  M:

  Oh my God. I just sent my boss a pornographic picture. And I liked it. I liked sneaking away just after arriving. Slipping down the hall and up the stairs to my old bedroom undetected before anyone knew I was here. I liked locking myself behind the closed door. I liked lying on the pink comforter and inching up my skirt until my thighs were bare and the cool air turned me on even more. I clutch my chest as reality sets in.

  I like him.

  A little too much. At least my heart thinks so as it takes a painful twist.

  No, it’s not possible. I can’t let it be true. It’s just sex. Top-secret, on-the-sly sex.

  Hopping from the bed, I wiggle my clothes into place and glance at the mirror over my childhood dresser. My hair. Lying on a bed didn’t do it any favors. Shit. Mom will go ballistic if I arrive with one strand out of place. She’ll already hate the clingy cotton/spandex mix holding me together from cleavage to knees. Add bedraggled hair on top of my fitted jean jacket and she may double her vodka tonic or redress me herself.

  Smoothing out my curls, I find my cell when it buzzes from the mattress where I dropped it.

  J: Pretty, pretty peach.

  I can’t do this. Not here. I’m tempted to ditch dinner and drive to the city to see him. No, it would just be for a cock fest. Is that even a thing? It sounds like a good thing if it has to do with Jayce Kavanagh’s dick, but no. Not today. This is a day to be thankful, and dear, sweet baby Jesus, I’m thankful for the badass boss who spanks me, but no. Family, mashed potatoes and stuffing, pumpkin spice, and apple pie. Focus up, Maisie. There is turkey to eat and alcohol to drink. Cock can come later. I grab my phone and tap out a reply before I can change my mind.

  M: I have to go. Happy Thanksgiving, Mr. Kavanagh.

  Rushing from the room, I’m halfway down the curving staircase when the warm scent of a feast greets me and so does Henry.

  “When did you get here?” His left eyebrow curls up, as does his lip into a charming and somewhat dangerous smirk. It’s easy to see why Lily fell hard for him, charmer that he is.

  “What?” I ask, brushing past his shoulder.

  He’s quick to fall in line beside me as we head to the great room at the back of my parents’ seven-thousand-square-foot colonial. “You look different.”

  “I got my hair cut on Tuesday. Two inches lopped off just like that.” I snap my fingers for effect. “It’s a lob, angled from back to front. You like?” I fluff it for effect, and because it probably needs another once-over after the recent photo opp. Crap on a cracker, I need to delete the evidence. I stop, pulling up the album on my phone and with quick fingers, tag several pictures for the trash. When I look up with a relieved sigh, Henry has turned to face me with his head tilted.

  “Why are you staring?”

  He busts out a wide grin. “Who’s the guy?”

  Heart, stop thudding. Stop thudding right this instant or Henry will hear you, and he’ll know you’re banging the boss. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “No, no I don’t.”

  “You’ve got that glow. The same kind Lily gets after—”

  I stick my fingers in my ears. “TMI. Thank you, but no. Don’t ever talk about you and Lily naked.”

  He laughs. “Why? It’s just sex. Everyone does it and if I’m correct, now you are too. Finally ditched the V-card, Mais?”

  I roll my eyes and push past him into the butler’s pantry. “My virginity is not up for discussion.”

  “It’s not a topic you’ve shied away from before.” He points out.

  “True. Where’s Mom hiding the rum these days?”

  “Here.” He reaches above my head and pulls down a fifth. Two minutes later, I’m sipping a Bacardi and diet with a lime twist—a learned favorite after Mom thought it was a good idea I limit carbs.

  “So who’s the guy?”

  I shake my head, taking a long drag through a straw. “None of your business.”

  “It is if he’s interested in my sister.”

  “Aw, Henry. I love you.” I hug the pout off his face. “And don’t worry. It’s all good,” I say as we make our way toward the back of the house where light filters through the windows.

  The wide expanse of the Long Island Sound glitters in the late afternoon sun beyond the lawn. I don’t ever remember a different view. My parents have lived here forever, since they were married more than thirty years ago. Wow. Thirty years. That’s a long time to be with one person. And for Dad, who committed himself to a dragon. Harsh, but true. That thought leads me to Henry. He knew when he was in his teens that he couldn’t live without Lily. But how? More importantly, why does my heart tumble and twist when I think of Mr. Kavanagh? I clutch at it again, wishing the hard thumping would dissipate just a little.

  “I have a question, Henry.”

  “Ask me anything.”

  “How do you know when you’ve found your person? Like, the one, the perfect fit for you?”

  We stop short of the real party taking place in the great room. Five of Dad’s closest business associates and their spouses fill in for our extended family on Thanksgiving. I spot Nathan, Dad’s partner and my onetime crush, and my heart remains steady. No uneasy pangs going on over here. Not for him. Not today. I don’t think ever again because it’s full of Mr. Kavanagh and all of the things he makes me feel. Which takes me back to my question and Henry, who studies me with a keen eye.

  “This guy you’re with. It’s serious?”

  “What? No.” I wave off his ridiculous notion. Serious? With Mr. Kavanagh? Nope. Not even for one second. He’s my boss. The hot, dirty boss-man I’m having sex with. Secret, secret, stealthy sex. “I was just asking out of curiosity. Before Mr.—err, before this guy, I’ve never liked anyone enough to let their body parts get close to mine. So this is all new and curious. And, you know, I’m great at research—I want to understand human connection. How do you know, like really know, you’ve got the right one?”

  “I think,” he says and then looks over the rim of his glass at me as he drinks his gin and tonic, “that a lot of it is timing. Are you ready? Is he? Don’t get me wrong—physical attraction is a huge part of a healthy relationship. So is talking. So is understanding your differences, and accepting them. It’s about being truthful with yourself and your partner
. Most importantly, it’s about love. If it feels right. When who you are together just fits, then you know it’s real and something to hold on to. If you find that connection don’t let go, because marriage is hard. And don’t give me that side-eye look of yours.” He points it out as I do. “It’s not that Lily is hard; she is in some cases, but she’s also soft and giving. You just haven’t opened yourself to see that side of her in a long time. She’s really rather lovely.”

  I roll my eyes for effect, because, for real. He’s barking up the wrong tree. “Like when she locked me in the closet for hours because I used her hairbrush? I was five, by the way, and became dependent upon night-lights for the rest of my life. True story. Or when she forgot to pick me up from the bus station at the end of seventh grade? I waited for three hours. Or how about when she told my prom date it was nice of him to take Shamu to the dance? Comparing me to a killer whale was hilarious. At least, they thought so.” God, that still stings. I crushed on Donnie Chambers so hard senior year. Going out with him was going to be the highlight of my entire high-school career, but that giddy-girl feeling drowned in a sea of disappointment when he laughed with Lily. I kneed him in the nuts and then called Piper to cry on her shoulder.

  “Lil has changed. Separation from your mom and a lot of self-reflection have softened her.”

  “Right. Speak of the devil,” I mumble into my drink when his wife spies us from across the room.

  She beelines it over with a huge grin and a wave. “Hey, Maisie.” Reaching up on her tiptoes, Lily air-kisses my cheek.

  “Lil. You look great.” And she does at five months pregnant, with a teeny bump hidden behind an ivory baby-doll dress.

  “So do you. Love the hair. I didn’t know the windblown look had made a comeback.”

  I glance at Henry’s cringe and smile because point, Maisie. “I like to think of it as naturally tousled.”