Alexis angrily crosses her arms and gives me a death stare. I thought this kind of sass wasn’t supposed to happen until her tweens?
“What’s going on?” I hear Bryce say behind me as he enters her room. He quickly assesses the situation and handles it in that effortlessly magical way he does with all of our kids, especially this one—the definite daddy’s girl.
“That looks like a smile on your face, oh daughter of mine,” he says, frowning down at Alexis, who is anything but in a smiling mood. “I thought we all agreed the rule was no smiling on the drive up to the Hamptons.”
She shifts the daggers in her eyes toward him.
“I mean it, Lexi, no smiling. If I see even a hint of one—there! I saw it. You’re threatening to smile right now. If you think I’ll allow it, you’re sorely mistaken, young lady. No smiling, and I mean it.”
Alexis firmly presses her lips together in that tell-tale way that means she’s threatening to do the very thing he’s jokingly warning her not to do.
I just stand by and watch him do his thing, biting back a smile of my own.
“I’m not joking, Alexis Rene Wilmington. Right now, your brothers and Brooke are all downstairs frowning and pouting and throwing hissy fits like they’re supposed to. And here you are, upstairs laughing and smiling and just flouting the rules like some debauched reveler.”
She finally cracks, erupting with laugher. “What does that even mean, Daddy?”
God, she reminds me so much of myself. We’re both so easily swayed by sophomoric humor and a handsome face. Hopefully, her future Prince Charming will be just as amazing as mine is.
“It means,” he says rushing toward her to pick her up and spin her around. “That we are heading out now. Come on, let’s go.”
When he sets her down, she’s still visibly unhappy but she’s no longer protesting.
I watch her exit her bedroom, then shift my gaze to Bryce with a sardonic smile on my lips.
“See? The good old Bryce charm works like magic. What a team we make, dear wife.”
“Uh-huh,” I reply before laughing and rolling my eyes.
He pulls me in closer, wrapping his arm around my waist. “Allow me to show you.”
Bryce kisses me and I smile against his lips, enjoying the way they feel. He does have a point. Even after ten years, we still have it.
We pull apart and grin one last time at each other before heading downstairs.
Our three other children are more than ready to pile into the van outside. Jerry is our second biological son, two years younger than Alexis. Brooke and Dominic are five-year-old twins we adopted as toddlers who were in danger of being separated in the foster system.
Both Bryce and I knew early on that we wanted to adopt. The twins are black and had the added burden of Dominic being on the spectrum, which would have made them near impossible to place with a family, especially together. Bryce and I didn’t hesitate.
“Come my children!” Bryce announces in a deep baritone. “We are about to embark on an adventure!”
Brooke laughs, and Bryce reaches down to pick her up and swing her around, turning her laughter into squeals of delight.
“Daddy, can we go swimming as soon as we get there?” Jerry asks as Bryce sets her down. “Grandma always makes us eat lunch first and then says we have to wait two hours.”
“Swimming? In the Hamptons. Are you mad? We’re going to be building snowmen, and going ice skating.”
Jerry throws his head back and rolls his eyes. “Da-ad!”
“Yes, you can go swimming as soon as we get there,” I say, running my hand through Jerry’s curly hair, and hugging him to my side. “I’ll work it out with grandma.”
I release him as he pesters Bryce with even more questions, which get a fifty-fifty mix of honest and joking answers.
I turn my attention to Dominic.
“So you’ve got your headphones on?” I ask in a patient tone. His preferred method of operating through life is with checklists. He nods in response, and then again to each additional thing I mention, from his shoes to his backpack. Satisfied that all is in order, he wordlessly heads toward the front door.
Everyone we talked to about him before adoption said it would be a challenging journey. To my surprise he’s, more often than not, a blessed respite from the chaos everyone else in this house brings.
Bryce is lifting Brooke up to airplane out to the car. Dominic follows on his own, and Jerry follows him, still peppering Bryce with questions and observations. He has a wandering and inquisitive mind, which comes up with the most fantastical ideas. I’m so eager to see where it goes.
Alexis stubbornly leans against the post of the handrail for the stairs, arms crossed in front of her as though making one last stand.
“If it makes you feel better, your grandads are planning on coming up at the end of the week.”
“Which ones?” she asks with a suspicious look, though I see her perk up a bit.
It’s a fair question.
These days, Pierce Wilmington III and Bryce have a tenuous relationship. Cheval Blanc became defunct about a year after Alexis was born, Pierce having made his point. By then the only two holdings, Ideal Gentlemen and Impress were flailing. If there’s one thing the elder Pierce hates, it’s a bad image. Veronica didn’t even last a year as editor-in-chief before fading into obscurity. But by then, she wasn’t so much as a blip on my radar.
Bryce’s father is still as hard-nosed as ever, running Wilmington Financial with an iron fist; I doubt he’ll ever retire. However, with kids comes a thawing of ice-cold hearts, even ones as glacial as his. He’s particularly fond of Alexis, who even I can see has that ambitious spirit of the Wilmington men. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already guaranteed her a spot at Princeton when the time comes.
Bryce eventually gave his father back the URL of his name, And his father offered to fully feather each of our kids’ college funds. That was back before Ideal Media became a raging success. Bryce and I eventually transferred that money to a scholarship fund for children who have aged out of the foster system and are left to fend for themselves.
“The fun grandads,” I respond. “And they’re bringing Mork and Mindy,” I add, knowing how much she likes the two mutts Dad and Sergio recently adopted. They live in Florida these days, having given us the Upper West Side townhouse soon after Jerry was born and we realized we needed more space.
“And your cousins will be there as well.”
She’s not as impressed by this. Pierce’s oldest is three years younger than Alexis and she’s rapidly growing out of the age where playing the boss has lost its appeal.
“And Lucien and his family are dropping by.”
That really perks her up. While we haven’t allowed Alexis to have an account on any social media—the latest and most popular being some video-sharing app called Ticker Tape—she does religiously follow Lucien and his wife and kids on their adventures around the world via his spectacular photos.
“Come on, no smiling remember?” I say, an exaggerated frown coming to my face just to urge her along.
“Mom,” she says, closing her eyes and slowly shaking her head. “You’re the responsible one. Leave the comedy to Daddy.”
Ouch.
But I suppose that’s as good a compliment as any. It’s also a firm reminder that she’s definitely growing up. I hope one day she’ll appreciate having a good mix of responsible and comedic as far as parenting goes.
Alexis finally drags herself through the front door. I know her disappointment will thaw on the drive up, coaxed along by her brothers and sister who she blessedly gets along with. Dad, being the apparent “expert” on comedy, will finish the job as always. And mom, making sure everything is in order as usual, will keep it from turning into a complete circus.
As my oldest likes to put it, we have the weirdest family.
I, for one, think it’s perfect.
Start The Ex-Club Series From the Beginning
Co
ntinue on to read the first chapter of the first book in the Ex-Club Romance series, Archer: Ex-Bachelor…
ARCHER
Chapter 1
Time is money.
Last year I made $75 million dollars, not including my bonus, which puts even that amount to shame.
If you divide that amount by the fifty-two weeks a year I work—I don’t do vacations—then it comes to about $1.4 million a week, very much rounded down.
If you divide that by the seven days a week I work—I don’t do weekends—it comes to about $206,000 a day, slightly rounded down.
If you divide that by the fourteen hours a day I work—6 a.m. to 8 p.m. minimum—then it comes to about $14,000 an hour, ridiculously rounded down.
That’s about $245 a minute, again rounded down, in case anyone is keeping track.
Time is money.
And right now Simone Parker has wasted—I check my watch again—about $2500 of my precious time. Rounded up.
Eric Babcock, the attorney sitting across the desk, looks at me, swallows hard and adjusts his tie for the third time since this meeting started.
Or at least since this meeting was supposed to start.
I tap my fingers on the knee of the leg crossed over my other leg.
He swallows again, this time with a cough. Pretty soon he will start sweating. In fact, kudos to him that he hasn’t already begun to take on a nervous sheen.
I have that effect on people.
No one will ever accuse me of being Mr. Personality. I am known as the Jaguar of Wall Street: cool, cunning, calculating. I subscribe to the Machiavellian principle of success: it is better to be feared than loved.
“You did tell her this meeting was at 10 o’clock?” I ask him with barely contained irritation. My dark gray eyes practically cut into him.
“Ah…uh, yes. Of course Mr. Bennett, I can’t imagine what is keeping her.”
I think back to the maid of honor from my brother’s wedding and I have a pretty good idea of what may be keeping her. She’s probably finishing up her make-up, or primping her hair. Hell, she may not even be up yet, no doubt recovering from a night of partying.
“I’m so sorry I’m late!”
I turn at the sound of the airy voice that’s just breezed in through the door.
Simone Parker.
The air in the room shifts. Most would probably sense a lightness cutting through the thick bog that I’ve created while waiting impatiently for her. Even I feel that momentary tilt of the earth underneath me…before I find my bearings and remind myself who I’m dealing with. All I need to do is take a good look at her to find my ground again.
What in the hell has she done with her hair? The ends of her dark hair are bright pink. In fact, everything about her is pink.
At least I had the tact to take into account the solemnness of today’s proceedings and dressed accordingly: a black Armani suit matched with a white dress shirt and slate silk tie.
The only black Simone has bothered to wear is a pair of stiletto heels capping off two shapely, brown legs that, as a package, lean more toward the bombshell genre rather than that of a sister-in-mourning. Her dress is all frills and ruffles wrapped around her body in a way that shows off the same striking curves I remember from the wedding six years ago. That was the last time I ever set eyes on the woman.
This outfit is further proof that today’s revelations are of dire importance.
“It took me forever to finally pull myself together—I just kept thinking about Bette, and Kevin, and poor, sweet Stuart. And then it was impossible to find a taxi….” This bit of rambling is punctuated with a dramatic sigh as she settles into the chair next to me.
“I completely understand, Miss Parker,” Babcock says with incommensurate sympathy. He is positively falling over himself as he lifts his round body out of his chair to offer her a tissue from the box on his desk. I doubt most of the clientele that enter his office are able to make him turn this particular shade of pink, complete with wide-eyed awe, the way my brother’s sister-in-law has.
“Thank you so much,” she says, offering him a smile that practically drowns him in sugar.
One dainty hand, also with pink nails, plucks a tissue from the box. Babcock looks as though he’s just been knighted by the queen of fucking England.
And it’s no wonder, the way she looks. It’s a good thing most of that sex-kitten face of hers is covered by those monstrously huge sunglasses or he’d literally be on his knees. As it is, she practically has him salivating.
Simone is naturally milking it for all it’s worth.
“You’re so kind, Mr. Babcock. It’s just been so difficult since….” The rest is drowned out by a fresh bout of sniffles.
“That’s completely understandable Miss Parker. I can only imagine—”
“Perhaps we can get on with this meeting. Some of us have jobs to return to.” I’ve made sure to stress the word jobs purely for her benefit.
Simone turns to me as though she’s just realized I’m sitting there.
“I’m sorry,” she says with a distinct chill in her voice. She lifts those obscenely large frames off her nose to bore a hole in me with large brown eyes that are now narrowed with contempt. “Do I know you? You seem familiar, but I can’t quite place you. One might almost mistake you for family.”
“It’s no surprise you have trouble placing me,” I reply in a dry tone. “The last time I saw you, you were holding a half-empty bottle of champagne in your hand and making out with the photographer’s assistant at my brother’s wedding.”
She gasps and those eyes widen with white-hot fire. I watch her full lips, also in a darkish shade of pink, itching to give it right back to me, but before she can utter a word Babcock clears his throat.
“Perhaps we should get started. I’m sure you both have busy schedules and are quite eager to hear about your siblings’ final wishes.”
Smooth. I’ll give him that. No doubt in his profession Babcock is used to dousing out the flames of familial resentment.
I’m the first to break the staring competition. I haven’t a clue about Simone, but I do indeed have a busy schedule and, more importantly, I am very eager to hear about my brother Kevin’s final wishes. “Yes, let’s.”
“Ah, uh, yes,” he says, for some reason looking to Simone for confirmation. She just drops her glasses back down on her round little nose and directs her attention back his way.
“Well, due to the unusual circumstances of Kevin and Bette Bennett’s death, which is still under investiga—”
“We are both familiar with the circumstances of their demise,” I say, keeping my impatience in check.
This topic elicits another bout of sniffles to the left of me. There is a pause while Mr. Babcock offers another tissue. At this rate we’ll be here all day.
It isn’t that I don’t miss my brother. It has, however, been well over a week since the plane flying him and Bette to New York disappeared, leaving me plenty of time to adjust to the reality of him being gone. They’ve officially been declared dead and for the sake of my nephew Stuart the reading of their final wishes has been expedited. Right now there is important business at hand which supersedes any time-out for sentimentality. It’s important business that affects the future of the company that, for all intents and purposes, is now mine. Which is why I intend to get to the point of this meeting as soon as possible, before Babcock has to start buying stock in Kleenex.
“Perhaps we can start with who has guardianship of Stuart?”
Babcock blinks at me as though I just suggested euthanizing his puppy. The man is an attorney in downtown Manhattan. Surely he knows my reputation by now. The bottom line is everything to me.
The look on my face must convey as much, since he immediately snaps back into lawyer mode.
“Yes, well, since, er…due to the unusual circumstances of their death,” he gives me a quick, sheepish glance before continuing, “it is impossible to determine which spouse survived the other. In c
ases such as this, each spouse is treated as though they outlived the other. As such—”
Good God, I don’t need a primer on probate law, Babcock!
Despite my desire to reach across the desk and snatch the papers out of his damn hands to read them for myself, I sit and pay attention, lest some minor, but important detail actually slips from his lips.
“Kevin and Bette Bennett were almost identical in their wishes. I must say it’s refreshing to see a couple who is so completely on the same page in things such as this. While it’s not uncommon, in my experi—”
In what will no doubt be our one and only moment of harmonious thinking, both Simone and I manage to shut Babcock up and get him back on track. I do so by pointedly clearing my throat. Simone falls back to her go-to of sniffling and lifting her glasses to wipe her eyes.
Yes, yes, everyone knows Kevin and Bette had a fairytale marriage, seeing eye to eye in every possible way. Yadda, yadda, yadda. I’m keeping my awe and admiration in check until I know exactly what page it is that Kevin and Bette were both on.
“You can start with Bette’s will I say.” Hopefully that will put an end to Simone’s leaky eyes and nose. I’m irritated to find Babcock look to her for confirmation once again and then proceed when she nods her head.
“Very well then.” He lifts the paperwork and proceeds to read. “I, Bette Parker Bennett, being of sound mind….”
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Author’s Note
This is a work of fiction and does not depict any real person or event.
Being fiction, I have also taken several liberties with how things work. Just read it and enjoy!
On a fun note, one part of the book is based on real events. The reader might be amused to note that long after I had started using Ideal Gentleman magazine in several of my prior books, a male escort service of the same name did in fact pop up, forcing me to change the name to Ideal Gentlemen.
Bryce: Ex-Business: An Ex-Club Romance Page 30
