by Lila Monroe
“We all miss him,” Liam says stiffly. “Now, if I can direct our attention back to—”
“Of course,” Verity says, and then turns back to me. “He and I once went to a book festival down in the Florida Keys. And the whole time we’re there I keep telling him, Harry, you’ve got to wear sunscreen, your skin is fair as a virgin’s rear end. But you know how Harry was, and sure enough—”
“Ms. Lange!” Liam bursts out.
Both Verity and I look at him in surprise.
“I’m sorry,” Liam says, his cheeks turning just the faintest bit pink, “but I really must demand, as the new CEO of Sterling Publishers, to know exactly what’s going on with the novel outstanding on your contract.”
“Oh, that?” Verity waves a hand. “Don’t worry your head about it, peaches. Harry and I had an agreement.”
“That may be so,” Liam allows. I can practically see the vein throbbing in his forehead. “However, Harry’s no longer with us. And the company’s financial situation is such that I must be clear: If we don’t receive the finished manuscript in thirty days, we’ll be forced to sue for the return of the advance.”
“What?” I almost choke on my champagne. “I’m sorry, Verity,” I say immediately, shooting Liam a look that could peel the cover right off a book. I can’t believe he’s got the nerve to speak this way to any of our authors, let alone the Verity Lange. “Liam, I’m sure there’s no reason to—”
But Verity holds up a hand to stop me. “Now, hold on just a minute. Why didn’t you say that’s why you came all the way out here, handsome? Here I am, jabbering away, thinking this is just a social call.” She nibbles a prawn, looking supremely unconcerned. “The book is done.”
I sit up a little straighter. Liam blinks. “It is?” he asks.
“It is?” I echo, my heart lifting.
“Well, just about,” she says calmly, running a painted fingertip around the rim of her glass. “Lord knows I’ve long enough to finish the damn thing. I’m simply… tweaking it a bit, that’s all. I’ll send it your way before you know it.”
“Oh.” Liam looks almost flustered, like a general who marched his troops into battle with tanks and guns only to find the field empty. “Well, that’s great. Excellent. I look forward to seeing it on my desk.”
“I’m sure you do.” Verity arches her eyebrows, smiling a Mona Lisa smile before reaching for the bottle of Dom Perignon on the table. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way,” she says, splashing some into Liam’s glass before he can protest, “how about some more champagne?”
* * *
Liam’s mood is way lighter as we say our goodbyes to Verity and get into his car to head back toward the city. “She’s a character,” he chuckles, as we’re pulling down the long, winding driveway, his headlights shining brightly in the dusky blue night. “I’ll give her that much.”
“She’s incredible,” I say, still feeling star-struck. “You know, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in this business it’s that in real life authors are hardly ever how you expect them to be based on their books. But with Verity… It’s almost like she’s better? I mean, that house alone was worth the price of admission.”
“It’s… memorable,” Liam agrees. “What would you even call that decorating aesthetic, exactly?”
“The Playboy Mansion gets feminism?” I suggest, and Liam laughs. It’s a good laugh, deep and rumbly and relaxed. I glance over at him in surprise, wanting to hear it again, but Liam isn’t paying attention. He glances over his shoulder before changing lanes as we merge onto the highway. I take a moment to admire his profile, then look away.
We cruise east toward the city, the night sky pressing in all around us, and the smell of the ocean thick in the summer air. I can’t help but notice that even the silence feels easier than it did on the drive out here—comfortable, even. And when I connect my phone to the sound system and queue up the latest Taylor Swift, all Liam does is sigh.
We’re about an hour from home when the gas light goes on, so Liam pulls off the highway to fuel up at a small rural station—which, I realize delightedly, also has a walk-up ice cream window on one side. “Ooh!” I say, reaching for my wallet and opening the passenger side door. “Don’t mind if I do.”
Liam makes a face. “Seriously?” he asks.
“As a heart attack,” I assure him. “You know how I feel about ice cream.”
“Yes,” he says, and I’m not sure if I’m imagining that he looks at me just a second too long for it to be entirely platonic. “I suppose I do.”
I order two cones while Liam pumps gas, trying not to stare at him too openly across the parking lot. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to reveal the muscles in his forearms, his face half in shadow in the neon glow of the gas station marquee…
Down girl.
Just because we’ve spent the afternoon with Verity, it doesn’t mean this is about to turn into a steamy scene from one of her books, I remind myself sternly.
I head over to Liam. “I didn’t know what you like, so I got you Rocky Road. It’s the best of everything,” I tell him, holding out his cone.
He looks at it like it’s a live bomb.
“I told you, I don’t eat sugar.”
“Never?” I ask, my voice rising in disbelief. “Come on, it won’t kill you. Unless you’re diabetic,” I add quickly. “In which case, ignore my peer pressure.”
“I just like to stay healthy, that’s all.” Liam replied. My own cone is melting, so I take a big lick. He grabs his suddenly.
“What the hell.”
I grin. Small victories.
There’s a small picnic table nearby, so I go climb onto it. Liam joins me, sitting beside me on top. I’m happy to see, he’s making short work of the cone.
“See?” I ask, nudging his shoulder with mine. “Everything’s better with ice cream.”
Liam licks his cone, the flash of his tongue making my stomach flip. “All right,” he admits, “I suppose there are worse things in the world.”
“Worse things!” I tease. “Man, you were one of those kids who asked for a second helping of broccoli, weren’t you?”
“Green vegetables are a key part of a balanced diet,” Liam defends himself, but then he smiles. “Nah. You know what I always really liked? Those little clown sundaes, with the cone hats and the M&M eyes. My mom used to bring them home for me from work.”
Right away I think of the stories I’ve heard about his mother, and it must show in my expression, because Liam makes a face. “She was a waitress,” he says pointedly. “Whatever you might have heard.”
“I hadn’t heard anything,” I lie, concentrating on my ice cream instead of looking at him. I peel the paper wrapped off my cone, then glance over in his direction. “It must have been hard, though, growing up without your dad.”
Liam shrugs. “The Sterlings were always perfectly civil to me,” he says, in a voice that makes me think he’s given this answer a hundred times. “Presents on birthdays. Two weeks in New York every summer—museums, the zoo, Broadway shows… You name it.”
“Sure, but that’s not the same as growing up with a regular family,” I point out gently. “Believe me, I would know.”
“Really?” Liam looks at me sidelong. “I have to admit, I would have pegged you for the kind of kid who grew up in the suburbs. Two-car garage, a mischievous younger sibling, parents who were always embarrassing you with public displays of affection, some kind of daffy neighbor…”
“You realize you’re describing the plot of a Friday night sitcom from the 90s?” I say with a laugh. “And it was kind of the opposite, actually.”
Liam raises an eyebrow. “How so?”
“I mean, it wasn’t horribly grim or anything,” I say quickly. “Just… a little lonely, I guess? It was just my mom and me, and she wasn’t exactly what you’d call a sitcom mom. Lots of different boyfriends, lots of different jobs. She tried her best,” I add quickly, not wanting to be disloyal. “But things got to
ugh sometimes. I spent most of my time with my grandma, growing up. She was the one who first got me into reading. Jackie Collins, Verity Lange… All the classics.”
I smile, remembering how the two of us would pass those long afternoons out on her back porch: A couple of books, a pitcher of iced tea, and a plate of cookies, just as a treat if I’d done all my homework in time. Disappearing into wild, fictional worlds was almost enough to make me forget how precarious my real life was.
“Grandma Dorothy was kind of strict and crochety,” I tell him, nostalgic. “But man oh man, did that woman ever love her HEAs.”
Liam frowns. “Her what now?”
“Happily Ever After,” I explain. “As opposed to just Happy For Now.” I lick a drip of ice cream off the side of my cone, and smile. “Gotta get hip with the romance world lingo, if you’re going to be publishing Verity Lange.”
Liam winces. “I will be sure to do that,” he assures me.
“I’m going to hold you to it.”
“I bet you will.”
I shake my head in amusement, enjoying the last few bites of my cone. I have to admit, between his smile and the ice cream and the cool, welcome breeze, I’m almost… Having fun?
With Liam Sterling?
Uh oh.
“So what’s up for this weekend?” I hear myself ask. “Any exciting New York City plans?”
I see surprise flicker over Liam’s face at the question. Was I really just fishing to see him in non-business hours?
Nope, I tell myself. I’m just being polite, that’s all.
“Nothing to report,” he says slowly. “Why, did you have something in mind?”
I’ve got a lot of things in mind, actually, and more than a few of them involve him naked in my bed—preferably with a second helping of ice cream—but before I can come up with an actual answer his cell phone rings in his pocket. “Sorry,” he says with a roll of his eyes, looking down at the screen and standing up. “I’ve got to take this.”
He walks back over toward the car as he answers. I try to mind my own business—well, sort of—but I can’t help but overhear. “No,” he says firmly, his voice harsh in the quiet night. “The agreement was to lay off the entire department and then outsource—yes, all two hundred of them. So, they should all be getting pink slips by—right. Okay. Call me if there’s anything else.”
I watch him talk in disbelief, and this time, even the cut of his pants as he paces isn’t enough to distract me from what he just said. He can’t be talking about Sterling, thank goodness—none of our departments are that large—but he’s shown me pretty clearly just what he’s capable of. Talk about a cold shower. I guess the friendly small talk only goes so far.
Beneath the charming smiles, this guy is a ruthless shark.
By the time finishes his conversation, any butterflies in my stomach have well and truly flown the nest.
“Sorry about that,” he says, tucking his phone back into his pocket as calmly as if he didn’t just ruin the lives of hundreds of people as quickly and confidently as I order a pizza. He’s even got the nerve to smile at me. “Just finishing up some old business from my last consulting job in California. Anyway, what were you saying? About the weekend?”
“Oh,” I try to hide my disappointment. I thought I saw something in him tonight—something real, something kind, something honest—but it’s clear he’s the same empty suit I thought he was. “Just making conversation. I should actually get back to the city, actually. I’ve, uh, got a hot date.” I lie suddenly.
Why did I say that? I have no idea, but Liam’s face goes blank. He tosses the rest of his ice cream into a nearby trash can. “Of course. Let’s get on with it, then. I have plans, too.”
Of course he does. Insulting widows, or evicting some orphans, maybe. But either way, he’s not going to figure in my weekend plans… or my fantasies, either.
Next time my thoughts get frisky, I’ll just remember: That handsome face is hiding a cold, cold heart.
8
Liam
I know I’m being ridiculous, but I can’t help spending the rest of the weekend stewing on Eliza’s comment. Was hot date a figure of speech, a way of giving me the brush-off? Or was she actually meeting someone for a night out back in the city? Either way, it’s infuriating, especially since I thought she and I had something approaching an actual connection sitting there on that picnic table, talking about our families.
Well, she talked, I tried not to, but even so, it felt… Comfortable. Nice.
I won’t make that mistake again.
I shake my head, trying to clear her out of it as I stare at the endless spreadsheets on my computer screen. It’s not like I don’t have enough work to keep me busy without wasting time mooning over Eliza like some kind of lovesick schoolboy. Even with the emergency cost-cutting measures I’ve implemented at Sterling so far, the company is still teetering on the edge of a financial cliff. I stare at the numbers, trying to figure out how on Earth I’m going to turn this around, but the more I fuss with the endless rows and columns, the more dire the situation feels.
One thing is for sure: I need Verity Lange to deliver this supposed masterpiece.
And fast.
* * *
It’s already dark outside the window of my office by the time I shut the computer down, pushing my chair back and tilting my head up to stare at the ceiling. “Harry,” I mutter out loud, wondering in spite of myself if he can hear me, wherever he is. “Dad. How could you have been so irresponsible?”
“Wasn’t that your dad’s whole thing, though?” my cousin Jase asks me, later that night. We’re sitting in the VIP lounge of the bar he owns in the Meatpacking District, a hip, upscale club full of craft cocktails and gorgeous women. “Like, charming, rakish irresponsibility?”
“I guess,” I admit, sitting back on one of the leather couches and glancing up at the moody modern art on the walls. Jase’s mom and mine are sisters, which means he’s had a front-row seat for my dealings with the Sterlings over the years. “It was more charming when he was alive.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Jase says, offering me a sympathetic smile before turning to take two fresh glasses of whisky from the cute blonde cocktail waitress. He flashes her a smile of gratitude, and she blushes, because of course, women have been falling over my cousin for years. The guy swam Varsity in college, and could have gone all the way to the Olympics if he hadn’t decided that he preferred making money, instead. Lots of it. Now, he owns part of a nightlife empire with some of his buddies from college, and they’re always planning their next move.
He hands me one of the glasses. “It must be weird, being a part of that world all of a sudden.”
“What, Sterling?” I shrug. “It has its moments.”
“Uh-huh.” Jase looks dubious. “I’ll be honest, I still don’t understand why you took the job to begin with. It’s like you’re just asking for trouble.” He takes a sip of his whisky, and then grins. “Or like, thousands of dollars in therapy bills.”
“Celeste needed help,” I say vaguely. “She has no idea how to run a business. And she’s always been decent to me.”
“Neither one of your siblings could handle it?”
“Half-siblings,” I remind him pointedly, “and doubtful. Betsy is too busy spending Harry’s money on carbon offsets and designer dresses made entirely of hemp. And Bryce…”
“Is dumb as a box of hair?” Jase puts in helpfully.
I snort. “You said it.” I shrug, rattling the ice in my glass. “They’re not terrible. They’re just… not real family, that’s all.”
“Lucky for you, I’m family enough for ten men.” Jase quips. He knocks back the rest of his drink. “Another round?”
We hang out in the clubhouse for the better part of the night, drinking and catching up. Jase and I have always been tight—he’s the closest thing I’ve got to a brother, or a best friend—and it’s been a long time since we lived in the same city. Before I know it, it’s after mid
night, and my stomach is rumbling. “I should head out,” I tell him, but Jase shakes his head.
“Come on,” he says. “The night is young, and there’s a great pizza place around the corner.”
I follow him through the teeming bar and out into the balmy New York night. One thing I love about this place is how it’s truly a 24-hour city—judging by how crowded the streets are, you’d never be able to tell what time it is. College kids cluster on street corners, waiting for their Ubers. Irish music spills from the open windows of a pub across from Jase’s; the owners of Halal carts hawk delicious-smelling late night eats.
Jase leads me around the corner, toward a hole-in-the-wall pizza shop. It’s just one of those divey-looking places, fragrant with garlic and oregano, fluorescent lights shining brightly overhead. “Hey, Antonio!” Jase calls we head for the counter. “Can we get a couple of supreme slices?”
“Already in the oven,” says the owner, an older guy with a grease-splattered apron stretched over the drum of his potbelly. “Saw you coming down the block.”
“This guy.” Jase grins. “Tony’s owned this place since the eighties.”
I raise my eyebrows, impressed. “You must make a damn good pizza.”
“Best in the city,” Jase and Tony say in unison, and I laugh.
Tony hands two gigantic slices across the counter a moment later, paper plates wilting under their cheesy heft. “See you tomorrow, Tony,” Jase calls once we’ve paid, and the guy makes a face.
“Maybe,” he shoots back. “The way rents are going up in this neighborhood, I’ll be lucky if I’m open that long.”
Jase wasn’t kidding about the pizza—it’s the best I’ve had since I’ve been in New York, with a thin, crispy crust, loaded with cheese and toppings. “Okay,” I tell him, trying not to groan too audibly in pizza-related bliss. “You were right.”
“I love that place,” Jase agrees as we head down the sidewalk, eating as we go. “And I love that guy. I’m hoping he’ll let me buy him out, if it comes to that.”
