by Stella Rhys
I had to wait out his set before I got his response.
“How long?” he panted as he let himself down from the bar.
“An hour.”
“Thirty minutes.”
“What? Hate your fans?”
“Love my fans,” he corrected vehemently. “Dickhead. I just love my wife and kid more because, you know, they’re everything I fuckin’ live for. But I get how that concept might be foreign to a very single man like yourself.”
“Oof. Low blow, Maddox.” I put a hand to my chest. “I should remind you the breakup was barely a month ago.”
“Yeah, and I should remind you that you don’t have to do that shit with me.”
“What shit?”
Drew rolled his eyes. “The act,” he scoffed. “I’m not one of those uptight suits you have to fake normal for. You’re not heartbroken over Keira. You guys weren’t even a real couple.”
I raised my eyebrows at his assertion. “I was with her for five years.”
“Yeah, well, I got Emmett pretty drunk like, six months back, and he might’ve let the cat out of the bag about the little arrangement you had with her.”
I blinked, surprised and vaguely annoyed that my friend and business partner, Emmett, would be so loose-lipped around Drew of all assholes. But I gave no indication of it and I was over it shortly because it was a matter of the past at this point.
And it was true.
I’d been with Keira for specific reasons, and Drew wasn’t among the people I needed to “fake it” for.
I just hated that incredibly satisfied look he got anytime he managed to catch me off guard.
“Hour meet-and-greet plus thirty minutes mingling at the party,” I finally said. “Call it an asshole tax.”
Drew groaned as he considered it.
“Fine,” he said, laughing as he peered past my shoulder while undoing his weight belt. “What’s going on, by the way? How you liking that heat?” he asked. I narrowed my eyes at him.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Watt’s stupid face burning holes in the back of your head,” he said, looking past my shoulder again and shooting a quizzical look at presumably Watt.
My jaw tightened. Perfect.
I’d known there was a good chance of running into Watt when I came here, but it didn’t make me any more thrilled to see him, so I turned my attention to the new emails pinging into my phone as Drew gave an upward nod behind me.
“Watt,” I greeted him once he lumbered into my eye line with his trainer.
“Boss,” he grinned, holding eye contact with me as Drew greeted the trainer.
But he looked away when Drew said something or another, and for a little while, they talked about the All-Star game on Tuesday. Watt’s no-necked trainer asked where the after party was and Drew replied that it would be at The Atrium, a massive venue overlooking the water on the East Side.
Meanwhile, I multitasked, fielding whatever questions were directed at me while responding to a few of my more pertinent emails.
Outwardly, everything seemed perfectly routine.
Of course, I knew it wasn’t because I could see Watt’s repeated glances in my direction, and I knew it was because he was seconds from fucking up my progress and specifically asking about the one thing I was trying to forget.
And I was right, because moments later, he went for it.
“So, boss. Was she any good?”
An instant heat rose to my skin as I finished the last sentence of my email, firing it off before I forced myself to look up at Watt and that dirty grin on his idiot face.
I controlled the need to deck him as I asked, “What the hell are you talking about?”
“What the hell am I—what the hell do you think?” he laughed big. “I’m talking about the sweet little blonde we met the other night. Pretty face. Body like a fuckin’ college cheerleader. You know what I’m talking about, considering you goddamned snapped at me to call dibs on her.”
“Iain?” Drew laughed. “Yeah right,” he snorted, rolling his eyes as he looked over at me. But from the corner of my vision, I saw his smile falter, and his brow lightly furrow as I stood there and said nothing to refute Watt’s story. All I had the patience to do was stare back at him as he kept on grinning at me.
“What? Ain’t no shame. I know you’re used to being the one who lectures us for fucking jailbait, but no one’s gonna judge you for finally getting the urge,” he chuckled, licking his lips. “Especially not when she was as fuckin’ stacked as that cute thing was.”
“Yeah?”
A one-word question from his trainer and I was ready to kill them both, especially since it had Watt launching gleefully into detail, gesturing with both hands over his chest as he described her.
Holland.
Little Holland Maxwell who clearly wasn’t so little anymore.
That much had been made abundantly clear to me last night at the bar. Because not only had the girl filled out—beyond filled out—she had a mouth on her now too. Pouting pink lips and a sharp tongue that should’ve made me proud considering how I’d always implored her to stick up for herself as a kid. But proud didn’t exactly describe what she’d made me feel last night when she went told me off.
When she teased me.
And flaunted those big tits for me.
Fucking Christ.
I dragged my hand across my jaw, once again fighting the urge to replay that memory of how she got all cute with me last night, hitting me with that tender, wide-eyed look she used to get when she asked me questions about what it was like living alone, or when she needed me to help explain something on her homework. It would’ve been sweet—would’ve taken me back if it weren’t for the fact that she’d worn that look last night while arching her back taut for me, and daring me to look at her breasts.
Yeah…
Pride was far from my mind last night, because what Holland made me feel instead was twisted, fucked up and deviant. Whatever she had made me feel was everything I’d been trying hard to forget this morning.
And as far as I was concerned, I’d been well on my way till this idiot came along.
“Well, hey.” Watt had a sleazy smile on his face as he turned to me again. “If you’re not trying to fuck that girl, then you don’t mind if I go and see her tonight, right?” he asked, sticking his tongue out as he wiggled his eyebrows. “‘Cause, uh, wifey’s out to town and I think I need to find out what our lil’ blonde friend looks like ass naked on my kitchen counter.”
Fire blazed in my veins, but I offered a smirk and hid my disgust with ease.
“Go for it,” I said.
But only because I knew he wasn’t going to see Holland tonight.
I’d gone out of my way to make sure that he couldn’t.
And though I’d told myself it had entirely to do with work—with the fact that I didn’t want her distracting me or my clients while I was trying to have meetings—I could admit to myself now that I wasn’t being business-minded when I had Holland fired, or even brotherly and protective.
I was being territorial. Possessive.
I didn’t want a single thing to do with her myself, but I didn’t want anyone else looking at her either. Client or not, the idea of other men eye-fucking Holland as she bent over in her that microscopic goddamned skirt made me want to punch a hole in the wall. I hated the idea of it, and the idea of her being predictably in the same spot every weekend, wearing that skintight dress and obliviously attracting any and every psycho stalker in the city, because twenty-two or not, she was young for her age. She had a late start in life thanks to her piece of work mother, and that much was a fact.
Which was why I didn’t regret pulling the move that I did.
Calling her employer. Getting her fired.
I knew how much my business was valued where she worked, and my pull there had it so that a mere call from my assistant was enough to cost Holland her job.
The one she said she
needed for the bed I had delivered to her apartment this evening.
Technically a gift, but I knew it made me an asshole. A bit of a cold-blooded prick. But I was already both of those things on a day-to-day basis, and at least now I was a prick who wouldn’t have to think about Holland for much longer, because for Christ's sake, I couldn’t afford to.
Aside from the fact that work was my number one priority in this world, she was too young for me. Too sweet and naive, and I wasn’t making assumptions—I knew it, because I knew her. Her life. Her family.
I knew Holland Maxwell, and no matter how old she was, she’d always be that sweet girl who’d looked up to me. Who had relied on me, and put her trust in me. That was my memory of her.
And whatever memory she had of me, it was going to stay that way too.
“You out?” Drew asked once he saw me grab my jacket off the squat rack I’d hung it on.
I nodded, draping the jacket over my arm and eyeing my watch. “Gotta make a few calls to take care of the bullshit you just sprang on me, and hopefully that’s done before my meeting at four.”
Drew simply nodded as he looked at me, unsettling me with the quiet that ensued.
Because normally, he’d be cracking a joke right now about how I had to work on my time management skills, since that was generally his favorite thing to do when he unexpectedly fucked up my schedule with one of his surprise diva episodes. But for once, he was keeping his mouth shut, sparing me of his additional bullshit.
And I knew it was because he’d noticed.
Unlike Watt, Drew knew me, and he knew that something was entirely off right now. Enough so that he was actually confused, opting to just observe me. Give himself time to draw conclusions about what the hell was going on.
The silence was most definitely a first from him and in some ways, I should’ve been grateful for it. But instead it bothered me all the way back to the office, because it was one thing to lose focus, but it was a whole other to do it visibly.
And apparently, I had.
I dealt with entitled millionaire jocks on a daily basis and yet I’d let a little girl get under my skin.
If I had to be honest with myself, I’d paused on what felt like fifty different occasions by now, just to concentrate on getting an image of her out of my head. Variations of “she’s Adam’s sister” and “she’s just a kid” played in my mind whenever I remembered that body, and they worked with less and less impact each time. It was fucking maddening.
But thank Christ, it was also over.
At least it would be soon.
Because the bright side was that she didn’t have my cell and luckily, her brother was as staunch as I was about sharing that kind of information. Our time as agents was precious, in-demand, and we had full systems in place to keep just anybody from being able to reach us. Which meant if Holland ever called my office, she’d never make it past reception let alone my secretary.
And if she ever asked her brother to help get my attention, I doubt he’d be of much help.
We were both busy people, and considering how Adam was the bare minimum of involved in his sister’s life growing up, he’d likely be the last to be offended if I went ahead and ignored her indefinitely. So pissed as I was right now, I could at least take comfort in knowing that I was set. I’d dealt in full with this problem.
And in all likelihood, I was never going to have to see Holland Maxwell again.
6
HOLLAND
Exactly forty-eight hours after the delivery of The Bed and I was still stewing.
It was partly because I’d forced myself to sleep on the scratchy couch the past couple of nights, and partly because I didn’t even want to go into my own room anymore.
But more than anything in the world, I was pissed I couldn’t even deliver a simple “fuck you” to Iain.
Like a true elitist prick, he had made himself completely unreachable to me after having me fired from my job and sending me an unwanted gift that retailed for well over two thousand dollars, because two thousand dollars was the price of just the bed, which included the headboard and bed frame on which I’d originally planned to throw my lumpy futon mattress, whether it fit right or not.
But no, he hadn’t just gotten me the bed.
He had gotten me that and the memory foam mattress with king-sized down pillows and two sets of Egyptian cotton sheets that were still sitting in two huge, luxuriously crisp white Stone Pine shopping bags in my bedroom—which I was still treating like a medical quarantine, because stepping foot in there would involve reluctant admiration of The Bed and the risk of wanting to unwrap the insanely pretty sheets so I could touch them, and doing either of things right now would constitute as accepting the gift, and I had very much not.
In fact, the only thing I would accept at this point was for Iain to arrange to have The Bed removed from my home, my futon replaced with literally the cheapest possible model, and my job reinstated. That was all I wanted in order to carry on with my life.
And I very much wanted to relay that message to Iain—along with a couple other choice words—but to my deep, fist-balling irritation, I had no way to contact him.
Zero.
Just none whatsoever.
I knew one of his emails growing up, but there was a fat chance he used it anymore. I never had his number, but even if I did, it had most definitely changed, and considering how hard it was to get a hold of my brother at Engelman Sports in Los Angeles, where he was a senior agent and not even the owner, I wasn’t going to bother calling the even bigger offices of Thorn Sports and Entertainment.
Again.
I wasn’t going to bother doing it again is what I mean because I’d already tried twice. It had happened in a fit of blackout rage after I’d stared at The Bed for a good five minutes, only coming to when I realized that the delivery guys had just left, and that they had taken my old mattress with them.
It was right about then that I considered calling Adam.
But for some reason, I hated the idea of running crying to my brother. Plus, I was way too worked up and history had proved that Adam had no patience for my whining calls unless I had a clear, succinct question with a feasible solution he could provide, and not some ranting, meandering vent session that he didn’t know how to help with. I’d found this out after one too many rings to his office to complain about Mom, and far too many offers from him to just pay for my first six months in a new city—so long as I moved out of the New York-New Jersey area, and preferably “across the country from her like I did, because anything short of that is a goddamned waste.”
So yeah, I didn’t call Adam.
I wound up spending the rest of my Sunday being mad, quiet and grateful that Mia was home to keep me company, even if it meant that every so often, she’d drift past my room, peek inside and mutter, “I still can’t believe it. Mr. Ass. The Mr. Ass!”
“So, wait—remind me again how he knew this was the bed that you wanted?” Mia asked.
She was doing it again—just standing outside my room, shaking her head as she stared inside. But after a couple more seconds, she was back on the couch with me, still in her sweats and sipping an Irish coffee.
It was a quarter to 6PM on a Tuesday, which meant she was due at work in thirty minutes. But I’d just gotten home from a long day of concepting Fifth Avenue window displays at the one job I did have left, and she had been waiting all day to share with me “a juicy theory” and a “foolproof plan to get in contact with Iain tonight.”
And since I very much needed the latter, I humored her questions.
“He found out about the bed from A.J,” I said, referring to my brother’s assistant—or as they called her at Engelman, “The Adam Whisperer.”
She was the levelheaded yin to Adam’s bull-headed yang, but beyond that, she was the older sister I never had. When Adam’s third assistant quit my senior year of high school, A.J arrived gloriously into my life, the fiery-yet-calming miracle girl who managed to withstand
my brother’s abuse, fire back at his temper, rein in his crazy and subdue him enough for him to actually remember my existence on an almost daily basis, along with things like my birthday, my graduation and, well, my feelings.
She was easily one of my favorite people in the world, which was why I didn’t fault her for sharing my Stone Pine wish list with Iain.
“I mean she definitely wouldn’t have told him if she knew he was planning on getting me fired,” I grumbled, looking back at not just the Sunday night text I’d sent A.J to ask if Iain had contacted her recently, but the texts I’d received a good twelve hours later.
A.J: Sorry just saw this! He did reach out. When did you talk to him about Stone Pine?? So sweet of him to think of you! How’s work? How’s everything??
AJ: So sorry it didn’t work out this week. But we’ll visit you soon! How are you???
It was obvious from the next-day reply and the way she typed that she was absolutely swamped. Excessive question marks were a telltale sign of an overwhelmed A.J, and while I knew she genuinely wanted to know how I was doing, I also knew that telling the truth would only add to her stress. There was no doubt that she’d be outraged about Iain getting me fired and then take it to Adam, who would probably just shrug it off and tell me to take the damned bed, and then they’d get into a fight about me—which they already did often—and I just didn’t want to spread my misery.
So I told her work was great and left it at that.
“Got it. Mm-hm.” Mia nodded, reading and rereading the texts on my phone, and assessing them with a gravity that I found amusing. “So, here’s the thing,” she finally said, setting her mug down and for some reasoning tightening her ponytail, like that meant she meant business. “You, Holland, keep acting like Iain Thorn got you fired for selfish reasons then fucked off like a total prick,” she started, taking a pause for dramatic effect. “But the truth is that he spent like… a lot of time thinking about you. He took time out of his busy hotshot day to talk to your brother’s assistant about girly beds and embroidered pillowcases because of you. He asked for your address, left specific instructions for the delivery guys to take the old mattress with them, ‘cause trust me, they don’t do that on their own, and then had everything shipped same-day because of you. You realize what that means right?”
