by Sara Cate
“I’ll cut to the chase, Zara.”
Jesus, fuck. Please do.
“Nash is in trouble. He’s throwing his future away, and he’s stopped working altogether. He won’t listen to me, and I don’t know what to do to help him. If he doesn’t get his life together, I’ll have to cut him out of the business.”
My eyes widen. This feels far beyond me, but saying Nash hasn’t handled Preston’s death well is an understatement. He’s a completely different person. But cutting him out of the business? Nash has always been the one to follow in his dad’s footsteps. Preston was the wildcard.
“I was hoping he would meet a girl who he might settle down with. So far, none of them stick around. They don’t have the constitution to handle Nash in all of his moods. I believe you can.”
“Me?” The question slips through my lips, but the truth is that my brain is falling behind in this conversation. Talking about me and Nash together in terms of settling down is absolutely insane.
“Yes, you.”
“But Nash and I have barely seen each other in the last two years. He showed up out of the blue two weeks ago, drunk off his ass, and he caught me in a weak moment. We had sex, but we’re not in a relationship.”
I catch the way his jaw clenches. “I realize that.”
“So, what are you saying?”
“I’m saying I’d like you to pursue a relationship with my son.”
I laugh. A real laugh, and it starts small. A quick chuckle that bursts out of my chest at the very idea, but then I can’t stop. Delirium has set in. He responds with a harsh glare and another sip of his drink.
“I’m being serious. Of course, I can offer you compensation.”
My laughter stops. “What?”
“You will come stay with us on Del Rey.”
I am frozen at the mention of that name. The sprawling private island belonging to the Wilde family has been the setting of my nightmares in the past two years. It’s the last place I saw my sister alive and where I learned of her death. And he’s asking me to come stay with them there at that house so I can try to be Nash’s girlfriend.
There are a million questions floating around in my mind, so I try to settle on the one that’s been nagging me since I saw Alistair.
“Does he know you’re here right now?”
“No.”
Then I opt for a statement instead of a question—an obvious statement.
“This is insane.”
“I’ll be frank with you, Zara. I’m desperate, and you’re my last resort.” The deep timbre in his voice sends chills down my spine. I have never in my life heard Alistair Wilde asking anyone for anything. He’s the type of man who commands and people listen.
“Have you tried talking to him?”
“My son doesn’t talk to me,” he says, shifting in his seat.
I want to ask why, but it seems too personal.
“What if he doesn’t want me?”
“It’s worth a shot.” Oh yes, like throwing darts at a bullseye. The only thing at stake is my dignity.
Still...I’m considering this. I don’t know why I am. It’s insane. Moving to Del Rey to try and date Nash in order to straighten him out. It’s exactly the type of thing a guy like Alistair Wilde would do, something that regular people see as insane. For people like us, you can’t hire love or happiness, but for people like them, that’s exactly what you do.
“Think about it.” Suddenly he’s standing, downing the rest of his glass, but I have too many questions to let him leave.
“Wait,” I say following him to the door.
He turns toward me, looking down at a glowing message on his watch before glancing back up at me. His eyes land briefly on my breasts before quickly darting away.
I should ask him everything right now, like how we will tell Nash about this without it being suspicious or how long he wants me to pretend to be his son’s girlfriend or if I’m expected to have sex with Nash and last but certainly not least—how much is that compensation he mentioned.
“I know you have questions,” he says as if he can read my mind. “Give it some thought. My card is in my jacket pocket. Call me tomorrow morning, and I’ll answer all of them.”
I didn’t even realize I was still wearing his jacket until he said that. Sliding my hand into the silk pocket, I feel the card there.
By the time I look up, he’s standing by the back door, ready to leave without anyone seeing him. Before he goes, he turns back toward me, and with his eyes locked on mine, he adds, “I hope I can count on your discretion, Zara.”
Silently, I nod. And then he’s gone.
3
I’m not one for TV, but this Witcher is hot as hell, and it’s my day off.
Henry Cavill’s tight buns in those leather pants are about the only thing that can distract me from thinking about Alistair Wilde and his insane offer. Why can’t I just spend one day doing and thinking about nothing?
Once upon a time, I hated idle days. I used to have hobbies and a life outside of work. But now my pointe shoes hang lifeless and dusty on the closet doorknob. My yoga mat hasn’t been unrolled in months—although my yoga pants have never seen so much action.
And now I can’t seem to get either of the Wildes out of my head. I want to decline the offer so bad. In my head, I already have, but it’s only that superficial voice of reason that keeps trying to convince me to ignore my gut. My gut is telling me to take the money, and it’s screaming.
When my phone buzzes on the coffee table, I simply respond with a growling, “Hmm.”
What kind of psychopath calls? Send a text like a real person.
A moment later, my phone pings like it heard me. “Just ignore it,” I tell myself. Eventually, my curiosity gets the better of me. Of course, it’s my boss.
You need to come in tonight.
“Fuck that.” I toss my phone to the other side of the couch and try to pretend I didn’t see it. Before long, it vibrates again, this time with a prolonged vibration like it’s a phone call.
I can’t afford to lose my job. Now they’ve seen me get so much attention from two very rich guys, they seem to be watching me like a hawk.
Of course, if you took Alistair’s offer, you could afford to quit.
His jacket hangs on the back of the chair by the door, taunting me. Inside the pocket is his card, and the questions I’ve readied are scribbled on a piece of paper by the door.
I can’t actually be considering this. On top of every logical reason why this is insane, is the underlying reminder that Nash Wilde sort of scares me. That night in my apartment was downright feral, and I have a feeling it was a version of him he kept restrained. What happens if he really comes unhinged?
My stomach flutters with excitement, and I honestly hate myself for how much the idea turns me on. I want to go crazy as much as Nash, but I have a feeling that’s not exactly what his father has in mind. How can I possibly convince Nash to settle down when all I want is to let him go nuts on me?
Ignoring my still buzzing phone, I walk over to the jacket and retrieve the card. The smell of cologne makes me lean in and take a long whiff of the fabric. I don’t know why I do it, but I pull the jacket around my shoulders and let it engulf me as I walk back over to the couch. Curling up with it, I look at the card again.
Alistair Wilde.
My experience with the Wilde family was carefully cultivated, a few weekends out there with them when Emma was with Preston, including the weekend they died. I never lived there, and I certainly wasn’t dating any of them. Alistair mostly kept to himself. Occasionally, he would lurk and seemed to treat Emma like she was a job applicant, asking her about our family and plans for the future. Coming from a very humble background, a dead mother and an estranged father, I was constantly playing the part of the protective sister.
I had Preston pegged for a playboy when they first started seeing each other. He was a notorious partier and seemingly had no interest in the business like his brother a
nd dad. I never fully let my guard down with him.
During those weekends, Nash was always involved with everything we did, as if he was as protective of his brother as I was of my sister. The bond between the two was obvious from the get go, and even though Nash was younger, he seemed to treat his older brother like he had to look after him.
Now Alistair somehow expects me to help Nash. What makes him think I would be any better for him?
Still, my fingers dial his number while unread text messages from work sit in my inbox.
He answers on the second ring.
“I said to call in the morning,” he says without a greeting. I’m stunned for a moment, searching for something to say, thinking I need an excuse as to why I haven’t done what he ordered me to do.
I don’t waste any time with apologies or excuses because there is the one question that will determine the rest. It’s the question I guarantee he expects me to ask first. “How much will you pay me?”
“One million for the first three months.”
“Three months?” I don’t know why that’s the part of the statement that sticks out.
“We’ll consider it a trial. If I deem Nash’s behavior an improvement after Christmas, we’ll discuss prolonging your residency, but until then, all of your expenses will be covered, to include the rent at your current apartment so that you don’t lose your home in case things do not work out.”
“What if things do work out? How long will you pay me to be your son’s girlfriend?” The question comes out a bit more bitter than I intended it to, and he picks up on it.
After a heavy sigh, he replies, “I will pay you for up to one year, and to be clear, I’m simply offering you a stipend to come and stay with us, hoping the company will help my son to avoid ruining his career and future. You may judge my methods, Zara, but the prospects of our family’s business is on the line, so I suggest you lose the attitude and accept this is how I get things done.”
The line falls silent, and my blood starts to boil after the first scolding I’ve properly received since I was ten. I hear white noise in the background like he’s in a car or near a helicopter.
It prompts my next demand, ignoring the way he just reprimanded me for having an attitude.
“I don’t fly.”
“Excuse me?” he asks before I hear a female voice in the distance.
“It sounds like you’re in the air, and I thought I should make it clear. I don’t fly. I refuse to get on an airplane or helicopter.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment as I pick at the hem of his jacket, biting the inside of my cheek.
“You do realize it’s an island,” he replies with a condescending tone that makes me grit my teeth.
“Yeah, and I know you have a boat. I haven’t flown in two years, and I don’t plan on starting now.”
The line grows heavy with silence like Emma and Preston’s death is a noxious gas we have to avoid breathing every time it pops up in conversation.
“Fine,” he says, and I know it’s hard for him to accept giving in.
“What if he finds out?” I murmur.
“I don’t plan on keeping it a secret, not from Nash. He’ll know that I’m bringing you out to keep him company. There will be an NDA as well as a contract settling any disputes regarding payment and expectations.”
“What are your expectations?”
“I’m not paying you to have sex with my son, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Holy shit. This is insane. That rational part of my brain just keeps screaming, but I push it aside because my gut won’t let this one go. I want it. How could I go back to The High Diamond and motorboat some old guy’s face when I had the chance to put one million dollars in my checking account?
Before I can respond, Alistair continues. “Nash might have different expectations, but that’s strictly between the two of you. To be clear, I’m not paying you for that. It will be in the contract.”
“How exactly are you going to gauge whether or not Nash has improved?”
He clears his throat. “He’s expressed refusal to work at our company. I need you to talk him into coming back to work.”
“How the fuck am I supposed to do that?”
“That’s what you need to figure out, Zara.”
“I don’t see how I can—”
“He hasn’t flown in over a year. You can start there.”
This sounds impossible.
“Something changed after that night he saw you. He seemed...almost happier.”
My head perks up, and I try to remember any version of that night with Nash where he looked remotely happy. He was drunk, sure, but he wasn’t happy. If he liked me so much, then why did he leave without saying goodbye?
Suddenly, this new piece of information changes everything. Now I want to do this job for the money and for the opportunity to see Nash and judge for myself how happy he is around me.
“Any more questions?” he asks. My heart picks up speed, and my mind won’t stop reminding me this is crazy. I answer quickly so I can’t back out.
“No. I’m ready.”
I hear him take a drink, the ice clinking against the glass. “I’ll send over the contract through email. How long will you need to be ready?”
I look around at my apartment and nothing really stands out to me as essential.
“Tomorrow.”
“Perfect. There will be a car at your apartment at nine a.m. tomorrow to take you to the dock. Be ready.”
It’s silent for a moment, and I don’t know if I should thank him or ask more questions, but my hands won’t stop shaking. I can’t believe I’m doing this.
Before I can say anything, the line goes dead, and I’m left reeling. It’s all too much to process, and the sudden feeling of panic starts to set in. Just then, my phone buzzes in my lap.
Looking down, it’s another message from work.
If you don’t answer back, you’re going to lose your shifts for the weekend.
Motherfuckers. I’m all too happy to oblige as I pull up the text and type my response.
“How’s this for answering back, you asshole?”
Fuck off. I quit.
4
That first swig of vodka on an empty stomach with a four-day straight hangover is not for the weak. It’s enough to kill you if you try hard enough. Or if you’re not so lucky, it at least wards off the headache demons and muddles the pain.
The sound of the P-4 Turbine overhead feels like needles in my skull. It only gets louder as it lands on the pad behind the house. So, I guess Daddy’s home—and I was having such a good week too. That asshole has the nerve to fly in and out like it’s nothing.
Luckily for me, the house is big enough that Alistair and I can both live here without ever interacting, and part of me thinks he flies in and out just to get my attention. Can’t ignore the sound of those motherfucking helicopters.
While I am staggering through the house, I hear him come through the kitchen, and I’m smacked in the face with a moral dilemma. I could avoid confrontation and head to the kitchen in the east wing—deemed my wing anyway, or I can put a little damper in his day and give him the silent treatment I know he loves so much.
There’s not talking to your dad when you never see him, and then there’s living under the same roof and still refusing to utter a word to him. He tries every fucking day to get me to open up, and I take great joy in torturing him with my silence. He deserves it.
So I march my drunk ass into the kitchen and breeze right past him as he watches me. I know I smell like shit, and I hope it makes him sick.
“You might want to go shower,” he says right on cue.
Without a response, I open the fridge and take out a cold beer.
“Are you hungry, Nash?” our housekeeper and cook, Astrid, asks as she enters the kitchen, draping her warm arm over my shoulder and pulling me into a hug. “I can make you some breakfast.”
“It’s after two in the afternoon,”
the old man gripes, but I answer Astrid with a smile.
“Yes, please. That sounds delicious.”
I hear him sigh before he turns and marches toward the hallway that leads to his office. Before he disappears, he freezes and turns on his heel. I make the mistake of looking up at him as he stops and we make eye contact for a brief second. It feels like surrendering something I didn’t mean to.
“Nash, someone is coming to stay at the house today. I suggest you shower and make yourself presentable. She’ll be here in an hour.”
Then, he walks away, and I’m left with the urge to ask who, but I bite my tongue instead. After a few minutes when I’m sure he’s gone, I turn to our housekeeper standing by the stove.
“Do you know who it is?” I ask.
She shrugs while whipping up eggs in a glass bowl with a fork. Bacon starts to crackle on the griddle, and my stomach growls with hunger pangs.
“No one tells me anything. I was just told to prepare the guest house for someone staying until Christmas.”
“Mom?” I ask. My mother disappeared to Mykonos with her new husband when Preston and I were teenagers. We never pretended to be a normal family, but since the crash, she has taken estranged to a whole new level. I get calls once a month and a visit once a year if I’m lucky.
“No. A woman, but not your mother,” she answers like it’s nothing. My cheeks burn and for some reason I immediately think about Zara, the last woman I touched over two weeks ago. It’s weird for me to be so stuck on one girl—or any girl recently. The only reason I was in the city was to get away from my dad and meet up with some college friends with suite tickets to a football game—which I ditched before it was even over. Everyone was so fucking happy. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough, and no surprise, I ended up at The High Diamond.
One of my buddies told me about her being a stripper. Said he saw her there and had to do a double take, thinking he had seen a ghost. I saw an opportunity, and I took it.
To be honest, I never looked twice at Emma’s sister. When she hung around while they were still alive, I got annoyed by her constantly dark demeanor. All that black she wore, always in such a sour mood. She never wanted to go on the boat, or the jet-skis, or to the club. It was like she only came so she could keep an eye on her sister, like we were going to kidnap her or something.
