by Score, Lucy
“I promise I won’t abandon you,” Derek whispered in my ear as he guided me outside. The kids, ranging in age from teenagers to floaty-wearing preschoolers, were in and out of the pool in what looked like a chaotic amateur diving contest. Dogs, three of them in varying sizes, dashed around the fenced-in backyard, taking turns jumping into the pool and then violently shaking dry to the delight of the kids.
The menfolk had finished drooling over my car and were gathering around the grill, throwing raw meat and fresh beers around.
“I’ll be fine,” I assured him, though my intestines gave a low rumble of protest. “Go play with your friends.” I ruffled his hair, earning his grin, and his sisters “oohed.”
“Be nice,” he warned them, giving them each a peck on the cheek before crossing the concrete to the Man Zone.
Salsa music played on the wireless speakers, and someone put a plate of fresh cut vegetables and hummus in front of me. Vaguely British and Spanish accents gave the conversations more color and energy.
“So, Emily,” Daniella said, picking up her glass of Chardonnay.
I’d learned long ago that the first question a person asked me was usually a spot-on indicator of their character and their expectations of me.
“Tell me what my son is doing for you?” she said, arching a perfect eyebrow.
There was a lot to unpack there. The implied possessiveness of “my son.” The open-endedness of the question and its myriad of possible answers.
Well, there was the scandal spinning. The tucking into bed. The regular meals. The haircut. And then, of course, there were the orgasms. Oh, and he made me laugh.
“My company hired his firm, and we’ve been spending time together,” I said evasively.
The women sat like statues, sphinxes waiting me out.
I smiled benignly and sipped my wine.
Silence reigned for a full minute.
“She’s not cracking,” Tanya stage-whispered out the side of her mouth.
“Stare harder,” Verita whispered back.
“She’s good,” Liz observed. “Scary good.”
Daniella gave a regal nod and lifted her glass in my direction. “I trust my son’s judgment. Dating or not, you’re welcome here.”
“You wouldn’t want to meet my mother and walk her through that hands-off approach to her children’s relationships, would you?” I asked.
* * *
Somewhere into my second glass of wine, I realized my intestines had given up their empty threats. Now, it was my stomach growling as the smell of grilling hamburgers wafted over the patio.
Derek wandered over while his mother was admiring my haircut.
“Like my handiwork, Mom?” he asked.
“Always,” Daniella said, turning her cheek up to her husband, Michael, as he delivered a kiss and a platter of freshly grilled burgers.
“How has this haircut not broken the internet yet?” Liz asked, handing off a toddler to her husband.
“I haven’t been anywhere but brunch and the lab,” I admitted.
“Derek, give me your phone,” Tanya said, holding out her hand.
He obliged.
“Over by the hedgerow,” Tanya pointed decisively. “You too, brother dearest.”
“Why me?” Derek asked.
“A platonic pose. Something that doesn’t confirm or deny your little ‘are they, aren’t they’ fun,” she decided.
Liz and Verita, with Tanya’s directorial commands, arranged us against the wall of greenery, drinks in hand.
“Is this how all your family cookouts go?” I asked as Verita fluffed my hair.
“With a hairdresser, a cop, a model, and forty-seven kids and dogs, you’d be surprised,” she quipped.
“Okay, look at each other and smile like you have a dirty, dirty secret,” Tanya called.
35
Derek
“Home?” I asked Emily over the rumble of the Porsche as we waved goodbye to my family.
“I’d like to see your home,” she decided smugly.
“You would, would you?” I did a mental inventory of the state of my condo. The cleaning service had been there yesterday, which minimized the possibility of her facing anything unsavory like week-old takeout containers or six loads of dry cleaning draped over the couch.
“It’s your fault, Price. You introduced me to your family, and now I’m penning an engagement announcement in my head,” she teased. “I’ve seen your office, and now I need to find out what secrets you’re hiding at home before this gets more serious.”
I steered the Porsche in the direction of my building downtown. “Fine, but I’m taking you to my condo, not my creepy dungeon lair. You can see the creepy dungeon lair after the wedding.”
“Baby steps,” she said.
We made the drive to my place in comfortable silence. It was a glossy high-rise in Miami’s skyline. A little soulless, but the proximity to my office and most everything downtown was convenient.
I parked the car in the garage and led her to the elevator, a guiding hand at the small of her back. I’d only recently discovered just how much I enjoyed touching Emily and had no plans to slow down there.
“Floor?” she asked, her finger hovering over the buttons.
I told her, and she stabbed it triumphantly.
When the doors slid shut, Emily turned to face me. She looped her arms around my neck. “I really liked your family,” she said.
“I’m rather partial to them, too,” I told her.
“You’re all so… on the same team. No one is walking into dinner with an agenda. It was refreshing,” she continued. “Your parents are so proud of you.”
The longing behind her words made my heart ache for her.
“I’m a testament to their hard work to keep me on the straight and narrow,” I told her, brushing the hair back from her eye. I loved looking at her like this. Close, relaxed, soft. She was a complicated woman. And I found that I liked that immensely.
I’d felt something seeing her sitting with my sisters and mother on the patio, a bottle of wine making the rounds. Something… right. I told myself I’d taken her there to show her what a family could be. That there were people out there who could love without designs. At least, that’s what I’d thought.
But now I wondered if I was trying her out in my life. Testing her like a puzzle piece to see where she fit.
The doors opened with a soft ding on the fifteenth floor, and I led the way to my place.
“After you,” I said, opening the front door with a flourish.
I wasn’t a man without opinions. My home reflected this. I’d paid a designer, of course, as one does. But I’d been a micro-managing bastard, weighing in on every piece of furniture, every painting, every throw pillow.
In the end, it was worth it. My home was sleek, functional, and comfortable.
Stained concrete floors. Stainless steel accents. A wall of glass overlooking the city.
But it was softened by the nine-foot-tall bookshelves that framed the requisite manly TV. The furniture was simple but comfortable.
Emily wandered into the living space and studied my collection. “A reader,” she mused aloud. “Interesting.”
“Science fiction and fantasy mostly,” I said as she examined the shelves.
“A geek.” She labeled me with smug satisfaction.
“Coming from a nerd, I’ll accept that as a compliment,” I teased.
I wondered what else she would discover about me here in my home.
“Wine?” I offered.
She shook her head. “Water, please.” She pulled a volume from the shelf, studied it, and returned it.
“Why don’t you change into something more comfortable while I pour?” I suggested.
She glanced down at her outfit and laughed. “I don’t travel with comfy clothes.”
“I have just the thing.” Ducking into the bedroom, I changed into pajama pants and a t-shirt and found something I deemed appropriate for her.
“Boxer briefs,” I corrected. “You will take these, and you will destroy those detestable ones you are so oddly fond of. In exchange, you can have as many pairs of mine as you like.”
She looked down at the underwear, her thumb stroking over the silky gray fabric. Her expression was soft.
“Antidiarrheals and men’s underwear,” she mused. “You give the most interesting gifts, Price.”
“You can buy yourself all the baby-fist-sized diamond pendants in the world, love. I’m wooing you by showing I have your every need covered,” I said, nudging her in the direction of the powder room.
I poured us both waters while she changed. We met in the dining area. She seemed shyer somehow in my underwear and her tank top. One hand gripping the opposite elbow as she admired the Alexandra Ballard painting above the buffet. Stripped down to basics, this Emily was softer, approachable. Another facet in the precious gem that was the woman I couldn’t stop thinking about.
“Lovely,” she said softly, studying the painting.
The fierce wave of possession caught me off guard. What I wanted crystallized for me. Emily Stanton. In my life. My home. My family. I wasn’t playing games anymore. I was playing for keeps.
“It is, isn’t it?” I said lightly. The complex layers of oil paints in a tapestry of blues and grays reminded me of Emily.
She had no idea the only reason I had this bold slash of color here was because of her. The artist had been refreshingly vocal in her refusal to sell to that “dickweasel” Malcolm Ellison.
“Tell me,” she said, accepting the glass of water I handed her. “Have you ever used this table?”
It was a long, wooden table in a driftwood gray that could easily seat ten people.
“Of course I’ve used it. I spread files out on it, store my mail on it. I’ve even wrapped Christmas presents on it.”
“But no actual dining?” Emily clarified.
“I’ve eaten takeout on it.” Probably.
“I’ve never used my formal dining room either,” she confessed. “My table seats twenty. It was custom-made by an Amish carpenter in Ohio. When I was building the house, I wanted to make sure I could accommodate my whole family for the holidays.”
“And you’ve never used it?” I asked, taking her hand and leading her to the balcony. My indoor living space was calm, masculine. But on the balcony, it was like a South Beach bar had vomited. Charmingly, of course. Bright turquoise and canary yellow pots cluttered the space with plants kept alive by the kindness of the cleaning service. There was a small teak dining set near the patio doors and a pair of cushioned chairs centered around a low, round table.
“Turns out my family isn’t big on Thanksgiving and Christmas… or family. Trey is never around, and Mom prefers the holidays in New York. She says it feels more festive.”
I thought of the Price family holidays. With dozens of people crammed around folding tables, asses to elbows over turkeys and hams. The birthday cakes. The pitchers of margaritas and pots of chili.
“Do you go to them for Christmas?” I asked.
She shook her head and stepped out onto the concrete and glass balcony. The sun was sinking low, painting the sky a dusky pink. “It’s hard for me to get away,” she said, settling on a blue and white striped chair cushion. A politician’s non-answer.
“But you’d make the time if you wanted to,” I guessed.
“Yes, I would. I envy you for your family,” she admitted. “I hope you appreciate them.”
“My mother wouldn’t allow me not to,” I teased.
Emily sipped her water in silence. A melancholy of unfilled dreams slowly extinguishing the excitement of the day.
“Hey,” I said, taking the chair next to her and nudging her foot with mine.
“Hmm?”
“I’m the first to admit that family doesn’t have anything to do with blood. You can build your own. Choose your own.”
She smiled a little sadly. “I’ve got Jane. And Cam and Daisy and Luna,” she agreed. “But…”
It hung there in the air between us as we watched the sun slip behind the skyline of the city we both loved.
The string lights came on above us.
“Do you want a family?” I asked her.
She sipped thoughtfully and put the glass down on the table in front of us. “Do you want the answer I give my mother or the real answer?”
“What do you think?”
“Flawless is my family,” she said finally. “I was never the little girl swooning over wedding dresses or carrying around baby dolls. I was the kid with the microscope and the college junior excited to spend a Saturday in the lab.”
“Do you regret that?” I pressed.
She wrinkled her nose as she mulled over the question. “No. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t want a collection of people that I love in a home I built for them on Christmas morning. Or that a tiny portion of me feels like I might be missing out. I love kids. I really do,” she insisted.
“You don’t have to convince me. I saw you enthrall fifteen twelve-year-olds by setting fire to a water jug. You love kids. You love science.”
“I’ve been so focused on my empire that I’ve neglected to put any work into relationships. I’m not a good daughter or friend. I’m busy and distracted. I fear I’d take the same approach to marriage and motherhood. Now that there’s a possibility that I could lose what I’ve built…” She sighed. “I guess I’m just realizing that I don’t have anything else. And yes. I know exactly how that sounds from someone with my financial portfolio. Woe is me.”
It was the most honesty I’d gotten out of her in one shot.
“Money doesn’t buy happiness,” I reminded her, fighting the urge to touch her. Any small stimulus might cut off the flow of truth.
“Everyone says that, but few people really get it. Money can buy security. But it’s not going to deliver love.”
“I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that you’re in control,” I said. “You call the shots. You make the decisions. If you want to veer off course, then veer off course. Especially if it’s in my direction.”
“I’m not good at dividing my focus, Derek,” she said, eyeing me. “That’s something we should probably discuss.”
“Ms. Stanton, you aren’t trying to have a ‘where is this going’ conversation with me, are you?” I asked, feigning horror.
She laughed. “I’m trying to have a ‘manage your expectations’ conversation with you.”
I took her hand. “Come here,” I said.
Reluctantly, she rose. I settled her into my lap and wrapped my arms around her. Finally. Touching her, holding her like this slowed everything down. Made everything make sense.
“I just don’t want you to think that I’m magically going to change and become—”
“What? A girlfriend?”
She shrugged. “You know better than anyone how busy I am. If you do win our little wager and the IPO goes through, it’s not going to slow down. If anything, I’ll be even busier. I’ll have shareholders to answer to. Not to mention the forest-slaughtering paperwork required for public companies. I’m going to have to give up my Wednesday nights,” she said wistfully.
“Is it what you want?” I asked neutrally.
“It’s what I’ve been working toward.”
And we were back to the non-answers.
I changed tactics. “Knowing what I know about you, Emily Stanton, I’m surprised you’re taking Flawless public.”
“That’s an indirect way of calling me a control freak.” She laughed.
“There’s nothing wrong with being a control freak. I find it rather attractive,” I said, brushing my mouth over the top of her head.
“You find just about everything attractive.”
“It’s not my fault you make everything sexy,” I teased. She snuggled closer, and I savored the moment. Terrifying boss Emily was alluring. Competent CEO Emily was cha
rming. Giddy-in-the-lab Emily was delightful. But this softer side was something entirely different. I was powerless against vulnerable Emily.
“What do you really want, Emily?” I asked quietly.
She burrowed her face in my neck, and I felt her lips on me. “You. Now.”
I wanted a bigger picture. I wanted her to step back and really look at the life she was building. To decide if that’s what she wanted or if there was something else. Something more. Something different.
But then she was scraping her teeth over my jaw, and I was going hard.
“You didn’t show me the bedroom yet,” she whispered.
“Let’s rectify that,” I said, standing with her in my arms.
36
Emily
“Billionaire breaks internet with sassy new cut”
“Salons city-wide report flood of requests for the Emily cut”
“Hotter before or after? Emily Stanton’s aggressive haircut”
I was off my game today. I’d accidentally spent the night at Derek’s after a few hours of leisurely yet mind-blowing lovemaking. The man was a sex god, and he was at my beck and call. I’d overindulged, woken up twined around him like a vine, and had to do a mad scramble home to shower and change.
Things had changed this weekend. Gears had shifted. I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what had happened, but I felt vaguely anxious and excited.
I blamed it on being too late for coffee. I stormed the offices of Flawless like a warrior charging the enemy. Jane trotted on my heels to keep up.
Derek was at his office, taking care of someone else’s crisis for once. And I was going to take advantage of the babysitter-free time to get some of my actual work done.
“Rosario, can you have two double espressos sent up to my office?” I asked on my way past the front desk.
