by Eden Rayna
As soon as she hears the door latching in place, as predicted, she’s gone. What I don’t see coming is the void that’s left behind. As if I’m stuck in a vacuum, the air from her draft pulls me, imploring me to follow her, leading me to the base of the stairs.
What would I say if I followed her? Thank you for last night? I won’t let any rumours fly about what Brett saw?
I release the banister. “Advil’s in the medicine cabinet.”
I go about my normal morning routine by making coffee and checking my email. It’s easier than putting effort into ignoring what happened between us. I sure as hell did enough of that while she slept, snoring lightly against my shoulder on the couch where we both passed out, exhausted from dropping the weapons. Using me as a pillow while I used her as a blanket.
At some point in the early morning, the realisation hit that I can’t be angry with her anymore. I can’t blame her for refusing to sell the house to me. I can’t hold a grudge against a person who’s trying as hard as I am to hold on to the past.
I slid my way out from under her warm body and went upstairs to get work done, patching nail holes as silently as possible, letting her sleep off the drink and the disclosures. If I had known that Brett was going to come by today, I would have woken her and given her the opportunity to leave. I would have saved her the embarrassment of having to defend her honour to least honourable amongst us. It was a relief to have the walls come down between Princess and me last night; I don’t want the stress of worrying about what the guys think of her to build a fresh layer of tension.
Footsteps echo in the stairwell and I place my mug on the counter, freeing my hands for whatever she chooses. Another hug, perhaps. I wouldn’t refuse her arms wrapped around me again.
My mug lands beside her pile of quotes and I remember that last night’s heart-to-heart isn’t the only elephant in the room. They stare at me like test results I wasn’t supposed to see. Izzy eyes me warily, questioning if I read them, then slides them off the edge of the counter and huddles them close to her chest, safeguarding the information like a newborn baby.
I might be ruthless in business, but I stick to my word. I said I’d be a gentleman and I hope I proved that.
“Are you okay?” I ask. Brett storming in while Princess was asleep must have been heart-stopping.
“Fine,” she says in a flat voice, as if my concern is unnecessary. As if she’s forgotten how I understand that level of fear.
She looks surprisingly refreshed given that she spent the night on the couch and was woken with a fright. Her face is freshly washed, and her hair is swept into a messy bun high on her head. She put her earrings in that dangle down her long neck, and if hadn’t seen her in the same outfit yesterday, I would think that she grabbed those clothes out of the closet. As if her things belong in there mixed in with mine. Like this is a normal morning.
My pulse stutters in my neck.
“I was going to say we should keep last night to ourselves, but,” tilting her head toward the front door, she continues, “it’s too late for that.”
Her features are so perfectly neutral, totally unreadable. It’s like she took a page from my book of ambivalence. Like we switched places.
“Kelsey is going to ask me where I slept. What should I tell her?”
“What would you have told her if Brett hadn’t walked in?”
“That I got in late last night then had an early meeting this morning.” The lie rolls off her lips like she’s been thinking her way out of this situation for some time. Thinking long enough to perfect the mask she wears to hide her normally emotive features.
“Why not tell her the truth?” I ask, puzzled that she would want to invent a lie. I’m not the most forthcoming guy, but I’m not a liar.
“You’re okay with me telling her about your mom?” Her eyebrows rise to her hairline.
I didn’t explicitly state that our conversation should stay between us, but I told her things in confidence, and she knows that. I give her an equally defiant look, serving as my response. Princess would never tell my secret. She’s too kind-hearted.
“There’s a difference between honesty and privacy.” I sip my coffee, watching her above the rim of my mug. “Tell her whatever you want.”
Would it be so horrible for Kelsey to know that she spent the night here? Am I such a monster that she’d rather lie than divulge that we finally broke the ice?
Our power struggle is off kilter, as in there’s no struggle at all anymore. Or maybe . . . she holds all the power. Princess talks with assurance and walks with a swagger like she has nothing to worry about today. Like she doesn’t care. Whereas I’m left tiptoeing on shards of glass, cautious of where I place each foot.
She strides towards the exit, and I let her leave to where she’ll order an Uber and get in a car with a stranger. I don’t stop her to offer the ride home I promised last night, and she doesn’t question my silence.
Neither of us says goodbye, nor does she acknowledge Brett as she rushes past him. She slips out of the house as if hoping to leave any memory of last night behind in these walls that will soon be painted over.
Brett’s right foot isn’t across the threshold before the questions start. “It was good, right? Those legs—”
“Cut it.” His words alone are enough; the addition of the smirk makes me snap.
Brett opens his mouth to say something more, but my fist crashing against his jaw stops him. Pain shoots through my hand and into my wrist. I better not have fucked it up so that I won’t be able to work today. I need to work today. I need the loud noise of a saw to drown out my thoughts.
“Dammit, Brett!” I yell in his face. His groaning barely overshadows my heavy breathing.
I storm out the back door to cool off, slamming the door behind me in my wake. I’ve never hit a friend before. I’ve never let a woman get between me and my friends, either.
I brace against my knees, taking giant gulps of air to force the bile down my throat. Then I inhale several more to stop my body from vibrating. It’s several minutes before I can breathe without my nostrils flaring, and several minutes more before I head inside. Brett is perched against the counter, pressing a towel full of ice against his jaw.
I meet him on the other side of the counter. “Sorry.”
“Me too.”
I stick my hand out for him to shake. He grasps it tighter than necessary, making me wince. I take it without complaint. We give a single pump, sealing the apology, then I snag the ice from him and settle it on my knuckles.
“You like her?” he asks.
She makes me angrier than Brett does on his worst day, but the thought of not experiencing it anymore makes my chest hurt more than the throb in my fist.
“She has a boyfriend.” My jaw tightens around the words. It’s an excuse. A justification for letting her walk away without saying something.
“You told her? About your mom?”
I nod.
“Good for you, man. You’ve needed to tell someone for a long time.”
I’ve always accepted the semi-solitary life that I created for myself. It gives me a sense of control over situations that I have no handle on. The fewer people I let in, the fewer people I have to consult on my decisions. Things like taking Pops from his home and putting him in assisted living, inking my body, leaving work early to spend time with my one living relative. Now I have to adjust. I have to create a new sense of belonging with myself because someone else knows my story. Someone else is curious about why I do certain things.
Someone else has the power to make me act differently.
Chapter 25
Izzy
Kelsey is sitting on my bed, legs crossed, pillow in her lap, like we used to when we were young and having sleepovers. I’m folding my laundry and sliding it into drawers while she tries, once again, to convince me it’s a terrible idea.
“Iz, I promise the money won’t get in the way of our friendship. I’ll sign a contract about it.”
I laugh at her. “You can’t sign a contract about emotions.”
“What’s a prenup if not a contract on exactly that?”
Good point. But I’m staying strong.
“You say you’re fine with it now, but that doesn’t mean you’ll be fine with it in three years. What if you want to use the money for something and I’ve got it all tied up and simply can’t repay you?”
“I can be patient. Anything I want will simply have to wait.” She says it as if that possibility couldn’t materialise. “Nothing I hypothetically want to buy could be more important than your reasons for keeping the house.”
This is why Kelsey is my best friend. While she’d never admit it to my face, she thought my plan to renovate Gran’s home was insane from day one, and she still supported me through every step of the process.
I tuck my last shirt away and sit on the bed beside her, tucking a leg under my thigh. I take both her warm hands in mine and stare at them because I’m already cracking, and I don’t want this conversation to end in tears. I’ve already cried enough to fill the entire city reservoir.
“I’ve made up my mind, Kelse. I’ll find somewhere else to live and make wherever that is something Gran would be proud of.” My bottom lip trembles and Kelsey shakes my hands in hers, trying to shake some sense into me.
It’s settled, and no amount of hand or head shaking will deter me. I’m going to sell Gran’s house to Owen. I can’t afford to fix it. There are too many issues with it to finish it properly and it has to be done right or not at all.
This wasn’t a split-second call I made in the wake of my tête-à-tête with Owen. My decision came with agony. The hangovers from the process were no better. Each list of pros and cons was accompanied by tankers full of wine and at least a box of tissue, leaving me tapped out. I have no more reasons to list. No more excuses to make.
I can’t do this job.
The absurd thing about this situation is that deciding to sell wasn’t the hardest part. It’s selling to Owen that has me twisted.
I wish I could feel sympathy for the little boy underneath all that muscle and silence. For the child who lost his mother and the adult who loses his father day after day. But I can’t. There’s no denying he has always been the enemy. Now, he’s the two-faced enemy. He struggles so hard to keep a grasp on the fleeting memories of his own family when, at the same time, he’s fine demolishing mine.
I was right to question his motives before revealing a piece of myself to him. He set me up. He got me to tell him something personal, then he spun things by pulling me in with his own tragic story. He aimed to cripple my decision-making skills by playing to my emotional side. He goaded me into replaying every interaction we’ve had and look at them from a different perspective.
It worked.
It worked so well that, even knowing it was a ploy, I don’t regret wrapping my arms around him. He did that for me in my times of need, and I was grateful to do the same for him. And I liked touching him. I liked pressing myself into his embrace and soaking in as much of his highly guarded affection as he would give. I liked that he accepted it and held me against him, asking for more, which I gave willingly. But unlike Owen, who can dissociate from a situation the moment it’s over, I can’t disconnect that easily. I can’t forget that I told him about my parents. I can’t undo showing him my weakness.
All I can do is play into it like Owen would. I’ve known his weakness all along, but I was too nice to cash in on it.
I’m done being nice.
He’ll pay top dollar for my house. He’ll buy my exit and by extension, buy his goal.
My conscience is at ease because Gran’s ire towards Black Ladder wasn’t fair. Iain didn’t harass her on purpose, and Owen didn’t let it happen unchecked. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt that, had Owen known, he would have put a stop to it immediately. I have to take solace in that.
My emotions have been set aside and, like him, this is purely a business decision. I’ll sell to Black Ladder for the last price they offered Gran and let Owen build a spectacular home for another family to enjoy generations of memories in. Maybe when it’s all done, and I’ve put some space between this moment and the outcome, I’ll be able to set my mind at rest knowing that he injected the same effort into that project as he does with them all. It won’t be nearly as spectacular as what I had planned, but beggars can’t be choosers.
“Do you want me to go with you?” Kelsey asks.
I wag my head because my throat is too tight to say the single word no. I need to finish this on my own. I need to show the Black Ladder team that selling is my decision and not the result of Owen’s antics. If I go in there with Kelsey, I’ll look like I need backup, a crutch.
“I made an appointment to see Brett at his office.”
I drew up the contract this morning, pulling a standard form from the real estate board’s website. I’m sure I did everything right, but Brett will probably look it over anyway to be sure. At least I hope he does. There’s got to be a reason beyond his glowing personality why Owen keeps him in his circle of friends.
“It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes,” I say. I assume Owen won’t hesitate taking the offer.
“You think Brett isn’t going to tell Owen that you’re on your way?”
A conniving smile forms on my face. “I didn’t give him my real name.” Kelsey raises her eyebrows, wanting to know who’s name I used. “Elle Sinclair.” I’m laughing before the last syllable is out.
Kelsey scrunches her face in disbelief. “You mean the CEO of Landmark Asset Management? The one who hosts her own TV show where she gives away buckets of money to start-ups?” I nod through her statements as my grin grows larger and larger. Elle Sinclair holds celebrity status amongst entrepreneurs, real estate brokers, and business-minded people in the city. Hell, anyone who watches TV knows her name.
Kelsey cackles. “I bet Brett is shitting his pants right now, running around like a circus monkey getting his office in order.”
That’s what I wanted. I need him to feel discomfort for the way he greeted me the other day at Owen’s place, for the assumptions he made, and for the way he acts in general.
I slap my thighs, telling Kelsey it’s time to get on with it and, ultimately, our lives. We both stand and she wraps me in a huge hug, swaying me in her I-go-to-the-gym-everyday tight grip.
“It’s better like this, Kelse. Less stress to be perfect.” If I keep telling myself this, one time the words leaving my mouth it will feel true.
I ARRIVE AT BRETT’S office dressed unprofessionally in jeans and a long sleeve shirt. I’d normally attend a business meeting in nicer attire, but I’m going to head to Gran’s right after and say my goodbyes, so it’s appropriate. The receptionist greets me and I announce that I’m here, as Elle, to meet with Brett. There’s no way Elle would ever wear steel-toed boots to a meeting, but the receptionist doesn’t question it. Apparently, she’s the one person in the city who doesn’t watch TV and has no idea who Elle really is. She leads me into Brett’s office and tells me he’ll be a minute.
A fresh vase of flowers sits on his immaculate glass desk. It’s a smart touch; he chose a bouquet whose smell wouldn’t overpower his small space. These minor details make designers prefer working with certain realtors. These are also the things that clients notice, although likely on a subconscious level, and make them want to buy a house. I lean forward and inhale their delicate scent, simultaneously planting my freshly lotioned palms flat on the desk’s spotless glass surface to leave my fingerprints. I never said I was above being petty.
Brett owns a boutique real estate agency with about ten agents. The space is ultra-modern and separated by a lot of glass walls, which means he can see me sitting at his desk, and I can see him, red-faced talking to his receptionist wondering why someone other than Elle Sinclair is at his desk.
I spin my chair and cross my legs, bouncing my top leg vexingly while watching him through the layers of gl
ass walls. I give him a cheeky wave. Brett’s shoulders drop with a jerk from their agitated position by his ears and he waves off the receptionist. He checks to make sure the button on his bespoke suit is done up while he walks towards me, likely chanting some kind of sales mantra to himself.
Striding into his executive office with all the bravado in the world, as if I didn’t watch him lose his shit a second ago, he sweeps himself around his desk and drops into the executive chair while simultaneously undoing the button he recently fastened. Brett props his elbows on his armrests and steeples his fingers.
“Isabella, this is a surprise.”
I’m disappointed that he doesn’t call me out on my prank. I’d like the slightest fight before we start this process. Even Owen, the man of few words, would have at least grunted in recognition of the effort I made, telling me it was a waste of my energy.
“Brett.” I acknowledge his presence before leaning to the side and pulling the file out of my briefcase. I place it on the desk in front of me and suck in a deep breath before I hand it to him. This is my last chance to back out. I clear my throat and slide the papers his way. “I have an offer for Black Ladder Developments.”
“You’re putting in an offer on the duplex next-door to yours?” he asks, assuming he’s making a sale without having to work for it.
I don’t answer. Instead, I let him read what I put down. In a legal document. Signed. In pen as much as in blood.
My heart is racing so fast I’m surprised it’s doing what it’s supposed to be doing right now, namely, keeping me conscious.
Brett reads the first page quickly and quietly, then he looks at me, questioning my intentions.
“Is this real?”
Does he think I don’t have better things to do with my time than hang out with him? His arrogance is limitless.
His head twitches. “I don’t know, Elle Sinclair.” He lets the name hang for a moment. “It seems kinda schemy to me.”
I brush invisible dirt off my thighs. “If I had made an appointment under my name, I couldn’t be sure that you’d be here alone.” I point towards the papers. “Did I do everything right? Will you present my offer?”