by JC Harroway
Her stare washes over me, hot and desirous. ‘You’re just so...neat and poised and ruthless. You need only compare our offices to see who loves minimalism and who thrives on organised chaos. I guess I assumed you must have always been that way.’
We share a smile that feels good: a ceasefire of sorts that began when she sent me that seemingly inconsequential text earlier. It contained nothing that couldn’t have waited until the morning. It made me think that she wanted to see me, which was convenient because I’d wanted to see her.
‘You’re right—I wasn’t much of a rebel.’ I grew up showing absolute compliance with Marcus’s rules. For the few short years that he lived with us, Josh seemed to take delight in feeding Marcus ammunition. I’d hoped having an older brother meant I’d gain a protector and mentor and, in the beginning, Mom encouraged the three of us to take boys outings in order to bond. I’d hated them. Marcus acted inconvenienced and Josh resentful. My stepbrother took every opportunity to try to divide our blended family—telling tales, siding with Marcus and being two-faced in front of Mom so I appeared bratty.
I learned to toe the line. Otherwise Marcus made me pay in a million little ways that added up to the mother of all retributions—withholding my allowance, grounding me, and worst of all taking away my car keys and my means of escape.
If those measures failed to bring me begging for his forgiveness, he’d take it out on Mom, forcing me to live with the guilt of causing the arguments and mind games that happened behind closed doors but still managed to infect the entire house with a bad atmosphere. As far as I’m aware, he never laid a finger on her. He didn’t need to; his emotional manipulations were ten times worse than any physical threat. They ate away at your brain, your self-esteem and optimism, until it was easier to cave and kowtow to his authority.
‘My stepfather was a tyrant, ’ I say. ‘The only time I could relax was when he was away on business.’ Mom and I smiled and laughed more during his trips to Chicago, his home city.
‘The weekend in question, my mother and stepfather were away at a wedding.’ I return to the subject of eating in bed and teenage rebellion to keep things light between us, because they’re complicated enough. When I’m with her I feel conflicted. I’m enthralled by her dry sense of humour, her love of our city, how we have opposite ideas on almost every subject but still manage to find common ground. Spending time with her, I see her sharp mind. Her compassion and loyalty. Her gutsy determination. Not to mention the frenzy of insatiable need to embrace our physical side again and again and again.
‘I had the house to myself.’ I stare straight ahead, swallowing down the bitter taste in my throat. Marcus’s home never felt like my home, even though Mom had pooled her resources with his after my father’s death to purchase the townhouse.
‘So there was no one to tell me I couldn’t eat French fries in bed.’ I try to offer my charming smile so she doesn’t think I’m a slob, but bad memories tighten my chest.
Why did I even raise the subject?
Because you feel closer to her.
Maybe, but closeness isn’t trust.
I clear my throat. ‘I invited a few friends over to play video games and hang out—all perfectly harmless teenage stuff. Hardly rebellion at all, really.’ I remember how uplifted I’d felt once free of his constant criticism.
Your grades aren’t as good as Josh’s were...
Your mother will be so disappointed in your insolent behaviour...
Your father must have been too soft on you...
And hardly worth it once Marcus found an empty soda can under the table on his return and accused me of having a wild party. In her quiet way Mom jumped to my defence, which led to a massive argument. He’d laid into her, right in front of me, accusing her of mollycoddling me and defying his attempts to offer some male stability and discipline. He had a bully’s knack of making you feel guilty while making himself the victim.
That was the first time I left home. I crashed with a friend for a week until I realised I’d outstayed my welcome and was forced to return to Marcus’s home. An apology for something I hadn’t done had been the price of my re-entry.
But I did it for Mom.
Hiding my most unattractive side from Ava, who I can’t seem to keep my hands off, I paste on a grin and use the pad of my thumb to wipe a crumb from the corner of her mouth.
‘Thanks,’ she says, her eyes wide, hesitant and bewildered at the intimacy of my gesture. Her reaction slides sandpaper under my skin—the burning itch of shame.
‘You’re welcome.’ Yes, I felt initially manipulated by her attempts to attract my attention, but we’ve played equal parts in seducing each other since. I respect her as a person and a businesswoman. She’s kept Hamilton’s afloat during some trying times in a competitive marketplace. She has a good insight into the current challenges faced by the business and creative ideas for improvement. She’s intelligent, lateral-thinking and dynamic—exactly the kind of person I’d employ at Bold, if we’d met under different circumstances.
You only want her for sex.
I can’t be sentimental—Hamilton’s has to be part of my plan for Brent’s because it was the one thing Marcus wanted but failed to acquire. The minute I escaped his influence, I vowed that I’d never again concede to him. That I’d make something of myself and always protect my mother. That at every opportunity, I’d prove I’m not defined by his poor opinions of me, despite hearing the echo of his words in my mind.
Brent’s has been a thorn in my flesh ever since Marcus died suddenly from a heart attack. I couldn’t exact my revenge while he was alive, and now that Josh is sniffing around, I want the company out of my sight, out of my mind and out of Mom’s, for good.
Aware I’ve fallen silent, I scrub my hand over my face, shoving thoughts of Marcus aside. ‘What about you—any acts of teenage rebellion? I see you have a tattoo.’
She turns over her hand and glances at the artistic sunflower on the inside of her wrist.
‘That’s more an act of remembrance.’ Her soft smile is bittersweet. ‘It was my parents favourite flower and the name of their restaurant. Girasole. Sunflower in Italian.’
She traces the design with her fingertip. ‘I got this shortly after they died, with my grandparents’ permission of course, because I was only fifteen. I was too respectful of my Nonna and Pops for rebellion and too grateful that they’d taken me in.’
‘Was your parents’ restaurant like Gianni’s?’
She nods. ‘Perhaps even better.’ Her eyes glaze over with fond remembrance. ‘Mom learned to cook from Nonna, who learned from her mother. Before they had me, my parents spent two years in Italy, travelling the different regions, studying cookery, learning handed-down recipes from the locals. The restaurant was their passion.’ Her face lights up—animated and breathtaking—shifting something in me.
I haven’t seen this passion from her for logistics.
‘You never considered following your parents into the restaurant industry?’ She came alive at Gianni’s after sampling the menu, and when he invited her to call on him for advice she looked as if she was about to hug him to death.
Her happiness isn’t your concern.
I’m not seeking a relationship out of this. I’m just working the hot sex out of my system. I’ve had my shot at commitment. Failure doesn’t sit well with me, and I taste it every time I see or speak to Monroe. No, casual works for me. It feeds my need for success. No reminders and no snide voice in my head.
Her skin pales. ‘I was only a kid when they died,’ she says. ‘Nonna and Pops were too old to run both the restaurant and Hamilton’s and they couldn’t afford to keep it, so it had to be sold.’
Curiosity unfurls in my stomach. ‘Is it still there under different owners?’
She shakes her head. ‘No. It’s a dry-cleaning business. I haven’t been back to that neighbourhood in years.’ She looks dow
n at her unfinished food and then places the tray aside. ‘Too many memories.’
I nod. ‘I understand that—I steer clear of my father’s precinct.’ I don’t know why I’m telling her this apart from a desire to find more common ground.
‘Your dad was a police officer?’
I nod, taking my own trip down memory lane, wondering how different my childhood could have been with my family intact and a father figure who loved me unconditionally, encouraged my every effort and praised my achievements unreservedly. A man who loved and protected my mother, so I didn’t have to worry that she was happy and safe.
‘How did your parents die?’ How would it feel to be so alone? To lose both your parents at such a vulnerable age?
I feel wholly responsible for the anguish in Ava’s stunning eyes. I want to tear out my tongue for asking such a dumb and deeply personal question. But there’s been some subtle shift between us. Perhaps being out of our usual environments has forced us to re-examine each other. I’m witnessing a passionate, intelligent woman who’s lost so much in her life but soldiers on regardless.
I take her hand, hoping to undo some of the damage wrought by my need to pry and understand her.
‘They were killed in a car accident coming home from work one night,’ she says. ‘A drunk driver fell asleep at the wheel of a racy little convertible like yours and ploughed into them, head-on. They both died instantly.’ She recites the tale in a flat voice as if she’s practised the painful words out loud a hundred times. Yet she can’t hide their impact—her hand trembles in mine.
‘Fuck,’ I mutter under my breath, gripping her fingers tighter. ‘I’m so sorry.’
She shakes her head; she doesn’t want sympathy.
Frustration knots my muscles until I could snap in two. ‘I feel like an insensitive idiot for making a big deal about my car.’
‘You weren’t to know,’ she says.
For the first time since I walked into Hamilton’s offices and stated my intentions to sell off her inheritance, her stare softens with something close to affection and acceptance. It’s as if I’m made of glass and she can see straight through me—a feeling I want to shake off with more sex.
I’ve been blinded by my rage over Marcus’s reach from the grave and I haven’t paid enough attention the way I normally would with a woman this consuming.
Has there ever been a woman this consuming?
No. I can’t afford for her to be all-consuming. I can’t afford to become sidetracked from the merger, from finally ridding myself of any trace of the man who tormented my childhood. For the first time, I look past her beauty and her grit and her pain, take a closer look at Ava’s motivations for turning up to the Bold office party. What if she feels like Hamilton’s is all she has left of her loved ones? That would explain any amount of ruthlessness to claim the company back. I’d go to any lengths to protect what’s mine—Mom, Monroe and Hudson, Bold.
I’ve been too caught up in how Josh’s aggressive interest in his father’s company made me feel weak again. Too off-balance by meeting Ava because the powerlessness I feel for her physically reminds me of the same emotions I felt under Marcus’s rule and also towards the end of my marriage.
Well, fuck that—I refuse to give Marcus any more power.
I drag our still joined hands into my lap, stroking the backs of her knuckles with my thumb.
‘Is that why you don’t drive?’ Dumb question.
I try to picture a teenage Ava, try to imagine the devastation of having life as she knew it ripped away in a split second by such a senseless, selfish and unjust act. I remember the shock and confusion of losing my father, but at least I still had Mom’s guiding force and comfort. For the two years when it was just us, we found some sort of new normality and peace.
And then Marcus muscled in. They were already friends and had both lost their spouse—Marcus’s wife died from cancer. I don’t blame my mother for remarrying. Raising a kid alone is no picnic.
Ava offers a small nod. ‘I tried to learn to drive once, but I couldn’t do it. I kept thinking about them, kept seeing imagined flashbacks of the impact.’ She shakes her head as if clearing her mind of horrific images. ‘I didn’t feel safe behind the wheel.’
‘I can understand.’ I make a mental note to drive her in my Audi SUV from now on, which is fully electric and has the highest safety ratings possible. The assertion that there will be more opportunities to drive her anywhere shunts my pulse sky-high. Once she’s compiled her report on Brent’s and the merger with Hamilton’s, there’ll be no more reason to see her professionally.
She half smiles, half frowns. Something about her expression, her past and her obvious loneliness, prompts a confession of my own.
I trace her tattoo with the tip of my finger. ‘I’m kind of a bit of a motor head. Learning to drive saved me as a teenager.’
Ava’s frown morphs into curiosity so I plough on.
‘As a cop, my dad saw a lot of human catastrophe. I guess that’s why he set up a trust for me with the money he inherited from his parents. The initial payment was when I was sixteen—for the purchase of my first car.’
This time her smile is tinged with indulgence that warms me. ‘So how did it save you?’
Why am I telling her this? I normally avoid talking about or even thinking about Marcus as if my life depends on it. But a part of me wants her to know I’m not just a revenge-driven, ruthless mercenary.
I’m not perfect, but I’m fair and honest and protect the ones I love.
I drag in a breath and exhale slowly. ‘My stepfather died five months ago, but he and I didn’t get on. He was...controlling. Learning to drive and having my own car gave me independence. I could get away from his influence any time I liked. Without that my teenage years could’ve been much worse.’
I shrug and look away, bitterness a rock in my chest. I want his association with my life over once and for all. Offloading Brent’s in a better condition than he left it will remind me I’m nothing like him and nothing like he predicted I’d become.
We fall into heavy silence. I grow restless to crush her to my chest, kiss her and never let her go. In reality, I should get up. Dress. Leave. What we’re doing isn’t about talking and confiding and knowing each other on an intimate level.
Ava’s next question is almost whispered. ‘Did your mother know that you didn’t get on?’ Her fingers tighten around mine, sending a slug of addictive endorphins through my blood.
I shake my head. ‘I hid the worst of it from her. He was good at hiding it too—clever, subtle, cunning. As I grew older, his constant put-downs and humiliations fell under the guise of the discipline he said was good for me. And he treated Mom the same.’ I scrub a hand over my face. ‘I don’t blame her for wanting me to have a father figure. On the surface Marcus was a respectable man—a widower with a grown-up son and a business.’ His first wife knew my father from school, so the couples became friends after the Brents moved back to New York—an emotional connection Marcus played on after my father died.
‘He sounds like a terrible human being.’ Her lips press into a furious line. ‘I’m sorry you went through that. Being a teenager is difficult enough without constant criticism.’
I flash my confident smile. I have amounted to something. With the exception of my failed marriage to Monroe, I’ve proved Marcus wrong on every other count. Just as I will with Brent’s.
Good business is about integrity and understanding people—not just bulldozing and bullying your way through life.
‘Don’t be sorry,’ I say with renewed determination to finally offload the last of Marcus’s legacy and lay his ghost to rest. ‘I escaped Marcus Brent’s influence a long time ago.’
A groove forms between Ava’s eyebrows. ‘Brent?’ Understanding begins to dawn in her eyes.
Damn—I’d previously left out that part of the story.
Time to confess all of the truth. ‘Yes. The facility you visited today was once my stepfather’s company.’
Something close to disappointment shifts in her stare. ‘You bought Brent’s Express from your stepfather?’
I nod. ‘For a song—he was desperate to sell quickly so he could retire. He even cut out his son, Josh. If you think I’m ruthless, you should’ve known Marcus.’
Her hand stiffens in mine, but I continue.
‘I’m just glad he didn’t manage to steal Hamilton’s away from your grandparents and that when they wanted to sell some equity, they came to me.’
My gut tightens at the remembered calls from Josh earlier. Someone at Brent’s is feeding my stepbrother information. I suspect it’s Marcus’s assistant, who still runs the office. That’s the only explanation for Josh’s series of urgent calls. After the first one I ignored the rest. I know what he wants: for me to bail out Brent’s financially and hand him over the company he thinks is his birthright. A company not even his own father saw fit to leave him when he sold out to Bold.
Marcus was likely as shitty a father as he was a stepfather, so I understand Josh’s resentment. Not that he ever sided with me over Marcus.
Ava’s teeth sink into her bottom lip and she seems to contemplate her next words. Tension shifts through me, a cold sense of foreboding.
‘So Hamilton’s is more than just another logistics company—you wanted it because your stepfather wanted it?’
‘Yes.’
‘I see...’ She frowns. ‘I think I’m beginning to understand now. Brent’s is in pretty bad shape. It shows signs of chronic under-investment and lack of passion at the helm.’ When she looks back at me I see a hint of the same condemnation I saw when I first told her about my plans for Hamilton’s.
Her eyes grow wary. She slips her hand from mine and pushes her hair back from her face. ‘I wish I’d been party to all of the information before I visited today. But now I see how the merger is primarily about proving something to your stepfather.’
I bristle. ‘You knew all you needed to know to complete your report.’ It’s complex. She doesn’t get me. Doesn’t see how I’m trying to create something good out of these failing companies while making a positive change in my life, too. Brent’s has already benefited from my investment and invaluable attention.