My father could be firm and stern when needed, but he was always fair and took the time to hear people out. One thing I can say is that he engendered the loyalty of his employees in a way I haven’t quite managed yet. I mean, most of the employees like me well enough, but everybody from the janitorial crew to the team leads to the executive staff all adored my father. If he’d asked, they would have run through a wall for him without a moment’s hesitation. And I don’t get the sense I inspire that depth of loyalty from them.
It’s something I’ve spoken with my dad about before, and he assures me it’s something that will come in time. I argued that leaving the senior staff in place and not letting me bring my own people in was effectively cutting me off at the knees. It was ensuring there would always be a barrier or a disconnect between me and those in the executive staff simply by virtue of the fact that I’m not him. These people don’t know me, and some of them resent me because they feel I’ve been handed the reins of the company for no other reason than my last name. I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that Curtis feels that way.
I’ll never get credit from some of them – maybe even most of them – for all of the hard work I’ve put in. I went to school and earned my degrees – just as they did. My father didn’t do me any favors either, making me earn everything I have. He didn’t just hand me the keys to the kingdom. When he sent me out here to Vegas to be groomed, I started at the bottom and had to earn my way up.
When I first started, I was running mail and fetching coffee for some of the same executive staff who now sneer down their noses at me. I worked as a project assistant. A junior designer. A senior designer and then a team lead. I worked as hard, if not harder than some of the people my father had me retain. And yet, they all seem to have forgotten that I was given nothing and worked for everything. Somewhere along the line, the narrative became that I’m at the top of the food chain for no other reason than I am my father’s son.
In most ways, I’m glad my dad put me through my paces and didn’t just hand me the keys to the kingdom. It gave me some much-needed perspective and kept me humble – two things I’m sure he intended. It made me appreciate the hard work everybody does and made me appreciate my own position within the hierarchy. It made me see that I can only be successful with a solid supporting cast around me. It made me realize success is not a matter of me sitting in my big office issuing commands but rather a matter of working with everybody to ensure the work gets done and done well.
I’ve been here for about a decade, and some of these people still see me as an outsider. I don’t know how to change that perception. I try to emulate my dad and his management style. But it seems like the more I do, the deeper the resentment runs.
I sigh and take a sip of my coffee as I stand near the edge of the pool, staring out at the basketball court and the desert beyond my back fence. Sometimes being the man at the top of the totem pole sucks.
Turning to walk back inside, I grit my teeth and feel my blood pressure rising. I set my mug down on the patio table with a hard thud and walk over to the fence that separates my property from that of the neighbor. I look down at the hole that’s been dug beneath the fence and let out a frustrated sigh.
“Son of a bitch,” I growl.
I go back inside and grab a couple of plastic bags, cursing under my breath the whole time. I go back out to the side yard and scoop up the three large piles deposited by her dog and drop them by the back door. After washing my hands, I drain my cup of coffee and pour another one. Taking it with me, I go upstairs, shower, and then throw on a pair of jeans, a white button-down shirt, and a pair of work boots.
My blood still boiling like a lava flow, I finish my second cup of coffee, then grab the bag of crap off the back patio. I leave my house and march up the walkway, then bang hard on her front door. I stand and wait for a few moments. When nobody answers, I bang on it again and ring the bell twice for good measure. From inside the house, I hear her dog barking, followed by her muffled voice telling him to be quiet. The door swings open almost violently, and I find myself face to face with my neighbor.
“Looks like your dog had quite the night out,” I growl.
Her eyes narrow, and her jaw clenches. “Why, I have no idea what you mean.”
“I’ve asked you a number of times now to do something to prevent your dog from digging under the fence,” I rail.
“And I did,” she protests angrily.
“Yeah, well, clearly, you didn’t do enough. Because he did it again last night,” I state flatly.
Without giving her a chance to respond, I upend the bag and let the crap fall out. It hits the tile just inside her doorway with a wet splatter that makes her dance back a few steps, a look of absolute horror on her face.
“You asshole!” she shrieks.
“Just returning what belongs to you,” I hiss. “And don’t you dare try to blame this on the other dogs in the neighborhood or goddamn coyotes.”
She looks to be on the verge of slamming the door on my face, but at the last second realizes that if she slams the door, it’s just going to make the mess I dropped in her doorway even worse. She sneers, and the expression on her face is one of pure murderous rage. I feel the corners of my mouth being tugged upward in a malicious grin.
“I demand you clean this mess up immediately!” she shouts.
“Yeah, go ahead and hold your breath and wait for that to happen.”
I’m about to turn and leave when movement on the staircase behind her draws my attention. When I glance up, my heart feels like it’s stopped dead in my chest, and I suddenly find it almost impossible to breathe. I blink hard and look again, positive I’m not seeing correctly.
“No way,” I whisper.
“What did you say?” she rages.
I say nothing, unable to tear my attention from the woman on the stairs behind her. Even dressed in boxer shorts and a t-shirt, and her hair tousled as if she’d just gotten out of bed, I would recognize her anywhere. She stands just three stairs from the bottom, her eyes wider than dinner plates and fixed on me.
“Chloe?” I ask.
My neighbor turns and looks at Chloe, then turns back to me, the questions dancing in her eyes. She turns back to Chloe again.
“Sweetie, do you know my asshole neighbor?”
Her eyes are still riveted to mine, and her mouth has formed a perfect circle. Chloe’s cheeks flush as red as I ever remember seeing them. At that moment, I make the connection I should have made before. The woman in the floppy hat and yellow bikini out by the pool I saw from my window – it was Chloe. Of course it was.
Even though I couldn’t see the woman’s face, I should have known. In the eight years or so since I last saw her, Chloe hasn’t changed all that much. I mean, she’s obviously a bit older, but if anything, the years have only served to make her even more beautiful. She’s no longer the college girl I knew all those years ago. No, there is no doubt that Chloe is all woman. She’s filled out in ways that should be illegal, and it’s all I can do to keep my cock from stiffening right then and there. The situation is awkward enough as it is.
“Chloe?” the woman asks again.
Chloe’s attention remains focused on me, and from where I’m standing, it looks like she’s trembling. Slowly, my breath comes back to me and my heart resumes something closer to normal but still accelerated beat.
“Hi Chloe,” I finally manage to croak out. “It’s been a while.”
As if she’s looking at an actual ghost from her past, Chloe suddenly blanches. She turns and flees, bounding up the stairs two at a time. From inside the house, I hear a door slam, and it makes me flinch involuntarily, reminding me of that morning all those years ago.
My irritating, rude neighbor, who I now realize is Chloe’s mother, turns and looks at me, a triumphant sparkle in her eyes.
“You seem to have quite the effect on the ladies,” she gloats.
“Well with a mother like you, I can hardly blame her for having an is
sue or two, now can I?”
The woman’s face darkens, and she sneers at me. “Get the fuck off my property.”
“Just make sure you do something about the fence,” I tell her and gesture to the mess on her entryway floor. “Or you can expect more early morning deliveries.”
“Asshole.”
The slam of her door echoes around the neighborhood, drawing the attention of the man who lives across the street as he was just about to get into his car. I give him a wave as I head down the walkway and back to my own house. I close the door behind me and walk to the kitchen, washing my hands as my mind swirls with a flurry of thought and emotion, part of me still numb with disbelief at seeing Chloe again after all this time.
Although our first meeting since the morning she walked out on me was less auspicious than I would have liked, I can’t quite quash the small ember of hope that smolders inside of me. Despite my best efforts to temper it, there’s a spark I thought long dead that’s been reignited within me.
I stand at the window in my office with my hands in my pockets, overlooking the desert beyond. It’s a harsh and unforgiving landscape filled with scrub brush and jagged stone, but it has a uniquely rugged beauty all its own.
But the truth is I’m not really seeing the landscape stretched out to infinity before me. All I’m seeing is Chloe Dixon’s face. I see her soft, delicate features. Those crystalline blue eyes in her smooth, alabaster colored skin framed by hair blacker than midnight. I see the swell of her breasts straining against the t-shirt she was wearing, the curve of her hips, and those long, toned, tan legs.
All thoughts of Chloe lead me straight back to those two nights of passion we spent together. Those two nights when I thought we forged a real connection. A strong bond. I recall the feel of our lips pressed together and the way her tongue dashed against mine. I remember the way she felt, her delicate scent, and the feel of our bodies crashing together. My skin tingles as I feel her soft, smooth skin sliding along my body and the way it felt to be inside of her.
The avalanche of memories and the ghostly sensations that consume my body like a blazing inferno are overwhelming. I can’t make them stop. They fill me with the most profound sense of lust and longing I’ve ever felt before.
I never expected to see Chloe again, and now that I have, I want to see her again. I’m determined to see her again.
“Hey. You okay?”
Stephen’s voice snaps me out of my reverie. I turn to see him standing behind me, an expression of concern on his face.
“Yeah, I’m good,” I brush him off with a gesture.
“Bullshit,” he responds. “What’s up?”
A wry chuckle bubbles up and out of me. I walk back to my desk and drop down in the chair. Stephen takes the seat across from me and leans back, crossing his ankle over his knee, seemingly content to wait me out.
“Just saw an old ghost this morning, that’s all,” I tell him.
“What’s her name?” he grins.
I pick up a pen and tap it against my desk. “Chloe Dixon.”
He purses his lips and tips his head back, deep in thought. I know he doesn’t know who she is since I’ve never mentioned her to him. There seemed to be little point in telling him, since we had our falling out before I hired him, and I didn’t think I was ever going to see her again. It was just one of those things where I’d been trying to put her out of my mind. The less I brought her up, the better.
“She was before your time,” I tell him.
“Were you two serious?”
I sniff. “Not nearly as serious as I wanted to be.”
Stephen rubs the stubble on his jawline. “Well, maybe this is a chance to correct that.”
“Yeah maybe,” I mutter, wanting to change the subject. “Anyway, what’s up?”
Stephen pauses and considers me for a long moment, obviously picking up on my desire to change the subject. It’s not that I don’t like talking to Stephen. He’s a good friend, and I’ve shared a lot with him over the years. But there are still parts of me I keep in reserve. Parts of me, I only share with guys like Noah. It’s not that I don’t trust Stephen; it’s just that I tend to over-compartmentalize my life.
Different people exist on different levels in my life, and each level corresponds to a certain amount of openness. It’s not something I consciously do – it just happens. I’ve always been this way – not that I see it as a handicap or anything. It’s something I’ve found to be pretty useful. It helps to keep me from making terrible decisions – most of the time at least. People are less apt to disappoint me if I don’t trust them with certain aspects of my world.
“Anyway, I was just coming in here to tell you that Curtis is on a warpath.”
“A warpath?” I chuckle, arching my eyebrow.
Stephen shrugs. “As much of a warpath as he ever gets on anyway,” he laughs. “I saw him crumpling paper and slam dunking it in the trash can.”
“Oh, this is serious, then.”
We laugh together for a moment, but I know I’m going to have to get a handle on the situation. Curtis may never say anything to me when he’s pissed off, but I’ve seen him lash out at his team before. I’d like to head that off before it happens.
I hate dealing with Curtis’ temper tantrums – especially because he never crosses that line that will allow me to fire him. It’s like he knows exactly how far he can go, and he’ll walk right up to the line but never set a toe across it. That doesn’t stop the resentment from building within his team, though, and his micromanagement leads to inefficiency and a poor work product.
I usually hate having to clean up behind the guy, but at least today, it will give me something else to focus all of my energy and attention on other than Chloe. I haven’t even started to unpack all of my thoughts and feelings about her appearing in my life again – and right next door to boot – so the distraction of dealing with Curtis’ petty ass is a welcome one.
“I’ll take care of him,” I tell Stephen.
“Better hurry, he might start stress eating.”
I laugh as Stephen gets up and leaves my office. I turn back to my computer and scan my email, stopping on one from Stephanie down in HR. It’s the candidate files for the junior designer slot on Curtis’ team. I click open the email and scroll through the first half dozen candidates she’s interviewed already. My eyes stop on the seventh candidate, and my breath catches in my throat.
“Son of a bitch,” I murmur to myself.
Chapter Nineteen
Chloe
I should be pissed off at Braxton for dumping that bag of literal crap on the entryway floor. Not only does the house smell horrible, but I’m the one who got stuck cleaning it up. My mother suddenly had an appointment she needed to get to and said the smell was giving her a migraine so she couldn’t do it. Not that I’m entirely surprised by that. My mother has never been one who enjoyed getting her hands dirty.
Her dog – a two-year-old brindle-colored Boxer she named Thaddeus for some unknown and odd reason – sits at the edge of the tile in the entryway looking at me. His tongue lolls out of his mouth, and he cocks his head as if confused by what I’m doing.
“Smell familiar?” I grump at him as I blow a few strands of my hair out of my face. “It should.”
Thaddeus lets out a soft, high pitched whine and keeps looking at me intently. I’m wearing rubber kitchen gloves that come halfway up my arm and have a bucket of hot, soapy water mixed liberally with bleach sitting on the ground next to me. I dunk the sponge and wring it out before scrubbing the tile again. The worst part is scrubbing the grouting between the tiles. It’s gross, and the sting of the bleach is making my eyes water.
I sit back on my butt and let out a long breath, giving my eyes a small break from the assault by the fumes. I turn back to Thaddeus and sigh.
“You really need to stop tunneling under the fence, you know,” I tell him.
He lets out a soft woof but remains where he is. Clearly the fumes are botherin
g him, and he doesn’t want to get any closer but at the same time, doesn’t want to leave and miss out on what I’m doing.
“I know, I know,” I commiserate. “It’s not your fault. Your mom doesn’t pay much attention to you, does she?”
As if he understands what I’m saying, he repeats that soft whine and punctuates it with another soft bark.
I laugh. “Yeah, well, join the club.”
I glance up at the clock on the wall and let out a long breath. I’m supposed to be at my second interview at Voight Designs in forty-five minutes. I nailed the first interview and was immediately asked to come back for another with somebody in the design department. I’ve been riding high on that feeling since then, but the second I saw Braxton standing in my mother’s doorway, I knew I couldn’t go through with it. I knew I had to dump the idea of going back for my second interview.
Seeing Braxton alive and in the flesh is like the worst of my worst-case scenarios playing out in real-time. I’d hoped he was in the New York office and I’d never have to actually see him. Not only is he still in Vegas, but because the gods apparently love tormenting me, he’s somehow living right next door to my mother. It’s yet another case of my horrible luck coming back to bite me in the ass once more.
I look over at Thaddeus. “You ever feel like you’re cursed? Or that the gods hate you?”
The big Boxer woofs as if he understands my pain. I imagine having my mother as an owner probably helps him relate to my current plight.
With the entryway finally clean and stink free, I get to my feet and pick up the bucket. I carry it all out to the backyard and wring out the rag before dumping the water on a patch of grass. That done, I set the bucket back down on the patio, drop the rag and then my gloves into it, and head back into the house. After washing my hands with scalding hot water, I fetch a treat out of the jar on the counter and make a suddenly excited Thaddeus sit down. It’s a Herculean effort for the boy to sit still, his chocolate colored eyes riveted on the meaty treat in my hand.
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