Real Liars

by S. M. West

  Still at Tom’s side, I look on as he tightens his hold and looms in the doorway, staring intensely at my jerk landlord until his car is out of sight.

  “You okay?” He shuts the door behind him and peers down at me.

  “Yeah. Thanks for coming.”

  “Pippa’s texts were all caps and freaked out emojis. I put on my shoes and ran. What the hell happened?”

  Tom rents a house three streets over with a group of friends. We see each other occasionally in the neighborhood and I’ve even dropped in on one of their frequent weekend get-togethers.

  I fill him in on my creepy encounter with my landlord while he downs two bottles of water. “Shit, that’s fucked.”

  “Hopefully he got the message. He can’t come over whenever he wants.” I shudder and his stare hardens, looking at me directly.

  “Paige, he’s bad news. You should start looking for a new place to live.”

  Two

  Zach

  “No, it’s all right. Thanks, Gary. I appreciate the call.” I fall into my leather office chair and close my eyes at another missed opportunity.

  “Mr. Rothwell, do you want me to keep looking?”

  “Yes.” I struggle to keep my frustration in check. “The Azure looked great, had all the specs I wanted. Keep looking and we’ll talk soon.”

  I stiffen, preparing for Gary to push me. This is the second property I’ve passed on without giving him any explanation and he’s busting his ass. If I were him, I’d be pissed and want to know why it looks like I’m wasting his time.

  “All right, will do, Mr. Rothwell. Have a good afternoon, sir.”

  Dropping my mobile on the desk, I stand and pivot to face the floor-to-ceiling windows. Gary’s a good guy and even with all I’m putting him through, he follows my orders and doesn’t challenge me, no matter how frustrating.

  The view of the lake is calming, and the long streaks of glittering sunbeams paint the surface. Today is unseasonably warm for the last day of April and I suddenly wish I was anywhere but here.

  There’s a brief rap on the closed door and I glance over my shoulder to see the very reason why I had to walk away from Gary’s findings. Again.

  “Zachary, do you have a minute?” My grandmother doesn’t wait for a response, coming into my office and shutting the door behind her.

  “Nan, of course.” I step away from the peaceful view, resigned to a day filled with work and meetings.

  Meeting Nan in the middle, I bend to kiss her barely weathered cheek. Her familiar and heartening rose fragrance fills my nostrils.

  “I’m glad I caught you. I’ve called you several times in the past day and you’ve yet to return my messages.”

  At the age of eighty-five, the woman doesn’t look a day over sixty and has the mind of a thirty-year-old. And that’s why I’m still answering to her and not running our real estate empire.

  I no sooner think it than feel like a piece of shit for doing so. When I was thirteen, my parents died in a plane crash and Nanette Rothwell, my father’s mother, stepped in to raise me. She’s the only parental figure I have and one of only two people left in my family.

  “Sorry, I’ve been busy.”

  Busy trying to avoid her because of her meddling in my plans for a new venture. We both know it and fortunately, neither of us is willing to say so.

  She brushes back an imaginary strand of her perfectly coiffed, chin-length silver hair before pausing, making sure she has my undivided attention.

  “I spoke to Gary Williams yesterday.”

  And here we go.

  Gary has been with Rothwell from the second he graduated university, and he’s loyal to me, no question, which means he likely went to bat for me without my knowledge.

  Like most who work for Rothwell, he isn’t a fool and knew, despite what I didn’t say, that Nan was most probably the reason why we backed off the Azure opportunity.

  “Hmm.” I lead her to the small seating area, and we sit side by side on the loveseat.

  “I thought I told you to let your wild idea of purchasing a hotel go?” Her question is rhetorical, and I wait for her to continue. “Yet he tells me you still have him looking for potential properties.”

  I don’t bother to correct her. I’m looking for potential hotel sites—plural. She isn’t on board with the idea of even one let alone a few, and if I had access to my trust, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. I could do this on my own.

  Nan lifts a hand to run her fingertips over the multiple strands of pearls around her neck and straightens her spine. Her steely blue eyes bore into me and she takes my hand in her frail one and squeezes, imploring my further attention.

  “Zachary, give this idea up. We’re into real estate management, equity, and operations for multi-family properties, not in the business of buying and running hotels. And we never will be.”

  She talks as if I’m still a teenager learning the basics of our family-run corporation. The very business her husband, Galen Rothwell, started and built into the multi-billion-dollar empire it is today.

  “It’s hard to give up on something I know would be good for the company. Profitable as well as an exciting opportunity.”

  She tsks, shaking her head. Nan was at the helm of Rothwell Enterprises for thirty-five years. She’s a shrewd businesswoman and when my grandfather, her husband, passed, she naturally stepped in as CEO. But she’s also risk averse. Apart from adding the Rothwell Foundation, she hasn’t diversified or grown what her husband built. My hotel idea would diversify our holdings and provide more areas for growth, as well as be my contribution to the Rothwell legacy, but she won’t even entertain the idea.

  “Please drop this. I’m getting tired of having this discussion.” It isn’t even a discussion. It’s a dictatorship. “On another note, did you sign the papers for the complex in Arizona?”

  To the world, I run our holdings. At thirty-seven, I’m CEO of Rothwell Enterprises and have been for the past five years since the death of my uncle, Bernard Rothwell.

  Nearly twenty-five years ago, around the time my parents were killed, Nan stepped down as CEO, handing things over to her younger son, Bernard. She then started the Rothwell Foundation, privately funded by Rothwell Enterprises and dedicated to improving communities.

  “Yes, the Arizona deal is all good and ready to close.”

  I let go of her hand and leave the sofa, running a hand through my hair while holding back an exasperated sigh. Even with CEO as my title, most days it’s in name only. Nan very much calls the shots.

  “If that was all you wanted to talk about, I’ve got a stack of papers to go through and sign before my next meeting.”

  Her gaze flits to my desk where there is a pile of documents, nearly two feet high, waiting for my signature. Nodding, she stands, straightening the front of her navy Chanel suit before coming to my side. “Zachary, you’re a good boy.” She tenderly pats my cheek and I give her a half-hearted smile.

  I could fight her on the hotels and sometimes I really want to. But I love her. I don’t want business to come between us or cause her stress. I’m still holding out for my trust and think I have a way to speed things up.

  My trust money would enable me to do this hotel deal on my own. And as much as she’d hate it, she couldn’t stop me. She likely realizes this because the woman has changed the parameters of my trust more times than I care to count.

  Initially, my trust fund was to be mine at twenty-five, but as the time drew near, Nan claimed I was too immature for that kind of money. In other words, she thought I was having too much fun living the life of a bachelor.

  When I neared thirty, the next appointed age, she agreed I was good at my job, but wanted me to settle down. While she had no direct stipulations, she extended it to thirty-five and when that came, the age became forty. She then also added that I could have my trust sooner if I got married, whichever came first.

  I’m no longer willing to leave this in her hands because if I’m not marr
ied as I near forty, she isn’t above changing the age again. For Nan, she isn’t being mean-spirited—it’s about control, whether she realizes it or not.

  The woman is used to power and doesn’t know what to do without it. She knows I can run the company successfully with or without a wife. It’s just an added hoop for me to jump through. And maybe all of it scares her, knowing that while her opinion matters, it’s no longer needed where the business is concerned.

  With all of this, I have decided to play her game but on my terms.

  I’m going to get married, sooner than later, but it’ll be a business arrangement, not a relationship. The romance will be fake.

  Once married, with an ironclad prenuptial agreement, of course, I’ll get my trust and purchase my hotels. Sadly, my marriage will suddenly fall apart, and we’ll divorce.

  I thought I had a willing partner and was ready to present her to Nan as my future life partner when it became apparent that my soon-to-be-fake wife wasn’t faking anything. She was looking at our business arrangement as a means to love, children, and the whole shebang.

  “All right, I’ll leave you to your work.” Nan stops at the door, turning to face me. “Don’t forget about the dinner next Friday night.”

  “I haven’t.” It’s my turn to adjust my clothes, pulling at the ends of my Zegna bespoke suit sleeves. “I’ll be there.”

  “Are you bringing a date?”

  I’m deliberate about not discussing my personal life—women—with Nan. She usually learns about who I’m seeing from others or after a relationship has ended. Otherwise, she has the woman investigated and if she approves, starts talking marriage.

  “Yeah,” I lie and her brows arch with interest.

  “Someone special?”

  “Maybe.”

  I don’t have anyone lined up for my plan, but I will before next Friday. I have to. Gary is committed to the task at hand and I want to be able to make a deal when he finds the next suitable property. I’m not willing to pass up another opportunity.

  “Ah, who is she?” The corners of her mouth twitch up in a barely perceptible smile. “Anyone I might know?”

  “You’ll have to wait to meet her next Friday.” I’m playing the part of a sly devil, dangling the carrot I know she so desperately wants, but it’s all a lie.

  “At least tell me if it’s serious.”

  “I’d like it to be.” My stomach muscles tighten with the filthy lie spilling from my mouth.

  Three

  Paige

  Standing in my bedroom after a long day, I’m ready to crawl into bed when the lousy patch job on the wall grabs my attention. The plaster is bumpy around the edges of a two-foot-wide misshapen circle.

  When I left for work this morning, a hole had been there. A hole hidden by a mirror when I’d toured the place before renting. Like many other things, I added it to the list of things for the landlord to fix.

  My heart jumps into my throat. My landlord has been in my home. Again. It’s been a day less than a week since the last incident when I found him in my place. Afterward, I’d warned him in writing of his inappropriate behavior and that I’d take action if he did it again. There was no response, but I figured he had gotten the message. Boy, was I wrong.

  I grab my phone, ready to dial Tom, the police, or even my parents, as I rewind my steps since coming home, trying to recall if anything else was out of place or magically fixed. Shit, what if he’s still here like last time?

  With my phone in hand, I methodically search for signs of an intruder and check all the windows and doors to make sure they are locked. Nothing else is out of place.

  Nerves frayed, I text Tom to come over—being alone right now gives me the heebie-jeebies—and while waiting for his reply, I call my big brother.

  Drew answers on the third ring. “Hey, how’s it going?”

  “My landlord was in my house again without my permission.” My words are a jumble, fighting for release.

  “Put him on the phone.”

  “He isn’t here.” I recount every detail right up until I called him. “What do I do? He’s obviously not going to stick to our agreement.”

  “This is harassment. We could call the cops and they’ll take note of the incidents, but there isn’t much else they can do right now. You didn’t see him tonight, did you?”

  “No, but I know it was him. There are no signs of a break-in and no burglar is going to fix a hole in the wall.”

  “Yeah, but he can say he fixed the hole a while ago or you made it up.”

  “So basically, I’m shit out of luck?”

  “No. We have to go at him through the right channels. Make note of the dates and times he’s been in violation, take down all the details. There’s a government agency that advocates for tenants. You should report this and they’ll take action. At least we’ll have it on record.”

  “Does this mean I have to move?”

  “I think you should. Ontario now has standardized rental agreements and if memory serves me right, you must give sixty days’ notice to terminate. In your agreement, are there any additional penalties for breaking the terms of your lease?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Start looking for a place and in the meantime, let’s get this ball rolling.”

  “What does that even mean?” I have at least a dozen boxes left to unpack, so that’s a good thing because I hate moving.

  But the hunt for another place is depressing. It’s hard to find a decent rental in a safe and affordable neighborhood. I want to throat punch my jerk of a landlord.

  “Paige, I’m sorry but I’ve got a conference call in five minutes.”

  “It’s seven thirty in the evening and you’re still working?”

  “Yeah, it’s a new case and long story. Do you want to talk to Pip?”

  Normally, I’d jump at the chance, but I don’t want to go through it again. “No, not right now.”

  “Okay. I’ll fill her in. There’s someone who owes me a favor who could help. He’s in Toronto. I’ll text the details.”

  “Okay.”

  “And Paige?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Go stay with Mom and Sam. You may not want to but living with them, even for a few weeks, doesn’t mean you’re a loser.”

  I snort at how well he knows me. Next to my successful brother, I feel like a mess and going home seems like failure. Logically, I know I had nothing to do with this and my family wouldn’t blame me, but right now I’m overrun with emotions.

  “Right.” My voice softens, so grateful for my brother. “Thank you. Love you, loser.”

  Drew chuckles at my joke. Things wouldn’t be right between us if one of us didn’t take the chance to jab at the other. “I’ll give you that but only because I set it up so well. Love you. Talk soon.”

  Ending the call, Tom’s reply pops up. He’s already out but will come over if I need him. He, too, is sweet, but I let him off the hook. This is my problem.

  True to his word, by Monday, Drew has the government housing agency working on notifying my landlord of his violation, which comes with a fine if he does it again. And he’s arranged for me to meet with Zachary Rothwell, CEO of Rothwell Enterprises, today. How he pulled that off over the weekend, I don’t know. I know very little about the man, but I’m surprised a powerful businessman like Rothwell owes Drew and it isn’t clear how he can help.

  I sit in the swanky reception area of Rothwell Enterprises, waiting to be called when a buxom blonde heads toward me. Her strawberry-red lips curl into a smile. “Ms. Hayes, I’m Karen Michaels, Mr. Rothwell’s assistant. Please follow me.”

  “Sure.” I spring from the comfy tub chair and sling my purse over my shoulder.

  The offices are bright and modern, and she leads me along several floor-to-ceiling windowed hallways to a large corner office. “Mr. Rothwell will be with you in a moment. Would you like some water, coffee, tea, or anything else?”

  “No, thank you, Karen.”

&
nbsp; She gestures to a wingback chair facing the large desk, which is neat and orderly, and closes the door behind her. The desk has a large computer screen on one side with an expensive laptop in front of it, and a stack of file folders easily a foot high is at the other end. Two picture frames also rest on the desk.

  One picture is of a teenaged boy with a couple. They are all smiling and affectionate in their gazes and postures. A more ornate picture frame holds the other photograph, of an elegant elderly woman with the same boy, only he’s now a young man and looks vaguely familiar.

  Behind me, someone clears their throat and I jump, turning to face a striking, well-dressed man. Mr. Rothwell. He has at least eight inches on my own five foot six, and while I’ve never met him, I’ve seen his face online and once on the cover of a prominent national business magazine while I waited in my doctor’s office.

  “Ms. Hayes?” He extends his hand, readily engulfing mine in his large, smooth palm. “Zachary Rothwell.”

  “Hello. Please call me Paige.”

  “Did you find what you were looking for?” He flicks his chin in the direction of his desk, suggesting I was snooping, as an amused grin pulls at his full lips. Flames lick at my cheeks.

  “I was just…” I pause, clearing my throat, and then flash a sassy grin of my own. There’s no point protesting since I didn’t do anything wrong.

  “What can I do for you?” He casually slides into the black leather chair behind his desk while running a hand through his wavy dark hair.

  Piercing blue eyes stare at me, willing me to speak. He is a pretty man, maybe too pretty. Too much of a good thing, and that doesn’t appeal to me. I like my men edgy and unconventional. The opposite of this man. He’s so pretty, he’s guaranteed to be boring.

  “What did Drew tell you?”

  “Not much. He mentioned I may be able to help you. I owe him, so tell me more.”

  My curiosity hijacks the topic at hand. “How does a guy like you owe my brother?”