by S. M. West
“Zach, I made a commitment and I’d see it through regardless if I liked it or not. But thank you. And you’d better go. Mr. Wong is waiting.”
He nods. “Yes.” I detect a deep reluctance in his tone. “Get some sleep. Sweet dreams, Paige.”
“Thanks, and have a good day.” I smile and in return, his is small but warm.
I contemplate hitting the red round button with the X in the middle, but I don’t want to be the one to end our connection. Without words, he seems to understand this.
He doesn’t budge and does that thing again, staring at me. If his gaze wasn’t tender and contemplative, filled with so much emotion, I’d be freaked out. For one beat, then two and three, our eyes are locked on each other with only silence connecting us until Zach breaks our moment.
“I like you there. On my side of the bed. The only thing is, I wish I was there with you. With you on top of me or under me or…”
“I get the picture.” My cheeks flame and I shake my head, squeezing my thighs together to stave off the sudden emptiness inside me.
“Bettina, you aren’t listening to me. I have to cancel the order.” My mother refills my empty wine glass and I mouth thank you.
“Don’t be silly. We always get orchids. The gala wouldn’t be the same without them.” Her voice is high-pitched, so unlike her usual stoic monotone, and I pull the phone away from my ear to double-check that I am in fact speaking with Bettina van der Jagt.
“Orchids are expensive, and the cost is way outside the budget.”
“We get them every year,” she says as if I didn’t hear her the first time. “I don’t understand how they can’t be within budget.”
This is where I explain, for what feels like the hundredth time, that this year’s budget isn’t last year’s budget. She listens but barely, interrupting several times. Mom pats my hand, giving me a sympathetic smile and Bas, my little brother, mimics hanging up on her. I bite my bottom lip to stifle a giggle. It’s tempting to hang up on her.
If she’d been paying attention when I presented the budget, she’d know why we can’t afford orchids. And she was paying attention; she’s just being stubborn. Even when she’s on video conference from Calgary for our foundation meetings, she’s always asking questions. She’s shrewd and for some reason, she’s holding out for orchids.
Not going to happen. We are a charitable foundation after all, and our purpose is to make money for those in need, not spend it on flowers, even if they are beautiful flowers.
“Paige. They’ve been ordered and that’s that. I won’t continue to have this conversation with you. Call me when you realize your error. Good night.”
Dial tone.
Again, I check the phone screen and incredulous, I growl at my mom, Sam, and Bas seated around the kitchen table. “She hung up on me.”
This is what Zach meant by a ruthless bunch. He’s right. It’s bad enough I have Reagan Hussey objecting to anything and everything I propose and now I have to deal with this. Bettina didn’t hold back at all. She fought me tooth and nail for a bunch of flowers. No, correction, extremely expensive flowers.
“That’s why you should have done it first,” Bas says, shaking his head.
“She sounded so hard-core,” Sam adds.
“Do you have to put up with that a lot?” Mom asks.
“Yeah, pretty much.” I shrug, realizing I’ve become accustomed to these wealthy snobs that are used to getting their way. “And that’s how my entire day has been. Putting out one fire after another.”
My head hits the table, lightly, and I groan, wishing I could press a reset button on the day. The only good thing about it is dinner with my family and that the day is almost over.
I’d spent the better part of the morning finalizing orders and deliveries for clients who are having their home custom built. The outside was done and now the inside work has begun. The crew was due to start the kitchen tomorrow but a few of the major items were still to be delivered.
By lunchtime, I had everything sorted and said items were on trucks to arrive by early afternoon. But my accomplishments were wasted when Jennifer Sangster, the lady of the house and decision-maker for all things related to the build, changed her mind. She no longer wanted the quartz countertops or the stainless sink. And that was just the beginning of her list of changes, all of which impacted the work I had planned for tomorrow.
Then I spent the afternoon undoing my morning’s work, and that was before the email arrived with the invoice for the orchids Bettina ordered.
“Hey, Paige, why don’t you stay the night?” Sam says as he stacks the dishes in the drainboard.
“I guess I—” My phone rings and I wonder if it’s Zach although I don’t think so. He knew I would be at my parents’ tonight.
“Hello, Paige Hayes,” I say, noticing the number is for the Preston Hotel where we’re hosting the gala.
I listen as the man introduces himself as the manager and then proceeds to tell me that they’ve had an incident and are unable to hold the gala as planned. He continues to apologize and offers to make it right with a reduced price for another evening and a bunch of other things but I’ve tuned him out.
My world has shrunk to the reality of this disaster. Nuit Étoilée is less than three weeks away and we have no venue. What the hell am I going to do?
Twenty-Two
Paige
My phone pings and vibrates, causing me to jump right out of my seat, nearly spilling my cold coffee. It’s been another long day and I’ve been up for twenty hours. It’s well past midnight and I should be in bed, not alone in the dark at the foundation office doing urgent work for tomorrow.
The unexpected sound from my phone, when I’ve been surrounded by an unnerving silence for hours, is a jolt to my system. I’m exhausted—now delirious and spooked by any sound. How I thought working two jobs would be fun is beyond me.
The phone continues to buzz and then another ping indicates an incoming text as the device sails off the desk.
“Dammit.” I snatch it off the carpet, growling at the millionth text of the past day from Bettina’s assistant. “No,” I snap, reading the text. “This woman doesn’t understand no.”
“Sounds like you’re having a rough day, can I help?”
I scream and this time spring from my seat, one hand splayed against my chest and the other outstretched, grasping a stapler as if it’s a gun. Donovan leans against the doorjamb, grinning. He’s wearing tailored navy slacks and a crisp, white button-down, looking like he has every right to be here.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I should be relieved he isn’t an ax murderer, but unease twists in my stomach.
“Are you going to staple me to death with that thing?” He nods to the office tool and I lower my arm, placing it on the desk.
“You scared me,” I huff, pulling my shirt down. “What are you doing here?”
My phone buzzes again and before I can reach for it, he snatches it from the desk, brazenly reading the screen.
“Hey, that’s mine. Give it back.” I glare, grabbing for it but he holds it out of my reach.
“Bettina van der Jagt.” He scrolls through our texts, chuckling and even going so far as to read out loud some of the more obnoxious commands she has fired my way through her assistant. “Let me handle her for you.”
I’ve spent the past twenty-four hours arguing with Bettina over stupid orchids and she doesn’t care that I have final say—she won’t give up. “No. I’ve got this under control.” I clench my teeth at the frustrating truth—I don’t—and given his wry grin, he knows it.
“Come on, I’ll make her understand you’re running the show.” He doesn’t wait for my consent, pulling out his own phone and punching in a few buttons.
I lunge for him but stop mid-stride when Bettina’s voice rings through the room, now on speaker. Incensed, I try to take my phone from him, still in his grasp, but he won’t give it to me. I stand there seething but also reluctantly amazed as
she caves within minutes.
I want to scream, laugh, and retch. He didn’t say anything I hadn’t already said and my blood boils at the sinking feeling her acceptance has nothing to do with what I said or how I said it, or even that I’m not of her ilk. It’s because I’m a woman.
Donovan knows it, too. His cocky grin hints at the feeling I just may owe him something for this save. Not in a million years. I’d rather suffocate in orchids than give that man one damn thing.
He ends the call and slips his phone into his pocket before burning me with his superior grin. “You’re welcome.”
Distrust overwhelms me whenever he’s around and contrary to my gut feeling, it’s unfounded. Apart from being a cheating scumbag, he hasn’t done anything to me. In fact, any chance he gets he’s helpful even if it’s a bit self-serving and overbearing. Even still, I can’t ignore the nagging feeling he’s dangerous. Maybe not in a physical way but dangerous all the same.
Not wanting to be rude, I relent. “Thank you.”
“No problem, anytime.” He leans against the desk, crossing his ankles, and stares at me. “So how’s the game going with Zach?”
“Game?” I tilt my head to the side.
“You two seem to be moving fast. What’s next?” He picks up my water bottle and unscrews the cap, flicking his tongue against the rim in a crude way.
“I’m not following.” I fidget uncomfortably, irritated with his inappropriate flirting, if I can even call it that, and with myself for letting him get to me.
“I was surprised when you went along with his charade but good on him. He obviously saw you for who you are. He’s smart to find someone outside of our circle to go along with this fake girlfriend thing.” He’s amused and it bolsters every word out of his mouth.
The world tilts and I grab onto the desk to steady myself. Taking a big sip of water, he strolls lazily toward me, but it feels threatening. Once at my side, he attempts a smile as his flinty eyes rake over me like hot coals.
“And to be fucking you, too.” His hands fly into the air, further shocking me, like his favorite team just won a game. “Score!”
My stomach bottoms out and ringing fills my ears, or maybe the ringing comes from somewhere else, but I can’t make sense of anything. It’s as if he’s slapped me across the face or worse, ripped the clothes off my back.
I’m bared to him.
And we’re alone. He’s too close, leering at me like he’s the hunter and it’s open season. I’m fair game and the thought is terrifying. My mind is swimming, hazy, and I sway. Donovan’s hand latches onto me and I flinch at his touch.
At the same time, my phone buzzes in his hand and at first I think it’s Bettina again, telling me she’s backing off on the damn orchids. But when Donovan lifts the phone to see the screen, which I’m unable to read, the evil grin that overtakes his face causes my insides to curdle.
“Give it to me,” I say through clenched teeth, and he pulls away, hitting a button on my screen. I inwardly curse myself for taking off my lock screen feature earlier today.
“Hey, what’s up?” Donovan’s voice booms and his smile is wide and naughty as he stares at my phone screen.
“Donovan? Why are you answering Paige’s phone?” Zach’s terse tone rumbles through the speaker and another kind of nausea rolls through me.
I’d texted him not even an hour ago to tell him I was still up and if he had time, I’d love to chat. Fuck.
I can’t talk to him right now, still processing he shared a huge secret, our secret, with his douchebag friend. I had no idea Zach had told anyone about our deal and now I wonder who else knows? Does Walker? Morgan?
Even still, Donovan answering my phone in the wee hours of the morning doesn’t look good. With too many thoughts running through my mind, I don’t realize what Donovan is doing until it’s too late.
He wraps his hand around my shoulders, pulling me into his side in full view of Zach, sitting at a desk halfway around the world. Zach’s strong, dark features turn to stone as his fiery gaze rakes in the both of us.
“Hey, we miss you but don’t worry, I’m taking care of your girl here.” He squeezes the nape of my neck and bile surges like a wave up my throat.
I’m no longer able to tolerate my proximity to Donovan. A man I distrust. A man privy to my arrangement with Zach. A man who has single-handedly tainted every moment I’ve had with Zach by implying I’m a whore.
Twenty-Three
Zach
She’s holding hands with that guy Tom and smiling up at him. My eyes burn from staring for so long at the image and my knuckles whiten from clutching the tablet too tightly. This is one of several pictures Paige sent while I was away. I asked for them, wanting to know what she was up to, and when I first saw it, I wasn’t wild about it but thought nothing of it. Now I’m not so sure.
I feel like a child, angry to find another kid playing with what is mine.
I don’t share.
I’m a dick to think about Paige like that. She isn’t some possession. She’s a woman and she gets to choose. The thought of her not choosing me boils my blood and with a tap on the home button of my device, the picture of Tom and Paige vanishes.
It isn’t enough to calm me or erase the image of her laughing, close with another man. That’s hard to dismiss. And I can’t ignore the absurd jealousy tearing me up and feeding this madness. If I was a better man, I’d end our charade and wish her happiness with Tom or anyone else.
And then there’s Donovan.
He was interested in Paige since before I came on the scene but never did anything about it. His interest in her now is only so he can get to me. It isn’t my conceit driving this conclusion but my history with Donovan. And the other night, when he had Paige in his arms, I wanted to rip his hands off her and demand he leave.
I didn’t. Knowing him, he’d have relished my inability to do a damn thing given I was a world away. He would have stayed to spite me.
My conversation with Paige was brief and awkward as fuck. She hardly looked at me or spoke and she ended the call without reason. But she made Donovan leave while I waited on the phone and she wasn’t pleased with him either. She even went so far as to get in her car before ending our call.
Grabbing my phone, I press a number and on the first ring, her voice comes through the line.
“Hello.” The flat tone of her voice is like a cold draft to my burning thoughts.
“Paige? Is something wrong?”
There’s a beat or two of silence. “Nothing you can fix.”
“Try me.”
“What time is your flight? Are you still coming home...er, I mean, back today?”
She’s flustered and I tighten my grip on the phone, wishing we were face to face. “I’m already here.”
“What? You’re in Toronto right now? I thought you wouldn’t be home until later tonight at the earliest.”
“My last meeting was cancelled so I got the jet ready earlier. Where are you?”
“In my car in the parking garage of your building. I’m leaving for work.”
“Wait for me. I’m thirty minutes away at the most.”
“I’m drowning in work. My day job is suffering with all the problems with the gala. I can’t.” Excuses, even though there is truth to how much the benefit has eaten up her time.
“Problems with the gala?”
“A lot has happened since we last talked.” She’s not her usual self, open and honest.
“Paige, tell me.” My tone has more growl than I intend, and she counters with an almost bored tone of her own.
“Later.”
“Wait,” I’m quick to say. Too quick. “Meet me for lunch at the office.”
My invitation isn’t meant to be inconsiderate. She is swamped, juggling her job and the gala, and here I am taking more of the very little time that she has. I want to see her.
“I’ve got to swing by one of the sites during lunch.”
“You said your work is flexible. Can�
��t you do it another time?”
“Of course you’d think I can just blow off work because you’re back.” Her tone is anything but light and teasing. “I’ve got plans over lunch.”
“What?”
She lets out an aggravated sigh. “I have to get some specs to the contractor, among other things.”
“Okay. And then what?”
“I’ve got something else to do and if I meet you, I’ll have to do it tonight.”
“So you did have lunch plans.” Tom comes to mind. “A date?”
“A thing.”
Why is she being difficult? And with that thought, I’m being an asshole.
“What thing?”
“I have to go. I’ll text you if I can make lunch.”
“Paige, you didn’t answer me. We agreed to keep this platonic but no outside interests while we carried out this arrangement. It better not be a date.”
“And if it is?” Not bothering to wait for my response, she continues, “Welcome home, Zach.”
She ends the call and leaves me hanging literally and figuratively. To make matters worse, she doesn’t pick up the several times I call her thereafter.
With Paige not at the penthouse, I head to the office where the morning is busy with meetings. I try not to check my phone more times than is necessary and every time I do, my disappointment grows when there isn’t any word from Paige.
I love talking to her, anywhere and anytime. In person is best, but the phone or video is almost as good. I love her.
Huh, when did that happen?
I love her. Yes, it feels like love. I’m not sure when it happened and funnily enough, the thought doesn’t scare me. Nor do I have a strangling sensation around my neck. I’m breathing easy with the thought of love.
My revelation makes me want to see her even more. I’m not ready to spring the L word on her yet, but I want to be near her. My phone vibrates in my breast pocket and I fumble to get it before it goes to voicemail, hoping it’s Paige. It isn’t. And it isn’t good news.