by Karen Booth
“So her majesty, Grace Song, summoned you to check on me.” Angry splashes of color stained her cheeks. “Since when have you been her errand boy?”
“Addy...”
“Don’t. Call. Me. That.” She pivoted and marched away from him.
“Damn it.” He went after her and stopped her trajectory by taking a firm grip of her hand. “She’s worried about you. Worried enough to call me to find you. What happened between you two?”
“We argued because I’m sick of being treated like a child. Ironically, I ran out of the house sobbing like one.” The rage vibrating through Adelaide seeped out of her, and her shoulders drooped in fatigue. “I could understand why she’s worried. She hasn’t seen me cry since I was seven. But enough is enough. I can’t go on like this.”
Now he understood why Mrs. Song had called him. Adelaide’s older brother, Garrett, was in New York with his wife and daughter, and Colin was probably unreachable. She had wanted this kept close to the family. Michael wasn’t family, but growing up, he’d spent more time at the Songs’ than at home. Plus, he was their publicist. She knew he’d be discreet about whatever state he found Adelaide in.
“I’m ready take my place at Hansol, but Hal-muh-nee shut me down with another ‘maybe next year.’ Hansol is my family’s legacy, and I want to be a part of its future.” Adelaide’s voice trailed off into a sad, forlorn sigh, and Michael wrapped his arms around her. He wanted to chase her sadness away, but the best he could do was listen. “She’s been saying that for the last two years. And next time when I ask her again, it’ll be the same answer. She doesn’t believe I have anything to contribute. I’m nothing but a clueless child to her.”
“That can’t be true. You’re one of the smartest people I know,” he said, running his hand through the silky strands of her long hair. Her arms tightened around him. “You’re far from being a clueless child, and your grandmother knows that better than anyone.”
“Then why is she keeping me out of Hansol?” She leaned back to meet his eyes. “She’s afraid I’ll tarnish Hansol’s reputation. She hasn’t forgiven me for my college days. Most of the crap in the tabloids didn’t even have a grain of truth in them. Yes, I partied hard and dated more than my fair share of guys, but I’m not an eighteen-year-old anymore.”
“I can’t imagine your grandmother being that small-minded. There has to be another reason, but you know her better than me. Besides, if that’s what you think, there’s an easy fix.” His arms still encircled her waist, and he was drawing slow circles on her lower back. When his brain registered what his hand was doing, he coughed and dropped his arms.
Adelaide arched an eyebrow and crossed her arms. He didn’t know if it was because she was waiting to hear his suggestion or because of his hurried step away from her. “Tell me more about this easy fix.”
His mind went blank. Her crossed arms had the effect of a bustier, pulling her breasts close and lifting them high. The sexy-as-hell scene at the club must have short-circuited his brain. He beat away his heightened awareness and focused on the shadowy outlines of the plan that had formed in his head.
“You majored in fashion design, right?”
“Along with sociology. And I have an MBA.”
“Even better.” Michael rubbed his hands together. “Hansol’s Corporate Social Responsibility Department has funds to support various charities. I think you should pitch a big-scale charity event, and show your grandmother and the world that you have what it takes to plan and execute it.”
“You’re right. There are a million things I could do.” Her face lit up with excitement. “Where do I start?”
“With the CSR Department. They’re the ones you need to convince to sign off on your proposal.”
A slow smile curved her lips, then she launched herself at him with a giddy laugh. His heart sang with her happiness, and he lifted her off her feet and hugged her tight. Dizzy and breathless from her nearness, Michael forced himself to set her down. Before he could gather his scattered wits, Adelaide reached up and placed a lingering kiss on his cheek.
“Thank you, Michael.” Her wide eyes were bright and welcoming, and he had to muster every last ounce of willpower not to kiss her upturned face. He needed to nip whatever this was in the bud.
“Sure thing, kiddo.” He slid the back of his index finger down her perfect nose—something he’d done since she was a little girl.
Adelaide jerked back and shoved his hand away, her eyes burning with resentment. Regret washed over him. She hated being treated like a child, and he hated himself for using her vulnerability to push her away. He was desperate, but he should’ve found a better way to distance himself.
As expected, Adelaide pivoted on her heels and walked off without a word. Even the back of her head looked furious with him.
Copyright © 2020 by Judith J. Yi
Keep reading for an excerpt from Here to Stay by Adriana Herrera.
Here to Stay
by Adriana Herrera
Chapter One
Julia
If you assumed that being a grown-ass woman who paid her bills and lived ten states away from my Dominican mother meant she would not be all up in my business, you’d be wrong.
“Mamí, I gotta go. I need to go and see my boss. It’s important.” My stomach dipped, remembering how my boss pressed had sounded. Gail, who was usually cool as a cucumber, was pretty flustered when she’d asked to see me. Not that I blamed her. Things around here were getting more stressful by the minute. My new job, on paper, was a dream.
A job as program director for the Sturm Foundation. Not only did I get to do the work I was passionate about, but I was also employed by one of the most iconic high-end department stores in the world. There was also that seriously impressive employee discount.
Sample sales and meaningful work... I was living the dream.
Except as soon as I got to Dallas, the boyfriend I moved across the country for dumped me for his side-chick. And now six months later when I finally felt like I was settling in, things had taken a not-so-great turn at work. So arriving late to an important meeting with my boss was not the best move I’d ever made, and yet here I was in a hallway making a personal call. Because my family was my Kryptonite and they knew it.
“Okay, pero abuelita wants to say hi.” My mother was aware things at my job were stressful, but that did not keep her from laying on the guilt. “You know she gets worried about you down there by yourself.” You’d think instead of Dallas I’d relocated to the moon. I hoped my mother didn’t start with the guilt trip and demands to come back home. I was not in the mood and it was not the time.
I looked around the empty hallway to check if anyone was around and nodded like my mother could see me. “Fine, Mami, but just one minute.” Sturm’s headquarters was in a downtown Dallas building built in 1914. It was gorgeous inside and out but like only vintage architecture could be, but the halls were narrow and the ceilings low, so it wasn’t like I could go unnoticed while lurking in a corner. I wasn’t trying to get myself on the radar of anyone who could fire me, especially now that we seemed to be in a Code Red at the foundation. After just a couple of months into my new position, the higher-ups at Sturm’s had announced that the fashion empire was preparing to go public after almost sixty years as a private company. They’d hired a firm to help them in the process and in the last week they had deployed a team of men and women power that had been walking through the hallways looking like a wolf pack hunting for prey. They were very easy to spot in their dark and boring suits, a striking contrast to the Sturm’s workforce, who, no matter what shape or size, walked around looking runway ready.
Gail had warned me that our program—hell, the whole foundation—was on the team leader’s radar and very likely to end up on the chopping block. So, me chatting on my phone instead of sitting at my cube working was not likely to go over well. I winced, r
emembering I’d seen him walking around this morning.
“Lita, mija, are you still there?” I almost jumped three feet in the air when the voice of my grandmother startled me out of my anxious inner ramblings.
“Aqui estoy, Abue.”
“Your Mamí said you’re trying to meet strangers from the computer.” I cracked a smile at my grandmother’s suspicion for anything that happened via the internet.
“Abue, I am not meeting people from the computer. They all work here.” I could barely hold back a laugh as a round of tongue clicking ensued. “We’re just planning a meetup using an app, because the company is big and we don’t all know each other.” I tried to sound as reassuring as possible because neither my mother nor my grandmother were above getting on a plane and crashing my happy hour.
There was more shuffling, which probably meant that someone else was getting a turn at instructing me on how to be a functioning adult.
“Li.” My name is Julia. A pretty short name, but somehow my family had come up with at least twenty variations to it.
Julita, Lita, Li, Tali...the five letters of my name offered infinite possibilities for my relatives.
“Mija, are you listening?” And it seemed my mother was still not done.
“Si, Mami.” I managed to keep the sigh all the way down in my chest.
“Did you get the thing I sent you?”
I was grateful for the fact that we were not on FaceTime and twisted my mouth to the side, because my mother truly did too much.
“You mean the box full of dry beans and adobo? Seriously, Yolanda.” I smirked picturing her narrowing her eyes at me using her name.
“Fresca.” I laughed at that, my mother was not down with me calling her by her name. “I’m not one of your little friends, Julia del Mar.”
I cleared my throat in an effort to at least sound a little less like I was laughing at her. “How am I being fresh? You know it’s true. With all the Goya food you’ve sent me I just need to get a Yankees fitted and I’ll be able to open a bodega out of my apartment.”
“Tan exagerada.” She tried really hard to sound mad, but I could hear the hint of a smile in her voice.
“I’m not exaggerating, I got pounds of guandules in my apartment.” My mother had taken my move hard. I knew she missed me. I missed her too, but I was determined to make a go of things here. I would not go back to New York City with my tail between my legs.
“I know it’s disappointing, but I need to do this right now, okay?” I pushed down the knot in my throat and tried to scare off the tears pooling in my eyes by staring up at the ceiling. Crying on the phone with my mother would really set off a rescue operation. “I need to stay here, and see this job through. Matt wasn’t the only reason why I came to Texas.”
I cringed at my slip. Mentioning my ex’s name would send my mother and abuela to the land of petty in a hot second.
It took less than that. “It’s all that pendejo’s fault, making you move down there and leaving you to chase after some sucia from his office.” I miraculously managed to keep another sigh inside. “I knew that boy was trouble from the day I met him. What kind of decent person comes to meet his girlfriend’s family empty-handed? Not even a loaf of bread or some fruit in all those years. Nada.”
Yes, she was still holding that grudge.
The disbelief in my mother’s voice would’ve been funny at any other moment, but the last thing I wanted to do right now was get into a conversation about my ill-fated move and my ex’s trifling ass.
“Mami, I don’t want to talk about Matt. Yes, he’s trash, but he doesn’t matter anymore. This year is about me, no romance, no distractions. Nada.” I sliced the air with my hand as if she could see me. “I’m focusing on my job, which I actually love, and trying to build a life here. Esta bien, Mami? Can you guys support me in that?”
That was a low blow, because my mom, all of my family really, was nothing but supportive.
“Mija. I just worry. It’s so hot in that place.”
Oh no, not the heat again. I was never going to get to that meeting.
“It’s so dry. Mariita told me when she went there her hands cracked. Did you get the lotion I sent you?”
My mother was convinced the regular drugstore hand lotions from New York City were somehow more effective than the ones in Dallas and sent me so many tubes I could probably stay moisturized through a zombie apocalypse.
“You know I did. Don’t send me any more, Mami. I only have two hands, and you sent me enough to keep my skin supple for decades.”
“Muchachita.” Her voice had that familiar mix of love and exasperation that defined our relationship. “Okay, bye, but remember to drink lots of water, mija. Our people are not built for that dry heat.” I ended the call after agreeing to do everything she said, including walking around with the jug with a straw she’d sent me.
I realized I’d accidentally had my mother on speaker—she was so loud I could no longer tell the difference—when I heard what sounded very much like someone trying not to choke from trying not to laugh.
Awesome.
It had to be about my call. My mother’s voice carried for miles. But I didn’t look up to find out who was laughing their ass off at my expense and focused on the text I had from my boss. I could be mortified in a minute.
Are you on your way??
I quickly typed a response as I stepped up to the elevator that would take me up to the “executive” floor.
Going up to you now.
I fired that message off and kept my attention on the elevator door, trying not to read into Gail’s unusual urgency. Pushy was not her style and she’d sent four messages in ten minutes.
Something was up.
My boss usually channeled a Super Soul Sunday vibe in her texts. The double question mark was not a good sign, and the fact she was keeping strictly to the point was definitely concerning.
I stepped into the elevator and shoved my phone into the pocket of my dress, took a moment to send a prayer to the employee discount that let me buy bomb clothes on a nonprofit worker budget, and did some mental math of what could be going on.
Was the program really in trouble? Could we actually get shut down?
Nope, I would not go there. I would not think about what it would be like to get on a plane back to New York dumped and unemployed. Not happening.
A distraction. That’s what I needed. Just as the door to the elevator was about to close, someone got in. The fact that I was eye level with the base of his throat was a good clue as to who it was, but when he opened his mouth and the now familiar knee-weakening baritone echoed off the walls of the elevator, I got my confirmation.
“Morning, Ms. Ortiz.” That voice could be used for interrogation tactics. Every muscle in my body loosened at the same time whenever I heard it.
I squeaked out a “Morning” and took my time lifting my head all the way up to look at the last person in the world I wanted overhearing my conversation with my mother.
Him.
Rocco Fucking Quinn, otherwise known as the “Team Leader” for the consulting firm looking to bag my job. The guy with the New York City-est name on the planet. I hadn’t exactly gotten personal with Mr. Quinn, but I picked up on that accent the first time we met.
“How are you doing?” I really tried to sound polite, but my Queens jumped out in situations like this. I did not gulp, because I could not let this fucker see me sweat. I managed not to cut my eyes at him, but it was close call. I took him in ramrod straight, every hair in its place, not a wrinkle in sight, and decided he could not be the proprietor of the laugh-choke from before. The man seemed to be completely lacking a sense of humor. I knew he must have teeth but I’d never seen them. Yeah, definitely not him. That fact rallied my spirits a little bit as I stood close enough to pick up on how he smelled. Like the ocean and wood. That was
not helpful information.
Without saying another word, I ran my eyes over him. It struck me that he was not wearing something bespoke like pretty much everyone here. Don’t get me wrong, he still looked good enough to eat, but he was clearly on a budget. And at a place where everyone looked like they were heading to a New York Fashion Week photo shoot, it was sort of jarring. Still, it fit him well. No question, this guy could wear the fuck out of a suit. I held back a whimper when I envisioned him in a Brioni or a Zegna. They’d have to put out a heat advisory for the building if that ever happened.
“I thought I could detect a familiar accent when I was coming down the hall.” His perfectly blue eyes twinkled at what I was certain was an expression of utter mortification on my face. He sounded pleasant enough, but he was also alluding to the fact that I was yapping on my phone. This wasn’t the first time he tried to be cute. Rocco Quinn seemed to like fucking with me. And it was only a matter of time before he stepped on my last nerve and I reamed him out.
Thankfully, just as I was scrambling to respond to his weird-ass comment, the elevator got to my floor. I was planning to just leave him hanging and run off, but he was hot on my heels.
Dammit.
“Sounds like your mom misses you.”
Oh for fuck’s sake. Why did he have to act all fake nice?
I nodded without looking at him. “She does. Listen, Mr. Quinn—”
“You can call me Rocco.”
Nope, that was not happening. I was not letting this sexy bastard talk me into getting all chummy with him. I was already on thin ice as it was. He could keep his pheromones and his slick-as-fuck expressions to his damn self. I came to a dead stop a few feet away from the conference room door where my boss—and whatever shitty news she was about to give me—was waiting.
When I turned around, Rocco was looking down at me with an expectant smile. God he was handsome, that jet-black hair so dark it almost had a tinge of blue and those eyes, piercing. And I guess he had teeth after all, and of course they were perfect. Asshole. I shook my head hard when my traitorous brain started wondering what Pantone color his eyes would be.