Chapter 9
The Ivy
Corey
Two years ago…
As he folded out of the back of his chauffeur-driven car, Corey saw her out on the patio of The Ivy, a rare flower amidst a riot of blooms, and he was not surprised at the sunglasses on her nose that were so enormous, Jackie O would be envious.
He knew she wore them not only because they were uber chic and she looked good in them, but they were perfect for her to hide behind.
There were a few things Chloe needed to hide from these days, he suspected.
Big things.
He walked up the narrow path to the front door of the restaurant through its close mass of people on the patio, ignoring the looks he was getting.
Corey was wearing his own Tom Ford sunglasses, but even so, he was a man that was very rarely missed.
Because of this, his bodyguards, both of them, were not joining them, but they weren’t far away in watching his progress to Chloe’s table.
Corey dipped his chin to the maître d’ as he passed, and the man didn’t bother offering him a mimosa or glass of champagne, which was standard practice upon arrival for brunch at The Ivy.
Corey had been there before, more than once, and it was known he did not drink during the day.
Ever.
He didn’t because it made him groggy and lethargic, and until he fell into bed every night at midnight or one o’clock, he did not allow himself to be groggy or lethargic.
Ever.
When he arrived at the table, she had her face tipped up to him—that striking heart-shaped face that was the same shape as her mother’s.
He stooped and kissed her cheek, already knowing someone, somewhere would take a picture. And that someone, somewhere, would likely sell it. And the photos of their brunch would be captioned by some human parasite who made a living from other people’s successes and failures.
And Corey knew that Chloe Pierce, as the daughter of his best friends—one of those friends more famous even than he—would not be mistaken as Corey’s latest arm candy.
They’d been seen together many times before, all the way back to when she was a baby.
Family brunch with tech tycoon Corey Szabo and Chloe Pierce, eldest product of the power couple, Imogen Swan and Tom Pierce, Szabo’s closest friends, was a possibility.
Though, Chloe’s name might not be mentioned at all.
But Imogen’s would, certainly. Tom’s was a good probability.
Corey wondered how Chloe felt about being the “eldest product” or “daughter of” and never really being Chloe.
He suspected she wouldn’t voice her opinion out loud.
Nevertheless, she undoubtedly hated it.
He took his seat with his back to the patio, she was against the brick wall, framed in The Ivy’s famed patio foliage, and a server was there immediately.
“Sparkling water and coffee,” he ordered.
The server nodded and looked to Chloe.
All she said was, “Yes.”
The man moved away.
Corey dipped his eyes and saw she had a mostly-consumed glass of champagne in front of her.
No fruit juice to get in the way of her alcohol.
A testimony to the times.
He’d noted that normally, Chloe was like Corey. She might find times to allow herself some freedom to be less than strictly in control of every breath of her life.
But those times were rare, and most likely when she was alone.
However, now, things were different.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Awful,” she replied candidly. “How are you?”
“I’m well,” he murmured. “Happy to see you.”
“Really?” she queried. “That’s a surprise since I haven’t seen you since Gram’s funeral.”
This was catty.
They’d both been busy, he always was, and she was starting her store, and they lived in separate states, for fuck’s sake.
A man would have to be mad or plain stupid not to know this cat had claws.
Corey just refused to be the target when she was aiming at someone else.
“Chloe,” he said warningly.
She huffed out a breath and looked away from him.
“You’re in LA on a buying trip?” he prompted when she seemed happy to study the cars parked on the street for the next hour.
She turned her attention to Corey.
“I’m here to escape.”
He opened his mouth to offer another warning.
“He’s moved out,” she declared before he could. “Trial separation. But the way things are going, not that they share much, though we can tell, there’s not going to be anything trial about it.”
Corey leaned forward quickly and whispered a harsh, “Quiet.”
Her head jerked and her mouth slammed shut.
He did not move away, and he kept his voice as low as possible with her still being able to hear him when he ordered, “You do not speak of such things unless you know precisely who can hear them and you trust them implicitly.”
She didn’t move, not a twitch, and she kept her sunglasses trained on him.
“And I hope you know that there are solely five people in that Circle of Trust and none of those people, save me, are sitting mere inches from you on this patio,” he continued.
She drew a delicate breath into her nose that stated eloquently, in pure Chloe fashion, that she was irritated to be reminded, as well as remonstrated, about something she knew very well…but in her emotion, she forgot.
Then, because he needed to know, in his bones and soul he needed this knowledge, he broke his own rule and demanded, “Right, just tell me, are you looking after her?”
He meant Genny, to whom the impossible had happened.
Tom had cheated on her.
He’d admitted it.
They were attempting counseling.
This was failing.
And now, apparently, Tom had moved out.
After more than two decades, finally, this had opened the door to Corey. One he’d attempted to open years ago by tearing Genny and Duncan apart.
Those years ago, she had not stepped through.
And Corey knew, regrettably he knew this down to his bones and soul, she wouldn’t eventually step through this time either.
Gen adored her husband, this betrayal had wrecked her.
And she had worshipped Duncan, and his loss had nearly destroyed her.
Corey had been in her life since she was eight. If she was going to grow those types of feelings for him, it would have happened already.
But now the door was opening.
A new door.
And it was opening.
Because he knew Duncan had, several years ago, undergone a divorce.
“Of course I am,” she snapped, albeit quietly. “And him too.”
Corey did not want to give that first shit about Tom.
However, Tom was the kind of man, just good through and through (which made this recent happenstance all the more shocking), where it was impossible to spend years knowing him, sharing time with him, being considered a part of his family, and not caring about him.
Corey had tried to do this.
It was a rare occurrence, but in this circumstance, he had failed.
So Corey allowed himself a vague sense of satisfaction that Chloe was seeing to things (though he’d never doubted it), not only taking care of Gen, but Tom as well.
“Matt and Sasha?” he demanded.
“Them too,” she murmured, reaching for her champagne.
She turned her gaze away again as she sipped it.
He sat back and modulated his tone. “They’re all right?”
He meant her brother and sister.
“Coping. As I said, I’m keeping an eye on things. We talk. We all talk, but Matt and Sash and I have our times to get things out. Just us.”
“Good,” he muttered and then moved as the server brought
his coffee and water.
After the man had laid them down, he noticed both of them were ignoring the menus resting on their place settings.
“I’ll return,” he said, and drifted away.
Corey focused on Chloe, who, even if he couldn’t see her eyes, he knew they were pointedly fixed on him.
“Yes?” he prompted when she said nothing.
“I’m looking after them,” she stated.
He ignored the sugar and cream and lifted his coffee cup to take a sip of the black brew.
When he was finished and returning it to its saucer, he said, “I had no doubt. And I didn’t mean to offend you, Chloe. But I’m sure you understand, considering the circumstances, why I had to ask.”
“I’m looking after them,” she repeated.
Corey’s gaze intensified on her.
But he said nothing.
“So I’m looking after them,” she said once again. “They’re all looked after. Which begs the question, who’s going to look after me?”
Corey relaxed.
He smiled.
And then he replied.
“Why, me. Who else?”
It took her a moment.
And then Corey was surprised at how honored he felt…
When Chloe relaxed too.
Chapter 10
The Overflow
Chloe
Now…
My doorbell was ringing.
This wouldn’t do.
I was a mess.
I was never a mess.
But I was a mess.
I’d changed my outfit three times, and in the end, decided to go for super casual.
A pair of distressed jeans and a gray T-shirt that said Surely Not Everyone Was Kung Fu Fighting.
I paired these with bare feet, minimalist makeup (though, with a dewy highlight), my hair in a messy bun with just that perfect amount of trailing tendrils (that took me half an hour to achieve).
Accompanying this ensemble were the two-carat, princess-cut diamond earrings Mom and Dad bought me for my sixteenth birthday.
That was it for accessories.
I told myself this would make it easy, later, to throw on my patent-leather yellow Jimmy Choo pumps or my bow-tie detailed, robin’s egg blue Prada, kitten heel slingbacks, tie a dashing scarf around my neck, shrug on a black blazer, and I’d be speakeasy ready.
What it was not, was an effort to show outdoorsy, down-to-earth Judge I could be down-to-earth too.
I further told myself I wasn’t showing my playful side and that I could let my hair down, I was simply being comfortable in my own living space.
And I told myself Judge was just coming over to be in my home, with my friends, and me, to get the ball rolling on a project I wasn’t looking forward to doing, but in the end, it’d do good for a lot of people.
I also told myself not to be concerned with the fact I’d sent an emergency text to Mom’s housekeeper, Julietta, begging her to come over and make my townhome sparkly clean and tidy while I was covering at the store, something she’d not only agreed to do, she’d accomplished.
And I told myself I didn’t do this in order to impress anyone who may soon be coming over with my stellar ability to juggle work, family and social lives, right alongside home, all of this swimmingly.
I told myself that I wasn’t even yet twenty-five years old.
Therefore, this small two-bedroom, two-and-a-half bath, two-story townhome rental in the middle of the vibey bustle of downtown Phoenix was perfectly fine, rather than something bigger, grander, hipper, with a mortgage on it.
My kitchen with its white subway tile rising to the ceiling over white cabinets with black marble countertops, even if not large, was charming, with my plants in steel buckets and accoutrements in white, cream and crystal.
And my living room, with its streamlined, comfy beige twill couch and accompanying shocking-orange, fly-wing chairs atop a muted colored rug over black-and-gray, swirl glazed concrete floors and plant-based décor was both mod and chic as well as welcoming and comfortable.
All of this, I told myself, even if I had not yet been able to fully stamp the place with my personality, because I couldn’t quite afford it. Not on my own dime. Not without dipping into my trust fund, which I’d already copiously dipped into.
And after having fun in France, and setting up the store, I now had this thing where, what I had, I would have because I’d earned it.
Thus, at this point, what I had wasn’t a lot.
I told myself all this as I headed to the hall that contained the powder room that not only gave me an entry area but created an alcove in the kitchen were my stainless-steel kitchen sink was tucked away.
I also told myself I had time to get a handle on things.
Mi-Young was notoriously late.
Jacob was notoriously early.
It was 3:30 on the dot, when the festivities were set to begin, and I knew this doorbell would be them, splitting the difference.
I could pull myself together with them around. Not a problem.
Furthermore, surely Judge would be at least five, maybe ten minutes late not only due to his long drive, but also so he wouldn’t perpetrate the rudeness of actually being on time.
However, I knew this hope was destined to be crushed as I traversed my short hall and saw through the glazed glass door, there was not the double-body of Mi-Young and Jacob.
It was the long body of Judge.
Right on time.
Drat the man.
I fought the need to duck into the powder room to check my hair, and instead arranged my face to mild disapproval and opened the door.
“I should have known,” I said by way of greeting. “Right on time.”
He looked me up and down but snagged on his down to read my tee.
He then burst out laughing.
God, that delicious, deep, no-holds-barred laugh.
It was like he was trying to irritate me.
I glared.
He caught my gaze and stated baldly, “Jesus, fuck, I really need to kiss you right now.”
“You cannot,” I denied. “We’re simply acquaintances who were thrown together to do something worthy, but nonetheless the doing of it will be annoying.”
“A hug?” he teased, that damned adorable and attractive dimple popping.
I rolled my eyes, stepped to the side, lifted a hand and gave it a flick to indicate he should come in, but I wasn’t all that thrilled about the invitation.
His lips were twitching as he didn’t hesitate to accept my invitation.
He stopped in the living room and looked around.
He then walked to the back door, which was not glazed glass, but clear as day, and peeked into my miniscule, fenced backyard.
He then turned to me.
“Your friends not here yet?”
I shook my head.
He nodded, looked up my stairs, then back to me before he asked, “No pets?”
“No,” I forced out.
“You don’t like them?”
“I have shared, I think more than once, that I’m a busy woman,” I reminded him.
“Yeah, and I’m a busy guy, but I got an animal.”
“Would you like something to drink?” I offered.
“This place not take animals?” he pushed.
“Yes, they do.”
“But not cats, just dogs, and dogs need company, something you can’t give, you being busy and all,” he deduced.
“They accept cats.”
He stared at me.
I stared back.
When this went on a perplexing amount of time, I queried, “Why are we discussing this?”
“Coming from the bathroom at Duncan’s, I saw you down a hall, holding and cooing to a cat like it was your child.”
I had indeed done that because my precious Tuck needed some loving care, what with all those nasty people around, traipsing through his domain.
“That was Tuck. He’s Duncan’s. Even so,
he owns me. And as Tuck’s minion, it’s my responsibility to be available when he desires to lodge a complaint, something he was in need of doing, considering he’s not a party type of feline,” I shared.
Judge’s lips turned up.
And then he remarked, “Considering your dedication to this servitude, I would doubly expect you to have your own.”
“This seems a leap to make,” I replied.
“Not really. You care way too deeply about the people in your life, not to mention the cat at Duncan’s house, not to have something in that life that soaks up the overflow.”
I sucked in a sharp breath.
He came to stand at the back of the couch and leaned a thigh against it, crossing his arms on that wide chest of his.
“So?” he demanded.
This was not his to have.
This was not getting-to-know-you time.
This was get-an-unwanted-task-started time.
My mind knew this (of a sort).
Apparently, my mouth didn’t.
“I’m not allowed to have one,” I admitted.
He appeared deeply shocked.
“Not allowed?”
“Again, do you want something to drink? I’ve decided on a signature cocktail for the evening. Homemade whisky sour.”
“Are you allergic?”
God!
“Oh for goodness sakes,” I snapped.
I then threw up my hands and gave in.
“When I rented this place, I went to the shelter and suffered temporary insanity, selected three cats and a dog for adoption and put in my application. Before I could pick them up, I told my mother I’d made these selections, and she lost her mind. Regardless, the shelter considered my living arrangements, and they would only allow me a single pet. They encouraged, due to my lack of outdoor space, a cat. I picked the worst off of my choices, Oscar, my darling, who had recently battled an untreated-for-too-long severe respiratory infection which caused his little kitty lungs some damage, making him prone to another one. We were careful, but alas, he contracted one. We fought it, his struggle was valiant, but he didn’t make it for very long.”
I took a deep breath so I could get through the last part, which was the hard part.
Chasing Serenity Page 12