Tempt Me

by S. E. Lund

  David turned to stare at the rest of us, his mouth open wide, expecting us to respond.

  "What do you think, Michael?" David asked.

  Beside me, my brother Michael shifted in his seat uncomfortably. At thirty, Michael was the owner of a construction company he'd started when he finished his degree in engineering. He didn't like family disputes and avoided them at all costs growing up.

  "He made it clear to us he didn't believe in inherited wealth. Said it was against the principles of meritocracy."

  David stared at Michael for a moment in disbelief.

  "Did you know about this?" David asked in an accusatory voice. "Did you know he would blackmail us into getting married and having families?"

  "No, but we talked about it before he died. He made it clear to anyone who might have listened."

  David was clearly upset – more so than any of the rest of us. He returned to the table and picked up the letter once more, re-reading it.

  "Your father was a strong family man," Covington replied, his tone patient. "He wanted you to follow the same path."

  "I'm a fucking rock star," David said, slamming down the sheet of paper and sitting back down into his chair. "This is America! We have this thing called freedom. Forcing us to marry and have children is tyranny."

  I could see Covington fight to stay neutral. "No one is forcing you to do anything. Your father didn't want to give you boys any money, but your mother made him create these funds, which are still considerable, given the average income for this country."

  "I'm only twenty-eight, for Christ's sake," David protested. "I need a few more years before I have to settle down. I have groupies, not a wife!"

  Covington cleared his throat, his patience apparently wearing thin. "Your father was married at twenty-eight and your mother gave birth to Joshua within the first year of their marriage. You boys can wait as long as you like but you won't get any of the money until your first wedding anniversary."

  "We're men, not boys." Nash, my second-oldest brother and a former military pilot who now ran his own airline, frowned while he read over the will.

  "Precisely," Covington said, glaring at Nash over top of his reading glasses. "Your father supported all of you while you pursued your personal goals. He funded your college educations. He gave you a home. You had ample allowances and he helped you when you wanted to start businesses or travel the world. If you don't approve of his terms, you can always continue your own way but if you want your share, you must marry and have children."

  Nash grimaced like he hated the very idea of marriage and family. At thirty-one, he was closest to me in age. He'd bought a small jet after he got out of the service, using the money he'd saved while in the military, and started his company with my father's help. They had been partners in the fledgling airline. As a former fighter jock, my father was so proud of Nash. Nothing made him quite as happy as the knowledge that Nash was running his own airline.

  I hadn't seen him for more than a year. He'd been off in the Middle East flying in relief supplies to war-torn zones. By his side was a motorcycle helmet and he was wearing a black leather jacket and black leather riding pants. He had a huge Harley, parked outside the offices. He looked like a rogue, despite being squeaky clean as a business man.

  Nash was certainly a man by anyone's reckoning. He was always a rebel, despite being in the military, but you didn't fly high-performance aircraft at Mach 2 without having a wild streak in you. He was beloved by women everywhere, in every airport and military base he traveled to. I could see how the will's requirements would cramp his style.

  "Do you think this can be challenged in court?" David said and shook his head in disbelief. "Isn't there some kind of civil rights issue involved in forcing children to marry and have families?"

  "You're not being forced. You can choose to stay single for as long as you want." Covington exhaled. "Think of it this way: once you marry, it will all begin," he said and held his hands up, gesturing to the whole world.

  "What will begin?" David grumbled. "Slavery to a woman and children?"

  "Real life," Covington replied.

  "Real life? Who needs it." David shot him a nasty look. "I prefer living the dream, thanks."

  "Look on the bright side," Covington continued, undeterred. "You'll have a quite healthy salary as CEO of your charitable foundations and can live any way you wish, anywhere you wish. Once you get married, you'll have access to much much more."

  "That sucks," David said disgustedly. "That's bribery."

  Covington shrugged. "Some people would be happy with these terms. You're all good-looking young men with your own very successful careers. I imagine you'll have lots of potential mates who would line up at the chance to marry you. Surely one of them would be a good spouse."

  Nash chimed in. "I've been dating since I was seventeen and let me tell you, if the right woman is out there, I haven't met her."

  "Your father could have given all his money to charity if he had wanted. As it is, he set aside half in trust funds, but he wanted to ensure you did something with your lives to earn it. Namely have a family, the way he did. Besides, chances are very strong that you will all marry eventually anyway."

  "That's not necessarily true," I replied, remembering a statistic I'd read about GenX not marrying until much later, if at all, compared to my father's generation of baby boomers. "Our generation is less likely to marry and we marry at a later age."

  Covington turned to me. "Considering you were ready to marry only a few months ago, Joshua, I'd think you'd understand."

  An awkward silence passed as we all probably thought about my failed engagement only six months earlier. I'd been engaged until my fiancée, Christie, whom I'd thought was the love of my life, decided that she preferred the company of her boss, Clint Watson, one of my underlings in the publishing business I managed as part of my father's empire.

  What really sucked was that I couldn't blame it on Clint being richer or more powerful than me. He wasn't. In fact, he wasn't even close to my income or influence. She loved him.

  She wanted me for my money.

  It kind of soured me on the whole get-married-and-have-a-family thing. Frankly, I just didn't believe there was a Mrs. Joshua Macintyre out there for me. Sure, I had lots of sex partners. They were easy enough to find. But a wife?

  Someone who could love me for me, and not for my wealth and power?

  No.

  Christie soured me on that possibility.

  "Is there no way to contest this?" David asked. "I mean, don't we have a right to a share as his children?"

  Covington shook his head. "No. In America, you do not have an automatic right to inherit your parent's wealth. It is entirely up to them how to distribute their property upon death."

  "It's completely unfair."

  "It's the law," Covington replied.

  "Well," David said, "the law is an ass."

  Covington raised his eyebrows. "Regardless, when each of the requirements has been satisfied, you will receive the first disbursements of your trust fund. Is there anything else?"

  "What's happening to my father's penthouse? And his other properties?"

  "Please refer to Appendix A. It details the division of property amongst the beneficiaries." Covington distributed several documents to us.

  We all flipped to the appropriate appendix. In a list of my father's properties, I saw my name beside the beach house in the Hamptons. My father knew it was my favorite place to spend the summer. At least he had been nice enough to give me that without any strings attached.

  Christian got the penthouse overlooking Central Park. Michael got the family mansion in upstate New York; Nash got the Florida estate; and David got the beachfront property in New Hampshire.

  "There must be some kind of law against forced marriage..." David frowned as he read over the appendix.

  "You aren't being forced to marry anyone. You can choose to remain single for as long as you want."

  "He cou
ld have trusted us to want to marry and have a family and just given us the money," Christian said. "I could use ten million right now to fund my campaign for the state legislature." He leaned back, a disgruntled expression on his face.

  "On your first wedding anniversary, you'll get it. You better started finding the love of your life sooner rather than later. Joshua," he said and turned to me. "You're the oldest of the brothers. You're now the head of the family. You take over as CEO of MBC. You'll get a salary as head of the corporation."

  MBC, better known as Macintyre Broadcasting Corporation, was the business my father started from scratch. Originally a local television station, it grew into a huge media conglomerate with a publishing arm including print, television and radio.

  I ran the print publishing business.

  "I'm focused on the Chronicle," I replied, not happy to be taking over the whole empire. I'd just bought one of New York City's oldest newspapers, the New York Chronicle, which had all but died over the past decade. I wanted to revitalize it and make it the go-to paper for anyone who wanted to know anything about the city, its politics, and culture. I did not want the added pressure of running the entire organization. "I could sure use twenty-five million dollars, but if I have to find a wife and run the corporation, I won't have time to achieve my business goals for the next few years, which are very ambitious. And given my most recent experience, I'm not all that keen on marriage."

  "I know your father well enough to know what he'd say in response," Covington said, his eyebrows raised.

  "Yeah, I know what he'd say," I replied with a rueful laugh. I glanced around at my brothers. "Suck it up, buttercup," we said in unison.

  "Exactly." Covington turned back to his documents, but I could see him struggle to hide a smile.

  I glanced around at my brothers; they were smiling to themselves as well, glad for a little levity in the middle of a somber event.

  Then, finally, we all laughed together, because we knew our old man exceptionally well. He was that kind of father. Engaged in all our lives despite his massive empire. A loving father with the demeanor of John Houseman in The Paper Chase, or Churchill. An old bulldog, in other words.

  I missed him.

  I could imagine my father sitting at the head of the table, his eagle-eyes focused like a laser on us, ice blue and unforgiving; his silver hair slicked back; his three-thousand-dollar pinstripe suit impeccable, a cravat in his suit pocket to match his tie. He had been strong, smart, and driven–building a business from the ground up. Buying up his competition, and then getting into every aspect of publishing and broadcasting news until his empire was the second biggest media company in the world. He had been formidable.

  Sadly, lung cancer didn't care how powerful he was. Like a typical man, he wrote off the nausea and occasional pain in his chest as bad food from a local taco truck, and by the time he was diagnosed, it was too late. The cancer took him in less than a year, ending his reign as head of our family and his own empire.

  I missed him terribly, but as much as I loved him, even I was blindsided by the will and I'm sure every brother felt the same.

  The last thing I wanted to think about was finding a wife, given my recent experience with love and marriage…

  Chapter Three

  Ella

  On Monday, a week after I accepted Sharon's offer of the internship, I stood outside Penn Station and debated what to do with the next three hours until I picked up my keys to my Airbnb short-term rental in Chelsea. Early that morning, I'd taken the train from Durham, New Hampshire, after a tearful goodbye to my parents and bestie Steph, and arrived in Penn Station, tired but ready for a new adventure.

  My mother strongly disapproved of me up and leaving New Hampshire so soon after breaking up with Jerkface. She was afraid I wouldn’t be able to make it on my own in Manhattan. My father seemed happy that I'd thrown Jerkface over. He'd even fired the bastard and sought legal counsel from another firm, and so I knew I'd made the right move not giving him a second chance. Neither of them wanted me to move away and warned me that I was unused to a city as big as Manhattan, and that I was naïve about life in general, having been sheltered and pampered.

  But he did not approve of me working for Dominion Publishing.

  "It's a subsidiary of MBS and you know how I feel about that bastard of a J. P. Macintyre."

  I'd heard all about my father's hatred of J.P Macintyre, the chairman and CEO of Macintyre Broadcasting Corporation. Their news division had run several in-depth exposes of my father's business partner after he was caught using insider information to sell and buy stock.

  Undaunted, I'd made plans to leave and work for Sharon regardless and my father had finally relented when I told him it was a minor part of the overall business empire.

  "It's my chance to get my toe in the door of publishing, Daddy," I said, explaining why I had to take the internship despite it being unpaid.

  He finally relented and gave me his blessing and I was filled with a renewed hope that the future I once dreamed of living could be possible. I'd do everything in my power not to return to Concord, tail between my legs.

  Now that I was finally in Manhattan, I decided to store my luggage in a locker and take the subway to see the building where my internship would start on Wednesday. I grabbed a subway map from the kiosk in the underground station, bought a pass, and tried to figure out how to get to the office.

  At one thirty in the afternoon, the place was packed with commuters. It was a bit of a circus, with people dressed for business, both casual and formal, as well as people who looked like they were on the way to work at the local carnival freak show.

  I left the subway station and stood for a moment in the middle of the sidewalk, the pedestrian mass parting around me as I soaked up the atmosphere.

  Ahh, Manhattan. Tall buildings. Great nightlife. Gorgeous men...

  I walked the rest of the way and arrived at the Macintyre Building. An old Art Deco in the middle of the block bordering Central Park, the building was about thirty stories high. It was gorgeous and I couldn't wait to go up and meet Sharon, find my own office and get started.

  I saw a coffee shop across the street and decided to grab a coffee before returning to Penn Station to get my luggage and go get my Airbnb. Because the traffic was backed up for the entire block, I decided to jaywalk to the coffee shop instead of going to the crosswalk. I'd barely got half-way across the second lane when I was almost run over by a bike courier in full riding gear threading his way between the cars.

  I honestly didn't see him. Traffic was at a full stop and the light was red, so I thought I'd be safe. That was my first mistake. Usually, I was a law-abiding citizen, but it seemed safe enough to cross, given the traffic snarl. I felt him knock against my arm and managed to step back, his shoulder the only thing that touched me as he zipped by. I gasped and held my hands up as I backed away, but it was too late. His bike wobbled as he swerved to avoid me, and he hit the corner of the taxi ahead of him, crashing to the ground, his bike clattering to the pavement.

  I covered my mouth in horror and ran to where he lay on the street, his bike in a heap beside him.

  "Jesus fucking Christ!" he said, rubbing his elbows and knees. "Use the damn crosswalk, lady."

  "I'm so sorry," I said, and knelt beside him. "I didn't see you. You came by so fast."

  He stood and shook off the dust, grabbing his bike and walking it to the curb. The light had changed, but traffic was still backed up the next block and none of the vehicles moved.

  I walked beside him, feeling like a total ass for not checking for cyclists. I honestly had no idea they rode in the middle of the street like that. I had figured they'd use the bike lane at the side of the road.

  When we got to the sidewalk, he removed his helmet and goggles and examined his knees, which were both bloody as were his elbows. That was when I got a good look at him and ohhh...

  He was a total babe.

  I felt bad ogling him at a time like tha
t, but I couldn't help it. He had light brown hair, slightly longish on top, several days' worth of beard, and the bluest of blue eyes. Add to that full kissable lips and a jaw so square you could cut your tongue on it.

  It had been a few months since Jerkface and I broke up, and I was needy.

  "I'm so sorry. Can I do anything?" I asked, wringing my hands.

  "I don't know," he said, his deep voice frustrated. "Can you? Do anything, I mean?"

  Can I do anything...

  Yeah, I didn't miss it. He looked in my eyes, and I could see anger in them, but at the same time, he didn't seem mean. In fact, his lips quirked up in one corner just enough for me to see he was amused at his jab.

  "Can you get worker's comp or anything for those injuries?" I asked, having no idea what bicycle couriers were eligible to receive.

  "Worker's comp?" he asked, his voice slightly taunting.

  I shook my head. "I'm sorry. I don't know whether bicycle couriers even qualify. Can I get you some bandages, at least? I saw a drugstore down the street. Doesn't look like you need stitches. I can call your boss, explain what happened if you need someone to vouch for you."

  He glanced down at himself, then smiled. "I'm good. I can afford to buy my own bandages, thanks. Bicycle courier pay isn't much but it pays for the occasional bandages. Just make sure to check the street before you try to jaywalk, okay? Better yet, you might consider crossing at the crosswalk."

  "I will. I'm so sorry. This is only my first day in Manhattan. My first hour, actually. Honestly, I had no idea bicycle couriers didn't use bike lanes." I looked at his scuffed knees and elbows. "I hope this doesn't stop you from being able to do your deliveries."

  "No, it won't stop me from making deliveries." Then he did smile – a full-on smile. It was brilliant. He actually laughed.

  I didn't smile. I felt my eyes tear up from embarrassment.

  "Hey, it's okay," he said and reached out, touching my shoulder. "I'm fine. We bicycle couriers are used to getting knocked around by the public."

  Then he got back up on his bike, which apparently was totally functional despite the spill, and drove to the front of the building out of which I had just come.