Bad Bridesmaid (Billionaire's Club Book 11)

by Elise Faber

  Yup.

  She was living the female scientist dream.

  When she’d quit her previous job just over a year before, she’d been at a loss. She’d worked at universities and big corporations. But the red tape had been astronomical. And not only that, but she’d felt like every single one of her decisions she’d made, every shred of research and evidence she’d conducted and garnered had been questioned. Ostensibly, she’d been running her own lab for one of the best companies in the world.

  And she’d been micromanaged within an inch of her life.

  She’d been miserable and ready to change positions—or maybe to go back to school and make a bid at becoming a career student.

  Then she’d found Volton.

  And this company was different. It was still a power in the industry, but it was smaller and run by a CEO who was determined to not let it get bogged down with big company problems.

  Which made it a joy to work for.

  It was the mystical unicorn of careers to actually love getting up in the morning to come to work, and she was riding that magical, horned horse like a champ, clomp-clomping into her lab every weekday morning. And some weekends.

  So long as there were coffee and muffins.

  Smiling to herself, she placed the dirty mugs in the sink, set the coffee pot to be ready to brew for the morning, and locked up.

  Her phone buzzed as she walked to her car, and she pulled it out of her pocket, smiling wider when she saw that it was Kate texting her a picture of her purple-painted toes dipping into the white sand of a beach.

  Typing on the screen as she walked, she sent,

  Why are you wasting time with your precious hubby to text me?

  A beat. Then a buzz.

  To torment you with all the luxury that’s surrounding me.

  The words were accompanied by a photo of two massage tables set up on the beach.

  Heidi laughed.

  You’re evil.

  Then added.

  But you’re having a good time?

  Kate’s reply came in just a few seconds.

  The best.

  Heidi’s heart squeezed.

  I’m glad. Now stop texting me and go enjoy your honeymoon.

  When no reply came, she smiled, stowed the cell in her pocket, and pushed into the underground garage. Which was the exact moment her phone buzzed again.

  “Kate,” she muttered, “you just don’t learn.”

  But when she glanced at the screen, the message wasn’t from Kate.

  It was a call from her mother.

  “Good God,” she whispered, debating ignoring the call and the ramifications that might bring. Her mom wasn’t like Kate’s or Jaime’s. She wasn’t . . . nice, wasn’t the type to make cookies or pull up an extra chair at the table for an unexpected guest.

  Nope. Her mother was razor sharp.

  And fuck did it burn to be on the receiving end of her words.

  But she was old enough to understand that a conversation now would save a longer, drawn-out, painful conversation later, so she waved goodbye to the security guard and swiped a finger across the screen as she got into her car.

  She didn’t drive anywhere though.

  Not yet.

  Her mother had a way of infuriating her beyond reason, and after one close call too many while trying to ignore exactly how painful her barbs were and the subsequent distraction making Heidi a danger to other drivers, she’d promised herself no vehicular operation under the influence of her mom.

  “Hello?” she said.

  “Why aren’t you at home?”

  Her brows drew together. “What do you mean?”

  “Your father was at a meeting in the city. We drove by to pick you up for dinner, but you’re not home.”

  “No,” she said, not surprised that her mom, Colleen, had shown up without a word, expecting her to drop everything. That was the status quo. “I’m not home. I’m just getting off work.”

  Saying that was a mistake.

  She knew it.

  Somehow, she had been dumb enough to say it anyway.

  Colleen’s sigh was loud. “How are you ever going to get married if you work so much?”

  As far as responses went, that was a one on a scale of ten. One meaning the best-case scenario. It wasn’t denigrating her career choice, just a simple, almost normal-mom reaction lamenting the fact that she wasn’t married.

  That was something Kate or Jaime’s mom might say.

  Or had said, since they were married now.

  But then the one turned into a . . . six-point-five.

  “You know there’s a reason female scientists are rare,” her mom said. “It’s because most of them actually listen to their biological clocks and get out of the field in time before their ovaries dry up.”

  Ew.

  “I love what I do, Mom.”

  Colleen scoffed.

  “And I’m happy being alone.”

  Another scoff. “No, you’re not,” she said, and now her voice approached razor blades, approached that ten out of ten on that scale of awful. “You’re sad and alone and will always be that way if you don’t get your priorities in order.”

  Slice.

  “Goodbye, Mom,” Heidi whispered and hung up, resting her head on the steering wheel, hating that these conversations left her feeling like this—flayed open, vulnerable, like a little kid who couldn’t find her voice.

  She wished she could shoot barbs back, stand up for herself better, but every time she thought she had a handle on the conversation, her mom brought mean.

  And she . . . sucked at fighting mean.

  At least she’d gotten better at hanging up.

  That was progress—so long as her mom didn’t call back.

  Right on cue, her cell buzzed in her, and she nearly dropped it like it had suddenly caught fire. She would not pick up. She would not even glance at the screen.

  Lie.

  She looked, and saw,

  Can I tempt you with prickly pear margaritas?

  Frowning, the conversation with her mom tucking itself back into the box in the back of her heart with the countless others of that same vein, Heidi was trying to puzzle out who had her number and was texting her about margaritas—albeit delicious ones—when her cell vibrated again.

  Just realized you’re probably wondering who this is. I’ll give you one guess. It’s your non-friend, who’d like to make up for Cake-Gate, and maybe a few more things.

  “Brad,” she breathed.

  Then immediately shook her head because she shouldn’t be breathing dreamily about the man.

  Another buzz as she was starting her car. Sighing, she couldn’t stop herself from glancing at the screen before she backed out.

  I got your number from Kate.

  A beat.

  So she’ll probably question why you’d refuse to see me when we’re practically family now.

  “Brad,” she growled, snatching up her cell from the cradle on her dash, fingers flying over the screen.

  So now you’re not only good at slipping out unnoticed, but also blackmail?

  Another buzz.

  I’m exceptionally good at a lot of things.

  “Ugh,” she muttered, shoving her cell into the bottom of her purse in disgust and then tossing her purse in the back seat for good measure.

  Or maybe so she wouldn’t be tempted to keep talking to the man.

  Unfortunately, that was also true.

  Regardless, she ignored the responding buzz and concentrated her attention on navigating her way through Bay Area traffic and home to her townhouse.

  Which was the best thing she’d ever spent her money on.

  Located in a small two-story building on the edge of town, it backed up to a lightly forested area. But her favorite part—besides the sauna inside the gym that she pretended to use but really it was just an excuse to make it into that sauna, and the fact that she had a quiet corner unit with a balcony looking out on those woods—were th
e trails crisscrossing through the trees, several of which led to a small creek. She could wander them for a few minutes, pretend that she was being healthy and was totally a nature girl, and when she’d had enough, be back inside her townhouse in fifteen minutes flat.

  It was perfect.

  But tonight, she wasn’t finding that same satisfaction.

  Because of her cell phone burning a hole in her purse.

  “Self-respect,” she murmured. “Self. Respect.”

  Except, her body didn’t want self-respect. It wanted Brad and his yummy cock and for her to have a repeat of their night together—only this time minus the shitty morning-after feeling.

  “That’s it,” she muttered, pulling out some ingredients for dinner and setting them on the counter. She would make pasta and bread and eat ice cream and drink wine. She would consume all the carbs, and then Brad would be gone, flitting from her life again as he traveled to some exotic location.

  Heading into her bedroom with that thought, she spent the next few minutes changing from her fancy work clothes—fancy because of the meeting, since she normally wore jeans, T-shirts, and the odd blouse to her lab—into her coziest pajamas. She was tugging an oversized sweatshirt down her torso after hanging up her slacks and button-down, stowing away her sparkly flats, when her doorbell rang.

  Smiling, she made her way to the door.

  In all likelihood, it would be her neighbor, Mrs. Horowitz. The elderly widow usually came bearing delicious baked goods, and coincidentally, Heidi was out of banana chocolate chip muffins. Maybe she’d get enough of a carb stash to tide her over for a few days.

  But when she tugged open the wooden panel, Mrs. Horowitz wasn’t on the other side.

  “Can I bribe my way inside?” Brad asked.

  “No,” she muttered, starting to slam the door.

  “I have tequila,” he coaxed.

  “It’s a school night.” This time, she did shut the heavy wood, flicking the lock with a resounding click.

  Then she heard the sigh.

  A resolved one.

  Like he’d known what her reaction was going to be, even before she’d opened and shut the door.

  And she hesitated, guilt sliding through her to curl in her stomach. She didn’t enjoy feeling like a bitch, especially when the man was probably lonely with his brother gone. He probably didn’t have a lot of friends in town. She knew he’d only recently moved to California, that he worked from home, and his travels took him away frequently.

  He didn’t even have his family to hang out with.

  They’d all returned home on Sunday.

  So if she didn’t take pity on the man, he would be all alone.

  And lonely.

  And sad.

  Or maybe that was her?

  Either way, she’d reopened the door.

  But he wasn’t there. The entry was empty, the street beyond quiet. She started to take a step forward, in an attempt to follow him when she couldn’t begin to have a clue to know how to track him down or which way he’d left, and stopped.

  Then glanced down and smiled despite herself.

  There on her welcome mat was a basket, and inside it, a bottle of tequila, a bag of ice, a squirt bottle of prickly pear simple syrup, a shaker, and two glasses.

  The man had charm—and balls—she had to give him that.

  Seven

  Brad

  I’ll cook. You mix. So long as you remember it’s a school night.

  He glanced down at his cell and smiled.

  Then got back out of his car, which he’d parked just down the block, and made his way to Heidi’s door.

  She was waiting in the opening, the rattiest sweatshirt he’d ever seen covering her lush curves, the basket he’d left in her arms. Her hair was down, her legs covered in rainbow-printed pajama pants, and her feet were bare, purple-painted toes peeking out from beneath the hem of her PJs.

  And she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

  Seeing her was an actual punch to the gut, a physical caress.

  Then she spoke, and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t take a tiny bit of wind out of his sails.

  “I’m only inviting you in because you’re alone.”

  Ouch.

  But still, it was a way in. So he simply took the basket from her arms and said, “Well, if I’m here being pathetic, I don’t mind being pathetic with you.”

  Her cheeks went pink. “That’s not what I meant.”

  He knew that, knew despite the sharp words and her attempts at distance, that Heidi wasn’t mean at heart. She had a generosity of spirit and a big heart, both of which had recalled him to her place, even after he’d clearly hurt her deeply a few months before.

  Shifting the basket, he brushed his fingers over her cheek. “I know.”

  “No touching,” she muttered, stepping back. “If you want my famous spaghetti Bolognese, you’ll stop with the seduction and just be Jaime’s brother.”

  He didn’t want to be Jaime’s brother in that moment.

  He wanted to be this woman’s lover, her other half, her everything.

  But he’d blown it. He’d run scared last time, and now he was paying the consequences. Also yes, maybe he had a plan to sweet-talk this woman into a second chance. He’d fucked up, he panicked and left, but . . . he’d come back.

  He’d seen her.

  The puzzle pieces in his mind had finally rearranged themselves into proper alignment.

  And he knew that he couldn’t give her up.

  Travel had grown dull, his life empty. But now he was seeing in full color for the first time, and that was simply from being in her presence for a few hours. He wanted more. He wanted everything.

  He wanted . . . well, first he wanted this woman to not look at him with daggers in her eyes.

  Baby steps.

  Lifting his hands, he said, “No touching.” A beat. “Unless you ask me to.”

  Her eyebrows lifted, and if her glare were a physical thing, he would have been flayed open and bleeding on the ground. As it was, and lucky for him, she didn’t have that power, so he was able to follow her into the house, able to surreptitiously take in her surroundings.

  To mark if anything had changed.

  It hadn’t, and he walked through the clean space, everything neatly in its place, from the dust-free photographs to the purple couch with the cheerful turquoise cushions. She strode into the kitchen, and he saw she had food set out on the counter. As he hovered in the doorway, she bent and grabbed a pot from a drawer, slamming more than placing it on the stove.

  “Is there a reason you haven’t started mixing drinks yet?” she muttered a little while later.

  He’d been watching her at work, opening cans of tomato sauce, browning some meat in a pan—which had required her to do an additional bend and had given him an additional glimpse of those curves currently hiding amongst the rainbows on her pajamas—chopping an onion and herbs, and he hadn’t realized that he’d spent long minutes standing in that opening.

  She was mesmerizing.

  Even grouchy and in enough fabric to cover an elephant.

  Which was a thought he would not be saying aloud.

  Because, once again, he liked his balls where they were, thank him very much.

  “I thought it was a school night,” he bluffed. “Figured you’d want to save your one drink for mealtime.”

  “I changed my mind,” she muttered, stirring the pot after adding what smelled like garlic—and plenty of the yummy aromatic if his nose was any indication. “I need more than one drink to deal with you creeping out on me like a peeping Tom.”

  He burst out laughing.

  “That wasn’t supposed to be funny.”

  Crossing over to her, he said, “You’re like a kitten trying to be terrifying, hissing and swiping out with your claws but not managing anything remotely close to frightening.”

  Her hazel eyes darkened.

  And he had the distinct thought that if he really
liked his balls where they currently resided, then he was going to have to stop running his freaking mouth.

  But instead of taking her frustration out on his junk, instead of smacking him over the head with that pan—as he probably half-deserved—her lips curved into a rueful smile and she said, “Unfortunately, I’ve never mastered the art of being scary.”

  “That’s not so bad.”

  “Oh yeah?” she muttered. “You haven’t seen me trying to scare off annoying men in the bar. One of my glares and I swear they pull up a chair and start ordering appetizers.” She turned back to the sauce and stirred in one of the cans of tomatoes.

  “I’m guessing it doesn’t work on annoying men in your house, either?”

  Her lips tipped up. “No, it doesn’t.”

  He laughed, finally placed the basket on the counter, started pulling together ingredients for the prickly pear margaritas that he’d heard through the grapevine were her favorite.

  “I’m not good at seeing things through to the end.” Brad froze, shocked that he’d said the words aloud.

  He’d thought them often enough, had berated himself for his jumping about, for his lack of staying power, but he couldn’t ever remember a time when he’d admitted that failing to someone else.

  She didn’t say anything for a long moment, the silence punctuated only by the sizzling meat in the pan, the scraping of the wooden spoon as she stirred.

  “Why do you think that is?” she asked softly, when he’d nearly given in to the urge to run screaming from the townhouse.

  The question was an obvious one.

  Just not one he’d expected her to ask.

  It was also one he wasn’t prepared to answer.

  “I don’t know.” Did it relate to his mom? Was it some other failing? Some defense mechanism? Maybe they were all tied together . . . or maybe he was just flawed.

  Maybe he had more thinking to do.