by Selena Kitt
This meant she’d have to sit down and figure out what she was going to do with her life. For some reason, a totally open door was just as intimidating as a hallway of closed ones.
She had a couple ideas she wanted to explore—a lot of her university friends had discovered it was hard to find decent, affordable housing while on European placements and she knew of a few buildings in the 13th to 17th arrondissements that could be split into studio apartments and rented out to students.
She’d already sketched out a preliminary to-do list—high priority going to the hiring of someone who could be her local representative so her tenants weren’t left without someone to turn to if she wasn’t in the country. She didn’t necessarily want to be tied down.
For now, though, she wanted to enjoy herself.
With Ric.
That thought made her spine straighten and she checked out her reflection in the mirror. She’d invested in a silk aquamarine shift dress which tucked in under her not inconsiderable bust and pinched in at her waist, flattening the tiny bit of tummy she wished didn’t exist.
The color looked great against her lightly tanned skin and dark brown hair and brought out the blue in her eyes. The dress actually made her look a whole size slimmer, but it had a way of riding up her thighs in the back.
She yanked off her thigh-highs and took her kitten-heels to the bathroom to shake a little powder into them. If they started sticking or rubbing, she’d just abandon them somewhere until morning. That was one advantage of having the graduation party at the house—it was a relatively short walk back to her room.
She idly wondered how Ric would handle all the attention over his new body. Probably looking forward to it—in a way. And dreading it, in another. He had every reason to be proud, of course. But she knew Ric. If everyone focused on his transformation and forgot what they were actually there to celebrate, he was bound to get touchy about it.
What she’d said earlier was true—he’d always been one to shoot first and ask questions later. She just hoped he could manage to stay relaxed while their parents’ friends oooo’d and ahhh’d over him.
Alcohol, she thought. Lots and lots of alcohol.
She’d just be at his elbow all night, making sure he had a full glass. That would keep him chilled out.
Annalesa gave her hair one final check, applied a little lip gloss and made her way to the conference room. It was big enough to hold several hundred people and it was the logical choice for such a large gathering.
Her jaw dropped as she walked into the room, feeling as if she’d suddenly been transported from twenty-first century Maine into Valhalla.
Dinner was a buffet being served on long tables. The waitresses were dressed as Valkyries and there was a huge pig roast turning on a spit suspended over electric heaters. She couldn’t help but smile at the holographic fire beneath the pig—they’d gone all-out with the realism.
The guys from Arensen’s private security group were all dressed as Vikings. She laughed to herself, wondering if they’d been paid a humiliation bonus for it. The expression on Henrik’s face suggested, if they had, the bonus hadn’t been nearly enough.
Since a lot of guests had already arrived, she did the meet-and-greet thing with everyone she recognized before finally spotting Ric. He was on the far side of the room, talking animatedly into his iPhone.
Her breath caught when she saw him, unable to help her body’s reaction. He was gorgeous—so confident and self-assured. His black suit did nothing to hide or tame his build and his dark blond hair was left untied, glowing bronze under a spotlight from the crown of his head to just a few inches below his collar.
He caught her eye and smiled a smile that practically knocked her over. It certainly made her knees feel weak. By the time she’d crossed the room on her decidedly wobbly legs, he’d finished his call.
He put his hands out to her, bending low to give her a public, brotherly kiss on the cheek. But she heard him breathe in, and the way he scented her like that made her dizzy with longing.
She didn’t know if she was going to make it through this night without making an utter fool of herself over this man.
“You look amazing.”
“You, too,” she murmured, stunned by how perfectly his navy blue shirt set off those grey-green eyes. He smelled fantastic and she bit her lip to suppress the Pavlovian tremor that rippled through her. “Who did the decorating?”
“Who else?” Ric chuckled and pointed over at his father who was ‘supervising’ the removal of the hotplate covers on the buffet and making conversation with the under-dressed wait staff. “The man never met a good cliché he didn’t love.”
They watched as Brad jogged across the room to greet their mother, who was holding the double doors of the conference room open so that a woman in a motorized wheelchair could zip inside.
The wheelchair had a cup holder propping up a glass of red wine and the sight of it made Annalesa want some. But she hadn’t eaten much all day, and she had a tendency to say things when she was drunk that she really meant. This was probably not the time or place for that.
And the way Ric looked tonight, drinking too much would be risky.
“I better get some food in me before I dive into the alcohol.”
“Me too.” He grimaced, an expression that just made him even more endearing to her, if that was possible. “I’m gonna need to be plastered if I have to listen to our parents make speeches.”
“Oh God.” She glanced over at her mother. “You don’t think they expect us to make speeches, do you?”
Ric’s eyes widened in alarm. “Let’s get you some food. Come on!”
A lot of effort had gone into the presentation of the array of smoked and pickled fish dishes. Tiny shields held portions of potato and a meat so dark she didn’t even recognize it. The rollmops—coiled lengths of pickled herring speared with miniature swords—made her grin.
“What are you going for? A seal meal or a Norse course?”
“Be nice.” Ric chuckled and elbowed her.
“I am! I’m just enjoying Brad’s eye for detail, that’s all.”
“I’m going for the pig roast, since you asked.”
“Protein-fest?”
“Flavor-fest. It’s bacon on a spit. My whole life’s not about dieting, you know.” He picked up something that looked like a flensing knife and curled off a huge steak from the side of the beast on the spit. “Want some?”
“Yeah, thanks.” It smelled heavenly, and at least it wasn’t fish. She didn’t mind fish but she had a morbid fear of fish bones. Annalesa put a couple of rolls and smoked salmon on her plate then handed it to Ric.
More guests flooded in, and since the two guests of honor had unofficially declared the buffet open by grabbing plates, people began to migrate towards the food. Although the party was to celebrate their graduations, most of the attendees were their parents’ friends and, Annalesa suspected, investors in Ryker Arms.
Ric had never been the most sociable of teenagers, and she could hardly blame her folks for not inviting any of her old high school ‘friends’ or their parents. Brad had cut off Jenny’s dad the day he’d found out that she’d sent Ric threatening messages after the incident with Ryan.
Annalesa loaded up Ric’s plate for him while he carved the pig, wishing she’d had a little more warning about the graduation party. She could’ve invited some of the friends she’d actually gone to University with—although she wasn’t sure they could have made the trip overseas.
She spotted a couple of their high school teachers over by the DJ—why did high school teachers never seem to age? Was it because they were around kids all the time?
“Hello, Annalesa. Congratulations on your degree.” She turned to see a stocky man with wire-rimmed glasses smiling up at her. Her heels made her taller than him by a good four inches, but she still only came up to Rick’s chin.
“Thank you.” She smiled, trying to remember who in the hell he was.
�
�Alan Bremmen. I’m one of the lawyers.” He held his hand out and winked. “There are so many lawyers and accountants here employed by Ryker, I’m sure you can’t possibly remember all of us.”
“Oh, no,” she lied. “I remember you.”
“Sure you do. Hey, what’s the difference between a lawyer and an accountant?” Alan asked, giving her a wide grin.
“Uhhh…” She glanced over at Ric, hoping for rescue. He stood just a few feet away, still holding her plates, but he’d been waylaid by another guest. “I don’t know?”
“At least the accountant knows he’s boring.” Bremmen burst out laughing, and Annalesa laughed too—not because she thought the joke was all that funny, but because he clearly thought it was hilarious.
“Excuse me, Mr. Bremmen,” she said politely, holding up Ric’s plate. “I’m going to find a table. The food looks delicious, help yourself.”
Annalesa edged away from the lawyer, closer to Ric. She saw one of their ex-neighbors milling around, enjoying the free liquor. Jon Church and his wife, Marie, had moved from Maine and were now living in Boston after selling their land to Brad. He’d used it to expand the Ryker Arms US HQ compound. She thought Jon also owned Ryker shares, but she couldn’t remember for sure.
She’d just sidled up next to Ric and handed over his plate when the perfectly coiffed woman in the motorized wheelchair whirled around in their direction and Annalesa finally recognized her.
Never mind that she was almost double her previous size or that she’d bleached her hair blonde—it was definitely their piano teacher. Mrs. Whelan was exactly the kind of personality that would get Ric going and Annalesa didn’t want him getting worked up before he had a chance to imbibe a great deal more alcohol.
Annalesa took a rapid step back, scraping the side of her shoe down Ric’s ankle, hearing him hiss in pain.
“Leesa!”
“Sorry. Mrs. Whelan’s coming,” she said through a painted-on smile, barely moving her lips, like a ventriloquist. “Run!”
“Huh?”
Annalesa tried speaking his language. “Evil piano teacher at six o-clock!”
“What? Crap. All right, let’s get this over with.” He turned and cast a huge smile down at Mrs. Whelan as she brought her chair to a halt inches from their toes.
“Annalesa? You used to be such a skinny little thing! You really filled out!” Mrs. Whelan’s gaze swept over her, and Annalesa bit her tongue at the woman’s comment so she wouldn’t open her mouth to mention just how much Mrs. Whelan had filled out. “And—Ricard? Oh my God! Can that really be you?”
“It’s Ric.” He bent and kissed Mrs. Whelan on the cheek. “How you doing?”
“But you were sooo... BIG!” The woman’s hands made a circle like she was trying to hold a beach ball, as if that indicated Ric’s previous shape, and Annalesa felt her hackles starting to rise. But Mrs. Whelan just kept talking. “How was the surgery? You know, I’ve thought about it myself. That much weight—it doesn’t just disappear without help.”
“I did have help,” he agreed amiably and Annalesa stared at him.
“He did it through diet and exercise,” she interjected, furious at the assumption that Ric had cheated somehow. “And he’s worked very hard to keep himself in shape.”
She saw him give her a warning look.
“Well, I’m sure a little female attention will give you plenty of incentive in that department.” Mrs. Whelan looked him up and down with a smirk and a light in her eyes Annalesa really didn’t appreciate. “I can’t believe it... Brad’s boy’s turned into quite the catch.”
“He’s not a bloody fish.” Annalesa’s words were barely audible, even to her, but she just couldn’t keep them inside. Ric raised an eyebrow at her and she managed to smile up at him.
“So, what about you, Annalesa?” Mrs. Whelan sipped her wine, her speculative gaze sweeping up and down, missing nothing. “I heard you went back to England? Not to study music, surely. We both know your musical talents were... shall we say, limited?”
Annalesa had been worried about Ric going off, but now she was the one who felt like a simmering volcano.
I need a drink, she thought. Several of them. In a row. In very quick succession.
Her face was beginning to hurt from keeping a smile pasted on. “No, I went back to England to get my degree.”
“You did art, didn’t you?” Mrs. Whelan’s eyebrows drew together, her already narrow eyes almost disappearing as she squinted up at her. “Pity.”
“Actually, I did history of ar—”
“You should be grateful your mother married into money. Now you’re a trust-fund baby.” Mrs. Whelan shook her bleached-blonde up do. “You can afford to be a poor artist now, can’t you? Because Lord knows, artists don’t earn a damn thing. Not even the really talented ones.”
“Spoken like a true bitter artist,” Ric cut in coolly.
“Excuse me?” Mrs. Whelan’s already pale, puffy face turned as white as a fluffy cotton ball. Then two little roses bloomed in her cheeks.
“You know, she’s right about starving artists.” Annalesa put her hand on Ric’s forearm in a silent, gentle plea. Just smile and nod and don’t say anything else, she told him with the press of her fingers, the look in her eyes. Let’s not make a scene.
But she could tell, Ric wasn’t going to let it go. He had that look in his eyes, not quite as fiery as the day he punched Ryan in the face, but still. He couldn’t stand to hear anyone disparage Annalesa, and he wasn’t going to make an exception today, that much was clear.
Should’ve gone for that drink, she thought. Should’ve stolen a bottle from the bar. We could be hiding in a corner getting drunk together right now.
“Do you always have to say the first thing that pops into your head?” Ric raised a brow at Mrs. Whelan. “You could use a filter, like everyone else. I’m just saying.”
“I’m being honest.” Mrs. Whelan stiffened. “It’s one of the reasons I’ve been such a good teacher all these years. I’m willing to tell the truth. I was just trying to warn your sister that—”
“No, don’t pretend you were looking out for her,” he countered, his voice soft, but his words piercing. “You were trying to make her feel small, and to be honest, that’s exactly how you make all your students feel. It’s the reason we stopped taking lessons with you, Mrs. Whelan. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’re going to go have our dinner.”
Ric took both their plates and headed for one of the tables, leaving Mrs. Whelan speechless, staring after him, mouth agape.
Annalesa opened her mouth too, ready to make apologies for her stepbrother. Then she remembered how Mrs. Whelan had looked her up and down, how her first comment had been about Annalesa’s weight—and then Ric’s. Ric was already at the table, his back to her, and she looked at him, remembering the way he’d stood up for her.
Now and back then.
In the past, she’d felt embarrassed, too paralyzed by confrontation to appreciate the way he never failed to come to her rescue when things like this happened. But now—things were different. The afternoon they’d shared on the range, the things they’d said, she knew they were slowly making things right again. If she apologized to Mrs. Whelan for what Ric had said—no matter how ill-advised it had been—she would be falling into the same old patterns.
So, instead of making any apologies, Annalesa turned and followed Ric toward the long table, not looking back to see Mrs. Whelan’s reaction. When she slid onto the bench beside him and dropped her napkin in her lap, Ric gave her a smile that raised her pulse.
“You came after me?” He frowned. “Or was it because I had your plate?”
“I came after you,” she said softly, making sure her eyes never left his. “Not the food.”
“I have to say, this pig’s worth pursuing,” Ric joked, cutting himself another bite of pork.
“Hey.” She put her hand on his arm. “Don’t. I always hated the way you did that.”
“What?” His m
outh was full.
“Put yourself down.” She frowned, glancing at the retreating back of Mrs. Whelan in her motorized seat.
“I just did it before anyone else got a chance to. Hurts less that way.”
Annalesa leaned her forehead against his bicep for a moment. The amount of muscle the man had restrained under his suit jacket was impressive. She could feel it, just in the motion he made cutting his meat.
She felt his lips brush the top of her head, briefly.
“Thanks for following me,” he said softly.
“I told you I would.”
“Yeah… I just didn’t know you really meant it.”
“Well, I have to be honest.” She wrinkled her nose in Mrs. Whelan’s direction. “I almost apologized to her for you—typical me.”
“But you didn’t?” He cocked a bronze eyebrow at her.
“No, I didn’t.” She squinted at the exit, seeing her mother following Mrs. Whelan. Even from this distance, Annalesa could see her mother’s bewildered, conciliatory body language as the bitchy old teacher zoomed through the double doors.
Is that what I look like? She wondered, frowning at the thought. It was like watching someone grovel at the feet of something unworthy. It left a bad taste in her mouth.
“Fuck.” Ric swore, then sighed, seeing the same thing as Annalesa. Her mother was heading their way. “I’m about to get a lecture.”
“Ricard Ryker.” Annalesa’s mother shook a finger at him as she slid onto the bench opposite. “If I was still technically your stepmother right now, I’d box your ears.”
“What?” He blinked, trying to look innocent, but a slow grin came over his face.
“Why do you think we invited her?” She shook her head now instead of her finger. “It certainly wasn’t because she once gave you piano lessons.”