by Vivian Wood
“Come, dear,” Mrs. Harris said. She handed Sam a flute of sparkling wine and took her elbow. “Dinner’s about to be served, and Mr. Harris is dying to meet you.”
Sam raised her brow at Connor and allowed his mother to steer her into the formal dining room. The focal point was the massive oak table with a buffet and china display lining the walls. Wainscoting met with gold-leaf wallpaper and the soaring ceiling was trimmed in intricate crown molding. Hanging above the table was a huge crystal chandelier.
From the gorgeous flower arrangements to the carefully displayed china and gilded flatware, it looked like something out of a fairy tale. “This is beautiful,” she told Mrs. Harris. “A Christofle flatware set, incredible.”
“You know your table settings,” Mrs. Harris said, impressed. “Here, sit by me.”
“I’m an event manager for luxury clients,” Sam said. She waited until Mrs. Harris sat before following suit, and the woman smiled at her knowingly.
Connor took the seat on the other side of Sam.
“Good job with this one,” Mrs. Harris told him as she nodded at Sam. “Beautiful and educated.”
“So, we finally get to meet the famous fiancée.” Mr. Harris burst into the room like a storm. Tall and foreboding with a balding head and thick mustache to make up for it, Sam was used to men like him. They were the type who pinched her ass in meetings and stared at her chest without reserve.
“Mr. Harris,” she said as he walked toward her. She stood and offered her hand. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you.”
He grunted, but took her hand reluctantly. “Well, I can see how you caught my son’s eye,” he said as he traced her curves with his eyes. “Sit, sit. Don’t stand on my behalf.”
Sean sulked in late and made a racket as he scraped his chair against the hardwood. “Sean, please,” Mrs. Harris said.
“So, Sandra—”
“Sam,” Mrs. Harris corrected.
“Oh, Sam now, is it?” he asked with a cocked brow. “Sam, tell me. What is it your parents do?”
“My parents?” she asked. “Well, uh, my father passed away—”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.
“Thank you, but it was a long time ago. My mother, she does a lot of volunteer work.” Sam figured that sounded better than saying she was a grant writer for a small nonprofit. Connor smiled at her.
“That’s good!” Mr. Harris said. “We have a strong philanthropy arm at Trezor ourselves. Any siblings?”
“Father!” Connor said as one of the servants set down plates with a single spoon of soup topped with caviar before Sam and his family.
“Just the amuse-bouche, dear,” Mrs. Harris said to her. “Don’t worry, we’re not planning to starve you.”
Mr. Harris swallowed the spoon in one bite. “And where did you go to university? Grad school?”
“Sam actually studied abroad, in a little private college outside Stratford-upon-Avon,” Connor said. She looked at him curiously. She had?
“Doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I love,” Mr. Harris said. “Shakespeare,” he told the table. “But I’m guessing Sam already knew that. So, Sam. How long after the wedding do you suppose you’ll be giving me a grandchild?”
She nearly spit out the hundred-dollar mouthful. From the corner of her eye, she saw Connor’s jaw twitch in nervousness.
“Enough with the interrogations,” Connor said. “Give her a little space.” She felt his hand on her thigh and he squeezed. When she looked at him, questioning, he winked at her.
“Settle down, Connor, I have a right to ask these questions,” Mr. Harris said. Sam narrowed her eyes and looked at him. She’d been around men like him all her life. Pushy, arrogant, thinking they owned the world and everyone in it.
“No, Sam doesn’t have to answer such personal, assaulting questions,” Connor said. He nodded to the servant to take his plate away. The tiny platters were replaced with salad dishes of chard, beets and goat cheese.
“Assaulting? I don’t—”
“I’d like them sooner rather than later,” Sam said sweetly, taking a sip of her Prosecco.
Connor looked surprised, but wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “Would you like a copy of her fertility planner?” he asked his father mockingly.
“Connor!” Sam said. She surprised even herself at her admonishment. “I apologize,” she said to the Harris’. “Connor and I are just figuring out the timing right now. That’s all.”
“Back in my day we didn’t need planners and timers to get our wives pregnant. Something wrong in the sack?” his father asked, looking from Sam to Connor.
“You know what? I think that’s our cue to leave,” Connor said. He stood up from the table and pulled Sam up with him.
“Oh, honey, don’t go,” his mom started.
Connor held up his hand. “I think we’ve had enough. Thanks for trying, Mom.”
“I’m sorry about that. About the whole shitty lot of them,” Connor said as he turned the ignition.
“It’s alright! It’s fine. It’s not the first time I’ve dealt with a man like your father,” she said.
Connor sighed as he backed onto the road. “Still, it could have gone much worse.”
Really? It could have been worse than that? she thought.
“You know what? I think this is going to be a good fit for me. I do.”
Sam sat quietly. She toyed with the ring and pulled it on and off her finger. If was his idea of a successful dinner and a good fit, what was his idea of a failure? Maybe this whole thing was too insane after all.
“I have certain expectations of my fiancée. It’s outlined in the contract,” he said as he drove her home. “The way you look, the way you behave, it’s all critical. I’ll let it slide that you raised your voice at me tonight—”
She frowned. “Did you have such expectations of your real fiancée?”
His brow furrowed. “Of course I did. And may I say, that while your outfit tonight might be good enough for work, it’s definitely… wanting, if you know what I mean.”
“What’s wrong with it?” she asked, looking down.
“Appearances are everything in my world, Sam. You being hot isn’t enough. Maybe that was my fault. I’ll connect you with my personal shopper and tailor tomorrow.”
She didn’t say anything else. Connor seemed satisfied with the conversation. “Ring?” he asked as he pulled up to her house.
She slipped it off and handed it to him. Connor put it back in the box and tossed it in the glove compartment. “Well, thanks for—” she began.
“I’d love to stay and chat, but I have a date,” he said.
“Oh! Of course. Well, bye.”
“I’ll be in touch,” he said. He didn’t drive off until she was inside.
What the hell was that? She wondered if she’d bit off more than she could chew.
5
Connor
He closed his new office door behind him and breathed in the scent of freshly-arrived mahogany. Connor couldn’t lie to himself—the office of the Trezor COO was sweet. He fell into the hand-stitched leather executive chair, breathed in the rich scent, and spun it around. He felt like a kid at Christmas. Or at least what he figured normal kids felt like at Christmas. His holidays had usually been spent vacationing in Saint-Tropez while hired nannies watched him and Sean.
Everything his father did was top notch. It was one of his few good qualities. The new Trezor building, just erected four years ago, had been designed by a contemporary architect under the watchful eye of his father. The tallest building in the up-and-coming area, it featured nothing but black glass and industrial steel piping.
It was a monster, and now Connor was at the top of it. Peering down from the eighteenth story, Washington, DC, looked like a miniature of a town. You can own this town if you play your cards right.
The corner office was opposite his father’s and offered stunning views. “Mr. Harris?” His newly assigned personal assis
tant poked his head in. James was dressed in a bright seersucker suit with brown and white Oxford shoes. “Your father asked me to go over today’s itinerary with you.”
Connor sighed. “Yeah, James, come on in.” He was well aware of why his father had hand-selected a male assistant for him. His father didn’t want any kind of office sex scandal marring the family name.
“It’s a busy day!” James said, settling into the heavy wooden and leather chair across from Connor. “I’ve also synced your calendar with mine and scheduled pop-up reminders at forty-minute increments along with GPS instructions when applicable.”
“You’re certainly… efficient,” Connor said.
“Thank you, sir,” James said. “At eight o’clock, so in one hour, you have a meeting with GQ Magazine. At eleven there’s a short meet and greet with Forbes. Then you have a lunch meeting at 1789 Restaurant with Entrepreneur—their veal sweetbreads are to die for if you haven’t had them yet—then, at two—”
“Whoa, whoa, this is all today?” Connor asked. “And why GQ? This is all to discuss security business?”
“Well… not exactly,” James said. “Your father thinks it’s prudent to take advantage of your Navy experience, try and get some photo shoots going to make a big splash about your joining the company.”
“SEALs,” Connor corrected him.
“Excuse me?”
“I was a SEAL, not just in the Navy. And I’m the Chief Operations Officer, not a goddamned male model.”
“Could have fooled me, sir,” James said.
“Look, James, I’m guessing you have my entire life scheduled on my calendar for weeks out, right?”
“Everything that’s been booked so far, sir, yes,” he said. “Although I must say, your father is ordering new appointments nonstop, so I don’t encourage you to consider your calendar set in stone by any means.”
“Right,” Connor said. “Can you just give me a few minutes? I’d like to look over my calendar in private if you don’t mind.”
“Certainly, sir. I’ll be back in twenty minutes to escort you to your first appointment.”
“I don’t need—”
“Your father’s orders, sir.”
“Yes, of course.”
James shut the door behind him and Connor fired up his tablet. The next six weeks were absolutely booked with meetings, lunch and dinner dates, and cocktail outings with the heads of magazines. You’re a goddamned figurehead of the company, not the COO. You don’t have a single damn responsibility besides looking good in a suit.
Connor groaned and rested his head in his hands. He pushed the old-school intercom button on the desk that connected instantly to James’s Bluetooth. “James?” he asked. “With all these lunch and dinner engagements on here, what does that ‘plus F’ mean?”
“Those are the appointments in which your fiancée is expected to accompany you,” James said.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“You know, she has her own job—screw it, can you send this schedule to Sam for me?”
“Doing it now, sir.”
“And while you’re at it, talk to her yourself. She’s going to need a new dress—scratch that, a new wardrobe for all this. Is that something you can help her with?”
“Definitely, sir,” James said, the excitement evident in his voice.
Connor rolled his eyes, switched off the intercom and leaned back in his chair. Does Sam have a family as crazy as this? Surely not as powerful, but maybe—just maybe—she has a hint of what it’s like.
Hell, he didn’t even know if she had much of a family. He thought of her and her mom during the holidays, an empty seat intentionally left there in memory of her father. Maybe she had a hot best friend who was like a sister and spent Thanksgiving with her. Perhaps she had a gaggle of cousins who played the part, from the protective older brother to the sniveling little snot of a kid.
“I need to know more about her,” he said out loud. He’d already made a royal mistake, making up where she’d gone to college on the fly. That was an easy fix, though. He could always find out the truth and say she’d just studied abroad for a year. Surely his father wouldn’t dig too deeply.
Connor looked at his schedule again. James would be prancing through the door in ten minutes. Why wait to get to know the basics?
He dialed Sam’s number—or Sandra Brewer’s as his phone indicated. “Hello?” she said. Her voice was groggy.
“It’s past seven, why aren’t you awake?”
“Who is this?” she asked sleepily.
“Your fiancé,” he said.
“Oh!” she said, suddenly awake. “Sorry, I haven’t saved your number in my phone yet.”
“Yeah, well, you might want to get on that. Look, you’ve probably already got your schedule for the next few weeks from my assistant James. But I think it’s best if we meet up before this mess of black tie affairs to get to know each other a little better. I’d rather get our stories straight rather than thinking up basic facts on the fly.”
“I agree,” she said. “That whole thing with you saying I went to school in the UK—”
“Sorry about that,” he said. “I panicked. This whole thing, it’s new to me.”
“I’d hope so,” she said. He ran through his head of possible places to meet her. Somewhere nice, upscale. Somewhere she might wear another one of those sexy little dresses. He felt himself start to harden thinking about that black dress from the night at the bar. Even the suit she wore to meet his family, with that feminine low-cut neckline had sparked his interest.
Not that he was attracted to her by any means. At least not beyond appreciating a sexy body when he saw it. But what was the harm in looking? After all, she was his fiancée.
“Oh my God! Connor? Did you see this? Do you know how many appointments I’m supposed to be at?” Clearly, James really was on top of everything.
“Of course I saw it,” he snapped. “I scheduled them.” She didn’t have to know it was his father pushing for all of this.
“How am I supposed to make time for all of this? I’m not going to quit my job to play your arm candy, if that’s what you have in mind—”
“Calm down, nobody asked you to quit your job, did they?” he asked. “If you’ll actually look at the calendar instead of flipping out, you’ll see they’re all short lunch meetings and dinner engagements. Surely you have a lunch break, don’t you? And you eat dinner, correct?”
“Well, yeah,” she said.
“Good, then I don’t see what the big deal is. Your office is close to downtown anyway. I’ll pick you up and make sure you get back to work in a timely fashion. I’m sure the clients will understand that you’re a career woman.”
“A career woman?” she asked. “Really? What, did you step right out of a Mad Men episode?”
“You know what I mean,” he growled.
“Mr. Harris?” James asked, sticking his head in again. He tapped his bare wrist and raised his brows. “GQ,” he mouthed.
“Alright, alright,” Connor told him. “I’m coming.”
“Sandra, we need to talk about this later. I’ll text you the time and place to meet tonight and we’ll talk about this in person. Consider this a day off from appointments. I’ll explain to the clients that you had a conference all day today.”
“It’s Sam,” she said in exasperation.
“Yeah, yeah, you know what I meant,” he said.
From the door, James tapped at his wrist with more insistence.
“I see you!” Connor said. He hung up on Sam without saying goodbye.
“You’re just going to adore the E in C of GQ,” James gushed. “He’s fantastic, really.”
“E in C?”
“Editor in Chief,” James said slowly. “The last time I met him, he was wearing the most delicious pair of Helmut Lang trousers, and I told him—”
“James, if you don’t mind, can we keep the chattering to a minimum? It’s not even eight o’clock
and I already have a headache.”
“Oh my! That’s my fault. We’ll swing by and I’ll get you your coffee to enjoy on the way. Americano with a dash of cream, one sugar and a shot in the dark. Correct?”
“Yeah, how’d you—you know what, never mind. That’s right.”
James smiled at him. “I know how important the ritual morning cup of coffee is,” he said. “Have you tried French press before? I personally find it to be quite…”
Connor sighed and let James babble on. By the time they pulled up in front of the building to meet with GQ, Connor was adept at tuning him out almost completely. In fact, James’ voice was quiet soothing background noise. Either that, or the coffee was working its magic.
As they walked through the lobby and James led him toward the tucked-away café in the back, Connor’s phone buzzed in his jacket. He pulled it out and there was a text from Sandra Brewer. WTF does your assistant need to know my bra size for?
He smiled to himself. James was nothing if not thorough, and probably oblivious of how intimate the question was. “Hey, James,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” James replied, eager to be of service.
“When you find out Sam’s bra size, can you let me know? I uh, want to surprise her with something for the anniversary of the day we met.”
“That’s so sweet, sir! Of course I will. But wouldn’t it be easy for you to just peek in her dresser?”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” he asked.
6
Sam
Sam shifted uncomfortably in her seat. The plush, velvet lining of the intimate booth at the Old Ebbitt Grill did nothing to soothe her nerves. The Victorian-era saloon was draped in swankiness. Even though the sun had barely set, already couples were tucked away in their own little worlds, making out. Single men in suits that cost more than her rent circled like birds of prey.
She’d gone over their brief phone calls and texts but couldn’t figure out why he wanted to meet with her now. Sam had the schedule, she’d carved out the majority of her time for him to bullshit with his pompous clients. What else could he want?