by Ivy Carter
“Holy crap,” I mutter.
“Where did you get the money for all that?” Brenda asks, eyeing the pile of clothes.
“Layaway,” I reply, because if I told her where I suspect it came from, she’d be back to thinking I was a hooker.
Brenda shakes her head. “That is a very poor financial decision, Cadence. You need to think about building a robust nest egg, you know, so you can move out.”
“Right, of course. Absolutely, Brenda,” I say, gathering the items back into the box and heaving it into my arms. “I’ll just get out of your way.”
I carry the box upstairs and am starting to formulate what to do next when my phone rings. I look at the screen, but don’t recognize the number.
“Hello?”
“Did the package arrive?” The voice, deep and cool, is unmistakable.
I’m still blown away by the surprise of it all.
“Mr. Maxon, this is way too much,” I tell him. “I appreciate the gesture, but I can’t accept all of those clothes.”
“It’s not a gesture,” he replies. “You need it. Trust me, did you look in a mirror this morning?”
“Okay, now that’s not necessary—“
“Yes, of course, I’m aware it’s not your fault,” he replies. “Look, just consider it a signing bonus. They’re all work supplies you’ll need, and if it really makes you uncomfortable, you can pay it back. When you can.”
“And the dress?” I say, not clarifying, because I know he knows exactly which one I’m talking about. “How is that something I’m going to need for work?”
There’s a pause, and I hear him clear his throat. “Well, I mentioned that you’d need to travel with me from time to time, and one of those times is this weekend. You’ll be accompanying me to that wedding. I need to be there all weekend, but there will be plenty of down time where I’ll need to work. Your assistance will be much appreciated.”
He didn’t ask me if I could go—simply informed me I’d be going, yet he pauses, and I know he’s waiting for me to acknowledge what he’s just said. Perhaps not accept, because that would be implied. Still, my heart flutters a little at the thought of the Radnor Estate and wearing that dress with this man.
“Understood,” I reply.
“Wonderful. We’ll discuss more tomorrow.”
And then he’s gone and I’m left thinking about how strange Levi Maxon is, how strange all of this is—and yet my stomach is fluttering and I can’t stop picturing his eyes, hearing his voice, and feeling a building sense of excitement that my life has truly changed.
Whatever’s going on here, all I can be sure of is that I’m ready for something new to happen in my life.
I just hope I’m not in over my head.
The following morning I arrive at work in the charcoal suit, a pale lavender button up underneath, and a pair of black pumps on my feet that probably cost more than a semester at RISD.
Everything fits like a glove. I don’t know how he did it.
But when I arrive in the office at 8am sharp, Mr. Maxon is already at his desk.
“Good morning,” I say, and watch as his eyes linger, traveling the length of my body.
“Good morning, Ms. Fallon.” Based on the way his nostrils flare as he gazes at me, I assume he’s happy with the results of his shopping spree on my behalf.
My cheeks blaze with fire but I keep my chin up. “If we’re going to be working so closely together, I really insist you call me Cadence,” I tell him, and his response is merely to nod, then return to the stack of papers in front of him.
Baby steps, Cady. Baby steps.
LEVI
So this is how the other half lives, I think as my luxury vehicle navigates the winding streets of Cadence’s neighborhood.
I follow the clipped British woman’s voice that emanates from my car’s GPS, and find myself pulling down a narrow, cracked street in South Boston, finally coming to a stop in front of a wooden triple decker with red peeling paint, on a street full of triple deckers with peeling paint.
I know these houses are the mark of Boston, but to me they’ve always looked like neighborhoods full of firetraps. I don’t know how half the city hasn’t burned to the ground by now.
I shift the car into park and pull out my phone. I’m about to send her a text when I hear the passenger door fling open.
“I’m here!” she says, tossing an overnight bag into the floorboard of the passenger seat, then climbing in.
“I suppose you were waiting for me to arrive,” I say, as I eye her dark wash skinny jeans, flats, and loose white sweater falling off one shoulder. Her waterfall of hair is braided down her left shoulder, and she grins at me with a smile so bright I’m glad I’m already wearing my Ray Bans.
“My grandmother always said, ‘If you’re early you’re on time, if you’re on time you’re late.”
“And if you’re late, you’re dead,” I say, and she grins wider.
As we drive, I grip the wheel with both hands and try to figure out what to say to her to make her fall in love with me, while also trying to ignore that the harder I think about my plan, the worse it feels.
When she was just Cadence Fallon, name on a will or an Instagram account, it seemed like an easy thing to do. But as we’ve worked together over the past few days and I’ve gotten to know her, it seems a lot more difficult than I’d originally planned.
First of all, it seems clear she has no idea of my father or their connection, which means she has no idea that she stands to inherit billions of dollars in assets.
Nor does she seem like a woman who cares too much about money, other than having enough to buy something for lunch other than the sad peanut butter and jelly she’s been bringing every day this week.
Who eats peanut butter and jelly after the fifth grade, anyway?
But every time I start to waver, I call into the hospital to get an update from my father’s medical team. Still not change, no improvement. At this point we’re merely satisfying the terms of his advanced directive before we declare him legally dead and get on with this ridiculous charade.
The charade of handing off his assets and the company to a stranger.
“So who’s getting married?” she asks.
“My best friend and his girlfriend of a million years,” I reply, breaking out of my churning thoughts. Even worse, when I’m not thinking about how to make Cadence Fallon fall in love with me so I can marry her for her money—I’m fantasizing about tasting her.
Those cherry lips.
Those full breasts.
The hot cleft between her legs.
Cadence is blissfully unaware of my designs on her innocence as she continues talking about the wedding we’re attending together. “Ah, that’s nice. Too bad you have to work at their wedding. Seems like there were a lot of activities planned.”
“How do you know?” I reply.
“The schedule in the invitation packet was fairly complete. The website for the Radnor Estate also had a lot of options available, from the spa to wine tastings to nature hikes.”
I chuckle at the notion of doing those activities, trying to imagine spending a minute in a spa or hiking along sand dunes.
“Not a leisure kind of guy?” she says.
“Hardly,” I reply. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I did anything other than work, run, or sleep, my life having revolved mostly around my father and his business, and yet he still didn’t see fit to leave to me.
I grip the steering wheel tighter and decide to change the subject. “And what about you?” I say. “Is your social calendar typically full?”
She shakes her head. “I usually spend the weekends trying to stay out of my stepmother’s way, so no, you really didn’t interrupt anything.”
“Wicked stepmother,” I nod in understanding.
“Not wicked so much as cold,” she says, staring out the front window of the car. “And completely uninterested in children, grown or otherwise.”
I glance o
ver and see her jaw set, and though she’s smiling and trying to act as though it’s no big deal, I can see whatever the relationship is (or isn’t) between the two of them, it bothers her.
“What about you? I haven’t seen your father around the office. Does he still work there?” she asks, and I immediately realize my mistake.
Here I was trying to take the heat off me by asking about her, when really I’ve only opened up the door to a more personal conversation.
“He’s not well,” I reply, swallowing hard.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
I snort, unable to contain myself.
“Ah, it seems you have a wicked parent situation as well?”
“Not quite,” I say, though it sounds like the label applies more to my situation than hers. “We’re just not particularly close.”
“What about your mother?”
“She died when I was in high school,” I say. “Breast cancer.”
I hear her suck in a breath. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Maxon.”
“Please, call me Levi,” I say.
“That’s an interesting name for a New England boy,” she says. I can tell she’s trying to carefully change the subject, a surprisingly tactful move that I appreciate.
“It was a family name, from my mother’s side,” I tell her. “She was from Virginia, one of the old Daughters of the American Revolution families. She insisted, against my father’s wishes.” And maybe that’s another reason he hated me, I think, but don’t say.
“I like it. It’s unique, at least in Boston. Not very proper.” She says it with an affected Boston Brahmin accent that sounds nearly British, and I laugh in spite of myself.
“What makes you think I’m proper?”
I can feel her eyes gazing over at me. “Look at you. Tie always straight, hair in place, despite the fact that your curls want nothing more than to be free. And are those jeans you’re wearing pressed?”
“What’s wrong with pressed jeans? Should they be wrinkled and stained?”
“Nothing wrong,” she replies with a shrug, sounding smug. “Just proper.”
No one’s teased me in, well, I can’t remember the last time. And hearing her rib me about my jeans (which were professionally laundered, because that’s not a task I do for myself) makes me feel like I want to stamp down on the gas pedal, skip the private jet, and send us speeding down to the Cape alone in this car.
And so that’s what I do.
“Mind a drive?” I ask, already steering away from the exit for the municipal airport where we keep our family plane.
“Not at all,” she replies. “Those little planes make me nervous anyway. Always dropping out of the sky.”
Spoken like a woman who’s never been on a private jet. It’s been a long time since I’ve spent time with anyone like that.
I glance across the center console and see her smiling again, her sunglasses pushed up into her hair so that I can see those pale blue eyes shining like the spring sky. She’s going to look stunning in that yellow dress I picked for her (with just a little help from Isabella, my personal shopper).
In this moment, I almost—almost—forget why she’s with me in the first place.
We spend the next hour and a half answering each other’s questions. About family. About work. About favorite foods and bands and places to go in the city. I tell myself it’s because I’m trying to seduce her.
I tell myself it’s because it’s part of the plan. And if it is, it’s working quite well. Maybe too well, because I can feel myself forgetting what this is supposed to be about, like an actor who forgets he’s just playing a role.
The script is fading into the background.
I keep telling myself to focus on why I’m here, and not think about her lips, or look at her legs for so long in one glance.
Easier said then done, apparently.
It’s early enough in the day and in the season that we make it onto the Cape with relatively little traffic and make good time to Hyannis, where the wedding is taking place. I pull past the gates of the Radnor Estate and down the crunchy gravel drive until we’re parking in front, where a valet waits for us.
“I should tell you, I called to try and get you another room, but they were booked up,” I explain to her as I pass the keys to the valet.
It’s actually true, and very convenient as far as I’m concerned.
The only reason I was able to get a room this late is likely because of some Julie witchcraft. “But it’s a suite, so there should be ample space.”
I expect her to smile, or blush, or look intrigued, but when I catch her face around the side of the car, she looks completely dumbfounded.
Or terrified.
I can’t quite pin down the emotion written on her face, but it’s not quite the reaction I’d have expected.
“Oh,” she says finally. “Well …” she trails off, leaving the thought unfinished, and I decide not to push her. Once she sees the room, the view, once she samples the wine and the room service, I’m sure she’ll have no problem getting comfortable.
I’ve stayed at the Radnor Estate twice before. Once for an executive retreat that my father organized that had to have cost the company untold amounts of money, and once for a charity event Maxon Law was sponsoring.
I was completely unsurprised to hear that Julia and Logan had selected it as their wedding venue. Between the gorgeous Cape Code estate, the rolling sand dunes, and the blue of the Atlantic, it’s definitely a place that makes romantic types want to celebrate love.
Which is what I’m counting on.
And the Radnor Estate doesn’t let me down.
As soon as I open the door to our suite, my eyes go straight to the ocean, which is on display in a panorama of windows across the entire suite.
The furniture is overstuffed and comfortable, but also lush and expensive. Cashmere throws and pillows drape over nearly every surface. Heavy, fluffy rugs cover the heart pine floors. There’s a bottle of champagne on ice in a silver high hat, and a cheese tray with fresh figs and bacon jam waiting for us on the reclaimed barn wood coffee table.
“So, should we get to work?” Cadence asks, still rooted to the floor in the doorway.
Shit. I hadn’t actually planned for any work. I was hoping she’d be so taken with me that she’d forget all about it. “I’d like to unwind from the drive a little first,” I say, hoping she’ll start in on the champagne and cheese with me.
“Okay…well if you don’t mind, I think I’m going to take a little nap,” she replies. Her voice seems soft, and a little shaky, and I wonder if it’s because she’s starting to feel the sparks between us.
Or if it’s something else.
“You can take the bed,” I say, gesturing through the sliding barn door at the end of the room towards the bedroom. She nods, and disappears inside, sliding the door shut behind her.
Christ. She’s jumpy.
And I have less than four weeks to settle her down and get her ready to take the plunge with me.
This could be trickier than I expected.
CADENCE
Sharing a room.
I’m sharing a room with Levi Maxon. My boss, who scares the hell out of me, but if I’m honest, is also sort of the hottest man I’ve ever seen, much less spoken to. Much less shared a room with.
When we walked in and saw the ocean and the champagne, I knew I was in trouble. For Levi, this is work. I’m his assistant. Hell, I’m getting paid to be here.
But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel something between us, so I had to get out of there before I did or said something to make a fool of myself.
Only now I’m stuck in this bedroom, pretending to take a nap when all I can do is stare at the ceiling and think about how much I want him to kiss me. Which is completely inappropriate and could compromise the job I’m here to do (and the paycheck I’m here to earn).
Nothing can happen between us.
He doesn’t even want anything to happen. He’s a
gorgeous gazillionaire and I’m like a character out of a Charles Dickens novel. The man is curious about me because I might as well come from a different planet as far as he’s concerned…
There’s of course another problem, too. One that I’m hoping won’t even come up, if I can manage to keep things completely professional. One I don’t even want to imagine talking to Levi Maxon about.
And that’s when I finally drift off to a fitful sleep.
I wake up to see a brilliant pink and purple sky out the window as the sun begins to sink.
Holy shit, how long was I asleep?
I fumble for my phone and see that I’ve been out for nearly three hours. I scramble out of bed and into the bathroom, barely pausing to take in the enormous claw foot tub, tile floors and walk-in granite shower.
I peer in the mirror and re-braid my hair to tame the frizzies that have escaped, then splash some cold water onto my face. After my two-minute beauty routine I manage to look slightly less zombie like.
I give my cheeks a pinch in the mirror, trying to bring out some color, a trick I learned from one of my many Little Women readings as a kid.
Then I take a deep breath.
“Ok, Cady, you can do this. Just chill out and act professional,” I tell my reflection, but the personal pep talk only sends my heart into a crazy jazz rhythm that makes me feel like I could pass out. I take another deep breath to nearly no affect, then decide I can’t hide out in here much longer.
I slowly slide the door open and step out into the living room.
Levi is on the couch, his feet up on the coffee table, his laptop in his lap. He didn’t hear the door, and so I have a moment to study him before he notices me.
His focus is on the screen in front of him, his brow furrowed, his jaw set in a firm line. He types furiously, his focus laser sharp and precise. He’s taken off his sweater now that the morning spring chill has burned off, and is down to an old Princeton tee shirt that looks worn and washed until the cotton is soft as silk.
Suddenly all I want to do is run my fingers over it, particularly the places where it seems to hug his muscled frame.
My presence finally alerts him, and he glances up from his screen.