“And you become obsolete,” Weston finished.
The saying had been his father’s version of a bedtime story, along with the Aldrich men don’t fail and there’s no empathy in business. To Victor S. Aldrich, reputation trumped compassion.
His father puffed out a rough grunt. “Get your head out of your ass, son. You’ve always been too emotional. This is business, and every choice has implications. If this merger falls apart, our stocks drop. Investors will get nervous. Jobs will be lost. Yours might be one of them. There’s more at stake than losing a deal you hoped would secure your personal footing with shareholders. Stop lamenting the hours you’ve worked. And for the love of God, get some sleep. You look like hell.”
He marched out of the office as though his words hadn’t stung.
Too emotional. Jobs will be lost. Yours might be one of them. There was no nepotism at Aldrich Pharma. Weston was Chief Operating Officer because he’d worked more than he’d slept since high school. He was smart. He was damned good at his job. The sacrifices had helped him cope when dealing with his personal losses. DJing helped, too.
But music was his weak spot. As was Rosanna’s unpredictability.
DLP had proven adept at digging up dirt on adversaries. Dangerously so. Weston had become more diligent since Annie had discovered his secret identity. His driver kept his eyes peeled for tails. Walks home after shows were no longer an option. He slipped in and out of his gigs without so much as a nod at backstage fans. Falcon had zero digital footprint. The only person who could blow his cover was Annie, and he was ninety-nine percent sure she wouldn’t rat him out. Rosanna, however, could undermine him with one misjudged selfie.
Marjory knocked on his open door. “Your ten o’clock with marketing tomorrow has been moved up to nine. I need the compiled Alera files before then if you want them couriered on time, and your lunch with the Warner Group will be trickier than planned. Their head bulldog will be attending. He wants to curb investment dollars. And Annie called.”
Weston nodded while replaying his dates with Rosanna, his nights DJing, wondering if unsavory sorts had managed to tail him. “Did Annie leave a message?”
“I just told you the message. You weren’t listening.”
Story of his life these days. He’d barely digested tomorrow’s headache of a day let alone listened to all Marjory had said. “Sorry. What did she say?”
“Do I get paid extra for telling you the same thing twice?”
Marjory’s eighties shoulder pads matched the width of her curly red hair. Her sarcasm filled the doorway, too. “Do I get to deduct the hours you spend gossiping instead of working?”
“Do you want the message or not?”
He wasn’t sure. The past four weeks Annie had sat in on his mixing sessions, not saying a word as promised, just bringing him a plate of cut up vegetables and hummus before he’d realized he was hungry, or a glass of Scotch, or homemade cookies, or a notepad when his was full. Intuitive, thoughtful gestures that made him inexplicably angry.
When he’d cancelled a session because of a dinner or posh gallery opening with Rosanna, or a weekend at Karim’s country home, Annie had gotten distant and curt, and acid had burned Weston’s gut. He’d even lied to Annie and invented a couple of dates so he could have some peace. Those nights had been the most frustrating of all.
He was spending more time with Annie than he had in ages, but he felt further from her than ever before.
“Yes,” he told Marjory. “I want the message.”
She clasped her hands and smiled indulgently. “Annie said she would be late tonight.” She raised her voice and talked slowly, as though English were his second language. “She said you can let yourself into her apartment if you get there first.”
He should cancel their plans. Annie had asked him to come over and see the DJing equipment she’d purchased, help her set it up. Nothing that couldn’t wait, and he had a million things to do. His focus was already abysmal. But he pictured her chaotic apartment, that awful purple carpet and floral couch, the mess of magazines and scrapbooking decorations scattered in the small space, and a deep yearning took root. A craving for that familiarity. A moment to catch his breath.
Maybe he was putting too much pressure on himself. Pulling himself in too many directions. He could quit DJing. Walk away. Forget about his plans to use his platform for change. He’d mostly only done it for Leo and his mother, as it stood. Or he could walk away from Aldrich Pharma, quit fake-dating Rosanna and developing an ulcer every time the merger hit a snag. No more deals buckling, patents failing, stressing over competition taking a bite out of his market share. Pursue music with more determination and hope Aldrich Pharma thrived under someone else’s lead.
The base of his neck twinged. A cramp gripped his chest.
Unable to clear his head, he left work earlier than he should have. Way earlier than he’d originally planned to meet Annie. He drove to her apartment, impatient to get there. He practically ran up the steps in the musty hallway, fumbled with his key to get inside. He couldn’t think straight. Didn’t understand this desperate need to be here, in this space, even with Annie gone. The second he pushed inside and saw the colorful anarchy that was all Annie, he could suddenly breathe.
The space smelled like her. Of sage and honey and…chicken noodle soup? He dragged the back of his hand along his forehead, fingers shaking slightly. Leading two lives was getting to him.
He exhaled heavily and noticed a piano. Annie hadn’t mentioned a piano. Only DJ equipment purchased secondhand. Was she planning to use the old piano for her mixes? Try for a more classical sound like in his intros? They hadn’t discussed her DJ plans. Every time she came over, he expended all his energy into keeping his emotions contained and her at a distance. But he thought about her all the time, relived their kiss when he closed his eyes.
The last thing he wanted was for his control to snap, to feed his depraved thoughts by actually pressing her against the wall, kissing her senseless, feeling that first hot push of his body inside hers—sweet agony—then freak out and lose her for good.
He loosened his tie and yanked it off as he dodged a purse lying on the floor, then a stack of magazines. He slipped on a random sock and almost nailed his shin on the coffee table, before making it to her couch. With his ass finally planted on her soft cushion, he sighed and rested his head on the back. His eyelids felt like lead weights. His neck still hurt. He’d rest for a minute, then he’d pull out his phone and text human resources, start the ball rolling on replacing Saanvi. He’d call Rosanna, plan their next date. He’d get back to the promoter who’d been messaging Falcon for a gig, then he’d work on the Alera files, have them on Marjory’s desk before the sun was up.
He’d just keep his eyes closed for a few breaths.
Someone was sawing a log in Annie’s apartment. Or robbing her while wielding a chainsaw. Or Wes had fallen asleep as he sometimes did and was doing his best impression of a vicious warthog.
She opened her unlocked door, and lo and behold the warthog impersonator was comatose. His head was tipped back, his heavy thighs splayed apart. One of his hands clung to his removed tie, and his other was flung to his left. The heinous sound escaping his lips made her wince. And was that drool on his cheek? Nothing about this scene should be attractive, but Wes looked so vulnerable, younger and disheveled, and in a need of a cuddle.
Her heart gave a soft whump.
It wasn’t a maternal whump, much to her chagrin. It was an I-want-to-care-for-that-man-because-that-man-is-mine whump. She hated that pathetic whump.
The undeniable force had grown exponentially this past month, and God knew why. Wes had been short with her more than kind. He’d been gallivanting around town with his girlfriend. He’d even lied to her a few times, claiming he’d had a date with Rosanna, when social media photos later showed Rosanna, solo, partying with friends. Intel Annie did not know because she’d stalked the couple online. She did not spend her free hours mooning over a
man who wanted nothing to do with her. That would be sad. Pathetic.
Another soft whump confirmed her sad patheticness.
She schlepped her sad self into her kitchen and poured a glass of wine. Cheap stuff that made Wes’s lip curl. His snoring stuttered a few times, then roared loud enough to wake a giant. She laughed as she sipped. At least Rosanna had to deal with this freight train at night. Which implied they slept together, probably naked.
Annie opened a cupboard door and slammed it shut.
Wes gasped, shooting upright.
“Sorry,” she said sweetly. “Did I wake you?”
He blinked and scrubbed his hands down his face. “What time is it?”
“Time for you to see a doctor about that heinous sound coming from your mouth. That noise could be used to torture prisoners.”
A sleepy smile pulled at his lips, and everything inside her clenched. His sleepy smiles were sexier than his regular smiles. The gravel in his groggy voice was a whole other level of alluring. She chugged a mouthful of wine.
Wes propped his elbows on his knees. “What time is it?” he asked again.
“Just after nine. Vivian had a last-minute appointment, so I worked a few hours for her. And I’m starving. Have you eaten? We should order food.”
“After nine?” He scanned her apartment like he’d forgotten where he was. “I slept three hours?”
Three hours implied he’d been there since six. Unless he had a meeting or business dinner, Wes never left work that early. She wasn’t sure he took bathroom breaks. They’d been so careful around each other since his Falcon revelation and their kiss revelation that they hadn’t talked about anything of substance. Duncan still texted, asking if she’d spoken with Wes yet, worried about his boss’s focus, inserting his usual jokes in the mix. Annie would banter back, putting off his concerns, instead of confronting Wes and getting answers.
She had been a bad friend.
“Don’t move,” she said as she went into her room to change. Sweatpants and a T-shirt were needed for this conversation. And more wine.
Wes nodded vaguely, a faraway look on his face she’d never seen. Definitely more wine.
Ten minutes later, they each had a glass of Chardonnay in hand. Wes was still leaning forward, elbows on his knees. Annie sat cross-legged facing him, inches apart on her not-very-large couch. “You’re burning yourself out,” she said.
He ran his tongue over his teeth. “It’ll pass. When the merger goes through, things will calm down.”
“That could be months.”
“I’ll manage.”
“You didn’t hear yourself snoring like a man who hadn’t slept in a year. You’re not managing.”
He sipped his wine and grimaced. “This tastes like it smells.”
“Cheap and cheerful?”
“Like rancid vinegar. I’ll send over wine for you to store.”
She should rip him a new one for insulting her affordable wine, but the infuriating man was going for a diversion. “I don’t want your fancy wine. I want you to talk to me before your juggling act lands you in intensive care.”
“Unless you’ve suddenly earned your PHD and can jump in to head up one of our R&D divisions, you can’t help with this.”
“I can help by listening.”
He took another sip of wine, grimaced again, then swallowed. “I’ll be fine. I just needed a break. Time to myself. A little peace.”
And he’d sought that here. At her apartment. The same way sitting quietly in his recording studio made her content. It didn’t matter Wes ignored her when he worked. She learned by watching, felt part of his creative energy even as she’d get sidetracked studying his profile. He scratched his nose when he was stumped. He bounced his left heel when he was excited, on the cusp of a great mix. She loved reading his body language and being around him.
But she disliked the odd moments she’d catch him staring at her while she scribbled in her notebook, a look of longing on his face. That forlorn look confused her. She despised her jealousy when he had his Rosanna dates.
She really, really hated seeing him distraught now.
“If a break is what you need, I have a suggestion.”
“I’m not letting you dye my hair pink.”
“As fun as that Halloween was, I have something more therapeutic in mind.” She held up a magazine and flapped it in the air. “We’re going to scrapbook.”
“I don’t scrapbook, Squ…” He grunted. “You know I don’t get along with glue and sparkles.”
“You also used to hate pets and now you’re a proud owner of the world’s most terrifying rabbit-squirrel. It’s never too late to change!”
He found a spare inch on her coffee table and deposited his wineglass. “I thought you needed me to set-up your DJ equipment. And when did you get a piano?”
She could have set up her gear herself, but asking Wes for help had been a moment of weakness. In his condo, she’d promised to give him space, not interrupt his music sessions with chatter or add to his stress. She’d been good at keeping quiet, but she missed his teasing. Her quips. Their fun banter. She missed when he called her Squirrel.
She’d hoped having him in her apartment would return the fun to their friendship, even if friends were all they’d ever be. Wes clearly needed fun.
“The equipment can wait,” she said. “Scrapbooking wins every time.” It always helped her decompress. “If you order dinner, I’ll get you a fresh book of your own. There are menus on the coffee table, under the basket of pens. Order whatever you want, except that spicy Indian food or the Greek fish that smells up my place.”
Without waiting for him to rant or complain, she hopped off the couch and hurried into her room. She reached for the stack of empty albums on her closet shelf, pushed up to her tiptoes and nudged the top one closer. A bang and crash had her freezing, but she hadn’t caused the noise. A curse came from her living room.
Then she heard, “What the fuck?”
Mildly concerned, she nudged the album down and inched toward her bedroom door.
Where she screamed.
Wes was kneeling on the floor, pens scattered everywhere, bent over the last thing she wanted him to find. She debated running for cover. Pulling the hall fire alarm? He stayed bent over her secret Weston Aldrich scrapbook, mercilessly flipping the pages. He had never looked so livid.
When he reached the worst page, she covered her face.
“I can still see you, Squirrel. You better start explaining what the hell this is.”
The page in question had been crafted the day she’d gotten her driver’s license. Weston had given her a car. She should never have accepted the top-safety-rated Volkswagen Golf. The gift had been another example of his need to control Annie and feel like he was doing “good” in the world. Eighteen-year-olds, however, were pleasure seekers.
She had snatched the keys after hugging the stuffing out of him, and had announced she was going for a drive on her own, to explore her newfound freedom. Wes had asked her to check in when she got home. A simple request. He hadn’t accounted for Annie having way too much fun driving five hours to the Ausable Chasm Bridge, music blasting as she’d sung along. She hadn’t been able to resist staying for sunset photos. She’d chosen to sleep in her fancy new car instead of driving home past dark. Her phone’s dead battery had made a call to Wes impossible.
Upon her return, a furious Weston had stolen her car keys and rescinded his gift. She’d then created a collage by stuffing cutout dog poop into his two-dimensional mouth. Artistic expression that had made her feel vindicated.
The book had been safely hidden under her couch for years. He was never supposed to see it. She hadn’t accounted for spilled pens and Wes crawling around on her floor.
“That’s private,” she said. “You don’t have permission to look through it.”
“You don’t have permission to defile my pictures.”
“I don’t need your permission, Weston.”
“I think you do, Anthea.”
He’d called her Squirrel a moment ago, Anthea now. Names she should still hate, but she found her horror subsiding. “I do not need your permission, and I’m actually glad you found the album. It’s the perfect example of why you’re going to start your first scrapbook.”
“It’s the perfect example of why we’re never going to speak again.” He flipped several pages, found one of him with a rabbit attached to his front in a Baby Bjorn sling. An almost-smile threatened to crack his fury.
She joined him on the floor and forced the book closed. They were both kneeling, surrounded by a rainbow of scattered pens, like kids in a playroom. “I started this book when I was young and frustrated. If I was annoyed with you, turning that angst into art was a way for me to let go and move on.”
A line sank between his brows, deep and troubled. “When I’d call you Squirrel?”
“Sometimes.”
He glanced at the closed album. “And now? Why do you still deface pictures of me?”
He looked up and searched her eyes, the open curiosity so unguarded she debated telling him the truth. Because I have feelings for you. Because every picture of you and Rosanna cuts like a knife. Because when I go to sleep at night, I imagine how your skin would feel sliding against mine.
“Because things are changing between us,” she said.
She couldn’t read his reaction to her confession. She had no clue if he sensed her deeper desires. His chest expanded, his upper body tilting slightly forward. An eternity later, he said, “I feel it, too. I hate it.”
The distance between them? Or living with this unquenched desire? “So what do we do about it?”
His gaze strayed, dropped to her lips for a beat. Pulsing heat overtook her body as he reached forward and brushed her hair over her ear. “We order takeout. Then we scrapbook and maybe watch a movie. We talk and hang out and work through whatever this is.”
She knew what this was for her. She just wasn’t sure what this was for him.
The Beat Match Page 13