Battle Royal

by Lucy Parker

  “You noticed her boots?” Sylvie was momentarily distracted. “Jesus. You and Pet should open a detective agency.” In a moment of lightness, she fluttered her lashes at him, and welcome laughter crinkled his eyes. “I’ll be the mysterious sexpot who seduces you on your desk.”

  He nodded at the desk beneath her. “Practice makes perfect. If you’d like to demonstrate on your desk—”

  She touched the wooden surface. “This one is Jay’s.”

  “Ah.” Amidst the neatly arranged papers and pens was a framed photo of her and Fforde. It hadn’t been taken in England; looked like the south of France. They were on the beach, Sylvie’s arms wrapped around her knees as she beamed into the camera. Fforde sat at her side, turning to look at her, also smiling. Dominic rubbed his thumb over his jaw as he continued to study it, very thoughtfully, for an extended moment. “Maybe take a rain check until you’re in my office, then.”

  Sighing, Sylvie dropped her phone on the desk and drummed her heels against the wood. “What do we do about it?” She inclined her head toward the screen. “We’re about to submit proposals for their wedding cake. Rosie’s already having doubts. I doubt they’d be alleviated if I texted her a photo of her fiancé tumbling around her massive garden with a temperamental blonde. This is both none of our business and also literally our business. Businesses,” she corrected belatedly, with a slight blink. She bit her lip and her tone abruptly changed. “It’s so bloody odd. I genuinely keep forgetting that we’re competing in this. I feel like I’m talking to my partner.”

  In the beat of silence that followed, the air felt thick and heavy with unspoken words, and a flush of the palest pink swept through her cheeks.

  He cleared his suddenly dry throat. “I know you care about those two in a way that has nothing to do with this contract—”

  “So do you,” she murmured.

  “Clearly, it’s going to play on your own peace of mind if you do nothing. The only thing I can suggest is that when we submit the proposals before the ball, one or both of us speaks to Johnny privately. Be honest about what we saw, and leave anything further to him.”

  After a moment, she nodded. Her eyes were searching his. “Do you still have that business dinner tonight?”

  He pushed his hand through his hair, cupping the back of his neck. “Mm-hmm. And if I don’t want to turn up looking as if I’ve been dragged through a hedge, I need to get going.” Drinks and filet mignon with the CEO of Farquhar’s, one of his biggest clients. The networking would likely result in a high-five-figure contract, and if he only had his own income to worry about, he’d be very tempted to reschedule.

  “Dom. When all the work is done,” she said so softly, a whisper on a breath, “we need to talk.” Her office window looked onto a brick wall, but the definition of the moss-covered bricks was fading with the light, and her features were cast into increasing shadow. “About . . . about this.” Her throat moved as she swallowed. “About us. I always like to know where I stand, and where I’m going. But especially when I’m in a place I’ve never been before.”

  From the moment their mouths had met in the Dark Forest, things had developed so insanely naturally between them, but the tension had wrapped around them now in ropes. Dominic vaguely heard a soft sound outside the closed door, but neither of them looked away.

  In fiction, falling in love seemed to happen in soft focus, all cheerful montages of pop music and soulful glances. In reality, it was raw and confronting, powerful and passionate, shifting every goalpost.

  The past few weeks had been so busy he’d barely had a moment of rest, and his head had been thrown into a total spiraling mindfuck where she was concerned. It was as if his usual, well-trodden path had begun to crumble beneath his feet, at first in pieces over a longer time than he’d ever admitted, and then he’d fallen so quickly he’d never had a chance to catch his breath. It was overwhelming, and it was disorientating.

  And ultimately, he was thankful. He was incredibly grateful to know that he could feel like this about someone, and he was increasingly privileged that it was her.

  But he also hadn’t known how it would feel giving someone the power to cause him hurt.

  How difficult it would be to take the last step, to let go of the need for control.

  To take the biggest leap of faith there was.

  He nodded, and her teeth sank deeper into her lip. With a decisive movement, she pushed off the desk and came to stand before him. Without another word, she went up on her tiptoes, very lightly framed his jaw with her hands, and kissed him hard.

  They continued to look into one another’s eyes as the kiss deepened, then softened, feeling each other’s mouths, darting the tips of tongues along the silky skin of inner lips, nipping and nuzzling. His hands were on the curves of her waist, feeling the warmth beneath her shirt, his thumbs gently stroking up and down.

  When she breathed in deeply and carefully broke away, her cheeks were red, her pupils dilated, and his erection strained against his zipper.

  He jumped when the old-fashioned clock on a shelf chimed, a small door opening in the dial and a cuckoo bird popping out once, twice, five times. Somebody—and he could guess who—had put a tiny pink baseball cap on its head. He couldn’t help smiling.

  “You have to go,” she said quietly.

  “I don’t know when it’ll wind up, and you need an early night, so—”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow at the shoot.” Her fingers had drifted to his body again, plucking at his clothing, but she realized what she was doing and curled her hand into a fist.

  He kissed her once more, very lightly, then went to the outside door in a swift movement, closing it quietly behind him as he stepped out into the rain.

  God.

  From pop songs to poems to personal experience, everyone knew how fun and dizzying and delightful it was to fall into infatuation.

  Sylvie hadn’t known how disorientating and terrifying it could be to fall in love.

  When just out of reach, teasingly stretching out to touch her hands, tugging her forward, was the prospect of something so unbelievably wonderful.

  She ran her hand over her eyes, walked to the internal door, and pulled it open.

  And almost ran straight into Penny, who was standing in the hallway, so close they could have bumped noses.

  Her intern’s large eyes widened farther, but her usual vague smile made a rapid reappearance. She held up a stack of envelopes. “Mail. And just to let you know, I finished the bread rolls early and saw we were out of caramel truffles, so I made more.”

  Good grief. She’d done the task she’d been assigned and showed initiative.

  Light was breaking through the clouds at last.

  “I couldn’t find the toffee crumbles, so I used the pretty crystals by the sink instead,” Penny added, looking very pleased with her own ingenuity.

  Sylvie paused. “The crystals in the jar?”

  The younger woman nodded happily.

  “Um. How many truffles did you make?”

  Penny gave an excited little hop. “Five dozen.”

  Well, it could have been worse.

  At least she’d only made sixty units of their exciting new variety of truffle.

  Dark chocolate and crystallized oven cleaner.

  Thank God Jay was out all day at meetings.

  Before she could issue a tactful reminder that all edible ingredients and industrial cleaning products were meticulously labeled, Penny continued, “There’s another reporter out front. Asking the staff questions about the royal wedding cake. And Mabel’s out on her break.”

  Joy upon joy.

  “And your friend left his coat.”

  At Penny’s blithe observation, Sylvie turned and saw Dominic’s beautiful wool coat hung over her chair. Damn. It was already cold outside, and it would be freezing by the time he left the restaurant tonight.

  “If you need to take it to him,” Penny offered, “I’ll get rid of the reporter.”

&nb
sp; “Oh, I don’t think . . .” Before the polite refusal was out, Sylvie reconsidered. It was impossible to either fluster or coerce any information out of Penny. She didn’t appear to retain any in the first place. Multiple people had just given up and noped out of a conversation with the intern, through the sheer frustration of talking to a wall of smiling indifference. “That would be great. Please do.”

  As Penny floated over to her desk to drop the stack of mail into appropriate sorting boxes, Sylvie hastily tapped her phone to vanish the photo of Johnny and Aggressive Blonde. She grabbed Dominic’s coat and rushed out the side door into the alleyway.

  He’d obviously hit rush-hour traffic, because he was only just heading into De Vere’s when she emerged onto the street.

  In a small break between cars, Sylvie dashed across the street, her boots sending puddles splashing up her legs.

  “Dominic!”

  He turned with a frown, the wind blowing his hair back from his face, but his expression cleared as he saw the coat in her hand. “Thank—”

  Looking at the sharply hewn, arrogant features, she couldn’t help herself. Her heart flooding with warmth, she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him again.

  He stiffened for the most infinitesimal of moments—he obviously liked it when she kissed and cuddled him, but they were right outside their workplaces on a public street, and he was definitely never going to be a PDA sort of bloke to this extent—then his body relaxed. His mouth moved warmly over hers, his hand coming up to smooth her hair away from her cheek.

  They drew back from each other. Rain was falling down his cheeks, over his shoulders. She was barely aware of the wetness of her own hair and clothing.

  “Have a good dinner,” she murmured, and was rewarded with a flash of that rare, genuine smile before he took his coat, brushed his lips between her brows, and went inside.

  Sylvie touched her lips and bit down lightly on her thumb as she swung around, smiling, to cross back to her own territory.

  The rain was starting to fall in sheets, sending mist and spray rising from the sodden pavement, throwing the entire scene into a soft, unfocused gray.

  But there was nothing to impede her vision as she looked over the roof of a newly arrived taxi, into Jay’s eyes as he stood, one hand tightly gripping the open door.

  Clearly, he’d had an equally good view of her. And Dominic.

  She wasn’t moving. Couldn’t move. She just stood there, getting more and more soaked, her chest rising more quickly with every breath.

  His face.

  Oh God, his face.

  Suddenly, she knew exactly, finally, what Jay had wanted to talk to her about.

  And that wobbling foundation stone in her life crumbled into dust.

  Chapter Seventeen

  They stood in their office, the desks between them. They were both holding on to the backs of their chairs, as if they didn’t know what to do with their hands.

  As if they needed the support.

  The rain was hitting the windows hard, and the clock was ticking, and everything felt both unnaturally loud and painfully silent.

  She couldn’t look away from him.

  He couldn’t seem to bear to look at her.

  When he spoke at last, it was with his head lowered, his hair falling forward. “You and De Vere.” There was nothing in his tone. Literally nothing. Her stomach did a horrible, sickening little flip. “You’re—with De Vere.”

  “Yes.” Sylvie spoke very quietly, but with no hesitation. Even as she felt that every word would stab into Jay with a weapon she’d never imagined she possessed, she wouldn’t deny Dominic. Couldn’t. “I’m seeing Dominic.”

  Inadequate. Barely touching the surface. And already more than he wanted to hear.

  “How long?” Jay asked, still expressionless. Under the stubble edging his sculpted jaw, a muscle jumped.

  “Not long.”

  He finally looked up, and the moment she saw his eyes again, her heart hurt like hell. “I, um—I didn’t realize. I wasn’t expecting . . .” He took a visibly unsteady breath.

  “Neither was I,” she said softly. She had to cross her arms tightly to stop herself moving forward, reaching out for him.

  She’d always held him when he was hurt.

  And to do that, right now, would obviously gut him.

  He seemed to be bracing himself. “Is it serious?” He forced those words out and raised a hand before she could answer. “Don’t answer that.” That frozen, hateful emptiness was leaving his voice. It cracked. Her eyes burnt. “I know you.” His mouth twisted. “I know you.”

  Sylvie nodded once.

  “The look on your face when you turned around. When you . . . left his arms.” Jay pressed his lips together. “It’s serious.”

  “Jay.”

  “I love you.” He said it so simply, as he’d said it a hundred times before, all these years.

  And for the first time in all these years, she heard him.

  The first tears slipped past her lashes.

  Her usual response, as deeply and truly as she meant it, would be another sharp knife.

  “I didn’t know.” She managed to speak, but it was barely more than a whisper. They looked at each other. His face was white. Another tear fell down her cheek. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

  He closed his eyes, tilted his head back. Exhaled.

  “How . . .” She trailed off.

  Slowly, he looked back down at her. He slipped his hands into his pockets, the fabric of his trousers pulling taut across his long legs. “How long?” He shook his head slightly. “I don’t even know anymore. It crept up so gradually. For a while, I thought, Nah, you love her so much that you’re crossing wires that aren’t there. But no. And now I . . . I can’t remember a time when it wasn’t you.” A single crack of horrible self-deprecating laughter. “And for some reason, I was convinced that we’ve been moving closer to a point where it would be us.”

  She didn’t question how he felt. She never would. Jay knew himself; he knew his feelings. She had no right to invalidate that to try to make this situation easier for herself.

  They’d flatted together for a few years after Mallory’s death. Night after night, they’d curled up in the lounge, watching Mallory’s favorite classic films, and talking for hours and hours.

  There had never been a time when Sylvie couldn’t talk to Jay, about anything.

  She couldn’t think of one word to say now.

  Nothing that wouldn’t make this even worse.

  Even as she watched, his shoulders straightened, his face smoothing out, the professional suavity slipping over his features, the mask that had carried him through years of business negotiations.

  He’d never used this version of himself with her.

  It was as if he’d reached out and closed a physical door between them.

  The pain was shocking.

  “I have to leave now.” His every syllable was measured and too calm, but as their gazes met again and held, the façade cracked. “And for everything that we are, all that’s ever been between us that wasn’t in my head . . .” A slight note of bitterness, swiftly quashed. “I need you to let me do that.”

  During that time back then, when Mallory had died, and her breath had been punched out of her chest and she’d felt she could never move again, she’d forced herself up and she’d thrown herself into work. Keeping her hands and mind busy until she was ready to face what had happened. Keeping herself intact until it was time to break.

  She let him leave. Without a word. Her gaze averted. Her hands clenched into shaking fists.

  When the door closed with finality behind him, the clock kept ticking in the silent room.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Saturday

  Hartwell Studios

  The Operation Cake final.

  Life has a habit of throwing curveballs.

  Sometimes things work out as expected and desired.

  And sometimes they smack
you in the face harder than a sponge-cake unicorn hoof.

  Something was wrong with Sylvie.

  With six different cameras ready to catch the slightest change in his expression and edit it into a fantasy narrative, Dominic tried to give them as little as possible. He kept his face turned toward the contestants’ stations, watching as the final three painstakingly decorated their final bakes of the competition.

  Wedding cakes.

  The universe loved a shot of irony.

  No fear that Sylvie’s favorite contestants would make a sneak grab for the Albany contract. Adam had gone with a theme aimed at love-struck bookworms, a stack of antique books with their titles painted on the spines in gold curlicue. Romeo and Juliet, Tristan and Iseult, and Bride and Groom, an insert-the-names-of-the-happy-couple-here proposition.

  Nothing said “marital role models” and “everlasting happiness” like Shakespeare’s melodramatic, hormone-driven teens and the doomed, bespelled adulterers of yore.

  However, the choice of titles was less of an issue than the ill-placed dowels. The bottom two tiers had already collapsed into each other, the gold paint of the text blurring and running. As of two minutes ago, the spines now read Juliet and Iseult in just-legible writing.

  Likely a more interesting story, but a disaster of a cake.

  Emma had opted for a wishing well cake, with small biscuits crafted into realistic gold coins for the theoretical bride and groom to toss into the depths of the fondant stone structure, making a wish before they closed their hands around the nuptial knife.

  And plunged it into their own chests to avoid having to put a crumb of that cake in their mouths.

  Dominic had tasted a spare cutting during his contractual stalk around the studio. He did not fancy having to repeat that experience for the approaching judging.