Possess: An Alpha Anthology

by Anthology

  No answer.

  I pad lightly toward the kitchen. A tablet and laptop are plugged in and charging, and a breeze carrying sea salt drifts through an open window. The July midday sun blankets the day with warmth and light against the sandy dunes, and all I want after a three-hour Jitney ride is to change into something worthy of summer and dip my toes into the sand of my boss’ private beach.

  In fact, that was her order. Addison yelled at me for working too much.

  In the two years I’d worked as a real estate broker at Van Cleef agency, never once had I requested so much as a single vacation day.

  It took forever to get here, and not just because of the Jitney’s snail pace or the myriad of stops we made during the one-hundred-twenty mile trek. The driver was an older man, retirement age, and when I saw him lugging fifty-some suitcases out from the bus’ storage compartment, I couldn’t let him do it alone. I stayed, handing out luggage and walking a group of little old ladies to the nearest taxi station.

  Finally, I’m here.

  But clearly I’m not alone.

  “Hello?” I call out again. “Who’s in here?”

  Puffs of white smoke billow past the window outside, and the smoldering scent of a fired up grill wafts in front of me. I drop my bags by the butcher-block kitchen island and head for the sliders that lead to a wraparound deck.

  A shirtless man in navy and white striped board shorts shimmies in front of the grill. The white cords of his ear buds dangle down his shoulders.

  His tanned back glistens and his muscles flex beneath taught skin. The round curve of his tight ass keeps his low-hanging shorts in tact and his head bobs to the music faintly uhn-tissing from his ears. He doesn’t hear me.

  Damn it!

  I’d recognize that thick, russet head of hair, that narrow, chiseled waist and those perfectly balled calves anywhere.

  I’m just not sure what he’s doing here…

  At our boss’ Hamptons home…

  During the long weekend she designated especially for me…

  I reach for one of the white cords and yank it from his ear with one fluid pull. A man I haven’t seen nor spoken to in two full years whips around and lifts his Ray-Bans. The corners of his smug mouth fall. He meets my disdainful glare with one of his own the second my face registers in that big, arrogant brain of his.

  “Xavier.” I fold my arms across my chest.

  “Magnolia.” His fist clenches around a pair of metal tongs.

  “What are you doing here? Addison reserved this weekend for me.”

  His jaw sets. “Evidently Addison didn’t speak to Wilder first.”

  You’d think a husband and wife would talk to one another, but apparently the Van Cleefs have bigger things to worry about besides which employees and friends of theirs they loaned their vacation home to the second weekend in July.

  “I’m calling Addison,” I say, whipping out my phone.

  Xavier smirks, running a hand through his thick hair before folding his arms. He widens his stance like I’m two seconds from providing his personal entertainment.

  “Fine.”

  “What?” I ask.

  “You’re going to bother your boss in the middle of her St. Thomas vacation with her family because you don’t want to share her five-thousand-square-foot, six bed, seven bath beach house with one of your colleagues.”

  He sounds like such a Realtor.

  “I don’t consider you a colleague.” I drop my phone. He has a point. Bothering Addison on vacation after she so generously offered her house to me would be rude, and sacrificing tact all to prove a point isn’t my style.

  “That’s right. I forgot. We’re rivals.”

  His head shakes as he turns to flip the generous portions of fish grilling in a basket over mild flames. His biceps tense and relax in response. Judging by the deep tan coating his smooth skin, I’m willing to wager he’s been here most of the week.

  Once upon a time we were partners. A dangerous duo. Unstoppable. Young and driven with just the right amount of naivety to believe we could take over the world.

  And then a drunken night at a broker’s conference in Tallahassee changed everything. But it wasn’t time spent between the sheets that did us in: it was what transpired the morning after.

  “You make it sound dramatic.” I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

  “Adversaries. Competitors,” he says, back to me. “That better for you?”

  Every real estate broker in the greater Manhattan area is my competitor. My rivalry with Xavier Fox just happens to run deeper.

  It’s a bitter kind of rivalry; defined by disappointment, false hopes, and fallacies.

  Xavier plates his fish, clicks off the grill, and closes the lid, all while humming a carefree little tune from his perfectly full lips. It’s not like him to be so blithe, and I swear he’s doing it to taunt me.

  “If you don’t mind.” He says after turning around. His hands are full with tongs and his plate, and he nods toward the door.

  I grip the handle of the slider and yank it open for His Royal Highness. He brushes past my shoulder in a cloud of sea spray and coconut sunblock and freshly caught seafood.

  He smells like vacation.

  My vacation.

  The one I fantasized about the entire three-hour ride here. The one I meticulously packed for all of last night. The first one I’ve had in over two years.

  A long weekend of eating good food, shopping for quirky antiques, and touring weather-beaten, shingled windmills and lighthouses between working on my tan was all I wanted.

  Not sharing a gorgeous beach house with Xavier Fox, arrogant asshole extraordinaire.

  I stay planted on the weathered wood deck, breathing in the smog-free air that mixes with remnants of grill smoke. My stomach growls, audible only to me thanks to the nearby crashing waves.

  “How long are you staying?” I step inside.

  He’s already seated at the reclaimed oak dining table, chewing a tender piece of grilled whitefish.

  He swallows. “Until Monday.”

  Me too.

  My shoulders slump. This isn’t vacation. I didn’t rearrange my appointment and obligations and solicit Skylar to cover my showings just to spend a weekend buried in uncomfortable tension next to the one man who makes my blood boil and my core heat at the same time.

  I slink past him, hoisting my bag up and over my shoulder.

  “Where are you going?” He rests his fork.

  “To find a ride back to the city.”

  Easier said than done. I don’t know where the Jitney is or if it’s already left Montauk, but I’ll figure it out.

  “You just got here.” He shakes his head. “You hate me that much, do you?”

  “I don’t hate anyone, Xavier. Don’t flatter yourself.” I’ve learned to forgive him over the years, but I’ve never forgotten. “I’ve better things to do with my time than sit around hating you.”

  Yeah, like knocking you out of the top 1% of listing agents in the city.

  He stole that title from me along with ten of my highest profile clients over the past couple years.

  “Stay here.” He leans back in his chair, dabbing his full lips with a cloth napkin. A hint of a five o’clock shadow shades his hollowed cheekbones. “This house is big enough for the two of us. You stay out of my way. I’ll stay out of yours.”

  This house is not big enough for the both of us. The entire borough of Manhattan isn’t big enough for the both of us.

  “It isn’t exactly my idea of a relaxing vacation.” I scan the distance, aching to walk along the store and feel the cool water lap against my bare feet. You can’t walk anywhere barefoot in Manhattan unless it’s the confines of a ridiculously overpriced apartment.

  “The last thing I’d want to do is keep you from enjoying your vacation.” A wicked glint resides in his deep blue gaze.

  I slide my phone from my pocket and begin Googling Montauk bed and breakfasts.

  “What are
you doing?” he asks.

  “Salvaging this trip.”

  He lifts a single eyebrow before watchfully rising and taking his plate to the sink. He rinses it methodically, hot water first then cold, and deposits it into the bottom rack of a stainless steel dishwasher. Good to know he’s still not a heathen. Might be the only thing he’s got going for him.

  That and his insanely off-the-charts looks.

  Nothing else though.

  Just those two things.

  “Good luck finding another place to stay. It’s the week after the Fourth of July. Every inn in the Hamptons is still at occupancy.”

  “I’m sure I can find something.” I choose to ignore him and make a call to the American Hotel in Sag Harbor instead.

  The line is busy.

  I try a quaint-looking bed and breakfast in East Hampton.

  No answer.

  It’s like a New York pizza place on a Friday night; too busy to bother answering the phones.

  Sigh.

  “How many more calls are you going to make?” Xavier rests his elbows on the island.

  “Why don’t you find something to do?” I wave him off as someone answers.

  Yes. Thank you. There is a God.

  “Um, yes, hello,” I say, tucking a loose tendril of dark hair behind my ears and walking out of Xavier’s view. “I was wondering if you had any vacancies for this weekend?”

  The man on the other end releases a whistling snort. “No, ma’am. We’re booked until Labor Day.”

  His accent is more Brooklyn than I expected. I came to Montauk to get away from the city, but it feels like the city tagged right along.

  “Do you know of anyone else I could try?”

  “Sorry,” he says. “Not a travel agent.”

  He hangs up, and I sink into a nearby Chesterfield chair covered in pale linen. This place is the epitome of casual elegance. I wanted to pretend for a weekend that I owned this multi-million dollar home and that I was the kind of girl who could afford to relax in the Hamptons.

  And I needed to be alone with my thoughts.

  Alone with myself.

  One with the peace and quiet and fresh, salty air.

  “Seriously, Magnolia,” Xavier says. “We can be adults about this.”

  “It’s not about being adults.” I jam my phone back into my pocket and turn to face him.

  It’s about so much more than that.

  Xavier struts up to me, his tanned face cocked to one side and a half-smirk on his lips. “What are we doing, Mags?”

  He calls me Mags like it could somehow soften the fossilized resentment lingering between us.

  I inhale him with a quiet breath, secretly savoring the fact that he wears the same cologne he used to wear back when he meant something to me; back when he was so much more than a smug asshole I wanted to smack across the face every time he swiped a sale out from under me.

  “We’re not doing anything.” I point to him and then to myself, drawing an invisible arrow.

  “You miss me,” he says with an overabundance of confidence, his eyes darting between mine. “You wouldn’t act this way if you didn’t.”

  The old Xavier and Magnolia belong in a museum somewhere. They’re relics. Irrelevant. Nostalgic pieces of history buried in a time vault along with a myriad of vivid memories too intensely painful to linger on for too long.

  “Good to see even time hasn’t tarnished your that oversized ego of yours.” I turn on my heel and swoop down to grab my bag.

  “One of us had to stay true to ourselves.” He leans against the island.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You used to be fun.”

  “I’m still fun.” Not that he’d know.

  His gaze drops down the length of my outfit, beginning with my tight bun, lingering on my navy jacket, and stopping on my pointed heels. I get it. I’m overdressed.

  You can take the girl out of the city…

  “I didn’t have a chance to change before I caught the Jitney,” I lie, tugging on the slim lapel of my blazer.

  “Your face.” He squints. “It’s all puckered now. Not so much as a smile line. Botox, or you just don’t smile anymore?”

  I could smack him.

  My fists ball. I rack my brain trying to come up with some clever insult to sling at him, but everything about him is just as perfect as it’s always been. Not a single bag under his eyes. Flawless, bronze skin. Muscles pressing from taut skin. Deep blue eyes framed with long, God-given lashes too pretty to belong to a guy.

  Ivana Trump once said looking good is the best revenge. I’d always disagreed. Success is the best revenge.

  At least I thought.

  Xavier beat me there too. His star soared the second he unhitched himself from me, and I’ve been killing myself to catch up ever since.

  “I take it you’re staying?” Xavier’s brows lift, his chin tucked slightly.

  My options are limited. I can spend the rest of the afternoon trying to find a new place to enjoy my little weekend, I can catch the last Jitney back to the city and dive headfirst back into work, or I can spend the weekend enjoying myself and proving to Xavier how very wrong he is about me.

  Besides, I have a date with a former client. I bumped into him on the way here, and he asked me to meet him for drinks at Nick and Toni’s tonight around eight.

  I can be fun Magnolia. I can kick off my heels and let my hair down. And I can make damn sure Xavier regrets the day he cracked me open, poured me out, and threw me away.

  I hoist my bag over my shoulder.

  Thick skin. Broad shoulders.

  “Where you going now?” he asks.

  “To find my room. Addison said there’s a second master suite on the upper level.”

  Chapter Two

  Xavier Fox

  Hot.

  Damn.

  “Magnolia, you didn’t have to change for me.”

  I stand up as she struts down the open staircase in a string-bikini the color of pale salt-water taffy, her dark hair cascading down her shoulders and back in untamed waves. A pair of black sunglasses rests atop her head, highlighting her delicate-featured face, and her lips are slicked in a sinful shade of red.

  My cock twitches. She still does it for me.

  Then again she never really stopped doing it for me.

  Magnolia Grantham was the only thing I ever wanted, and now she’s the one thing I can’t have.

  It fucking kills me, but I’ll never cop to it. Not to her. If she won’t give me the time of day, I refuse to give her the satisfaction.

  “Kindly stop staring.” A hint of her southern drawl is injected into her command. God, how I’ve missed it. Her hand brushes against the wooden railing as she hops down from the final step, adjusting her beach bag over her left shoulder. Her long legs stride toward the back door, her hips swaying in tandem. I concentrate on the two little indentations about her perfect, peach-shaped ass, imagining how they might feel under the pad of my thumbs if I were to grip her hips from behind.

  “Going to the beach?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “Don’t forget sunblock.” I call out, if only to antagonize her a little more.

  She heads for the steps that lead to the grassy path, reaching in her bag and pulling out a brown bottle of Coppertone and holding it above her head.

  At least she’s not completely ignoring me.

  I catch a nap on an overstuffed sofa next to floor to ceiling windows, stuffing a pillow under my neck and letting the penetrating sun act as a blanket.

  It’s peaceful here.

  A guy could get used to this.

  I figure a few more years of being in the top 1% of Manhattan brokers, and I’ll be able to nab a place of my own out here.

  ***

  I wake cold. The sky is dark and music floats down the stairs. My phone tells me I was out cold for the last three hours.

  The echo of clicking heels readies me for my archrival once more. I si
t up, stretching my arms across my chest and then behind my head. The house is dark, but the faint glow from the foyer light illuminates the stairs just enough that I make out Magnolia’s slinky form.

  She’s in some kind of preppy, high-waisted short get-up that shows off her long legs and hides the rest of her. Tonight she’s all legs. I know what that means.

  “You staying in tonight?” Her question ends with a sarcastic lilt and a mocking smile.

  “Yep. I’m staying in on a Friday night.”

  Her eyes roll as she checks the interior of her clutch. “Do you know where the key safe is for the cars? Addison said it’s behind some seashell picture but there are about fifty of those here, so…”

  “Ah, she’s only nice when she needs something.” I rise, heading toward a gray scale portrait of a conch shell and pulling it from the wall to reveal a built-in safe. I punch in the code. “Take the Volvo.”

  She squints. “Why do I get the Volvo?”

  “Because I’m taking the Corvette.”

  And the Volvo is safer.

  Magnolia swipes the keys from my hand.

  “Where are you going tonight?” I ask.

  “Meeting a friend for drinks.” There’s no pause in her response, and it’s almost as if she was waiting for me to ask just so she could throw it in my face. I refuse stoop to her level. I have a whole bevvy of women on speed dial in the Hamptons.

  Beautiful women.

  Connected, blue-blooded, well-bred women with pedigrees because people in New England with old money breed their families like prized Poodles.

  None of them compare to her.

  Magnolia Grantham is a bona fide Southern Belle with Louisiana manners and big city boldness, and I’ve yet to find another woman like her.

  And fuck, I’ve looked. I spent an entire summer fucking any woman I could find with the winning combination of long legs, chestnut hair and a southern accent.

  “Be safe, Mags.”

  “Stop calling me Mags. Please.”

  “Couldn’t if I tried.” I step into her space, brushing her hair away from her shimmering chocolate eyes. “You’ll always be Mags to me.”

  We stand frozen for a moment, neither of us inhaling until she steps away and lunges for the door.