Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
I - Alexis
II - Leo
III - Alexis
IV - Leo
V - Alexis
VI - Leo
VII - Alexis
VIII - Leo
IX - Alexis
X - Leo
XI - Alexis
XII - Leo
XIII - Alexis
XIV - Leo
XV - Alexis
XVI - Leo
XVII - Alexis
XVIII - Alexis
XIX - Alexis
XX - Leo
XXI - Alexis
XXII - Leo
XXIII - Alexis
XXIV - Leo
XXV - Alexis
XXVI - Leo
XXVII - Alexis
XXVIII - Leo
XXIX - Alexis
XXX - Leo
XXXI - Alexis
XXXII - Leo
XXXIII - Alexis
XXXIV - Leo
XXXV - Alexis
XXXVI - Leo
XXXVII - Alexis
XXXVIII - Leo
XXXIX - Alexis
XL - Leo
XLI - Alexis
XLII - Alexis
XLIII - Leo
XLIV - Alexis
Contact Information
Acknowledgements
Entangle
Hearts of Stone
Book 1
By
Veronica Larsen
© 2014 by Veronica Larsen
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Editing by Kristina Circelli, Red Road Editing
Interior formatted with Scrivener for Mac version 2.5
Published by Veronica Larsen [email protected]
Cover design by [email protected]
Cover image: shutterstock.com #69062863
ISBN: 978-0-9908-253-0-2
Publication Date: December 1st 2014
First Edition
This novel is for my husband:
You are the anchor that keeps me steady.
I
Alexis
This is my moment to prove the past is in the past. To prove I’ve moved on with my life and haven’t even bothered to look back.
There’s just one problem. Instead of the aloof smirk I want to wear, my lips are pressed into a thin line.
I should be happy for him. Hell, I want to be happy for him. But I’m not. I can’t bring myself to be. I can’t seem to pull the maturity it takes to even pretend.
I’m staring at the picture on the screen, my eyes tracing over the details with a razor-sharp scrutiny. I forgot how handsome he is. His exotic features lay against lightly tanned skin, perfect eyebrows frame light-brown eyes. The woman resembles me at first glance. Ivory skin, golden-brown hair, green eyes, and a pointed nose. Except, her teeth are sort of large for her smile and her chin juts out in an asymmetrical way.
My eardrums are still vibrating from the ridiculous ballad that split through my speakers when I first opened the invitation. The sound is off now and the silence in my office feels jarring.
I manage to tear my eyes from the faces to examine the rest of the page. White and teal lace etches the corners of the white background. Off to the right of the picture, royal-blue lettering curves into a nearly illegible cursive.
Mr. & Mrs. Williams
Request the honor of your presence
at
The marriage of their son
Jeremy Williams
To
Sophia Bell
I can’t help it, I look back to the picture and stare at it. For way longer than I want to admit, as though the answers to all the questions I can’t bring myself to ask are between the pixels.
The more I contemplate it, the more I notice something strained about the way the lovely couple looks at each other. They are in mid-laughter, her hand slapping his arm playfully. Her profile is in full view of the camera and his is turned a few degrees toward her. Something is missing, even in photograph, about their chemistry. It’s as though the photographer repeatedly ordered them to laugh in pretend joy. For the Williams family, capturing a real moment isn’t as important as faking the perfect one. Sophia will need all the practice she can get in the art of faking it.
Under the invitation is the option to RSVP. I click the box marked ‘decline’ and a text box pops up.
Would you like to include a message with your RSVP?
A few colorful words come to mind, but I’m a grown woman of thirty-two years old and I type what I know I should:
I regret I will not be able to attend.
Best wishes to the bride and groom.
PS, I add in my head, whose sadistic idea was it to invite me?
The question stirs in my mind and, seeking an answer, my gaze sweeps over the first line of the invitation again:
Mr. & Mrs. Williams
Of course.
My ex-mother-in-law would think it a good idea to invite me to the wedding. She’s fucking clueless. And in denial. Even beyond the grave of my marriage she tries to reach out and grab the reigns. Dolores operates under the belief that if she pushes enough, she can shape her son’s life to be what she dreams it can be. The same way she thought I would cave under her relentless nagging and become the wife she wanted for her son.
Clearly, she never knew me.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want children. Back then I did. It just wasn’t the right time. Starting a company from the ground up sucked up all my time and resources. I promised Jeremy that once things slowed down, I would be ready for children. It was something I looked forward to. I was going to have it all: the career, the family life. But it wasn’t the promise of children he wanted. It was the promise of my submission to him, my absolute yielding to his idea of a wife, of a woman and her inferior place in the world.
Obviously, he never knew me either. As far as Jeremy was concerned, my ambitions made him out to be half a man, when really, it was all the man he could ever be. He was gone before my company could get off the ground. It took me some time before I could realize what a blessing this was.
Dolores isn’t inviting me to be cruel. I know this. She may be short-sighted and petty but she’s not mean-spirited. But I don’t delude myself into thinking she’s inviting me out of the kindness of her heart, either.
No. I’ve always known Dolores to care about one thing above all else: appearances. Her son may have failed at his first marriage, but she is intent on making it appear the most successful misstep in history.
I hover over the confirmation button before pressing it. It may be an oversight on Dolores’ part, but I can’t help but feel it’s an omen the invitations are going out on Halloween day.
I submit my response and the website page animates, folding up into a small square that slides back into the virtual envelope.
If I was having a hard time focusing on work before, it’s impossible now. I close the email and grab the empty cup on my desk. I still have a few things I need to wrap up before I leave for the day. I’m going to need another cup of coffee if I’m going to make it.
The office is a graveyard of empty halls and abandoned chairs. It’s after 5 PM and, being a Friday, nearly everyone is gone for the day. Anyone who remains must be making themselves scarce because everything feels eerily quiet.
When I get to the break room, I hover by the doorway. Standing in front of the coffee machine is our new Director of Engineering, Leo Conrad.
He and I haven’t seen many opportunities to speak one on one. The only interactions I’ve had with him have been in meetings. He seems sharp. Quick to point out flaws in our strategies, which annoys some of the other directors, but he impresses me and that’s what’s important. This is exactly why a fresh pair of eyes stirs up a company; he brings perspective we desperately need.
Right now he looks lost for the first time since he started. He is trying to figure out how the machine works.
It’s an espresso machine. Or, to me, an oversized chunk of stainless steel that brews a heavenly concoction. I forget who talked me into buying it, but we did get a good deal on it. The fact that it has a built-in coffee grinder and can froth milk for my lattes was enough to warrant its purchase in my eyes. Once we installed it, we quickly realized the machine is a huge pain in the ass. Turns out, no one was in the mood for a learning curve to get a cup of coffee in the morning. But my office staff is smart. A quarter of them are engineers. They figured it out fairly quickly. But every time a new person comes in, watching them struggle to make a cup of coffee is almost an office joke.
Watching Leo in an unscripted moment of frustration is amusing to me. I like seeing him shed the enigmatic veil he typically wears. He’s hard to read; I thought so the moment I met him. Reserved, but not quiet. Polite, but short of friendly. While he’s noticeably confident and sometimes abrasive in the way he states his opinions, he doesn’t strike me as egotistical.
I can’t decide if I like him or not, but I guess an opinion would be premature at this point.
My eyes sweep over the back of his white button-down shirt and gray slacks. Both of which fit him impeccably. His physique can’t hide under layers of clothes. I can almost hear the sound my gaze makes as it rakes against his hard body.
“Come on. You piece of shit,” he says under his breath as he bangs the side of the machine with an open palm. He is slapping it into submission.
Suddenly he stops and glances back, his blue-gray eyes narrowing as he notices me for the first time.
“How long have you been standing there?”
I hesitate for a moment because I’m not sure how long I’ve been watching him.
“Long enough to witness you harass the machine. And call it a piece of shit.”
I’m sure my tone is matter-of-fact, but the corners of his lips twitch. He finds me to be playful.
“Heard that part, huh?”
“I did. That piece of shit costs an arm and a leg.”
“My apologies.” He doesn’t seem embarrassed; he looks amused and puts up his hands in surrender. Despite his gesture, there is nothing yielding about him. His gaze is tenacious in a way that makes me feel alert. “I know what that must of looked like—I assure you, I don’t typically hit things when I’m frustrated. Only coffee machines. And sometimes computers.”
I smile because I can’t help it. I have to remind myself to keep my tone professional, which is strange for me. I typically don’t need reminding.
“Noted. Do you need help?”
“No, thanks, I almost have it.”
In the second or two he considers me before turning around again, his eyes glint with words he must decide at the last minute not to speak. I walk farther into the room as he figures out how to navigate the various options of the machine.
I’m watching him keenly again, which is easy to do when he’s right in front of me looking the way he does. At any rate, I’m not being a creep for the sake of it. I do need coffee.
The space separating us feels pulled taut, way too tight. It threatens to snap at any moment and yet the prospect of this feels more enticing than concerning.
I can’t deny he’s attractive. His smoky-blue eyes lower my guard a notch, tricking my subconscious into remembering him as someone I used to know, a long time ago. His dark-blond hair is cut under his ears and lays in a natural pattern atop his head. He’s a masculine sort of handsome, not a pretty-boy by any stretch of the imagination. No. Leo is all rugged good looks and, if I’m honest, pure sex appeal.
He reaches out his hand toward me before he looks back around. I feel myself tense up, unsure of what he is trying to touch. His eyes meet mine and seem to catch my reaction.
“Let me have your cup,” he says.
Of course. I’m clutching my cup in front of me. The machine can brew two cups at once. I hand it to him and our fingers brush.
Jesus, I’m enjoying this more than I should.
I know it’s sexist, but it is nice to have something appealing to look at around the office for a change. Being around him feels exciting, in a completely juvenile way.
Maybe the feeling is mutual because I’ve caught him checking me out during meetings. He is subtle—or thinks he is, anyway. His gaze slipped past my neckline one day, lingering over places they have no business lingering over. When his sights rose again they met my pointed look, but Leo stared back with an almost quiet determination. His unwavering gaze caused me to break eye contact first. He made me nervous. And I don’t let people make me nervous.
The guy has balls, I’ll give him that.
A part of me wants to feel annoyed, but honestly, it’s hard to be indignant when I secretly enjoy it. The unwavering gaze part, not the nervous part. I hate the nervous part.
Regardless, the scenarios my male colleagues entertain in their heads are none of my business. As long as they keep their interactions with me respectful and, above all else, keep their hands to themselves.
The machine makes a beeping sound, churns to life, and starts brewing. Leo turns to survey me again, leaning back against the countertop, his hands in his pockets. I suddenly feel a spotlight on me. I wait for him to speak, but he doesn’t. Not for a second, maybe even ten. All I know is, he’s looking at me and I’m resisting the urge to shift my footing.
A long time ago, I learned to use lulls to disarm people. Silence feels unnatural and compels people to blurt things out just to break it, revealing things by accident. I rarely even notice when I’m doing this. It’s become an automatic part of my interactions with strangers. I notice with Leo. Because with Leo, I’m the one squirming on the inside.
Finally, he says, “Can I ask you a serious question?”
I clear my throat. “Sure.”
“Why is the coffee machine this complicated? Is it a ploy to ration the coffee around here?”
My lips threaten to curve upward. “The rationing of coffee will never happen, I promise.”
“Ah,” he says with a small smile, “our leader is as merciful as she is beautiful.”
My lips part a few seconds before I’m ready to speak again. Was that an innocent compliment or is he flirting with me? He sounds so comfortable saying it that it makes me feel ridiculous for reading too much into it.
That’s twice now he’s made me nervous.
Apart from his small smile, his demeanor remains reserved, with no indication he is consciously coming on to me. I tell myself perhaps this is how he interacts with women. A man who looks the way he does must be accustomed to female attention, must make a habit of unconsciously casting out the sex appeal like a lure, just to see what bites.
I’d like to think I’m the one who makes people nervous, men in particular. Men are easy. Or, at least, they’ve always been before. I’m not sure I enjoy it when the tables turn this way.
I glance back at the doorway. My subconscious is willing for someone to walk through it so I don’t have to be alone with Leo anymore. But I know no one is coming. It’s possible we are the last two left in the office.
“What are you doing tonight?” he asks.
&nbs
p; I blink but mask it by pretending to glimpse at the machine behind him. His pause is just long enough before he adds, “You know, for Halloween?”
Did I think he was asking me out? Of course he isn’t. I’m his boss. Even he wouldn’t have the balls for that. I clear my throat again, aware it’s my second time and mentally scolding myself for showing nerves. I cross my arms before I realize I do.
“I’m not one for dressing up in costumes,” I say.
“Well, that’s a shame.”
There seems to be a suggestion to his tone but I choose to ignore it because I will otherwise linger on it.
He turns toward the freshly brewed cups and hands me my own. This time, our fingers don’t graze, yet I sense the absence of his touch as distinctly as I felt the presence of it.
We stand side by side as we flavor our coffees on the counter. He adds sugar but no creamer to his, I add creamer but no sugar to mine. We share a fleeting look, but neither one of us speaks. If the silence between us was tense before, it’s crackling now, waking me up in ways even caffeine can’t manage.
I should walk away when I finish preparing my coffee, but instead, I stand next to him and start drinking it. He does the same. I stare back at him even as he studies my expression. He is trying to read something under the layers of it. He is unapologetically intrusive, but I refuse to cast my eyes away. Not again.
“You don’t talk much, do you?” he asks.
His tone is unassuming. I can hardly hear the insinuation that I’m standoffish. It’s not that I would not rather be personable, or even charismatic. That would be ideal, of course. Those things don’t come naturally to me. I can turn on my people skills when it comes to business, but in a casual setting I struggle to keep the conversation going. An anxiety comes over me that I’ll reveal something I don’t mean to. The less I speak, the more confident I feel.
“I’m not big on small talk.”
He lets out an exaggerated sigh that seems to be part of an internal joke. “I thought I’d get a chance to know the boss. The elusive Alexis Stone.”
“I go by Lex,” I say without a moment’s pause. Though for the first time in quite a long time, I like the sound of my full name. It may be his voice, somehow gravely and smooth at the same time.
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