Her parents had lived here in the early days of their marriage while Mom finished medical school. And her older brother, Dave, took up residence for nearly a decade during his urban warrior phase. Now he owned a ranch-style house in Tennessee where he ran a horse farm.
A horse farm, go figure.
But she wasn’t an explorer, a pioneer, or an entrepreneur. She was just Jen with a business degree. Her choices were limited to struggling small town job markets or life in a sprawling metropolis.
Dubbed Carlton Manor by her irreverent family, the turn-of-the-century luxury apartment made the decision to be a city dweller a foregone conclusion. And the rent was reasonable—hashtag giggle-snort.
The terrace was her escape from the day-to-day grind. Her earliest memories were of gardening with her grandmother, which led to her love of natural things and a green thumb others were jealous of. If she wanted to, Jen could have supplied the reception area at Lloyd with a weekly arrangement, no problem.
But her green thumb and inner slob were none of Lloyd Global’s business.
In the greenhouse, Jen smiled. She took a glorious mouthful of coffee and then set the mug down to reach for her phone.
An entire side of the greenhouse held tiered shelves for her collection of orchids. Aiming her camera, she zoomed in on a bloom called Barbara Belle and took several shots at different angles.
For a moment, the lemony scent from a yellow hybrid named Golden Elf surrounded her, and then the stronger aroma from the Lady of the Night flowers overtook her senses.
“Everyone looks beautiful today,” she told the plants. Spritzing a few of the blooms, Jen tended to her scent garden and hummed as she worked.
Checking the snapshots, she found one that was perfect and started an Instagram post.
“Look who was ready for her close-up,” she mumbled while typing. Quickly adding a few hashtags about gardening, she reviewed the post, found no errors, and pressed share.
Jen slid the phone into her bra, took the mug, and left the greenhouse. Should it concern her that with every slapping step she took in her Wellies a battle raged inside?
She really, really, really wanted to troll Ryan and see what he was up to.
Ugh.
Back at her work station on the terrace, she ditched the phone, grabbed a spade, and turned her attention to the landscaping design she’d meticulously researched and designed. When she was finished, the terrace garden would look and feel like a natural oasis in the midst of a busy city.
She checked her watch—still a few hours before the nursery would deliver the trees she planned to put in concrete planters. A crepe myrtle for color, a birch tree, and a small flowering dogwood were just what she needed to create her private sanctuary.
A bead of sweat tickled the channel of skin in the center of John’s back. He stretched one leg out and then changed his mind, but sitting straighter meant the sun shone directly in his eyes.
This was a joke, right?
Samantha reached for the vintage teapot he’d picked up at a local antique store and poured steaming liquid into his cup. “It’s called Lady Grey tea. Think of it as a cousin to Earl Grey but with different highlights and undertones.”
John moved heaven and earth to create a spot on the terrace where he and Samantha could have tea. She’d been delighted by his efforts and attention to detail. Watching her so effortlessly assume the hostess role as she poured their tea reminded John that she was the catch—not him.
He cleared his throat, knowing it was time to make his case. The one where his tea companion would come to see what a great parent he’d be.
Was he jumping the gun? Probably. But things were in motion that he simply had no choice but to deal with, so no time like the present.
His plan was simple. Though he’d much rather enjoy a quiet dinner with Samantha at Mama Rosa’s, his mother’s demand that he and Ryan turn up with their presumed significant others had put him and his brother in a tight spot.
Plus, he had no doubt that Samantha would not react favorably to being trotted out on an inspection tour when their relationship was still wet behind the ears.
Unless, of course, he managed to sweep the sexy single mom off her feet with a display of his parenting potential that he convinced himself was beyond awesome.
Once she fully understood what he brought to the picture, John was sure things would be smooth sailing with nothing but clear skies ahead.
He watched her take a small sip of the tea. The way she held the fancy cup looked completely natural.
She smiled into his eyes.
No time like the present.
“Chelsea has a brilliant mind.” He winced oh-so-slightly at the high-handed tone he used.
Samantha half laughed, half scoffed. “She’s seven. Her interests change almost daily.”
He chuckled at the dry, unamused expression she gave him.
“This year, it’s space travel, dinosaurs, and robots.” She gave a little shrug. “Next year, it could be tutus, leotards, and ballet slippers. You just never know.”
He plowed ahead without stopping to consider what Samantha was trying to tell him.
“I pulled a few heavy-duty strings and got Chelsea a spot in a special session at NASA’s Space Camp.”
Samantha’s teacup hit the saucer and rattled slightly. “Say what?”
“Space Camp,” he crowed with self-satisfaction. “It’s in Alabama. Typically, the seven-year-olds only participate in the family camp activities, but I figured since she’s beyond the kiddie stuff, a shot at a real training session would be better.”
“You figured, did you?”
Pleased with himself, he launched into the Space Camp commercial. Sam wasn’t saying anything, but he assumed that was because she was so blown away.
It felt good to be so awesome.
“Had to negotiate because nine is the youngest they usually accept, but they made an exception for me.”
His chest puffed up, and he laid on a big, pleased-with-himself grin.
“So one of the astronaut recruits will be her buddy. A female,” he assured her.
Assuming her shocked expression was one of delight, John enthusiastically blurted out the entire scenario he’d created in his mind and explained the favors called in and the billionaire swagger he ended up laying down to pull off the whole thing.
Absently spooning sugar into his teacup, he struggled to appear natural with the tiny, ornate implement in his big hand. He felt like a giant in a dollhouse.
Gulping a mouthful of tea, he enjoyed the overly sweet brew as it washed his tongue and slid down John’s throat. Not bad, he thought. Subtle but nice.
He observed his ginormous hand place the delicate teacup on its saucer and almost gave a victory hoot when the landing was successful. Things were going well!
“John,” Samantha prompted. “What are you doing?”
Her tone sent his eyes to her face. She looked different somehow. Something about the way she held herself didn’t seem right. Her white-knuckled grip on the arms of her seat was a warning sign, but still thinking he was in the home stretch, he said the words running around in his head.
“Chelsea doesn’t have a dad.”
“I’m aware of this, John,” she hissed.
Ready to accept congratulations for his good-guy thinking, he reached for Sam’s hand, squeezed, and started to explain what a great father he’d be when she suddenly stood.
“I’m out,” she spat.
Whoa, what? “Sam?”
The glare she shot his way landed squarely on his heart.
Without another word or sound, she stomped away.
The unfortunate two or three minutes of head start that Sam got while he sat there stunned meant he would end up following after her like a lost puppy.
“What the fuck just happened?” he asked aloud. Everything had been going great. Or had it?
His knee bumped the small table as he stood. The tea set wobbled precariously, and for a
brief second, he considered smashing the pot against the brick wall.
Not giving a shit what anyone thought, he bolted from his office and jogged along the hallway to the reception desk. Samantha was sitting with her back to him—rigidly—and made no effort to engage when he stepped into her space.
“Whatever it is, I’m sorry,” he began. Aware of the several pairs of eyes watching them didn’t stop him from considering the advisability of getting on his knees.
John held his breath when her chair swiveled, and she faced him. When she slowly stood, he had the distinct impression of watching a mythical creature—a being of godlike size—unfold in front of his eyes. Once she was standing straight and tall, he felt as though she towered over him.
He swallowed. Hard.
In a tone he recognized as one intended to announce her displeasure and her absolute power, she ripped into him.
“Despite your sexist assumption that I’m incapable of parenting my daughter, Mr. Lloyd,” she snarled, “let me assure you that I do not now, nor have I ever, needed anyone’s help.”
Oh, shit.
“You are a pompous …” she growled and shook, “asshat.”
A crowd had gathered to witness his downfall at the hands of an enraged mother who quite clearly wasn’t having any of his shit. He knew without looking that several cell phones were recording his humiliation for posterity.
“Where Chelsea is concerned, I make the decisions, Mr. Lloyd. Me. Am I making myself clear?”
She punctuated her yelling with what-the-fuck hand gestures and some finger pointing.
“But I thought, well, she needs a dad and all, and I …”
“Do you hear yourself?” she demanded.
Oh, god. He’d really fucked this up. Where the hell was Jen when he needed her?
“I don’t need your approval. Chelsea and I do just fine, thank you. And I do not need your help. Or your fancy limo or the favors you used. I’m not auditioning anyone to be her father. Understand?”
All he could manage was an awkward nod.
Samantha’s expression when her gaze swept around the reception area meant business.
“Before any of you post something online, consider your future at Lloyd Global.”
Jesus. She was impressive, he thought. Hell. She wasn’t even looking at him, but her tone made his balls shrivel.
He began to stutter an apology when she bent over, picked up her purse, and slung the strap over her shoulder as she straightened and pushed him out of her way.
“I’m going home now,” she barked.
“You’re quitting?” he squawked.
“Oh, for god’s sake,” Sam mumbled. “That's not what I said. Now," she growled. "Get out of my way.”
He stepped back but followed her to the elevator.
“Sam, please. I get that I fucked up.”
She stepped into the elevator and gave him a fierce glare. As the doors slid shut, she also flipped him off.
When he turned around, the reception lobby had cleared of people. He couldn’t blame anybody. He’d run for cover too after what they’d witnessed.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” John muttered disagreeably.
“We wouldn’t have to if you weren’t such a butthead,” Ryan growled in response.
They were rifling through Jen’s files in a desperate search for a phone number that might or might not actually exist.
“Are you sure she has a landline?”
“Yes,” John snapped. “I remember her saying the number had been in her family for decades. Now shut up and keep looking.”
Ryan gritted his teeth and returned to the task at hand. “Jesus, man. Did you check with HR? Maybe they have it.”
His brother openly scoffed and looked at Ryan as if he had a screw loose. “Oh, sure,” he sniped. “Just what I want after the scene I already caused. Frantic CEO desperately seeking confidential information on an employee.”
He had a point, so Ryan scowled some more and continued.
John sat at the desk and fired up the computer. Reflex made Ryan slap his brother’s hands.
“Dude. Seriously. Do NOT poke around her computer.”
“Is that a thing?” John asked.
“Fuck, yeah, it is,” he responded with a snort. “Would you go through Mom’s contacts?”
“Not in this lifetime.”
“So turn that thing off before you do a stupid and step too far over the line.”
His brother exploded. “Fuck, Ryan! Do a stupid? Isn’t that why we’re doing this in the first place?”
Exasperated, Ryan slammed the file cabinet shut and glared at his older brother.
“Were you out of your mind?”
John hung his head. “Shut up. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“She’s seven, for Christ’s sake, you dumbass. And the program clearly said ages nine to eleven. Not only that, but it’s in Alabama! What the hell did you think Samantha would do? Thank you for sending her second grader to another state?”
“It’s Space Camp, Ryan. Not a prison ship. And the family program for her age group was lame. It wasn’t all that hard to pull some strings and get her a special accommodation.”
“You’re lucky Samantha didn’t have you arrested.”
Ryan saw his brother’s fists clench and knew he went too far with his last comment.
“I didn’t expect her to react the way she did,” John grumbled.
“Guess we’re shooting Mom’s dinner party in the foot, huh? Samantha won’t talk to you, and Jen has her phone turned off.”
“Which is exactly why we need that goddamn number! Fuck,” John growled.
Ryan looked around the tidy office. If Jen had a landline and the number was here someplace, it’d take a forensics team to find it.
“This is ridiculous.”
John glanced at him but didn’t concur or offer anything at all.
He put his hands on his hips and thought it through. They both needed to catch up with Jen. John because he screwed the pooch and ended up with a receptionist telling him to fuck off very publicly, and Ryan because well—because he was crushing big time and couldn’t concentrate on anything else.
“Screw this. I’m going to her place.”
“You can’t do that,” John growled. “She’ll remove your face if you invade her private time.”
“Fuck her private time. This is almost an emergency.”
“Whose emergency?” his brother asked with a smirk. “Mine or yours?”
“Nah,” Ryan replied. “Nuh-uh, brother. This one’s all you.”
“You keep telling yourself that,” John mumbled.
“Fine,” he drawled. Crossing his arms, he shook his head in disbelief. “She’s got me tied up in knots.”
“How’d she do that?”
“By ignoring me,” he answered although his mind elaborated on the statement by adding, And because she has the softest skin I’ve ever touched, and a mouth that’s a game changer.
“That’s rich coming from you. Denver house? A dog? What’s next? Religious cult? Vegan? You’re not winning any awards for being forthright.”
“Yeah, well, your shadow looms large, and a little brother has to do what he has to do.”
John winced. “Ryan. It’s not my shadow. It’s Dad’s.”
They each sighed. Greg Lloyd was one damn hard act to follow.
“You got the brains, and I got the tree-hugging shit. Some gene pool, huh?”
There wasn’t a lot either of them could add.
“Come on. Let’s get out of here. I’m starting to feel like a burglar,” he told John. “Time for a direction change. I’ll go to Jen’s house, and you steer clear of Samantha until we have a plan. Okay?”
He called for a car, and within twenty minutes, he was on his way to Jen Carlton’s apartment.
10
The Uber driver complained about a boxy delivery truck with flashing hazards blocking most of the curb outside Jen’s build
ing as Ryan exited into the oncoming traffic. He was damn lucky to make it to the sidewalk without getting run over or pushed down.
Two delivery guys struggled with a large, cumbersome tree that had a burlap sack wrapped around its root base. They stumbled to the building’s doors and used the intercom to gain entry. Ryan was close enough to hear the conversation.
“Howser Nursery with a delivery for Carlton.”
Carlton? Ryan’s attention was instantly captured.
“Come on up,” he heard a disembodied voice say.
Jumping into helpful action, Ryan held the door while the tree squeezed through.
“Stairs,” one of the guys barked. “Third floor. Apartment three, two, three.” They diverted from the lobby elevator and started up the stairs with their burden.
“I’ll get the door at the top,” he told them before stepping into the slow-moving elevator.
On the third floor, he noted three apartments. Two on the eastern side of the building but just one at the other end.
His eyes found Jen’s door by the brass numbers on the wall next to it. Across the wide hall was a door marked with a lit exit sign. He went to it and pulled, using his foot to prop it open as he leaned into the stairwell.
“How you guys doing?” he called out.
“Almost there, thanks,” one of them answered.
They stopped to catch their breath and wipe the sweat from their faces after carefully maneuvering the significant tree from the stairwell.
When Jen’s door opened wide, Ryan ducked behind the tail end of the tree and helped with the moving. She barked orders as he shielded his face and moved into her apartment.
“Down the hall and left to the terrace. You’ll see it.”
Unable to see much of anything except the guy in front of him, Ryan stumbled awkwardly, almost tripping over a basket overflowing with shoes, and helped the guys get the unwieldy birch tree onto the terrace. When they were outside and the guys dropped the heavy tree, he got his first look at something so extraordinary that he gasped.
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