Entice (Hearts of Stone #2)

by Veronica Larsen

  To: Emily Stone

  Subject: Truce?

  Here's the truth. I am in love with your sister. Insanely in love. Every second she slips further away from me feels like I'm losing a part of myself.

  All I want is to make Alexis happy.

  Please, hear me out.

  __

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Truce, my ass.

  Lex and I spend the rest of the weekend together. I don't mention the emails and decide not to give Leo Conrad another thought. Lex's office is closed for the holidays and she won't have to see him until after New Year's. By then, I'm positive, she'll have gotten over him enough to where he'll be just a small splinter in her ass.

  My sister treats me to a pedicure at a salon. It's my first time, since I usually couldn't care less about the color of my toenails. But to my pleasant surprise, the process involves so much more than I expected. It's not simple, mere nail painting. Oh, no. This is a goddamn experience. Why did no one ever mention the massage chair?

  There're freaking industrial strength rods in there kneading all the muscles in my back as the salon woman massages me all the way up to my calves before layering on a mask that smells faintly of spearmint. I can't keep a straight face. I'm certain this chair is seducing me.

  "Do you like it?" Lex asks from the chair beside me, laughing at the way my eyes threaten to roll into the back of my head.

  "I need one of these. Holy hell, this is what I call a back massage."

  "No kidding," she says, "I try to come every two weeks. But, I haven't been in for a while…." She trails off, then shifts and looks away, uncomfortable. I guess what's kept her away is she and Leo screwing like rabbits.

  To distract her from thoughts of the asshole, I tell Lex about Owen. This topic peaks her interest, as I knew it would. She leans into my words as I describe how hard he is to read. I go on describing his appearance in obnoxious detail and even go as far as making a cupping gesture in midair, squeezing an imaginary ass. Then I throw my head back as though the description is getting me riled up and I let out a frustrated groan. "I want him so bad, you have no idea."

  "I mean, since when are you shy about going after what you want?" Lex asks.

  "I'm in no way shy—"

  "Don't act like you're an innocent. We all know that ship has sailed. It sailed and it was ransacked by pirates, and those pirates burned it down…"

  My sister erupts into a fit of self-indulgent snickering and while it's nice to see her laughing, I look on, glaring playfully. "It's not that. Trust me."

  "What is it then?" she asks, rearranging her face to innocent curiosity.

  "I'm not sure. It's like we're doing this seductive dance around the bush." I wave my arms around to demonstrate, ignoring the bewildered look the woman painting my toenails gives me. "All primal, caveman like. You know, daring each other to—"

  "Screw the other's brain's out?" Lex offers.

  "Well, yeah."

  "Okay, so I get that you obviously like him. But what happens when you leave town? Do you really want to get caught up in a long distance thing?"

  "Well…no."

  "Just…" She hesitates. "Keep your focus on what's important. A man is never what's important."

  I know she's right. San Francisco is where my future is. But where I'll be in the coming weeks doesn't change where I am now.

  It doesn't change how I feel now.

  I can't deny the real force pulling me back to the diner. It's not the food. It's not the ambiance. It's Owen. This mysterious, guarded man making me wish I had a way to access hints of his thoughts.

  I know I shouldn't be curious. I shouldn't wonder what his body looks like lit from behind by the glow of a lamp, glistening with sweat as he handles me in all the ways I suspect he can.

  What I should be doing is pulling my life together. Simplifying. Not lusting after potentially complicated things.

  I know this. I do. But, dammit, I still want him.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I'm hung-over Monday morning, forgetting my sister will be there when I wake up. Having her off work for the holidays is an adjustment to the previous week when I had the condo to myself during the day. She makes another remark about me drinking too much and tasks me with helping her wrap Christmas presents. I don't get to sneak away to the diner for breakfast like I wanted, opting, instead, for helping my sister run errands.

  Early Tuesday morning, I wake up to an unexpected call from the law firm that agreed to interview me after the holidays.

  "A change?" I clutch the telephone tighter and try to keep my voice even. "May I ask what's changed?"

  The woman on the phone, who isn't Janie—the one I originally spoke with—stays vague. Says there's been a misunderstanding. The interview is off.

  They were perfectly interested in me just a few days ago. The change of heart is curious and, if my suspicions are correct, I'm in deep, deep shit.

  Calling the dozen or so firms I've sent job applications to takes a surprisingly short period of time. Each call is almost identical, lasting two to three minutes. By the fourth one, I've got the steps memorized like a choreographed dance.

  Ring. Ring. Ring. Receptionist's greeting, professional, distant. I ask for the status of my application and am asked to hold. Papers shuffling. Receptionist's voice returns, audibly awkward, as though glimpsing an embarrassing note on the file.

  From then on there's a variation of responses.

  "We apologize, we are no longer accepting applications for this position," and "Your application did not make the first round of reviews," and "Thank you for your interest but you are not in consideration at this time."

  With each call, the disbelief, dread, and anger braid into themselves in the pit of my stomach.

  I make one last call.

  "Bernstein, Snyder and Associates, this is Mona."

  "I need you to tell me what's going on, please."

  A pause.

  "Emily?"

  "Just tell me."

  Background noise trickles through the receiver but when her voice returns, it's slightly isolated. Like she's cupping a hand over where her lips meet the phone.

  "Davenport dropped Bernstein."

  "Because of me?"

  "I don't think so. He came in the day after your meeting. Seemed fine. Even asked for you."

  "What the hell for?"

  "Said he wanted to apologize for being…uh, I forget the term he used. But it's like he didn't know his girlfriend put in the complaint—" As if on cue, the phone rings on her end. Mona puts me on hold; my hand tightens over the metal body of my cellphone until she returns. "Sorry, I really can't talk right now. But the gist of the story is, he and Bernstein got into it. Not sure what it was about, but the two never really liked each other, so honestly, this has been a long time coming."

  "But Bernstein blames me?"

  "Yes."

  "I want to talk to him. Bernstein, I mean. Put me through."

  "Emily…"

  "Please?"

  Mona exhales into the phone. "Okay, but I can't guarantee he'll want to talk to you."

  Her voice cuts out to the 'hold' sound. A loop of three beeps followed by a brief silence. I shut my eyes and gather my thoughts.

  "This is Bernstein."

  My eyes fly open at the coarse voice, the bored tone. I was sure I'd be sent to his voicemail. Clearing my throat, I begin. "This is Emily Stone. I'm sorry for the way I behaved. It was unprofessional of me. I know. But I'm trying to move past that. Bernstein, I'm not asking for a reference, I'm just asking that you don't sabotage my job-hunting efforts."

  "Sabotage?" His voice is slick and disingenuous. "What are you talking about?"

  "I—" The anger I've been struggling to keep down closes around my neck, squeezing tight. "You're blacklisting me. That's what I'm talking about. Blacklisting, by the way, is slander. Defamation. It's illegal."

  "I am well aware of what's within the scope of the law, Ms. Stone. I'm also aware of
what can be plausibly proven."

  I shut my eyes.

  A casual conversation he may have with some other firm's partner about the crazy associate who told Collin Davenport to 'choke on a dick' wouldn't be recorded anywhere. This wouldn't, technically be libel. But Bernstein's not just having casual conversations with friends. I'm positive he's making sure my application is rejected by every firm I apply to. How he's done this in just under a week, I have no idea. But it just goes to show his actions are deliberate enough.

  Sabotage.

  Bernstein's blacklisting me and he knows it. The problem is, I have no way to prove this. He'd be smart enough to cover his tracks which, for me, means no real chance at fighting him on it. Other firms' partners would protect him—thank him, even, for warning them away from the troublemaker associate.

  I don't realize how long the silence stretched until Bernstein voice comes to my ear again, tone dripping with the smirk he is undoubtedly wearing. "Will that be all, Ms. Stone?"

  I hang up and my arm jerks from under me, hurling the phone across the room. It bounces off of the opposite wall of the living room and crashes to the floor.

  Cursing under my breath, I run over to make sure I didn't break it. The last thing I need is to delve out the money for a new phone. The phone is still functional, surviving my vicious attack for the most part. Except the glass screen now has a crack creeping halfway into it from the edge. Okay. I deserve that. And anyway, it felt pretty damn good.

  Setting the phone down on the coffee table, I sit on the edge of the couch.

  What a mess.

  I'm under no delusion bringing Bernstein into a civil suit could give me anything but more problems. Even if I won, I'd lose. Because after it's all said and done, all I'd be doing is becoming a martyr for a cause that isn't going away. Blacklisting won't suddenly be a thing of the past. Firms in the area won't then feel inclined to hire me. I don't want to disappear into the wayside, blend away before my career really begins. There has to be another way. Some way that I can move out from under Bernstein's reach.

  Options tick past the forefront of my mind like credits at the end of a movie. Firms are closing today or tomorrow for Christmas. The holidays stagnate everything and everyone; the world slows and churns to the same tune of enforced ignorant bliss.

  I'm marooned on an island of twinkling pine trees, unable to do a damn thing about my situation until after Christmas. More than likely, not until after the New Year.

  Needing to vent, I call Amelia. She's at work, of course, but gives me a solid three minutes to spew out profanities in the name of my vindictive ex-boss. As I speak, I fix myself another cup of coffee. My line of sight shifts without reason and lands on the bottle of vodka cradled between the bottles of wine on the counter.

  I already want a drink.

  Of course, this is ridiculous. It's just after ten in the morning. But as I stir sugar into my mug, I ask Amelia if the rules on appropriate drinking times apply only to people who have jobs or children to look after. Places to drive to. I have none of those things. All I have is time, an entire day stretched out before me to figure out my next move.

  She agrees I'm allowed an early drink considering the circumstance. The tan liquid of my coffee rises gently in the cup with the introduction of the new substance. Giving the concoction a quick stir, I take my first sip.

  Before we hang up, Amelia invites me over to her place tonight. Says she purchased a man-shaped punching bag, with a crotch and everything. Beating the shit out of it apparently works wonders for carrying out hatred of all phallic shaped things.

  A bit discouraged and crestfallen, I leave the laptop closed for the day and spend the afternoon looking through my sister's storage shed, which is full of boxes I left behind when I moved north for law school. Can't believe it's all still here, collecting dust. Old college stuff, rare pictures from our childhood, the bicycle she bought me when I was twelve. And a ton of other crap she insists on hoarding.

  I'm looking for a specific picture I remember of the two of us to frame as a present. It was the summer before I turned ten. My mother was dating a surprisingly decent guy at the time, one who probably had no idea what he was getting into. He took us to the county fair, at the Del Mar fairgrounds. There's a picture of Lex and me on one of the rides. If memory serves me right, it's hilarious. Lex looks terrified, holding onto my hand for dear life, while I sit beside her, hair standing on ends but otherwise looking positively unimpressed with the ordeal.

  After pouring over the collection of random trinkets in the boxes marked vaguely—probably by me—as old stuff and more old stuff and the last of the old stuff, I finally find the damn picture in a small photo album. There are a few other good ones in there from that summer. I take the whole thing and tuck it under my arm.

  A glance at my watch tells me it's nearly eight in the evening. I'm supposed to leave for Amelia's soon and I'm still not dressed to go. As I turn back to the door of the shed, a box plopped atop a ledge catches my eye.

  HS Stuff—Emily

  High School stuff? I can't resist taking a peek inside. It's mostly empty, which surprises me. I find two textbooks I never returned, a plastic bag full of handwritten notes my friends and I used to pass back and forth between classes, a bunch of hair ribbons from when I was in the cheerleading squad, and my varsity cheerleading uniform. Under all of that, a black square of fabric takes me by surprise. I pull on it to reveal a man's suit jacket, staring at it for a beat before the memory comes over me. A memory rusted from time, of a cold night, a kind boy, and a warm, innocent gesture.

  On the inside collar, written in black marker over the designer's tag are two words: Lucas Grant.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Hands wrapped around the steering wheel, I tell myself I'm headed to Amelia's place. But the jacket on the seat beside me indicates my intentions of a detour.

  It's quiet. The car radio is off for the very first time because my thoughts are loud enough tonight.

  This is ridiculous. The diner's closed, I'm sure it is. The clock on my dashboard says it's nearly nine and the diner closes at eight thirty. But as I drive past it, I catch dimmed lighting coming from the inside.

  A detour it is.

  All the window blinds are shut and the sign on the door is turned to closed, but when I try the handle, the door gives inward and the bell sounds overhead like it always does. The place looks deserted at first, chairs pulled up over the tabletops.

  Owen emerges from the back hall that leads to the restrooms. He's dressed in a gray button down shirt and dark jeans, holding a small can of paint. When he sees me, he freezes but doesn't immediately say anything.

  I take my time walking up to him, the sounds of my heels clicking against the tile flooring echo around me as his eyes sweep over my figure as though unable to look anywhere else. I'm wearing a dress, like I usually am. Because dresses are the only clothes I can borrow from Lex and, also, they are comfortable as hell to throw on. This one is a tight sweater dress that comes about mid-thigh.

  "Kitchen's closed, you know. Wifi's been turned off," Owen says, smiling a little, as though suspecting I'm here for something else.

  Holding out my hands, I pull on the material in them to reveal the shape of the jacket. "This is yours, isn't it?"

  The jacket is obviously too small for him, it would fit a much smaller frame. He starts to shake his head but, slowly, recognition clicks into place and his eyes move up to meet mine. "Where'd you get that?"

  "Storage. My sister has all my old stuff here. It's yours, isn't it?"

  He nods after a few seconds. The silence that follows tells me he's unsure where I'm going with this, why I'd come here to give it back to him after all these years.

  "My junior year, prom night…I was sitting outside. It was cold and I was shivering. Someone came up beside me and asked me if I was okay. I didn't want to answer because my makeup was running and I didn't want anyone to see. He put this jacket on me and I barely got a chance
to look up before my friends came out and he disappeared."

  He waits, as if knowing I'm not finished.

  "It was you, wasn't it?"

  "Yes," he says. "It was me."

  "Was that the night you and Jonathan fought?"

  "It was."

  "I remember you," I say.

  "I'm glad I finally ring a bell."

  The brief moment that follows drapes a peculiar sensation over me. Relief. And in his eyes? Satisfaction.

  It's like we are finally hitting the nail on the head, even when neither of us knew there was a nail to hit.

  He eyes my smirk and I know he's thinking about our kiss. I'm thinking about it too. The tension I typically see pulling his eyebrows together dissolves before my eyes, seeping instead into the air around us, making the space between our bodies feel impossibly far and recklessly close.

  "Can I ask you a question?" He nods to the jacket. "Why'd you keep it?"

  His question catches me off guard and I have to look away to gather my thoughts. "At first I thought I'd find this Lucas Grant and return the jacket in person. I didn't like owing someone a favor. People always wanted something in return for their favors. I asked around, there were a few Grants but no Lucas Grant going to our school at the time. Obviously I didn't make the connection to Lucas from the diner…."

  Because I didn't even know he had a son, I finish in my head.

  "For the record, there were no strings attached."

  "I knew that, somehow. That's why I couldn't bring myself to get rid of it."

  We are standing closer than before, though I can't remember either one of us moving forward. His gaze trails downward in an 's' pattern, carving out the hollows of my body, the parts that swoop inward only to curve back out again. Then he says, "You look nice."

  "Thanks." I lift up the jacket and slap it against Owen's chest. One of his hands rises to catch it, gripping part of my hand along with the material. I don't pull away, letting him hold it there for a beat before letting my hand drop back to my side.