by Ivy Carter
“And do you, Cadence, take Levi, to be your lawful wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, until death do you part?”
Cadence’s smile is wide enough to rival the Charles River, and sparkles like the sun setting over the city. “I do,” she says.
Before I know it, Logan is declaring us husband and wife. I don’t even wait for his instruction before taking Cadence in my arms and dipping her for long, deep kiss. The crowd’s polite applause quickly turns to hoots and hollers, with a scattering of whistles. Oliver joins in with a few hearty barks. And then it’s over.
We stride back down the aisle arm in arm, taking the steps down two at a time. Soon we’re in the attic, and I know we have only a moment in before everyone else begins streaming in behind us, so I grab her hands and pull her close, leaning in forehead to forehead.
“I’ll never stop loving you,” I tell her, hoping she can hear and feel and believe and know every word of it.
“Not ever,” she replies, then gives me a soft kiss, her lips barely brushing mine.
And that’s all we get before Logan and Julia, preceded by a bounding Oliver, appear into the room, the rest of the small crowd hot on their heels.
“Get moving, lovebirds. We’ve got a cake to cut,” Julia says, ever the chair of the prom committee.
“Please tell me we don’t have to do the feeding the cake thing,” I plead, ready to be free of the pomp and circumstance of this day. I just want to be alone with Cadence.
“The faster you do what she says, the faster they all go home and you can get me out of this dress,” Cadence whispers into my ear. The thought makes me hard, and it’s all I can do not to hustle her off to our bedroom and say to hell with all these people.
But Cadence is a good hostess, and so we head downstairs to what was once the den but is now the Cabot Essex Maxon law office conference room. We cut the cake and smile for photos and dance a few numbers to whatever Logan threw on the stereo. Cadence dances with her father, and I dance one with Brenda (who, for the duration of the song, manages to smile and act quite pleasant).
And when the party begins to wind down, I give Logan the eye. Despite serving as the officiant, he’s still my best man, and it’s his job to get me laid this evening.
“Alright, anyone who’s up for a drink can meet us at the Pour House on Boylston, the rest of you are welcome to give your final wishes to the happy couple so that we can leave them to their lovely home.”
Mr. Fallon appears before me to shake my hand and welcome me to the family a final time, with Brenda smiling serenely at his side in a way that makes me wonder if Julia didn’t slip something into her champagne.
And when the last of them is finally gone (Oliver trotting after Logan and Julia, where he will be camping out for the night), Cadence collapses into my arms.
“I can’t even imagine what that would have been like if we hadn’t kept it small,” she says, her fingers already walking their way down to my pants.
“Hey, calm yourself,” I say, swatting her hand away. Then I bend down tuck an arm beneath her knees, sweeping her into my arms. “I’ve got to carry you over the threshold.”
“Well by god be quick about it,” she quips before kissing me again. “I don’t want either of us to be clothed for very much longer.”
CADENCE
“Levi, Ms. Gonzalez is on line three, and you need to return the Fair Housing Project’s call before close of business,” I say, leaning against his office door jamb.
Levi looks up from the stack of files on his desk. His tie is missing in action, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “Can you take a message from Ms. Gonzalez? I’ve only got –“ he glances at his watch, “shit, give minutes before close. Tell her I’ll call her back right after, if she’s still available.”
“Will do boss,” I say, which always makes Levi laugh, because we both know that I run this place.
It took exactly two weeks after we got married for Levi to convince me to stop temping and come on as Cabot Essex Maxon’s office manager.
Lord knows they needed one. After just a few months in business they already had a healthy slate of nonprofits they represented, the firm consulted with about a dozen more, and their list of pro bono clients was growing by the day.
Add in the fact that Levi had signed on to adjunct a class at Boston University in the spring, and his schedule was about to get completely insane. Levi told me that he needed someone to manage both him and the business, and he said that he knew there was no one better than me for the job.
After all, he claimed I’d inspired him to do all of this to begin with.
The truth was, Levi knew that this was my kind of work.
I love running the office. It keeps my mind clear, so that when work’s over, I can wander up into our attic studio and paint for until my heart’s content.
In fact, I’ve been so productive in the last two months since we got married that I’ve already set up my first post-graduate show at a gallery in the South End near Logan and Julia’s apartment.
But that’s not all.
Soon after I came on to work with Levi, we discovered the added bonus of being together in the office all day…
We could easily disappear upstairs at lunchtime, and once, I even came into his office, shut the door, and fell to my knees beneath Levi’s desk.
Even thinking about how amazing my life has been with Levi, still brings tears to my eyes. But then again, I am emotional lately, and for good reason.
I come back to the present as I consider our busy schedules.
“Don’t forget, we’re going to my parents’ house for Christmas Eve tomorrow,” I remind him.
“Is that when we’re going to tell them?” Levi asks.
“If you want to,” I say, crossing the office floor and perching on the edge of my desk. “I certainly don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to keep the secret.”
“Well, eventually they’re going to realize regardless,” he says. “I mean, unless you’re willing to lean in hard to the ‘I just really like donuts’ story. Of course, I even that jig is going to be up in July when we show up to their house with a baby.”
“Ok, then we’ll tell them tonight!” I reply, dissolving into laughter.
Levi kisses me, hard, and it feels like a reminder of his promise that he’ll never stop loving me.
And then he runs his hand across my abdomen, which is still flat, given we only just discovered the pregnancy a few weeks ago. It came as a bit of a surprise, though one we were both more than happy to discover.
I was shocked and relieved to realize that Levi was excited to be a dad—but then I realized that nothing should really shock me anymore when it comes to my husband.
He’s the most amazing person I’ve ever known.
And since discovering the news, he’s taken to placing his hand on my belly and just grinning.
Once, I asked him what he was thinking when he does that.
Levi told me he was sending that baby the very same message he gave to its mother daily – I will never stop loving you.
“Oh, and don’t forget to call Fair Housing,” I tell Levi now, pointedly, in that tone that says you better obey me or I’ll make your life very difficult. It’s the tone that’s kept this firm running smoothly since I took the reins. “We need to stay on top of all of this.”
“I’ll never stop,” he tells me, and his eyes are glimmering as he says it.
“Never, ever,” I agree, and I turn and the tears are falling now. Happy tears.
Tears of pure joy.
I know I’m just emotional because of the baby.
Or maybe it’s because I know what Levi says is true, and that sometimes his love fills me up and overflows, and the tears come.
I wipe the tears from my cheeks and get back to work. I’m smiling now, and I know I’ll be smiling for a long time to come.
THE END
And now, keep reading for the FREE bonus content, Jackson (The Billionaire Croft Brothers, Book One)!
Bonus Content: Jackson (The Billionaire Croft Brothers, Book One) by Paige North
Jackson
I sit staring at the phone, my hand clenched in a fist over my mouth. I close my eyes and tell myself to get my shit together. Do the usual, calm my breathing and remind myself that I can fight through this just like always.
A few seconds later, my eyes open again…and I’m still fucked.
My father always knew how to push my buttons, but after twenty-eight years of his shit, I thought I’d learned to stay cool under his unrelenting pressure—and the pressures of Croft International. This business is all pressure, all the time. There is no room for any cracks or weaknesses.
But that phone call…
How could he?
After everything I’ve done to earn my place in this business? After all of my sacrifices?
It turns out the old man saved his best trick for last. Pulled the rug out from under me and then disappeared off the face of the earth, so he’d never have to answer for any of it.
I get up and stride across my expansive office to the bar tucked into custom-made walnut bookshelves. Toss a few cubes in a glass and pour three fingers worth of the scotch that is the same age as I am.
I take a deep gulp as I look out at the view from my office. The strong, smooth alcohol and serene view of the boats bobbing in the harbor are supposed to soothe me. Instead, all I feel is anger rising and rising, the image of my bastard father growing stronger. He’s laughing from the grave where the dirt is still fresh, of that there is no doubt in my mind.
A grating buzz sounds from the phone.
“Mr. Croft? Your ten a.m. is here.”
“Christ,” I mutter. I push the intercom button. “Sandra, I can’t do it. You’ll have to reschedule.” I don’t even remember what’s on my calendar but at this moment I don’t care. My only plan is to finish this scotch, then start on another.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Croft. But she says this is the third time—”
“Damn it, I said I'm busy!” I snap. What part of reschedule did she not understand? I throw back another drink, nearly draining the glass. It stings my throat but in a good way, like a rough massage.
That should’ve been that, but then I hear some bullshit outside my door.
“…I don’t care what he said,” a woman is saying, her voice smooth but insistent. “I’m not going to reschedule again, it’s insulting.”
The door flies open and a woman comes in, trailed by Sandra who is frantically chasing her.
“At least he can tell me why he’s cancelling again to my face,” the woman finishes. She stands just inside my office, her green eyes blazing toward me.
The annoyance of being barged in on is replaced by shock at the woman that’s standing before me. This woman is all curves in all the right places, her cleavage showing just enough to tantalize me with thoughts of what she’d look like naked in my bed.
But it’s her eyes, so bright they seem on fire as she stares me down—her eyes are what really stir me.
She’s determined, but more than that, she has a spark, a fire, and it lights something inside of me.
Sandra, not used to being disrespected or railroaded, stands behind the woman looking like she’s ready to body slam her, despite the arthritis. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Croft. She just barged through. I was about to call security.”
“You don’t look too busy to me,” the woman says to me, eyeing the scotch.
“That’s it,” Sandra says. “I’m calling security.” She turns back toward her desk to grab her phone.
The woman doesn’t budge. In fact she slowly crosses her arms across her chest, cocks her leg out, and begins tapping one of her stilettos.
Something washes over me—something more undeniable than her absolute beauty.
Her long hair is pulled back in a low ponytail, and her dress is not as tailored as the businesswomen I’m used to being around, but damn if it doesn’t smooth over her in the sexiest way.
But this is my turf.
I know how to stand my ground with the most powerful people in the industry. She’s beautiful, and her act is cute, but she has no idea who she’s dealing with.
“Trying to come up with an excuse?” she says, breaking into my thoughts.
Very nice line. I like it.
And I like that for a brief fleeting moment, this woman caused me to forget the burning ashes of betrayal that I can still taste in my mouth…the memory of that phone call still making me feel like I want to throw my chair through the fucking window.
“I don’t need an excuse,” I tell her.
“Could’ve fooled me,” she replies instantly.
I want to chuckle at her, but there’s a reason I can clean house in poker with anyone from the guys from the mailroom to the gentlemen at the Algonquin Club. My expression doesn’t change as I tell Sandra, “Don’t call security. I can handle this.” Without a word Sandra hangs up her phone and closes the door for me.
Once we’re alone, I say, “I don’t know who you are, but unfortunately now is not a good time, so I will have to rearrange our date.”
“You mean our meeting?” she says.
“Today’s no good,” I respond, ignoring her jab.
“I’m here, you’re clearly not busy, and I’d like to go ahead with our meeting,” she says.
“What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t. I’m Emily Brown,” she says, her chin lifted slightly. She’s trying to be authoritative, but I can hear the quiver in her voice. “I’m from the Children’s Education Fund. I’d like to discuss our annual goals.”
“I’ve never heard of your charity and I really don’t have time to worry about someone else’s financial goals. I have my own, Ms. Brown.”
I have to stay focused. After that phone call I just received, the last thing I need is some bullheaded woman throwing me off the goals I’ve worked my life to achieve. My goals, not some kid charity nonsense.
She pushes ahead, trying her best to keep talking. “It’s called the Children’s Education Fund and it’s—”
“I heard you the first time you said the name,” I tell her. “And to be clear, I’m not sure how you got on my calendar, but I have charities asking me for money on a daily basis. I don’t need another one.”
She shifts her leg so that she’s standing full upright. She’s a little thing, no more than five-four. But right now she’s doing everything she can to demand authority. “The least you can do is give me five minutes after cancelling on me twice before now. If you’d stop trying to get me out of your office we could have been halfway through this meeting by now.”
“A meeting I have no interest in having,” I remind her. Although, to be fair, she’s doing a good job of holding my attention right now. Especially those tits. And those legs. What would she do, I wonder, if I grabbed her and bent her over my desk right this very second?
I think that perhaps she would welcome it. My dick stiffens and I find my lip twitching into a near smile as she bravely continues her little pitch.
“It’s a highly worthwhile organization,” she says. “I have some papers for you that will help explain.” She starts digging in the black canvas bag dangling at her side. “Thirty-four percent of kindergarten children lack basic language—”
“You look a little young to be leading the fundraising for a non-profit,” I say, partially because I’m curious, but also to keep her riled up—and throw her off her speech, which she has probably practiced in the mirror thirty times.
I have to admit, it’s fun to watch her squirm. Also, it gives me an excuse to really look at her—her full lips, which she licks in way that makes me want to crush her mouth with my own.
“I’m not that young,” she says. “I’m a graduate student at Boston University.”
“You’r
e a student?” I say. “What the hell kind of organization sends a student to my office to get money for some charity no one has ever heard of?”
“Maybe I’m just that good,” she replies, color blooming in her cheeks.
My dick stiffens further, and now I really am tempted to grab her and throw her over the desk, slide my dick into that pussy, knowing how tight and wet and ready she would be for me…
“I'm used to dealing with CEOs, presidents, senior directors of development at the very least,” I continue, feigning boredom. Truly, though, this is a fun distraction. Better than the scotch.
“I'm here because I thought—”
“That you could just walk in here and ask for a pile of money and I’d hand it over? It doesn’t work like that in the real world.”
“I thought I could come here and we’d have a discussion, Mr. Croft,” she says. “You’re right, this isn’t going the way I thought it would. Not at all.” She takes a deep breath, keeping her eyes focused on me. “We’re looking to raise money for our annual fund that focuses on getting kids to read, especially kids in disadvantaged neighborhoods. There’s a luncheon coming up—”
“Which I won’t go to,” I say. Charity luncheon? An absolute hell and waste of my time. Clearly this woman knows nothing about me. Which, of course, gives me a little more power over her, always a good thing.
“I didn’t say you had to.” She’s not going down without a fight. “You can simply donate, earmark the money for the reading fund or any other program within CEF. We prefer general restrictions—that way we can put the money where it’s most needed at any given time.”
“I have to say,” I begin, “that you really sound like I’ve already agreed to write you a check. Which I have not.”
“Studies show that children who—”