by Lisa Cardiff
“That you either have a great publicist who controls your information with an iron fist or that you live a relatively uneventful life.”
I chuckled. “Both are true. I don’t like my private affairs spilled on the pages of magazines or internet websites. A clean image is imperative when you own a large financial firm that manages billions of dollars.” All of that was true, but I also had a dirty, soul-shattering childhood I wanted to keep private.
“Then you probably didn’t appreciate the picture of us that made it into the Saturday morning paper.”
“I didn’t mind.” The photographs were there because I wanted them there. I wanted Senator Wharton to see us together. It was just the beginning of what I had planned to draw Senator Wharton out of his comfort zone.
She rubbed her hands along the sides of her pants. “I can’t say I agree.”
“What do you mean?”
“My stepdad made it clear he didn’t want me involved with you.”
Perfect. I raised one eyebrow. “Is that your way of canceling our date?”
“No,” she said quickly, raising her hands in front of her, and then she laughed, a slightly rusty sound that pierced straight through my heart. “I think I’m old enough to decide who I want in my life.”
“Then we’re still on for lunch?”
“As long as you’re not offended by the fact my stepdad disapproves of you.” Her cat-like greenish eyes were still strained, but she seemed less guarded than when she answered the door five minutes ago.
I paused, hands buried in my pockets. Then, I moved forward, wrapping my arms around her waist and pinning her against her kitchen counter. Her muscles tightened under my fingertips, but within seconds she relaxed, her body melting against mine.
When she lifted her head, I didn’t waste any time. My lips covered hers. She didn’t push me away. Not even close. She let out a soft moan, but I didn’t want to spook her, so I continued kissing her softly without rushing this thing between us. My tongue slid slowly around hers, testing her reaction, evaluating every welcoming stroke and delicious curl.
Her heart hammered against my chest, and my body vibrated with desire. Her kiss tasted better than I had imagined, not that I’d spent much time thinking about kissing her since Friday night. No, that’s a lie. The minute I met her in person two nights ago, I wanted to kiss her and a whole lot more. But fuck, I needed to temper my reaction to her. Langley and I had a predetermined expiration date, one that would be accompanied by fireworks of the disastrous sort.
I stepped back, needing space, needing walls between us, because walls were all there ever could be. “Are you ready to go?”
Langley sucked in a breath, her eyes studying me, searching me, but she wouldn’t see anything except the charming veneer I showed everyone. I mastered the look before my tenth birthday.
No one knew me the real me, except Knox and my mom, and she died six months ago in an apparent suicide. A neighbor found her dead on the floor of our dirty trailer, a gun in one hand and half her head missing.
My family lived waist-deep in the same dirty secrets in the same dirty world. They’d been woven into the fabric of our very existence, coloring every choice and every relationship, new and old. My mom promised Senator Wharton she’d keep those secrets, and she did. She took them to her grave, but she made those promises, not me. Once she died, I considered her debts satisfied. Now, I could do whatever I wanted with the information.
“Where are we going?” she asked, running her fingertip over her swollen lips.
“The Edge.”
“Ugh,” she groaned. “I hate that place.”
“What?” My eyebrows snapped together.
“No.” She laughed. “But you must be a mind reader, or the information you found about me online was far more revealing than I’d like. First the peonies and now The Edge.”
“I aim to please.”
“Well, I hate to admit it, but you’re doing a good job so far.”
I threaded my fingers through hers. Damn, this might be easier than I’d thought.
***
She stared forlornly at her nearly empty dessert plate, only a swirl of chocolate and raspberry sauce remained. Unquestionably, The Edge was Langley’s favorite restaurant.
“Do you want anything else?” I asked. “Are you still hungry?”
She laughed. “You’re making fun of me.”
“No.” I shook my head. “I’m glad you enjoyed your meal.”
She placed her silverware diagonally across her plate and pushed it to the center of the table. “Ugh. I’m so full. I feel like I’m going to explode. I’ll have to exercise twice as long tomorrow morning to make up for this lunch.”
“Do you exercise every day?”
“I’m a physical therapist,” she answered, as though that’s all she needed to say.
“So?” I prompted, prying her for more information even though both my reports and her long, lean muscles already answered my question.
“I work in a gym of sorts, so I end up doing some exercise every day at work, and my mom and I have a standing tennis date on Saturday mornings.”
“Are you and your mom close?” My research suggested they weren’t, but that might not be Langley’s perception of their relationship.
She chewed on her lip, clearly contemplating her answer. “Growing up, my dad was larger than life. I idolized him. For the first ten years of my life, I was his shadow. When he died, it was just my mom and me for a couple of years. I love her. She’s my mom, but we never really clicked. I don’t understand her, and she doesn’t understand me. What about your mom?”
“She was a single mom, so she wasn’t around a lot. It always seemed like it was my brother Knox and me against the world. We did everything together.”
She nodded. “You’re lucky. I wish I had a brother or a sister. When my mom remarried, I thought my stepdad would want kids, but it never happened. He focused on his career and my mom focused on reinventing herself. There wasn’t much room left for anything else.”
“Reinventing herself?” I asked, ignoring the topic of Senator Wharton and kids entirely.
“When she married Senator Wharton, she transformed from Hollywood wife to the doting wife of a politician. She replaced her flashy clothes with simple lined dresses and pantsuits. She spent her days volunteering for causes I don’t think she knew existed before her second marriage.” She frowned and shook her head.
“Did that trouble you?”
“It shouldn’t have, but at the time I felt like she wanted to erase the memory of my dad and the first ten years of our lives.”
I slanted forward, bracing my elbows on the edge of the table. “Now what do you think?”
“Maybe it was her way of dealing with the grief. For the most part, I went along with what she wanted, but I refused to let Senator Wharton adopt me.”
“Why?”
She twisted her hands in her lap. “Because I had a dad. I didn’t need another one. Besides, he was barely around, so it felt forced. I don’t think he really wanted to adopt me. Contrary to what is reported in the media, we’re not close,” she confessed.
I nodded, not saying anything for a few prolonged seconds. Truth be told, I was shocked. My files were littered with articles of how Senator Wharton embraced his role of parent to Langley. “I didn’t realize.”
“Nobody knows that, except for Winnie.” She laughed. “She’s the keeper of all my secrets. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
“I’ll have to keep that in mind,” I answered with a grin.
“You’ll never get anything out of her. We took a blood covenant as kids. I’ve sworn her to secrecy.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Now I’m really curious about all these secrets that necessitate a blood covenant.”
“They’re serious.” She nodded, her eyes wide in mock innocence.
I winked. “Can you give me a hint?”
She gazed at her lap for a second and then e
xhaled loudly. “Okay, but you have to promise never to tell.”
I held up one hand. “I promise.”
“I cheated on my fifth grade spelling test. I wrote a word along the inside of my index finger.”
“What word?”
“Ubiquitous,” she whispered.
I burst out laughing. “With secrets like those, you definitely need a blood covenant.”
“Now that I’ve told you my darkest secret, you have to tell me one. An eye for an eye.”
“Eye for an eye?” I mocked, purposely changing the direction of the conversation. Unlike Langley, I had too many dark secrets.
“As long as we’re on the theme of blood covenants, I thought I’d throw in some more biblical references.” She shrugged. “Now stop procrastinating and share something.”
“Something?”
She rolled her eyes. “Anything.”
“Fine.” I tapped my fingers on the table as I considered my options. Notably, my thoughts kept circling back to the one secret I couldn’t share. Was that an indication of a guilty conscience? Because as I stared into her glowing green eyes and soaked in her supple smile, I felt a twinge of discomfort ripple down my spine.
When I decided to pull Langley into my plans, she was just a name on a piece of paper. With each passing second I spent with her, she showed me she was so much more. She was quickly getting under my skin, which wasn’t a good thing. I needed to figure out a way for her to trust me while keeping her at an arm’s length.
“Knox and I used to pocket money from the fountain at the mall,” I finally revealed.
“Hey.” She smacked my hand lightly. “You stole people’s dreams for the future.”
My gut twisted. Things hadn’t changed much.
“We didn’t have a choice. We needed to eat.” I chuckled, angling to lighten the moment.
Sadness flashed across her face, further entrenching the remorse and guilt simmering inside of me. “Then, you’re forgiven.”
I smiled faintly. If only she’d offer those same words when I finished destroying Senator Wharton.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Langley
“Just one more set of ten. You’re almost done.” I loved helping my patients get their life back, and Mr. Wright wasn’t an exception. Three months ago, he fell off a ladder cleaning the leaves out of his gutters. Two bulging discs that pressed on his root nerve made him a candidate for surgery, or at the very least, shots. He decided to try physical therapy first. Now, he was back at work and almost as good as new. He probably had one or two weeks left before I would release him from my care.
“You’re a slave driver,” Mr. Wright said as he started another set of sit-ups on the silver exercise ball.
“You need to improve your core strength to support your lower back,” I said, adjusting the angle of his head to minimize any neck strain.
I counted down his final reps. “Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten, and you’re done.”
“Thank God,” Mr. Wright said, rolling off the ball onto his back before standing up. “How much longer until I’m done with rehab?”
I shook my finger at him. “One week. Maybe two, but that doesn’t mean you can stop doing your exercises, or you’ll end up back here or in surgery.”
He groaned as he lifted his gym bag. “I know. I’ll see you on Friday.”
I barely had time to finish my paperwork before Winnie peeked inside the front door of my office. “Hey,” she said, lifting her hand in greeting. “Are you ready for lunch?”
“Yes, but I only have forty-five minutes before my next appointment, so it has to be quick.”
Winnie held up a white paper bag. “I figured as much. You’re always overscheduled, but never fear, I brought take out.”
“Did I ever tell you that you’re amazing?”
“No, but don’t let that stop you from singing my praises now.” Winnie dropped the bag of food on the desk and plopped down on the small black side chair. My office wasn’t impressive. It barely qualified as an office. It was more of a glorified cubicle with a door.
“So what’s for lunch?” I unrolled the top of the bag and peeked inside.
“Kale salads and cold-pressed juice, but there’s a surprise at the bottom, so wipe that frown off your face.”
“Magic bars,” I held up the bag of cookies and dangled it in front of me. “I love you.”
“I know. Most people do.” She laughed at her joke as I placed the salads and green mystery drink in front of us.
“You’re not working today?” I asked as I poured the dressing on top of my salad.
“Not really. I went in for a couple hours, but they sent me home.”
Winnie was a paralegal. Normally, she worked at least sixty hours a week, but everything came to a grinding halt three weeks ago. The partner she worked for had an emergency surgery and he hadn’t returned to the office yet. The other attorneys had given her a few small projects the first week, but now she didn’t have anything to do except make a few phone calls every day.
“Any word on Mr. Brandt?”
She shook her head. “Nothing, which makes me think it’s really bad. If I don’t hear anything by the end of this week, I’m going to start looking for another job.”
“That’s probably a good idea.” I took a sip of the green juice, and my sour taste buds went on high alert, flooding my mouth with saliva. “What the hell is in here?”
Winnie smirked. “Lots of lemon mixed with spinach, avocado, and a dash of pineapple juice.”
“Don’t buy it again.”
“It’s supposed to lift your energy and wake you up.”
“Wake up your taste buds, you mean.”
She took a sip of her juice. “Yeah, I see what you mean. It’s a definite no repeat item.”
“It even sounds terrible. Why did you pick it?” I took one more drink and tossed it in the trash.
“The guy at the counter recommended it.” She bit her lip and turned to the side. “He was cute and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.”
“So you decided to hurt us instead.”
She laughed. “I guess so.”
“Stick to the basics next time.”
Winnie tapped her fork on the side of the black plastic salad container. “I saw the picture of you with Archer Black in the paper.”
“Yeah, so did my stepdad. He summoned me to his office the next day to discuss it. He warned me to stay away from him.”
Winnie rolled her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me the picture you texted me was of him?”
“I didn’t know at the time.”
“How could you not know?”
I leaned back in my chair. “We shared a taxi. He introduced himself as Archer. I didn’t ask any other questions.”
“You do know he’s possibly the most eligible bachelor on the east coast, right?”
“I might have read something about that.”
“You should cyberstalk him to figure out how to accidently run into him again, and this time you need to get his phone number and at least one date.”
I stuffed a pile of kale into my mouth to prevent me having to reply right away. Four days had passed since Archer took me out to lunch.
“I have his phone number, and we did go on a date last Sunday. We had a great time. He gave me peonies—my all-time favorite flower. We ate at my all-time favorite restaurant. The conversation never lulled. His goodnight kiss was perfect in a ‘make my knees weak and my lips tingle kind of way.’”
“What?” Winnie slammed her hands on the top of my desk. “And you never said a word? What kind of friend are you?”
I fiddled with the paper napkin in my lap, twisting it until it resembled a feminine hygiene product. I totally misread our date. I would’ve bet half my trust fund that a second date lurked on the not too distant horizon. Now that four days had passed without a single word, I wouldn’t bet one dollar. Apparently, he succeeded at impressing me, but I didn’t do the same.
I sighed. �
�The first couple of days after the date, I was slammed with patients. Now it’s irrelevant. He hasn’t called me. I don’t think he’s interested.”
“You don’t know that. He could be out of town. He could have crazy things happening at work. Four days is nothing.” She waved her hand in front of her face to emphasize the point.
“Okay, so how many days before I write him off?”
Winnie corkscrewed her finger in her hair over and over, and then released it and started the process over again. She’d done this since we were kids when she was thinking or stalling. It was a miracle she still had any hair on the right side of her head. “A week.”
My eyebrows scaled my forehead. “A week,” I echoed. “And what if he calls after a week? What does that mean?”
“It means he’s not really that interested, or that he’s a wannabe player or a flat-out jerk. Either way, on the eighth day, your wait is over. If he calls after that, you don’t want to talk to him anyway, and if he doesn’t call, you move on. Erase his number and scrub him from your memory.”
“So I have four more days of waiting.” I sagged in my chair. “That sucks. I thought the date went really well. I don’t get it.”
“I know. Dating sucks. When we were kids, I thought we’d both be married or in a serious relationship by the time we hit twenty-five.”
“Hey,” I said, holding up my hand, “you may be twenty-five, but I still have three more months of my early twenties, and I intend to live every one of them without fast-forwarding through the last ninety days.”
Winnie pointed at the dry erase board calendar on my wall. “It’s actually more like eighty-five days.”
My eyes narrowed, but the corners of my lips twitched. “You suck.”
“Wait.” She giggled. “You told me I was amazing twenty minutes ago. You’re giving me whiplash.”
“Yeah, well, now I’m retracting my compliment.”
Winnie gathered up her salad and plastic utensils and stuffed them into the white paper bag. “No you’re not.”