End Game

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “Make me a New Yorker and I won’t dress like a tourist.”

  We step into the elevator, and he punches the lobby level before pulling me close. “How about I just make you my wife?”

  “Does it come with a T-shirt?”

  The elevator stops on a random floor, the doors opening, and several people enter. Shane scoots me into a corner and leans in close to whisper, “No shirt,” he says, a sexy suggestive curve to his lips. “Just me. Is the deal off?”

  “I really wanted the shirt,” I whisper, heat simmering between us for no reason other than we’re us.

  And I really love that we’re us. I love that we laugh together. I love that at the airport, he orders coffee for me and doesn’t even ask what I want. He just knows. And I love that when we settle into our seats on the private jet he’s chartered, and open our laptops, we’re just as comfortable talking together as not talking at all, both of us trying to get lost in work. What I don’t love is the way that heaviness before our run returns as the engines roar to life, announcing our return to Denver.

  I consider talking to Shane about it, but he’s immersed in a contract he’s reviewing, and I have to review the transition staffing reports from HR, or that’s my intent. Once we’re airborne, I log on to the internet to download the documents, and Jessica sends me an instant message: How did it go with the designer?

  I glance at Shane. “How does Jessica even know the minute I log on to the internet on a Sunday?”

  “She’s a professional stalker and I actually pay her to do it,” he says. “And give her bonuses in expensive brand-name clothing that usually comes with a Chanel label, as if I endorse the behavior.”

  “Which reminds me,” I say. “We need to talk to her about her Jessica label. We told the designer about it. Jessica needs to know and get involved.”

  “Agreed,” he says, and before returning to our work, we decide on tomorrow morning at the office coffee shop to talk to her.

  I chat with Jessica in messenger for a few minutes, filling her in on the trip. Typing my replies, my eyes fall on my ring, and I realize Jessica is really the only person I have to share the news with, a thought that stirs memories of my mother, which I quickly shove away. I don’t tell Jessica about the ring. I decide I’ll show her tomorrow instead. I disconnect with her and quickly engage myself in work rather than emotions, struggling with some eye strain and dizziness the entire time. Deciding I need to see the eye doctor, I store my computer and try to use my journal for notes, but the same issue replays. We’re descending when the dizziness becomes something much worse. My stomach rolls and I unbuckle myself to rush around Shane to the back of the plane, where the door jams.

  Shane is there almost immediately, grabbing my arm as the plane jolts and saving me from a certain tumble. “I’ve got you,” he says, “and the door.” He reaches for the handle.

  I lean against the door. “Never mind.”

  He arches a brow. “Never mind?”

  “I was feeling what I guess was motion sickness, but I’m not anymore.”

  “You’ve never mentioned motion sickness.”

  “I’ve never felt it before. Maybe it was the wine last night.”

  “You hardly drank any of it.”

  “But it was very strong,” I argue.

  He laughs. “You are drunk right now.” He grabs my hand and leads me back to my seat, and we’ve barely buckled up when we hit the runway. Shane’s phone buzzes instantly.

  He reads the text message and looks at me. “Cody is waiting for us on the tarmac.”

  “Cody.” I sigh. “We’re back to our bodyguard.”

  Shane’s hand comes down on my leg. “Emily—”

  “I know. You want to protect me, and I’m not complaining about you caring. But I just want you to think about the implication of what you just said. In New York you were okay with us having no bodyguard. Here, you’re not.”

  “Martina’s here.”

  “Exactly,” I say softly. “He’s here. Why do we want to be here if we’re worried enough to need security? It’s affecting me. I felt paranoid at the mall yesterday. I kept looking over my shoulder.”

  He straightens. “Why didn’t you tell me this before now?”

  “It was just last night,” I say. “And I really think I was just paranoid. I don’t want to be conditioned to be afraid to be alone.”

  “It’s only been two months since your attack,” he says. “It’s impossible for you to be at ease, and me to not feel protective. We need to talk about it like we are now.”

  “Agreed,” I say. “But we said we wanted a new beginning.”

  “You really want to move to New York, don’t you?”

  “Don’t you?”

  He surprises me by saying, “Yes, but moving there is complicated.”

  “Isn’t staying here as well?”

  The door to the cabin opens, and Cody walks in, his presence driving home the accuracy of my question with far more than words. For us, being in Denver means danger.

  * * *

  It’s an hour later when we arrive at our building in downtown Denver and make our way to our apartment to find a note on the door that reads: Delivery left in the kitchen.

  “That’s curious,” I say. “What is it?”

  “Probably just too much mail for the box,” Shane says, crumpling the note and stuffing it into his pocket before opening the door.

  Movement behind us has us both turning to find the doorman walking toward us, our bags on a cart. “The perks of living in a hotel,” Shane murmurs.

  I leave him to deal with our bags, entering the apartment, my intention to find out what was left in the kitchen. But as I step into the foyer, memories assail me, and I find myself standing at the edge of the living room, remembering them all: passionate moments. Pancake moments. Wine-and-coffee-filled moments. Morning jogs. Laughter and fights. But there is pain. There is death. There are things here that don’t erase the good times, and I really believe they will always shadow them gray.

  Shaking off this idea, I walk to the kitchen and discover a huge basket filled with wine, chocolate, and fruit, a large yellow envelope next to it. The front door shuts and Shane appears in the doorway. “Do you know who would send this?”

  “I’d bet it all on Freddy if I were in Vegas,” he says, walking to the opposite side of the island to retrieve a small envelope that he hands to me.

  I open it and remove the card to read aloud, “Congratulations to the future Mr. and Mrs. Brandon. May you have a happy life together no matter where you might be, though I do believe it would be happier in New York. I hope the proposal I’ve included will make you believe that as well.” I look at Shane. “He’s as determined as I am to get you to New York.”

  Shane opens the folder in his hand and pulls out a document, reading it for a full minute that has me ready to grab it and read it myself. “Well?”

  He slides the document back into the envelope. “It means he got the nickname Maverick for a reason. He’s offered Brandon Enterprises an opportunity to invest in a new division of the firm, with me running that division as a partner, therefore erasing my conflict of interest.”

  I try to tamp down the excitement he’s stirring. “Does this mean you get your career back and we move to New York, away from Martina?”

  “It means maybe. I need to do the due diligence with the firm and the board, but the board is really a non-issue. The bylaws give me a lot of latitude to act in the company’s financial interest.”

  I lean on the island and study him. “But we both know the legal issues weren’t the only issues holding you back, Shane.”

  “No. They were not. I need to read the contract and think on it.” He walks around the counter and kisses me. “And then we’ll talk. Okay?”

  “Yes. Okay.” He starts to walk away, and I fight the urge to catch his arm, but I let him go. He disappears into the other room and then into his office. I need to give him time to process in his own way.


  I walk down the hallway to grab our bags but find they’re already upstairs. I head that way and grab my journal from my bag, sitting on the bed with the intent of writing down everything I want to say to Shane. Instead I find myself sitting in a chair by the window and reading my first entry, two lines standing out to me:

  See, I believe that when fear controls us, it makes decisions for us.

  He feels guilt and blame, but that’s where I have to shut it down for him as well. Because I choose Shane. And he chooses me.

  I inhale and shut the journal with a realization. I used to write things down because I had no one I trusted with my feelings. I need to say these things to Shane, not write them down. I leave the journal on the bed and change my mind. I pick it up and take it with me, hurrying down the stairs, to the office. I find Shane behind his desk, but he’s not reading the contract that is sitting on the wooden surface. He’s leaning back in his chair, one booted foot on his knee, his fingers steepled in front of him.

  I close the space between us and round the desk, placing myself between it and him. He straightens and lowers his leg. “I was going to write in this journal, but I’d rather talk to you.”

  His hands settle on my hips. “I want you to talk to me.”

  “But you aren’t talking to me.”

  “That’s not my intention.”

  “Well, then I’ll start the conversation by asking you to read my journal entry.” I open it and hand it to him. He studies me for several beats and then accepts the journal. I lean on the desk, bracing myself with my hands on the edge. His dark lashes lower and he begins to read. I watch him, looking for a reaction he doesn’t offer. He just reads and then shuts the journal.

  “Emily—”

  “You saved the company,” I say, before he can shut me down. “Derek is gone, and staying here doesn’t save him. Giving up your job like I gave up Harvard doesn’t help him. And you can’t save your father. Your mother doesn’t want to be saved. And as long as we’re close to Martina, making him think about us, he’s also thinking about everyone around us, and they don’t have Cody.”

  He inhales, his eyes shutting, the lines of his face sharpening, seconds ticking by before he sets the journal on the desk and walks his chair closer to me, his hands coming down on my hips. “I do choose you, Emily, and I won’t let fear, anger, or guilt make decisions for me. Let’s go to New York.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Really.”

  I breathe out, my hands settling on his shoulders. “I know there will be challenges, but…”

  “We’ll deal with the challenges later. Right now—”

  I push off the desk and press my lips to his. He pulls me into his lap, his hand on the back of my head. “I take it this means you’re happy?”

  “Very happy.”

  “Show me,” he says, turning my lips-pressed-to-lips kiss into a deep, drugging kiss, and at least for now, there are no challenges. There is no board to tell. There aren’t his parents to manage. There is no Martina to surprise us. There’s just me choosing him and him choosing me. For this moment that’s all we want. The rest can wait.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Monday morning comes, and Shane and I arrive at work and ride the elevator to the lobby, him in a dark suit and red power tie, and me in a simple black skirt with a long-sleeved pale blue silk blouse, though there is nothing simple about the ring on my finger that I’m quite certain everyone will notice today. Starting with Jessica, who we are meeting with before heading upstairs.

  We enter the coffee shop and find her already at a corner table, and the second she spots us, she stands up and points at the cups on the table.

  “We need this woman in our lives,” I say, a statement that has nothing to do with the coffee she’s ordered for us and everything to do with her loyalty, skills, and friendship.

  “She’s going to come with us,” he promises, aware of my worries, pulling a chair out of my path that was somehow left out of place.

  “You can’t know that,” I say, noting how pretty she looks in a black dress, her newly extended blonde hair sleek and shiny. “What if there’s a secret man in her life?”

  He laughs. “You mean Cody?”

  He’s right. Those two flirt. Or she flirts and he tries not show his interest, but he does. And I really hate that his job makes her off-limits to him. My secret wish is that he breaks protocol and just grabs her and kisses her really well, and soon.

  We join her at the table and she settles her hands on top. “So. What are we talking about that required a semi-secret rendezvous? Or as close to one as I’ll ever get?”

  “We have big plans,” I say. “And we want you to be a big part of those big plans.”

  “You have my attention,” she says. “Are designer clothes with the Brandon name on them involved?”

  “How about a Jessica line?”

  Her eyes go wide. “What? A Jessica line? I don’t understand.”

  “Like there is Ralph Lauren Polo Sport and—”

  “And you want there to be a Jessica line for Brandon Style?”

  “With stock and profit incentives,” Shane adds.

  She leans forward and stares at Shane, then taps two fingers on the table in front of him. “If I were to jump up and down and shout before hugging you and then Emily right here and now, you would not be pleased, correct?”

  “No,” Shane agrees. “I would not be pleased.”

  “That sucks,” she says. “Because I really want to jump up and down and—”

  “The job will be in New York,” Shane says. “Emily and I are moving there, and we’re planning to relocate a portion of the company there as well.”

  “I’ll need a cost of living raise to go with the incentives,” she says immediately.

  “Done,” Shane says.

  I laugh. “Well, that was very efficient and businesslike,” I say. “We’ll shout and jump for joy in his office later.” I reach for my coffee, and her eyes land on my ring.

  “Oh my God.” She grabs my hand. “Is this—” She looks at Shane. “You did this without my help and you did it well.” She doesn’t give him time to reply. “You should leave before I start screaming now. You also have a conference call in”—she glances at her watch—“ten minutes.”

  “Well, then,” Shane says. “Let the screaming begin.” He kisses me. “Come see me when you’re done.” He stands and leaves.

  “To think I once threatened to hurt you if you hurt him,” she says. “Actually, that still stands.” She sobers. “He’s a good man in a bad family. I wanted him and me to be a thing once. Did I tell you that?” She doesn’t wait for a reply. “We just have zero chemistry. But you two. You were magic the moment I saw you together.” She sighs. “I almost believe in fairy tales again, but then I look at his family.”

  I sip my coffee, feeling that dizzy, queasy feeling again.

  “Why did you just turn green?” Jessica asks.

  “I don’t know. I’m feeling strange.”

  She leans forward. “Are you pregnant?”

  “No. Of course not. I take precautions. I was in Manhattan with all those people. I probably just caught a bug.” My stomach starts to churn. “I think I need to get to my office.”

  “Of course, sweetie,” she says, and we head for the door, then the elevator. “Have you talked about a date?” she asks once we’re inside.

  I lean against the wall, feeling as green as she says I am. “Not yet.”

  “Have you told his parents?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Have you thought about a dress?”

  “Dress?”

  “Yes. A dress. Guest list. And a location—”

  Now I’m really sick, I think, tuning her out. Guests? I have no guests to invite. I have no family. The elevator dings and she says, “Have you considered having our new designer design you a Brandon Style original for your dress?”

  For the wedding with a guest list and lots of people I don
’t know. “I need to step into the ladies’ room,” I say, but as I exit the elevator, I come face-to-face with Shane’s mother.

  “Oh, thank goodness,” Maggie says. “David wants tea. Can you get him that tea you know he likes? His throat hurts, probably from yelling at his new assistant.”

  “Of course,” Jessica says, taking my coffee and handing it to her. “We were just bringing him a tea. And now we have a meeting.”

  I take my coffee from Maggie. “They got the order wrong. He’ll be upset if you give him that.”

  Maggie’s lips curve, and she takes the coffee from me and then turns and walks back to the office.

  “What just happened?” Jessica asks.

  “I’m going to contemplate that while staring at a porcelain bowl.” I start forward and into the bathroom, but as soon as I open the stall door, I’m no longer sick.

  I turn around and walk to the sink as Jessica enters. “That’s the wrong porcelain bowl,” she says. “It doesn’t flush.”

  “I’m oddly okay now,” I say, sitting down in the chair against the wall.

  “Are you sure you can’t be pregnant?”

  “I’m not,” I say. “And it would be bad if I were.”

  “Why? You’d be amazing parents.”

  “It’s a bad time, Jessica. Let us get married before you start planning our family.”

  “Right. The wedding—”

  “I have no one to invite.” I push to my feet.

  “Emily—”

  “I need to get to work.” I step around her and head for the door, making my way to my office, where I walk to my desk and sit down. My lashes lower, and I think of the wedding, but then I think of the possibility of being pregnant. I can’t be. But did they give me my meds in the hospital? I haven’t missed a period. This is ridiculous.

  My intercom buzzes. “I need you, Ms. Stevens,” Brandon Senior says while Shane appears in my doorway, irritation sliding across his features at his father’s command. He holds up a finger and points, indicating he’s going to talk to him, and I hold up my hand and shake my head.

  “Ms. Stevens,” Brandon senior says again. “I said I need you.”

  “What you need,” I say, “is to be kinder to your assistants, of which I am not any longer. And your wife. And your son. Your tea order is on file at the register downstairs. And I have work to do other than fetch it for you.”