“I’m afraid it wouldn’t hold up for long with a six-month-old around.”
“Where is young Leonardo?”
“You dad has him.” She runs her fingers down the front of my suit and lowers her voice. “Did you find them?”
“Yeah,” I quietly say.
“And?”
A burst of laughter comes from the front part of the porch, and Violet peers over my shoulder suspiciously.
“I think they’re going to be just fine,” I say.
Violet frowns. “But Kaila…”
“Can take care of herself,” I finish.
Violet slowly acquiesces, nodding. “If Frank does anything to hurt her—”
“You’ll more than take care of him,” I chuckle.
“You know I will,” she devilishly answers, then tugs at my hand. “Come on. Let’s get back to the reception.”
“Not just yet.”
She doesn’t resist as I guide her away from the backyard and down one of the little trails to the beach. The sun is about to set, casting its hazy glow on the ocean and the sand. Violet kicked her shoes off long ago, and she steps right up to the water, lifting her dress so the waves can gently lap at her toes. I stand a few feet away, hands in my pockets, my gaze tethered to the beautiful woman.
Brushing some of her loose hair from her face, she looks over to me.
“What are you thinking?”
“Not thinking,” I quietly say. “Just…”
“Feeling?” She grins.
“Exactly.”
She comes to me at the same moment I reach for her, slipping into my arms like she was made for them. And, apparently, she was. It just took me a long time to figure that out.
Holding Violet in front of me, I wrap my arms around her waist and rest my head against hers. Behind us, the people we love talk and laugh, their joy filling our home with promises of even more happiness to come. In front of us, the ocean shimmers with the setting sun and a future designed for us.
The End
* * *
What will the next two years bring for Sean and Violet?
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Theirs To Share
Layla Valentine & Ana Sparks
Ready to go again?
Mine and Ana’s previous MFM romance, Theirs to Share, is up next!
Copyright 2018 by Layla Valentine and Ana Sparks
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author.
All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.
Chapter 1
“Come on, come on.”
Squeezing my fingers around my oversized satchel bag, I tap my heel against the floor of the elevator. The anxious tic does nothing to speed things up.
It’s my second week at my first, real adult job. My sixth day. And I’m ten minutes late.
I check the time on my wristwatch, noting the painful tick of the second hand. Finally, finally the door opens with a ding.
Throwing myself onto the sixth floor of the building, which houses the main offices of the Franciscan Tribune, I rush past the shiny front desk and down the hallway. Phones ring, keyboards click, and reporters, editors, and interns exhale headlines like oxygen. It’s the kind of atmosphere I thrive on. It’s what I’ve been spending my whole life looking forward to.
It’s why I can’t screw this up.
Reaching my tiny cubicle in the open-working space, I collapse into my swivel chair and deposit my purse on the carpet. If I’m lucky, no one saw me come in late. If I’m even luckier, no one cares.
Powering up my computer, I surreptitiously scan the room. No one so much as looks my way.
Thank God.
No sooner have I let out a relieved exhale, though, than I feel someone hovering nearby.
“Good morning, Noelle,” comes the clipped voice.
It’s Graham, my editor. He leans against the fragile cubicle wall, his striped tie falling over the divide. Every muscle in my body freezes.
“Good morning.” I force a smile. Did he see me come in late?
“You look nice today.”
The way he says it, it sounds like an insult.
I glance down at my cream-colored pencil skirt, polka-dot blouse, and red heels. There’s nothing inappropriate about my outfit… At least I don’t think so.
But maybe I’m wrong. Four years of college and a year waiting tables didn’t exactly prepare me to dress for success. And it’s street fashion blogs that I get my ideas from.
Maybe I’m too creative with my outfits. Maybe they’re too loud. Or my skirts are too tight.
Or is it my makeup? I shouldn’t have tried out that new smoky eye, dang it! This isn’t a club. This is an office. This is…
“The boss wants to see you,” Graham says coolly, looking over my head like he’s already bored with me.
“Huh?”
“Yeah.” His lips press together. “I know. The elusive Ethan Ford Jr. Who even knew he existed, right?”
My stomach drops.
“Do you know why he wants to see me?”
Also, how does he even know who I am? I’m an underling at the paper, a fledgling reporter whose biggest story so far is an article about the local nut festival—a succinct 400-word piece that ran on the last page of the paper, right next to the advertisement for a carpet cleaning service.
Graham shrugs. “Didn’t say. But he’s in the boardroom waiting for you.”
Before I can pump him for any more information, he’s gone, and I’m left staring at my computer screen.
My hands shake in my lap, and I press them together to get them to stop. Ethan Ford Jr… I’ve done my research on him. He’s a mega-billionaire, born into media royalty. His father, the Ethan Ford most of the world knows best, died several years ago. His son promptly took over most of the family’s assets, including one national paper and numerous smaller ones, the Franciscan Tribune being the most recent one Junior has added to his list.
Though the internet is mostly composed of stats on Ethan Ford’s business success, the hallways and cubicles of the Franciscan Tribune are filled with something else entirely.
Callous. Stifled. Pompous.
Those are the nice adjectives people use to describe Ethan Ford. I’ve never met him myself, but hearing others talk about him hasn’t exactly given me any faith in his possessing a glowing personality.
Closing my eyes, I take in a long, cleansing breath, then stand. As much as I don’t want to go into that boardroom, delaying it will only make things worse.
Hugging a fresh notebook and my phone to my chest, I make the too-short trek to the boardroom. Its longest wall is floor-to-ceiling glass, and as I get closer I see the one person in it. His hands are clasped behind his back and he looks out the window, his back turned to me.
You can do this, Noelle. Just smile and nod. Smile and nod.
Steeling myself, I knock on the boardroom’s open door.
Mr. Ford unclasps his hands and turns around.
And my jaw nearly hits the floor.
The man standing on the other side of the long, polished table is nothing that I expected him to be. While some suits hang loosely on men, hiding their best assets, Mr. Ford’s does the opposite, his tailored outfit accentuating his broad shoulders and firm chest. His hair is dark, his eyes brown and large. A square jaw is covered with just the right amount of stubble—the amount that makes you wonder just what it would feel like to have that stubble scrapping along the inside of your thigh.
Heat fills my face, an
d I clear my throat. Words, words. I must know a few of them…
“Noelle Edwards?”
His brow furrows together. Uh-oh. Thirty seconds in the boardroom and I’ve already done something wrong.
I lift my chin, attempting to look confident. “Yes, sir.”
“I’m Ethan Ford.”
“Yes, sir,” I dumbly agree.
He unclasps his hands and gestures at the table.
“Have a seat.”
We both settle into chairs across from each other. My new boss has been looking at the floor or the table half this time, his forehead lined and a slight frown on his lips. Finally, he looks straight at me.
“I have an assignment for you.”
I blink in confusion. “W-wonderful.”
The fact that the owner of the newspaper—someone who I haven’t even seen in the office before—is here to give me an assignment is more than a little odd. Why hasn’t he just sent the task down through the chain of command?
It’s not my job to ask. And I’m also not complaining.
Picking up my pen, I look at him expectantly.
“I need you to interview the tech billionaire Zach Garner. Are you familiar with him?”
“I am.”
I catch my breath. When Mr. Ford said he had an assignment for me, I figured it would be along the lines of the stuff I have been covering. But there are no nuts or farmers’ markets here.
“He’s notorious for avoiding the media,” I point out.
Mr. Ford’s eyebrows go up in surprise, but then he gives me what can only be an admirable look.
“Excellent. So you were the right one to pick for this.”
I try to hide my pleasure. After over a week of either being ignored or treated like I don’t belong here by the paper’s employees—with the exception of a few of my coworkers—it’s nice to be acknowledged.
“What will the angle be?” I ask.
Mr. Ford leans back in his chair, which makes his white shirt stretch even tighter across his chest. I do my best to keep my eyes on his face.
“We need an inside look at his success, how he got where he was, which crucial steps made it possible… But I need more than that. I want an inside look at his life. I want to see the man behind the tycoon. Who is the real Zach Garner? What makes him tick?”
My gulp must be audible. What Mr. Ford is talking about is way beyond last-page news. This is front-page material.
And he’s assigning it to me. Someone whose journalism degree hasn’t even yet had a chance to collect dust.
“Okay.” I take in a long breath. “What’s my word count?”
“As much as you need,” he quickly answers. “Don’t hold back. Whatever you end up with, we’ll accommodate.”
My pulse is pounding, and I feel like I simultaneously want to dance and throw up. This is big. Career-making.
But the potential for failure is just as big.
“What do you know about Zach Garner?” Mr. Ford asks.
I think quickly.
“I know that he made his first million less than a year out of college, that he built his tech startup, Zarner Technologies, from scratch, working out of a studio apartment here in San Francisco, and that he now is worth somewhere around ten billion…if not more.”
“Very good.” Mr. Ford’s eyes study my face in a way that makes a pleasurable tingle go down my back.
“He’s also one of the biggest recluses in the city. He doesn’t make public appearances, doesn’t schmooze. Only a couple pictures of him have ever been printed, and none of them even have his full face in them.”
I’m getting excited now. I’ve made it my part-time job to know who’s who in this city, as that’s what my job partly depends on. Getting to finally show off some of this knowledge is nice.
“He could be working at the coffee shop on the corner part-time, and no one would know it was him. He has given maybe two interviews in the last five years.”
“You’ll be able to get it.”
Mr. Ford stands, signaling that this meeting is over. I rise as well.
“But…what if I’m not able to?”
He smirks. “The interview is already arranged. My secretary set it up.”
I can feel my eyes widen. “All right. Wonderful.”
“You’ll be great,” he huskily says. Again, his voice has a visceral effect on me.
He starts to step around the table, but I can’t help myself.
“Mr. Ford, one more question.”
He pauses, eyebrow cocked.
“Why me? Why not have one of the more experienced staffers interview Mr. Garner? I’m sure you know this, but this is my second week here.”
He folds his arms and studies me. “You’re fresh, that’s true. But you also just displayed that you’re sharp and well-informed. Not to mention you have other assets.”
I slowly nod, buying myself some time to come up with the right response.
“Thank you. May I ask what those are? I would like to be informed so I can use them to the best of my advantage.
Mr. Ford smiles, displaying dazzlingly white teeth.
“I’ve been watching the whole staff the last week, and you’re the only one who is truly suited to this job. Zach Garner should have no problem opening up to a pretty young thing such as yourself.”
Hold on. What?
I gape, certain he’s only a few seconds away from asking if my red hair is my natural color.
My boss basically just told me to use my looks to get a story… He also just committed an act of what most companies would consider sexual harassment.
This isn’t right. I should say something. I need to say something.
But I also need this story. If done right, it will propel my career quicker than ten years of typing up news bites and festival recaps.
“I can do it,” I say, hiding my cringe.
“Good, because your first meeting with him is tonight,” he grins, and I nearly choke with surprise. “I’ll have the information sent to your desk, but you’re meeting him at seven. Good luck.”
With that, he leaves the boardroom. I can’t move a step, though. I’m too busy processing everything that just happened.
I have an assignment. A real assignment.
And my boss just suggested I use my looks to get the scoop.
Apparently, no one has thought to tell Mr. Ford this isn’t 1925. Women have been working in journalism for a while now, and they’ve proven they’re just as good at it as men.
Saying something to him, standing up for the good of women everywhere, would be the right thing to do. But, then again, maybe using his sexist angle is the right thing to do—in this case, anyway.
Sometimes you have to take one small step back in order to get two big steps ahead. Let Mr. Ford suggest my greatest attribute is my looks. Once I get this story in the bag, it’s only a matter of time before I’m onto with the next one. And then he won’t be suggesting that my beauty is my greatest weapon. He and everyone else at this paper will have no choice but to acknowledge how skilled of a journalist I am.
I glance over my shoulder, catching sight of Mr. Ford’s retreating back. A quick heat wave surfaces between my legs. What would it be like to be touched by Ethan Ford Jr.?
“Nope,” I say out loud, gathering my things. I’m not going there. Crushing on a boss is bad news.
And, besides, I have a job to do. I might know the basics on Zach Garner, but if I’m going to interview him tonight I need to take it upon myself to know as much about him as possible. Since the man is so anti-social, finding out what he likes will be a great help. If there’s something we have in common, I have a much better chance of forming a connection and getting the information I need out of him.
Plus, I need to write my list of questions… I need to make sure I have time to freshen up before the interview…
And I need to get the image of Ethan Ford’s sexy smirk out of my head.
Chapter 2
A quarter
to seven and I’m at the front of Zarner Technologies, a building that is at least sixteen stories tall. Not that I’m pausing to count. Instead, I’m smoothing down my hair and sending up a quick prayer to the journalism gods before pushing my way through the revolving doors.
The front lobby is pristine, decorated in marble and off-white. A receptionist with hair pulled back in a tight bun sits behind the long front desk. I give her my name and reason for being here, then she points at the sitting area and asks me to wait.
I do, and it’s harder than it should be. My feet want to tap against the cold floor and my hands want to nervously twist around each other.
Despite spending all day long doing research, I don’t feel prepared for this interview at all. I scoured the internet looking for information on Zach Garner—clues that might give me at least a hint as to what he’s like, but other than the basics, there was nothing.
He graduated from an Ivy League school, then went on to make his billions. Other than the facts I already gave Mr. Ford, that’s it. There’s nothing else online about Zach Garner. He could have grown up on Mars for all I know.
I’m horribly unprepared for this interview, and I couldn’t feel worse about it.
At least I have my questions. I wrote them down in a lined notebook, which I keep my hands furled around as I wait. With the article due in three days, I need to get all of the information I can tonight. Garner is no doubt a busy man, and isn’t going to agree to a second interview. Just how Mr. Ford managed to get me this first one is a mystery.
A few minutes go by, and then a few more.
It’s ten past seven, and still no one has come down to get me. I crack open my notebook and go over the questions. I can’t help but glance periodically at the clock on the wall, though.
At seven thirty I get up to ask the receptionist if everything is all right. She gives me a smile that manages to be both sympathetic and condescending, and assures me that Mr. Garner knows I am here.
Protect Me - A Steamy Bodyguard Romance (You Can't Resist a Bad Boy Book 5) Page 53