by Nicole Snow
My hands fly to his head, pulling him closer to my bare body, before I realize what I’ve done.
“Sorry.” I gasp.
I loosen my grip. My hand is still in his hair, but not demanding illicit favors.
He answers with his tongue sinking deep inside me.
His rough hand covers mine, threading my fingers with his.
“Oh. Oh, Ward.” I push my body toward him and pull his head to me.
His hands move to my thighs, pushing them apart. Then his tongue carries me away, over and over and over again.
My fingers curl in his hair, urging him on, bent to this storm of a man who’s upended my life.
“Ward....ah, Ward!” His name becomes my mantra as he delves into me faster, his hunger only deepening with every growl.
His tongue dips in and out, so fast it’s hypnotic.
I’m on the verge of tears, this state I can’t even describe, when he pushes me over the ledge.
Gasping, wrecked, and viciously sated, I tumble back against the couch with my legs still quaking and balanced on his shoulders, my hair crisscrossing my face.
I’m guessing I look like sex-addled roadkill.
But I feel divine.
He makes me feel like a goddess.
And he slides out from under me a second later, running his tongue over my lingering wetness on the biggest smile I’ve ever seen him wear.
“You floated, all right,” he whispers.
“To the moon and back,” I say with a muted sigh.
And for the next twenty minutes, every breath tastes like undiluted happiness as Ward sits down beside me, pulls me into his lap, and kisses me like the woman he’s been waiting for his entire life.
Even though I’m content, I shudder in his arms.
The stars aren’t supposed to shift so fast, so swiftly, and not for anything less than true love.
And I think I’ll need help from all the heavens when I realize just how badly I want to belong to Ward Brandt’s constellation—permanently—as he cradles me in his perfectly sculpted arms.
20
Messy Invitation (Ward)
Nick strolls into my office and doesn’t shut the door behind him.
“How are you, little brother?” I look up with a lazy smile.
He stops midstep, turns his face up, and slow blinks.
“Who the hell are you?”
My brows pull together. “Who else? The guy who spends his days breaking your balls.”
“I can’t remember the last time you asked me how I was. That’s not you,” he quips.
I don’t know what to say to that.
Nick shakes his fool head.
“Anyhow, I wanted an update on the Winthrope contract. Trista keeps asking if she should press the button on setting up orders.”
“Oh, sorry. I thought I texted you.” I was preoccupied and grin at the memory. “He’s ready to move forward and I think we’re in a place where we can, too.”
Again, Nick gives me that thousand-yard stare.
“Jesus. You’re in a good mood. It’s scaring me.” Nick walks to my mini fridge and takes out a water bottle, twisting off the cap and glugging half of it down in seconds, his eyes never leaving me.
“Why shouldn’t I be? I just closed a billion-dollar deal.” I shrug.
“We closed it. Remember who came up with the sham engagement?” He holds his hands out, basking in the sun falling through my window.
“Fine,” I grunt. “You helped. A little.”
He takes another slug of water, glaring.
“Shit, I’ve seen you close deals before tons of times. You’re usually in a good enough mood to have a drink and pick up the tab. This...this is different.”
“Knock it off, Sigmund Freud. I’m not sure what the hell you’re getting at. Also, you’d make a terrible shrink.”
“I haven’t seen you this happy in—” He goes quiet, drumming a finger against his chin. “I was going to say years, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this happy.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” I throw back, just as a click of approaching heels announces my crime.
Paige stops in front of my open door.
She’s wearing a black blazer over a snug purple dress and a necklace with a low hanging pendant.
“Looking sharp today, darling,” I call out playfully.
She smiles and blushes.
“Thanks. Can I come in? I didn’t want to disturb you but since it’s open.”
“You’ve never asked before.” I chuckle.
She comes in and hands me a tall coffee stamped with The Bean Bar logo. I can’t believe a part of me misses those stupid handcuff drawings. Maybe I should give her a better reason to continue them.
“It’s black drip, but it’s pecan roasted. I thought you might like it.” She turns to leave. “Oh, hi, Nick. Sorry, I didn’t see you there. Your mocha’s on your desk.”
“Thanks, Paige,” he says, staring after her. “Will you please shut the door on your way out?”
The purple dress bobs up and down midway on her thigh with every switch of her hips.
Goddamn, can she use those hips. It’s almost worse now that I know what they’re capable of.
The door clicks shut.
“You asshole. You got laid!” Nick says, his flaming green eyes aghast.
“What?”
“You forgot to text me about the Winthrope details this weekend because you were busy getting busy.” He doubles over, clutching his sides, an obnoxious hyena of a man I wish I could banish to the cornfield like that infamous Twilight Zone episode.
“Lower your voice, dammit. We’re at work,” I spit. “How would I get laid, anyway? I don’t even have a girlfriend.”
“No, but you do have a mink of a fake fiancée who brought you flavored coffee without threatening to kill you. I wondered why she was starting to like your grouchy butt. You banged your EA.” His laughter rises, and so does my urge to throw him out the window. “Holy shit. My straightedge Boy Scout brother dipped his pen in the company ink—something he swore he’d never do. Juicy.”
I’m on my feet like an unsheathing sword.
“Shut it, Nicholas. Nothing inappropriate happened. Keep her name out of your dirty mouth.”
“You’re such a shit liar.” He rolls his eyes. “And I see a hot night or two still couldn’t loosen that yardstick up your—”
“Get out!” I bark, rounding my desk, ready to show him what it feels like to have an Italian shoe up his butt since he’s so damn fixated on what’s up mine.
He marches out, flipping me a middle finger over his shoulder.
I limp back to my seat, settling against the tall black leather with a groan.
Apparently, the price of making Paige Holly float twelve times is my total humiliation.
And a terrible part of me says I’m willing to pay it again.
An hour later, I’m in a meeting with Paige, Nick, and Clarise Devreaux, a longtime repeat client and a friend of Grandma’s.
I give Clarise the most charming smile I can muster. “Long time no see. How are you, Mrs. Devereaux?”
“I’m fine, but I was distressed to hear about Beatrice. How is she doing? Is she going to pull through?”
“Grandma’s fine. It was a minor event, thankfully,” Nick says calmly. “She’s grateful for the flowers you sent and said they reminded her of better times in Malibu.”
Clarise smiles and looks at Nick.
“I’m so glad to hear it, but I’ll remind you, young man, at our age nothing’s minor.” Her eyes move to me. “I hated to hear it, especially with all the dreadful luck that runs in your family. When I heard she was in the hospital, I feared the worst.”
“It’s not all bad,” I mutter.
Clarise lifts an eyebrow. Paige looks up from her laptop and meets my eyes. Nick hides a shit-eating grin, pretending he’s scratching his nose.
Fuck. I’ve said the wrong thing, and the reason why is sitting too
close, dolled up like a ripe plum.
I have to play this off. I’m wearing my lucky tie today, and Clarise knows my secret.
Smiling, I put my hand on the tie and hold it out.
“See? It’s a good day, or else I wouldn’t have this thing around my neck.”
Clarise laughs like a bird. “Your lucky charm! It’s so sweet that you still wear them after all these years. Ward, you always were a funny one.”
“Nah, Nick keeps up the comedy routine,” I say. “Now let’s hear about this expansion.”
With a happy nod, she opens the folder in front of her, rifling through some notes.
“Our candle company is really growing. I need room for eighty more people. Is building up an option? I don’t own the parking lot, so expanding out isn’t an option. And if we build up, how do I keep my employees working through the construction?”
I open her file and scan the proposal, plus the old place we renovated years ago.
“Building up is definitely an option, but we’ll need to inspect the building to find the load-bearing walls and go from there. The contractors can do a section at a time, so you can keep people working. But expanding up requires ripping off a roof. It would be difficult to keep the office as is while the work’s being done. Your best bet would be teleworking or office sharing.”
She gives me a polite smile. We run through a few more details for the next ten minutes, then she looks at me and says, “Oh, what’s the use in dragging this out? You’re hired. When can we do it?”
“Let me call my construction contractors and find a date.”
“Thank you!” Clarise gushes, picking up her purse and slinging it over her shoulder, but she doesn’t get up.
She’s not done, so I wait.
“You had big shoes to fill when your grandmother stepped away, Ward, but I must say...you’re doing a great job. Far better than anyone expected. Oh, and congratulations, you two! I heard the big news—The Chicago Tea even has a wedding countdown.” She leans over and gives Paige a grandmotherly pinch on the cheek
I hold in a sigh. Even though we haven’t set a date—and we never will, I remind myself—leave it to Osprey and his tabloid scum to find some way to torture me.
“Thank you,” I force out, then stand to walk her to the elevator.
By the time she’s on her way down, I’m shocked.
Clarise was never an easy client. I expected this meeting to be difficult.
Instead, it’s like I’ve found my stride thanks to one frightfully gorgeous woman. I shudder to think what happens when she’s gone.
“Where are we? This doesn’t exactly fit the definition of ‘on the way home.’ Millennium Park would’ve been closer. Just saying.” I tighten my hand around hers so she knows I’m joking.
Paige hits me with that grin. “But it’s across the street from Sweeter Grind, and I wanted good coffee.”
“There have to be closer coffee shops. We both know there are better ones. This small-town coffee shop is too damn sweet for Chicago tastes,” I grumble, leading her to a park bench.
She force-feeds me one of those Heart’s Edge truffles, though, and I almost change my mind.
It’s wet after an afternoon rain, so I put my coat down beside me and motion to it.
“Ohhh my gosh. I can’t believe I ever thought you were a Wardhole,” she beams.
“Yet you still love to use that word.”
She winks. “Why not? I invented it.”
I slide an arm around her waist, my eyes lingering on her teeth, her lips, her blond hair framing a face that’s too easy to feel too much about.
“With a smile like yours, call me whatever you want.”
She leans closer and kisses my cheek. I watch her head bend to the cinnamon-perfume drink in her cup and her eyes fall on my neck.
“Okay. What’s the deal with the ties? I have to know.”
I laugh, shifting on the bench.
“It’s just an old tradition my grandparents started.”
“Oh? I’ve never seen Beatrice wear a tie.”
“When I was ten, they made me go to this glitzy charity gala with them. Grandma bought my first tie for that event. She insisted it had to match my eyes. Since then, every year after that, my grandparents bought me a new tie in the right length. Grandpa swore they were good luck. I think I started to believe in it somewhere along the way. Mostly, it’s just happy nostalgia. It reminds me of them and makes me feel like Grandpa’s still with me.”
Her face softens. “How long has he been gone?”
“Almost seven years. It’s been rough.”
She rests her hand on my knee. “I bet. But what did that woman mean about all the bad luck your family has?” She turns her head away from me and looks straight ahead. “Brina and I searched around, I mean. Everything we found was kind of wild, but...there were so many articles. It could still be tabloid trash.”
My shoulders slump like a condemned man.
No point in pretending I don’t know what she’s talking about.
Paige deserves the truth. She linked her trust, her reputation, to mine with this desperate arrangement, after all.
“I’m not sure what you found, but it’s probably all true. My parents are both selfish people from rich families. Dad never appreciated the blood, sweat, and tears my grandparents put into building the firm, and Mom was no better. She was a senator’s daughter. The senator filed for bankruptcy after losing his seat and having the SEC come down like a ton of bricks for insider trading. She had to find a way to maintain her lifestyle. Dad was her answer, a man with plenty of money and unlimited greed.”
My temples throb, so many shitty moments flooding back.
“That’s interesting. Did your dad want to be a politician?”
I scoff. “My dad doesn’t want to be anything but wealthy, a playboy, and an idiot. Yes, in that order. He liked being connected to a powerful family and offered my mother plenty of money. It was a done deal.”
Her eyes go wide when she meets my gaze.
“A deal. Like ours?”
Fuck, don’t remind me.
For one, arrangements founded on anything but love expire, and so will this. More than that, I don’t want to be anything like my father, yet here I am with this angel staring at me like we’re more than a pretense.
I swallow.
“Their arrangement was supposed to be more permanent, but it was all about fast money and ladder climbing. Mom turned into a huge alcoholic by the time I was seven. She hardly talked to me, and she lurched between babying Nick and treating him like crap.” I take a deep breath.
“Oh, God. Ward, I’m sorry,” she whispers, rubbing my shoulder.
“I’d might as well tell you the rest. Dad drained the last of his trust fund money and used it to start a Ponzi scheme. Then the shit hit the fan and people came after him. He used his lawyers to extricate himself from any wrongdoing. He worked for the firm a few years after that. Mostly stood around talking and acting like a major asshole. Employees said he bothered them while they were working—especially the women—so he left when Grandma made him.”
“Horrible,” she whispers, shaking her head.
“And not the end of it. He tried his hand at Vegas next. Turns out, he doesn’t have a poker face, so that resulted in huge gambling losses. My grandpa paid off the bookies because the whole family started getting death threats.”
“Holy crap. Wow. I’m so sorry you had to go through that...”
I put my hand over hers on my leg.
“I think my parents—well, all of us—finally hit rock bottom with the Parnell incident.” For a moment, I’m quiet, hating the fact that I have to rip myself open for her sake.
Her fingers massage my shoulder, crawl down my arm, and wait until I’m good and ready.
“Everyone on the yacht was drunk and high. Mom said Dad steered. Dad said Dylan Parnell steered. We don’t know who was driving, but they both blamed the wreck on the storm. Parnell died, and
so did America’s favorite boy wonder movie star who never should’ve been invited to talk about a big merchandising deal with my idiot parents.” My throat feels raw.
“I’m too young to remember, but it was big news, wasn’t it?” Paige asks quietly.
“For us, that wasn’t even the half of it. My parents lived. I was so happy for them, but that only lasted so long. It would’ve been better if they were the only ones on that boat when it sank. They would’ve only hurt each other then...”
I slouch back against the bench, despising this shit.
“Dylan’s parents swore it was murder. A setup. Reporters hounded everyone for years. We had to hide in my grandparents’ house and go to boarding schools on the East Coast. We couldn’t come home without bodyguards swarming us for over a year. It was hell. Every time we tried to have a normal day, someone shoved a microphone in our face and started slinging questions. We were kids. We had nothing to do with it.” I shake my head. “My parents are lucky they’re not rotting in jail—”
“So, you believed Parnell’s family? You think it was murder too?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Reckless manslaughter, maybe. The press made a lot of noise about smoke, but no fire. But I’m sure my parents supplied the drugs, and that was reprehensible. They were trying to pry more money out of that young man, knowing he was young, rich, vulnerable. They wanted to get him high and sign onto shit no one in their right mind would agree to sober. Things went catastrophically wrong. They divorced as soon as the investigation ended, and neither of them ever really recovered. They never learned a damned thing.”
“If they never got over it, maybe their marriage wasn’t about money. Maybe they loved each other,” she says quietly, tickling my neck with her nails.
“You give my parents too much credit, Paige,” I whisper. “The only things they ever loved were their own reflections and how much booze they could knock back in one night. Anyhow, they’re still causing drama, and I’m goddamn sick of it.”
“The letters? The boat?”
“I’m sure you know it was a replica of the yacht Parnell died on. The letters were all personal and would’ve upset Grandma regardless. I’m not having it. She can’t have another emergency. That’s what my dad’s gunning for.”