What If I Never

by Lisa Renee Jones

  She glances at the card and then at me again, and she’s clearly not impressed. She’s pale-skinned, blue-eyed, and a brunette, with an air of privilege that her position does not demand nor for that matter, should anyone hold over someone else.

  “Allison isn’t in right now,” she says, handing me back my card.

  “Will she be back soon?”

  “Not today,” she says. “Can I help you?”

  I consider bringing up the delivery again but decide she’ll just do what she did earlier, and ask me to leave it here. Which I’d do if it wasn’t such a personal gift. I don’t want to spread this “other” Allison’s personal business around the office. “I just need to talk to her. Can you give her my card?”

  She glances at it fully this time, and then me, “Wait. Riptide?” Her brows dip. “The Riptide?” She doesn’t wait for a reply. “I thought Riptide was in New York City?”

  “It is and I normally am as well.”

  “If you can tell me what this is about, I can try to direct you to someone other than Allison.”

  “I appreciate that, but I really need Allison, just Allison.”

  “All right then,” she says. “I’ll be sure to tell Allison when she returns to work.”

  There’s nothing more that I can say. The necklace is too expensive to leave in just anyone’s hands. And I can certainly call the courier, but I’d rather deliver the package to Allison myself, so that I know it’s done safely. Reluctantly, I turn and walk through the lobby toward the elevator, feeling let down in a major way. When I step onto the elevator, it’s with a sense of unease I don’t understand. Allison will be back and she’ll call me. Or I’ll call her. Soon, I’ll meet her and hand over her beautiful necklace.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Three days after my visit to Hawk Legal, I still haven’t heard from Allison, despite my numerous calls and another drop by the office. Instead, I’m sitting at my desk when Carrie buzzes into my office and announces, “There’s a Mark Compton on the phone.”

  My heart races with the name.

  Mark is one of the principal founders of Riptide, and I usually deal with his mother, who we jokingly call “Queen Compton,” or her right-hand person, Crystal. Both of whom are easy to talk to, but Mark is another story. He’s intimidating—a force of nature, a man who is all power and control and demand. It was his mother who let me take a leave of absence and keep my job, and I can’t help but fear that’s about to end.

  “Put him through,” I say, and I swear my hands are clammy as I pick up the phone. “Mr. Compton. This is unexpected.”

  “Yes, it is, Ms. Wright,” he says. “Can you tell me why you’re getting an invitation to Hawk Legal’s annual party as a representative of Riptide?”

  “Oh. I—that’s strange. I did leave my card at the front desk. I guess someone got me confused with a client.”

  “Why were you there at all?” he asks, getting right to the point. “Are you looking for a job? Or, worse, are you in some kind of trouble?”

  “No,” I say quickly. “God, no. Riptide means the world to me and I’m not someone who gets in trouble.”

  He’s silent, which leads me down a dark hole of speculation. Perhaps my reply doesn’t sit right with him. Or maybe it just doesn’t answer his question sufficiently enough, and thus doesn’t justify his response. Or as he does, perhaps he’s luring me into a deep, dark empty hole that entices me to fill the space with a confession. And yet, despite knowing this about him, I do just that.

  “I received a package that was meant for someone at Hawk Legal,” I explain quickly, and since I did tell Crystal about the temp job at the museum, I add, “The museum is just a few blocks down.”

  “Right,” he says dryly. “The museum.” There’s disdain in his voice that tells me the museum is beneath him and that means me. I think that’s a compliment. Maybe. I don’t know with him. “When exactly will you be back?” he asks, obviously feeling the need to confirm what he already knows.

  “January,” I reply. “Is that still okay? Do you need me back sooner?”

  He ignores my question and asks, “How is your mother?”

  “Better, thank you,” I say. “She’s pulling through this. She’s in remission.”

  “I’ll hold you to that, Ms. Wright,” he states, and while there is a crispness to his tone, there’s also an emptiness to the words that I know has nothing to do with me or my mother. It’s about his own. His mother, Queen Compton, the founder of Riptide, the boss of us all, is also fighting cancer. “How is she?” I ask, knowing we both know who I’m talking about.

  “Not good,” he replies succinctly. “But as you know, she’s a fighter.”

  “Yes, she is,” I say. “She has superpowers. I believe that,” I add, and I mean it. His mother was the reason I’d ended up at Riptide just shy of two years ago now. I’d been in a bad place, only a month after a break-up with my father and my ex. My career had stalled. Then one day I’d stepped into a coffee shop at the same time as her, and the two of us had started chatting. That cup of coffee had changed my life. She’d seen something in me, I don’t even know what. She’d called me a diamond in the rough and recruited me from my job as an editor at a publishing house and stunned me with a hefty raise. More so though, she’d made me believe I could do anything, be anything, rethink my life, and make it bigger and better at a time when I’d needed to believe those things. She’d believed in me when I’d been at my lowest. I need to be there for her now. “I can come back,” I offer quickly. “If you need me, if she needs me—”

  “Stay with your mother,” he says. “That’s what she would want. Enjoy the holidays with her. But,” he adds, “if at any point you staying with us comes down to you needing to relocate her here, and/or take advantage of the doctors at our disposal, we’ll make it happen and we’ll pay for it. That is also what she would want.”

  I blink in surprise at the offer, emotions burrowing in my chest and taking root with his generosity. I’d only been with Riptide a year when my mother was diagnosed with cancer, and while I knew I’d performed well and that I’d pleased Queen Compton, Mark is a hard read. I was never really sure he noticed anything I did right or wrong.

  “I—that’s very generous,” I say, my voice cracking.

  “It’s self-serving,” he replies. “We need you back in the New Year.”

  “Absolutely,” I say, and in this moment, my loyalty to Riptide has never been stronger, which stirs an idea. “Can you fax me the invitation?” I ask. “Maybe I could actually go as a Riptide representative? There was a reason they thought inviting me was a good idea. Maybe they’re interested in working with us?”

  “I like the way you think, Ms. Wright. Go. Do. Make things happen. I’ll give you a thirty-percent commission on anything you bring in that cashes out. I expect an update.” He disconnects. Just like that. No goodbye. Nothing else. He just hangs up.

  And so do I, and I do so with a dry mouth.

  Thirty percent of anything that’s Riptide-worthy is a lot of money, money I need considering my mother’s medical bills are piling up and so is my rent in New York, hence the temp job. And until now, I’ve never earned more than five percent and a Christmas bonus, but then, I wasn’t dealing with customers until the last few months before I took my leave, either.

  My computer pings and I quickly pull up the email from Mark, downloading the attachment. And sure enough, there’s an invitation addressed to me. I’m cordially invited to the annual Hawk Legal cocktail party at the Grand Hyatt rooftop bar. And I’m going to attend. There’s a hint of excitement inside me that I cannot deny. I’ve spent months fearing my mother’s outcome. She’s alive and well, and now, I’m starting to breathe again. My mind goes to the man on the elevator, and I can’t help but wonder if he’ll be there, but as soon as I have the thought, I dismiss it. I remember the blonde holding his arm and demanding his attention.

  He is clearly not for me, but the party is another story.

  I
’m going to attend. I’m also going to give myself permission to enjoy myself. And maybe just maybe, I’ll meet the elusive Allison. The other Allison. The one who was really supposed to receive the necklace.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The party is on a Friday night, at the rooftop bar of the Grand Hyatt. During the three days from when I received my invite and the actual evening of the event, Allison remains elusive and just plain impossible to reach. At this point though, I’m committed to the party as part of my role at Riptide.

  I’m attending.

  This is non-negotiable.

  If by chance Allison attends, or I find a way to reach her through the party, that will be a bonus.

  The evening in question arrives, and so do I. I enter the hotel dressed in business attire, rather than the invite’s indicated cocktail attire, which fits my conservative, cautious nature. In this case, I’ve paired a figure-hugging black Chanel skirt with a black silk blouse with a cut-out neckline that manages to offer the illusion of showing a little skin while showing nothing at all. My strappy heels are Gucci. They, like the other items I’m wearing, are outrageously expensive and part of a shopping spree I’d found a necessity with my first Riptide bonus.

  Dress for success, Queen Compton had told me the day she’d promoted me to a more visible role in the auction house. Our clientele can spot a brand a mile away, she’d added. It was a lesson proven right when one of the customers told me I was surprisingly far better at my job than I was at choosing my wardrobe. You’d think that snobbery would make me hate the job, but it really didn’t. The one-of-a-kind treasures Riptide inventories daily are much like a perfect book you fear you’ll never find again: invaluable. And Riptide has managed to offer me an identity I seem to be losing while here in Tennessee. Maybe that’s why I’m so eager to be here, reconnecting with my job in some way tonight.

  And all thanks to the mysterious other woman named Allison.

  I’m walking through the lobby when I spot a sign directing guests of the Hawk Legal party to the elevators. Once there, I find yet another sign directing me to a specific car, which has a young, rather handsome couple in evening wear waiting for it as well. The doors to the appropriate car slide open and I join the couple inside, as does a man with smoke-gray hair and an expensive suit. As the ride begins with each passing floor, I can’t deny my nerves.

  The truth is that I’d arrived at Riptide beaten and bruised emotionally and professionally, a sense of control nowhere to be found, and for reasons I share with no one, Riptide helped me find my self-confidence and my footing again. But being here in Nashville, afraid for my mother, connected to that bad history more than most might think, has set my world spinning again. My mother, my best friend, could have died. She’s in remission, but her cancer could come back. I’m definitely not on solid footing. I’m definitely not in control when I have nothing to think about but her illness.

  My mother’s doctor said that if I see my mother’s death around every corner, so will she. I have to live so she can live. Tonight is me reclaiming my life. I live. She lives. With that in mind, I start thinking about my goals. First and foremost, I’ll find Allison and give her the necklace that’s inside my cute little Christian Louboutin Paloma studded leather clutch. It was a birthday gift from Queen Compton, and I use it every chance I get. It’s red inside, and one day I’ll splurge on a pair of red-soled Christian Louboutin heels to match. I’ll earn them all by my lonesome. Because I can. I know I can.

  The car halts, and I’m feeling empowered.

  The handsome couple exits first, and the distinguished man motions me forward. I give him a nod and exit with him on my heels. Each of us ends up to the left at a hostess stand where we present our invitations. When I’m next, I recognize the hostess as the receptionist for Hawk Legal, who I now know to be Katie.

  “Hi Katie,” I greet and when I see the recognition on her face, I offer a small smile. “What are the odds I actually meet Allison tonight? I know she took time off, but I thought—maybe, just maybe—she’d be here tonight?”

  “She’s not going to attend, sorry. But I’m glad you made it. I told my boss about your connection to Riptide. He wants to speak to you.”

  “Oh,” I say, and since I have questions, I motion for the man behind me to go ahead. He nods his appreciation and when he’s checked in and moved along, I join the receptionist once again. “Who’s your boss?”

  “Tyler Hawk, the principal in Hawk Legal, and he’s Allison’s boss. I’m sure you’ll get any information you wanted about our upcoming charity auction from Allison from him.”

  In other words, they’ve assumed I’m contacting Allison about an auction I didn’t even know existed. A detail that could make this invitation a good thing for Riptide, which is also, a good thing for me. “Just to be clear,” I say. “You’re actually auctioning off items, correct?”

  “Right. Exactly. Hawk Legal is gathering donations from our high-profile clientele and auctioning them for this year’s named charity. I assumed that’s where Riptide comes into play.”

  “Yes,” I say quickly and sincerely. “Yes, it very well could. I think we could be a match made in heaven, but I did think Allison would be my contact. Is she still with the company?”

  Her lips tighten and I get the idea the question is oddly uncomfortable, and I can’t imagine why. “You’ll need to talk to Tyler.”

  That doesn’t seem good, I think, but I leave it alone. “How do I find Tyler?” I ask.

  She motions to a tall, good-looking man with sandy brown hair who reminds me of Mark Compton in his carriage, and the custom, outrageously expensive suit he’s wearing. And of course, the assumed ownership of the room that radiates from him with a confidence that borders on arrogance. And yet, somehow works for him.

  “Thank you,” I say to Katie. “I’ll talk to him.”

  I step around the hostess stand and enter the bar, which is a really spectacular place. There are windows everywhere and a city view from pretty much any place you might stand. The bar itself is situated to my left, and there is an outdoor area fanning out beyond that. To my right is an enclosed seating area but of course, the view is still miles of dark sky lit by a Nashville honkytonk of city lights. As for the guests, cocktail attire is now defined by dresses, suits, cowboy boots, and jeans. Not a surprise really since I’d guess that Hawk’s client list probably includes at least half of the country music’s royalty.

  I home in on a familiar woman in a gorgeous black dress with pink cowboy boots—a country singer, I decide, though I can’t place her name. Gotta love Tennessee, and I do, I really do. It just doesn’t have enough books for the editor in me, who went to New York for a publishing career, even if that’s not where she’s landed.

  I guess I’m just not ready to let go of that part of my life.

  Glancing at Tyler, I decide he’s in too deep of a conversation with a couple of men for me to interrupt him right now. Since I have time to kill, I accept a glass of champagne from a waiter carrying a tray filled with bubbly. From there I head to a wall of open windows, stepping outside where there are heaters lit up, but they’re really not needed. It’s a mild October evening, while I’m certain New York City would not be so kind. I lean on the railing and stare out at the city. A part of me doesn’t want to leave, and I know it. Otherwise, I’d already be back in New York and yet, I love my job at Riptide. Don’t I? God, why am I even asking myself that. Of course, I do. Any hesitation I have to return to New York is about my mother.

  “We meet again.”

  At the sound of a familiar male voice, there is a flutter in my belly and a rush of heat in my blood. I know even before I turn that this is the man I’d almost met in the Hawk building a week ago. The man from the elevator.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I turn to find him standing just behind me.

  He’s not in a suit tonight like Tyler Hawk, but he’s also not all cowboyed out, like so many of the other guests. He’s wearing dark blue jeans, paire
d with a black turtleneck and a brown suede jacket with sleek matching boots.

  And yes, he’s him.

  The man who’d smelled good and charmed me in the elevator. The man who’s leanly muscled and quite handsome and I noticed these things all too easily because he’d stood too close to me and yet somehow, not close enough.

  “We meet again,” I repeat, confirming our prior encounter.

  His light blue eyes tell me that he’s pleased with this answer, as if my memory of our encounter pleases him, as if he actually doubted I’d remember him.

  “I blinked, and you were gone,” he comments, inching nearer, and resting his arm on the railing next to us.

  “I was swallowed by the crowd,” I remind him. “I guess I lost you.”

  His lips quirk slightly, a hint of amusement in his expression as if he knows why I disappeared and, in fact, knows her by name, while I only know her as “the blonde woman.”

  “And now you’ve found me,” he comments.

  “I actually think you found me,” I counter, remarkably comfortable with our banter when I’m usually not good at banter at all. Not with men. I’m not cool that way.

  “I guess I did,” he replies. “And how did that happen? Are you a new client of the firm?”

  “Oh gosh, no,” I say, waving off that idea. “I don’t need legal services, and I’m not an entertainer. I don’t act any way but badly, and I’m the worst singer ever.”

  “I’m going to have to wrestle you for the title of worst singer ever,” he teases.

  “I’d still win,” I promise him. “Thus why I know to keep my creativity behind the scenes. What about you?”

  His eyes light with mischief. “Some might call me creative. Others, not so much.”

  “Do you call yourself creative?”

  “No,” he says, still appearing amused. “I don’t think I’m creative at all.”

  Now I’m really curious—beyond curious, really—but before I can push for more, I hear, “Ms. Wright.”