What If I Never

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “No problem. I’m resourceful. Thanks so much, Katie.”

  “Of course,” she says. “Welcome. I’m so glad he finally gave in and hired someone. It’s been weeks, and Vivi and I have been trying to handle the auction. But the good news is that I can answer a lot of questions you might have after you look at the file. Vivi and I have been stressing over this, but we’ll both help you in any way we can. See you soon.” With that, she rushes away, leaving me to wonder about Allison and the hunt for someone to fill her shoes. Was Tyler holding out for her return, or was he really looking for a replacement, and I just happened to show up at the right time?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Pondering the likelihood that I just happened to show up at the right time and at the right place as unlikely, but possible, I remind myself that’s exactly how I got the job at Riptide. Dismissing my weird vibe about this job and the other Allison, at least for now, I walk to the coffee bar and order a latte, a cinnamon mocha that is a house specialty, apparently. A few minutes later, I’m sipping a truly delicious drink when I settle behind my desk. I open the drawer and pull out the red envelope. Inside I find two airline tickets to Italy, with dates that have passed. There’s a note that reads: We need this. That’s all. There’s no signature. There was no signature on the card with the necklace, either. Maybe this explains where Allison is right now. Maybe she went to Italy. She wouldn’t need the paper tickets. And yet, the dates for the travel are mid-August. It’s October 11th today and everyone seems to speak of Allison’s departure as more recent. And besides, would she really leave the auction in limbo for a trip with a lover?

  I guess some people might, right? I’m just not one of those people. Yes, I left the museum without notice, but the truth is, my job there wasn’t something that required a special knowledge of art or collectibles. It was just something to keep me from focusing on my mother’s mortality. And the fact that my role wasn’t huge is exactly why my supervisor easily let me go for the Hawk Legal job, with nothing more than a Saturday morning good luck email. Even so, I emailed her back an offer to help on the side. She declined. And that was for a job that was not a big deal. The auction isn’t just about Hawk Legal. It’s about a charity event to help other people.

  There’s a shift in the air, and I look up to find Tyler Hawk standing in the doorway. I inhale slightly, taken aback by just how good-looking my new boss actually is, not sure why I haven’t truly acknowledged that fact until now. He’s tall and handsome personified, in a dark blue suit fitted to his athletic body. There is no question that Tyler Hawk screams power, money, and demand.

  And I’m not sure how long he’s been standing there, watching me. Too long, I decide. “Hi,” I say, sliding the tickets back into the envelope, and shoving it under the folder. “I’m here, but you know that, right?” I cringe with the stupid rambling, trying to tell myself that most people find it more charming than stupid, but he’s staring at me with hooded eyes, and somehow, I don’t think Tyler Hawk is one of those people.

  “I see you found the coffee bar,” he comments. “I hope we’re up to Riptide standards?”

  “Oh yes,” I assure him quickly. “The restaurant, the office, it’s all wonderful.” I settle my hand on the file. “I’m about to dig into Allison’s work. Is there anything I should know?”

  “Read the file, and then we’ll talk,” he replies.

  “Am I allowed to contact the clients and introduce myself?”

  He walks into the office, toward me, and I push to my feet. We end up face to face with the desk between us. Well, as face to face as we can be with him towering over me. “Are you going to pitch them Riptide?” he asks softly, a challenge in his words, his blue eyes, so unlike Dash’s in their sharpness, their darkness, steady on my face, watching my reaction—looking for a reason to send me packing.

  I could bristle at the question, but I don’t. Instead, I say, “I understand that any high-profile client represents money for your firm. I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize your business. And while I also understand that you fear my loyalty is with Riptide, not Hawk Legal, I can assure you that I’m motivated to build allies, not enemies. And—” I hesitate to get too personal.

  He seizes on my hesitation. “And what, Ms. Wright?”

  I could hold back, the way I could have bristled at his last question, and perhaps I should, but he already knows about my mother. And in some way, this right now is my interview, the one we bypassed, and I have to respect his need to trust me. “I need this right now. The fact that this is a charity event motivates me. It gives me a purpose that doesn’t include worrying about my mother.”

  His eyes narrow. “She’s in remission, though, correct?”

  “She is,” I confirm, “but cancer is forever a part of her life. When it’s time for me to leave, you’ll probably be pushing me out of the door. It’s hard to leave her behind.” I’ve now taken this a little too far, and I add, “I wouldn’t use your client list to pitch Riptide. If a mutually beneficial opportunity comes up, I’ll talk to you about it.”

  His lips quirk ever so slightly before he says, “Mutually beneficial. I do like how that sounds.” I read what I think is a hint of suggestion in that comment, but I can’t be sure before he adds, “It’s Dash Black’s charity we’re covering this year.”

  He’s studying me again, looking for a reaction, and I school my features and pray he doesn’t find one. “He told me,” I say. “And I’m frankly relieved the charity is not a cancer organization. As much as that subject touches my heart, I’d be fearful cancer has cut me too deeply and too recently for me to be professional right now.”

  Seconds tick by that stretch eternally before he says, “Check in with me before you leave tonight.” He says nothing more. He just turns and, in a blink, he’s gone and gone before he gives me the go-ahead to call clients. Gone before I can ask him if he called Riptide. Did he even check my references?

  Surely he did. Or he will.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I’d like to think that love is priceless, but I’ve learned that when the very concept of love is subjective, so is the cost. In the case of an auction and a possession desired, which is to some the definition of love, value is created in dollars and usually an element of emotion. There is often an emotional component to bidding, but the monetary value supports the price tag. This is exactly why establishing a baseline starting bid as high as possible is critical. Sought after possessions are like sought after companions: the harder to get, the bigger the payoff in satisfaction, or at least that’s how we hope it turns out. To become sought after, a person, or an item, establishes value in some way, shape, or form. Maybe that is just in who they are as a person, or how they look, or who they know.

  Or who their father is.

  I grimace and shove aside that thought.

  Bottom line, it’s lunchtime, and I’ve established a basic fact: the auction has no established value.

  None.

  Not a penny.

  I’ve found an Excel spreadsheet that Allison created, listing out each donated item for the auction. The list is small, and while a few items appear alluring from an auction standpoint, nothing has been assessed. We can’t establish a starting bid if we don’t know where we need the bid to end. The good news is that there is an extensive prospect list with well-known sports and entertainment personalities, as well as an array of high-profile business people. It’s not a list I’m uncomfortable with. After working in publishing and at Riptide I’ve been exposed to money and power. The calls and contacts I can handle, but I can’t create time. And I need time or manpower, or really both, but I’ll settle for one or the other. I need to speak to Tyler about that and the Riptide sponsorship, though I’m not sure there is enough here yet to even entice Mark to align himself with the endgame.

  I stand up and sit back down. I don’t even know where Tyler’s office is located. I grab my phone and punch the operator button. Katie answers immediately. “Hi, Allison. What can I
help with?”

  “How do I reach Tyler?”

  “He just left for a meeting,” she says, “but he’s in the offices on the other side of the elevators. Those are his private offices. The partners are all on the upper level. He’s a bit of an isolationist.”

  “And his parents?”

  “His father is upset with the partners. His mother is rarely in the office anymore. She started another business, and don’t ask me what. I have no idea. That’s just the rumor I heard.”

  Somehow Tyler being an isolationist doesn’t really surprise me.

  “And just an FYI,” she adds, “he’s extension eleven on the panel. There should be a phone list somewhere in or on your desk.”

  “Okay. I’ll find it. Thanks. Can you leave him a message to call me?”

  “Of course. Can I help?”

  “Not right now, but thank you. I do appreciate everything.”

  “I’ll check in later,” she promises. “I really will. It’s been nuts today. Has HR been by?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I’ll nudge her. And I have a visitor. Gotta run.”

  We disconnect, and I decide the best thing I can do right now is to get organized and fully acclimated to everything I can. For now, I start by putting a call into Millie Roberts, the head of the charity association, and setting up a meeting for the next day. After that, I call the event venue and set yet another meeting for the next day. From there, I start the tedious process of researching auction prices on the items we do have confirmed. A few things are potential hot ticket items and I email photos and notes to Casey Reid, our expert at Riptide. If the prices are high enough, I’m going to try to strike a bargain between Tyler and Mark.

  My stomach rumbles, and I cannot ignore it. I decide to head to the restaurant to grab a quick bite. Still eager to get my work done, I haul the MacBook along for what is now a late lunch, considering it’s after one. Once I’m in the restaurant, I end up with an egg salad croissant sandwich that looks amazing, an iced sugar cookie, and more coffee. Obviously, I can’t do this kind of eating every day, or I won’t fit into my clothes. I grab a small table for two beside a window that overlooks the city, open my MacBook, and begin researching a vase—yes, a vase—while eating one of the best sandwiches I’ve ever had in a company restaurant. Amazing.

  I’ve just stuffed the last large bite in my mouth when a pair of muscular legs appear on the opposite side of the table. In this place, where everyone is someone, my visitor is obviously someone important. I grab my napkin, cover my mouth and try to swallow without making a fool of myself, but the sandwich is dry, and it won’t go down.

  I’m all but choking when I glance up to find the one and only Dash Black standing above me.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  My eyes go wide at the sight of the sexy bestselling author, and his eyes light with amusement at the whole show I just put on. I’m still performing, because that bite of sandwich just won’t go down.

  I turn away from him, forcing myself to chew and swallow quickly, and grabbing my coffee to sip before I clear my throat and face him again, with a less than brilliant greeting of, “Hi.” And Lord, help me, the man is sin and sex, in black jeans and a snug black T-shirt, and a matching blazer paired with boots.

  “Hi,” he says, his eyes still dancing because, of course, I’ve entertained him. At least I repaid him for all the entertainment he’s given me with his books, I decide dryly. “You okay?” he asks.

  “Other than embarrassing myself, yes, just fine. It was an incredible sandwich, which I’m sure you guessed since I was stuffing it in my face.”

  “I would, too,” he says. “The egg salad is one of my favorites.” He motions to the chair. “Can I sit?”

  He wants to sit? “With me?” Lord, help me, that just came out of my mouth.

  “Yes, Allison,” he laughs. “With you.”

  “Oh,” I say, “well yes, yes, of course.”

  He slides into the seat across from me and eyes my cookie. I pull it between us. “You can have half, but not all of it. It was the last one, and I need to know if it’s as good as it looks.”

  “It is,” he assures me. “Which I know because I grab one every time I’m here. I’d normally fight you for it, but since it’s your first day I’ll let you have it.”

  “You sure?”

  “Completely,” he assures me. “Enjoy it.”

  I will, I think, but not while he’s watching me. “How often are you here?” I ask as he’s sounding like he’s here so much he might as well work here.

  “It depends on what negotiations I have going on at the time,” he says, shifting the topic. “Millie Roberts called me and told me you set up a meeting with her.”

  “I see,” I say, sitting up taller at the knowledge that the charity head reported back on my actions almost immediately. “Is that why you’re here? Did I overstep?”

  “Not at all,” he says. “I’m glad to see some attention being put on the event. I was starting to think my check was going to be the only one they get this year.”

  I relax with that response and quickly say, “Definitely not. I’m on this, but I have to be honest, Allison hadn’t done much to prepare. She must have left quickly.”

  “That’s what I hear,” he says. “I get the impression Tyler gambled on her coming back sooner than later. Can you pull it together, or do I need to prepare Millie for a cancellation?”

  I hold up a hand. “No, no. We won’t cancel. I’m a little concerned about the timeline, but I’m resourceful. I’ll find a way to make this go well.”

  He studies me for several beats and surprises me with, “Why are you here? Why are you doing this?”

  I blink at the unexpected question. “I—well, the auction and—”

  “I mean in Nashville. Riptide is in New York City.”

  My fingers curl into my palms on the table and I wet my lips, a bite in my chest with the direction we’re traveling, but it’s unavoidable. I value honesty and I try to offer it where I can and where it matters. I think it does now. “My mother had cancer.”

  Realization washes over his handsome face and his expression softens. “Had?”

  “She’s in remission,” I explain.

  “You don’t seem relieved,” he assesses quite perceptively, seeing more than I’ve intended.

  Unbidden, my eyes burn and my lashes lower. Damn it. I quickly blink away the sensation, I hope, and look at him, but I can’t seem to find a fluff answer. Not on this topic. “What does remission even mean?”

  “More time,” he promises me.

  “How much?” I ask, and I want him to answer, I want him to use the magic of his words to offer me the world.

  “Do any of us ever really know how much time we have left?”

  Wise words.

  His words, I know from reading up on him, come from experience, from losing his own mother.

  And because of this, that simple statement slides inside me and grabs hold of me in a way none other have in a very long time. “No one has put it in that perspective for me. I think they’re all too afraid of saying the wrong thing.”

  “All we can do is live—”

  “—like tomorrow is our last day?”

  “Exactly,” he agrees.

  “And that pretty much sums up why I’m here and not in New York, working the dream job many would kill for right now.”

  “Because you’re afraid to live?” he challenges.

  “That’s a bold statement from a man who barely knows me.”

  “I’m simply stating what I understand.”

  My eyes narrow. “From personal experience?”

  “Yes,” he readily confirms. “From experience.” But he offers nothing more, making it clear he doesn’t intend to share more. “At some point,” he adds, “you have to move forward. You’ll have to decide if you want to go back home.”

  “I’m pretty sure this is home. New York is the place I live.”

  “But Riptide
is holding your job for you?”

  “They are,” I confirm. “Generously so.”

  I steel myself for him to push for more, perhaps beyond my comfort zone, even more so than now, but he seems to read me and changes the subject. “That tells me we’re lucky to have you on this auction. What can I do to help?”

  “Nothing yet,” I say, and because I want to know more about this man, I add, “but you obviously chose the charity for a reason. It means something to you, and maybe I can pick your brain at some point about how to do it justice.”

  “Anything and anytime,” he agrees and while he offers me nothing personal, no look into the pain that guided his advice, his words are warm, intimate even, I think. His eyes even more so. “Why don’t you take my number?” he suggests. “You can call me when you need me.”

  He wants me to take his number. Dash Black wants me to take his number, and somehow despite the flutter in my belly, I play it cool. I remind myself that he’s just a man. A ridiculously talented man, but just a man. “All right,” I agree, pulling my phone from my pocket. “I’m ready.”

  He dictates, and I plug in the number and then text him: This is Allison Wright. When his phone pings, I say, “That was me.”

  “Perfect. Now I know how to reach you, and you know how to reach me.”

  I’m suddenly caught in the magnetic pull of his eyes, his presence, or maybe it’s something else, something that is me and him, not just him, and I’m too afraid of where that leads me to admit that fully. I’m vulnerable right now, and I know it. I can feel how much this man could affect me, and that means good and bad.

  There’s a shift in the air, an energy that breaks our connection, and instinctively, we both look for the source. That’s when I realize the blonde woman he’d been with at the elevator that first day we met, is walking toward us. Oh God. What a fool I am. I look down and reach for my coffee, needing to occupy myself with something, anything but this man and his woman.