Say Yes

by Ashwood, Eva

  Say Yes

  Eva Ashwood

  Copyright © 2020 by Eva Ashwood

  All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  1. Walker

  2. Mackenzie

  3. Mackenzie

  4. Walker

  5. Mackenzie

  6. Walker

  7. Mackenzie

  8. Walker

  9. Mackenzie

  10. Walker

  11. Mackenzie

  12. Walker

  13. Mackenzie

  14. Walker

  15. Mackenzie

  16. Walker

  17. Mackenzie

  18. Walker

  19. Mackenzie

  20. Walker

  21. Mackenzie

  22. Walker

  23. Mackenzie

  24. Walker

  25. Mackenzie

  Epilogue

  Books by Eva Ashwood

  1

  Walker

  My gaze flicked over the neatly tri-folded stack of paper for the dozenth time, the inside of my cheek gripped firmly between my teeth as I chewed in contemplation. Nothing in the will had changed since it’d first been read to me by my father’s lawyer just days following his passing.

  The Times New Roman font splashed over the yellowed letterhead read as ominously now as it had the first time.

  ‘…and finally, to my son, Walker Prince. I would like see him with controlling interest—my interest—in Royal Technology. But this controlling share must come with something more important: a wife with whom to share his wealth and prosperity as I once did with my own, who—’

  I stopped reading then, giving a scoff. I’d been doing that a lot lately, every time I decided to torture myself by re-reading my father’s last words. Just like him, to bring my mother into this, too. As if that justified this sham of a last will and testament. What was this, some cheesy B-grade rom-com? When had the old man gotten so damn sentimental?

  And now his sentimentality was being foisted upon me in the most ill-conceived plot-twist of anyone’s life.

  I sighed and tossed the will down on the large mahogany desk in my office. It was a good goddamn thing Grant, my best friend, partner in crime—and the only person outside the family lawyer who knew about this ridiculous situation—wasn’t here. He found the whole thing entirely too fucking funny.

  “Damn, I guess your father had a sense of humor after all. You? Married? Ha!”

  Dick.

  I shook my head ruefully, running a hand through my hair. Shit. He wouldn’t be laughing so hard if it were him. Grant could barely keep it in his pants; let him attempt a solid commitment for once.

  Why hadn’t my father made this stipulation while he was alive? At least then it wouldn’t fall on me to do this hastily. The will clearly stipulated that I would be unable to claim my inheritance without proof of marriage. I hated the last-minute, rushed foolishness that this was—and apparently, it was all fully fucking legal, every ‘i’ dotted and every ‘t’ crossed. There wasn’t a single damn loophole to be found. Believe me, I had checked.

  A buzzing sounded over my intercom, pulling me from my prolonged internal grumbling. Good—a distraction.

  “Midday cleaning is heading up, Mr. Prince.”

  “Thanks, Anna. Send them on in.”

  I re-folded the discarded will and shoved it into my desk drawer, indulging in a brief daydream where the whole thing spontaneously combusted and released me from my father’s ridiculous obligations. But instead of going up in a well-timed inferno, the letter just sat peacefully in the drawer, taunting me.

  I leaned back in my office chair, gaze cast up at the ceiling. Maybe I could find a way out of this. There had to be some way…

  “Hello? Excuse me, sir.” A soft knock sounded at the door, and then it creaked as it opened. “I’m Mackenzie Henson, here to do the cleaning?”

  I blinked and sat up so fast I nearly got whiplash as soon as I heard the name.

  Ho-ly shit. Mackenzie Henson. I’d know that name anywhere, and as soon as I saw her, I knew it wasn’t just my brain making up a reason to slip back into the past.

  It was really her.

  She stood across from me, in a prim and proper black and white A-line dress and pristine white shoes. Her ebony hair, usually down and framing her face, was pulled back into a high ponytail. And—oh, sweet fucking hell, her face. I remembered it rounded with the faintest trim of baby fat years ago in high school, but now her cheek bones were high, colored slightly with a dusting of rosy blush, lips full and painted a respectable red.

  And those eyes. Emerald greens more beautiful than any jewel worn by the wealthy elites of New York City, piercing in their black eyeliner frames. They were wide as dinner plates at the moment, as she stared back at me in disbelief. She stood like a statue titled Woman In Shock in the middle of my office, the cart of cleaning supplies just behind her.

  “Mackenzie?”

  I almost couldn’t get the word out. Surely, she was a ghost. An apparition.

  “Walker…?”

  The way she said my name took me back; forced me into a time before corporate high rises and late-night business calls to Tokyo, Milan, and Paris. A time when we were both younger, and life was a hell of a lot simpler…

  “What do you mean, you’ve never had a Nathan’s hot dog?”

  Mackenzie grinned at me, shrugging her shoulders. Her loose black curls billowed in the coastal wind as we trekked through Coney Island, and she laughed, tucking the thick strands behind her ear.

  It was her first time here. She’d never been to Coney Island before—which, fine, there were plenty of people who lived in New York who’d never visited the island or any of the other cheesy tourist traps in the city—but as far as I was concerned, she had no excuse at all for never having had a Nathan’s hot dog. You could get one on any street corner with a vendor.

  “Well, that’s changing today,” I promised her. “Come on.”

  I grabbed her hand, pulling her through the thick Coney Island crowd. She was a new addition to the group, a transfer student on scholarship to the overly prestigious private school that Grant, his current girlfriend Genevieve, and I went to. She was nothing like the girls I was used to—unencumbered by the status quo, family money, and the need to compete with every other blue blood in New York to justify her existence.

  We found the Nathan’s booth and joined the line of people gathered outside. I bounced on the balls of my feet as we waited.

  “You really want me to try this, don’t you?” she asked with a laugh. “What kind of fancy hot dogs are these, anyway?”

  “Only the best you’ll ever eat in your entire life,” I insisted.

  She leaned up, resting her hand on the back of my neck and pressing her cherry-glossed lips to mine.

  My hands went to her waist, pulling her closer to deepen the kiss from a quick peck to something more. Like always, she melted against me.

  With Mackenzie, I felt on top of the world, hopeful, happy, and excited about the future. Much more than I ever did as the son of Arthur Prince—tech mogul, philanthropist, and entrepreneur. This flirty, artistic girl who’d come from the ‘wrong side’ of the figurative tracks according to my peers, was anything but wrong for me.

  God… I loved her.

&nb
sp; “Hey, hey, hey, lover boy. Get a room!” Grant knocked into us playfully, pulling Genevieve, a busty blonde who was currently busting out of her tank top, along with him.

  I rolled my eyes, breaking away from Mackenzie’s lips reluctantly. Leave it to the theatre kids to make a theatrical entrance.

  “You’re one to talk.” I draped my arm over her shoulders as we all moved up in the line and nodded to the deep purple bruise on Genevieve’s neck. “You’re not subtle at all.”

  Grant shrugged. “Hey, you gotta live when you’re young!”

  “And we do a whooole lot of living,” Genevieve piped up, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.

  We all laughed, the noise mingling with the sounds of tourists and the calls of gulls overhead. It was the beginning of senior year, and we had nothing to lose and everything to gain.

  It was the height of our lives, and nothing to could go wrong.

  “Oh—shit!”

  The exclamation pulled me out of my sudden, vivid memory. I blinked, refocusing on Mackenzie in time to see her back away from me, looking about as freaked out as if she’d just seen a ghost.

  She must’ve forgotten her cart was behind her.

  “Mack—”

  I rose from my desk, but it was too late.

  She plowed into the large cart at full speed. The thing rocked on its wheels, and for a second, everything seemed suspended in time.

  Then it toppled over. Cleaning bottles and rags went everywhere, and the metal cart clattered to the ground, making a ridiculous amount of noise even on the thick carpet.

  She went down with it, somehow managing to get her ass wedged in the middle section where towels were usually stored. Her legs kicked as she tried to dislodge herself. Her body was basically folded in half like a sandwich, with her knees shoved up to her chest as she fought to free herself from the rogue cart.

  “Fucking cocknuggets!”

  “Oh, shit! Mackenzie! Are you all right?” I rushed over to her, torn between laughter and horror.

  Red colored her cheeks, and she pushed a few flyaway strands of hair from her face as she wriggled her ass uselessly.

  Damn. Am I actually a little jealous of a cleaning cart right now?

  Yes. Yes, I am.

  “I’d be better if you’d give me a hand,” she pointed out, her full lips pulling back in a grimace as she flailed her limbs. “Dickbags!”

  Shit. If I didn’t get her out of there soon, she was liable to get hurt. Or hurt me when she finally got out.

  Suppressing a smile at her familiar colorful language, I knelt down, sliding one arm under her shoulders and one under her knees, then plucked her up and out of the tiny metal prison. My heart thudded at the feel of her wrapped in my arms. It was so familiar, yet entirely different from my memories.

  As soon as I set her down, she scrambled away from me, dropping to her knees to pick up her scattered supplies.

  “Damn it. I’m so sorry,” she blustered, moving quickly and refusing to meet my gaze. “I’m not usually that clumsy, I was just—really surprised—”

  I crouched down beside her and started picking things up as well. “It’s fine. It happens.”

  She gave me a strange, almost confused look, but said nothing more. I wondered if she felt the same as I did, as if she’d come in and seen a ghost. We were quiet as we picked up the mess her overturned cart had made, and I tried hard not to stare at her, not to get caught up in the proximity and presence of her.

  I tried to ignore the scent that clung to her skin. It was sweet and fruity—because of course it would be. Mackenzie had always liked fruit-scented, fruit-flavored, fruit-everything things. I tried not to let my eyes linger on the elegant curve of her neck as it craned when we pulled the toppled cart up together. I tried to ignore the slight sheen of nervous sweat that beaded at her collarbone, peeking under the accidentally popped button of her otherwise modest dress.

  First love always hit the hardest, they said.

  It only serves logic that having her come strolling into my office after all these years would take my sanity away.

  We stood on either side of the cart in awkward silence. I could usually think quickly on my feet, but this was something I’d been utterly unprepared for. I didn’t know what to say. Was there anything I could say?

  “Wow it’s…” I shook my head. “It’s actually you.”

  “Yeah. And you—I didn’t realize.” She breathed out a little laugh, the sound just as lovely as I remembered. “I didn’t realize when I took this job that Royal Tech was… well, was you. Your father—” Realization dawned. “Oh my God, your father—”

  I held up my hand. “It’s okay. You don’t have to do the whole condolences shebang. I’m fine.”

  She nodded, fidgeting with the hem of her dress. I hated to see her nervous, like she was out of her element. I stood up straight, putting on my best serious face.

  “Well, are you just going to stand there all slack jawed, Macks, like this is the first time we’ve ever met?”

  I stared down at her sternly, and maybe it could have been taken seriously if the corners of my mouth hadn’t twitched.

  The tension melted off her face when she realized I was teasing her. The nervous little frown that tugged her lips downward reversed, and for the first time, I saw the smile that I’d fallen head over heels for all that time ago. Mackenzie—Macks between us, my old nickname for her—looked like the girl I used to know when she smiled like that, and she loosened up instantly, holding herself less stiffly as her face relaxed and her hip jutted out.

  “That’s better.” I grinned.

  I itched to touch her, to pull her close and hug her, if for no other reason than to confirm that she truly was real. Instead, I kept it professional… well, mostly, anyway. I sat on the edge of my desk, feeling myself lose some of the stuffiness that I’d become accustomed to over the last several years. When I was a kid, my father had hated when I’d sat on his desk. It wasn’t becoming of a young man of my stature, according to the old man.

  Well, just like then, to hell with my father. This was Mackenzie that stood across from me. And I’d never gotten hung up on bullshit formalities or posturing with her.

  And as that thought sank in… I couldn’t help but wonder if her sudden reappearance in my life was some kind of sign.

  Could she be the solution to my pressing problem?

  2

  Mackenzie

  I hadn’t seen Walker Prince in over seven years.

  Somehow, he’d gotten more handsome, his boyish frame filling out into the solid, muscular brick of a man who sat at the edge of his desk now. His dark blond hair was cropped short at the sides, the longer strands on top styled back and out of his face, except for a couple stubborn pieces that fell just above his eyebrows.

  Cobalt blue eyes looked at me, brighter, more intelligent, but just as heart stopping as I remembered. His old playfulness peeked through this strange, newly controlled version of the boy I’d dated in high school—the boy who had left so suddenly it was almost hard to fathom that he even cared who I was now.

  I’d always known Walker would end up someplace big. But I never in a billion years would’ve guessed that that someplace would be one of the many odd jobs I’d worked through and since college.

  This wasn’t exactly the life I’d planned out for myself. By now, I should’ve made it big as an artist—and I was working toward that, slow and steady like that little engine that knew she could.

  “I guess this is the easiest getting-to-know-your-boss situation there’s ever been,” I joked, tucking a strand of untamable hair behind my ear as I tried to regain my mental footing. “This is my first job from my new temp agency. I was so nervous about it; and just think, I wasted all that nervous energy trying to make sure I would impress my new boss. You.”

  He laughed. “You’ve never had to work too hard to impress me, Macks.”

  Macks. My old nickname. No one called me that anymore, but it was nice to hear i
t from Walker again.

  Walker Prince. He truly looked like a prince now, like some kind of modern day American royalty. He’d filled out since high school, with broad shoulders and a powerful chest. His charcoal grey suit fit the long lines of his body perfectly, and I had to avert my eyes again before the flush creeping up my face gave me away.

  Apparently, even after all this time, Walker still had an effect on me. Some things would never change, even after seven years of silence. But I couldn’t afford to lose my head. As many sweet memories as his appearance dredged up in my mind, there were a few heartbreaking ones too. I couldn’t forget that.

  “So, what are you doing right now?” he asked, pulling me out of my thoughts. I looked back to him at the question, smiling wryly.

  “Well, right now, I’m supposed to be cleaning.”

  He waved his hand. “Ah, don’t worry about that. I meant more ‘how life’s going’… Is this position permanent? Are you still drawing? Painting? Creating amazing art? You know, the important things.”

  I laughed. “Well, in that case. No, the position isn’t permanent; I’m filling in at several companies through a temp agency. Yes, I’m still doing art, though I’m not sure how ‘amazing’ it is. I’m still working on building a freelance following and getting clients.”

  “You have a business?” he asked curiously.

  “Oh! Um, no, not quite. I have a modest following on Instagram and a studio I pop in and out of with some art school friends,” I corrected. “It’s been a little slow going building everything up—it doesn’t quite pay the bills yet. In the meantime, I do odd jobs in between paintings because I like having lights on in my apartment. And, you know, food and stuff.”