Tuesdays at Six (Sunday Love Book 3)

by kj lewis

  Ever the consummate facilitator, Emme doesn’t miss a beat and shifts the conversation to a funny story about Olivia, her eldest daughter.

  The night spiraled from there, and by the time Camilla and I left, I was in a foul mood. Camilla was less than accommodating and asked to be taken home instead of going back to my place, but I needed to fuck. The kind of fuck you feel in your toes. It took some convincing, but she let me come up. She’s not oblivious. She can feel that we are slipping just as I can. Both of us attempting to hold on until we have some normalcy back in our lives. The only problem is our definition of normal seems to mean two different things, where previously it was the same.

  I want to let loose and be rough with her but it’s not how we do things, so I hold back. My hands around her slender waist, the tips of my fingers touching. I get us both there, barely, before collapsing onto the bed next to her. Our breath weighted and winded. Neither of us speaking.

  A time later, I leave her place.

  Sam’s door is closed and the lights are off when I get home. I stand outside of it. The temptation to pound on it and yell at her for no legitimate reason is heavy. I spend the rest of the night alone in my bed.

  The following day is consumed by meetings with Brad and IT. There was another hacking attempt. They are happening closer together, each one more aggressive than the last. It’s only a matter of time before we’re unable to stop one that will cause irreparable damage to our company and the ones we partner with.

  I schedule a meeting with Reid Beckett to discuss Everett’s business and a second meeting with Elise Donovan. Everywhere I turn her name is mentioned. It’s time to revisit.

  Seeing as they are no longer in summer school and don’t have to be in classes on Monday, the girls decided to stay another night at their grandparents. Saying no was on the tip of my tongue when they rang to ask, but I know it’s important for them to spend time together. It’s their tether to Jenny, and I want them to have that for as long as they can.

  I’ve narrowly managed to avoid Sam for the remainder of the weekend until late into Sunday evening. Camilla wasn’t up for coming over and I didn’t feel like going to her place. I carried in from the Italian restaurant on the corner. Sam’s door is closed but her light is visible and I could hear her music playing softly from the other side. I stand knuckles to the door, poised to invite her to eat and to apologize for my behavior the night before, but I can’t. I have set this hierarchy in place for a reason and I need to stick with it. In a few days’ time, the lines have become too blurred as it is.

  Problem is, the girls seem happy for the first time since they came to stay. A desire for their happiness to be due to me and not Sam keeps my knuckles from tapping out an invitation.

  I am slurping up pasta noodles when she comes into the dining area, drawing up short when she sees me eating alone. With enough food for three people. God, I’m a heel.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were eating,” she says. A pretty blush colors her cheeks but I don’t know why. “Will you let me know when you have a minute?”

  “Now’s as good a time as any,” I respond, picking up my dinner plate and walking it to the kitchen counter where even more food is leftover. Normally I would toss what I didn’t eat, but for some reason it seems wasteful tonight. Instead, I put it back in the containers and place them in the refrigerator. I’ll have Maria heat it for lunch tomorrow.

  “What can I do for you, Samantha?” I ask with my hip against the marble counter, my arms folded over my chest. She’s barefoot, not even coming up to my shoulder. Her hair is piled into a large knot on the top of her head and, as usual, her face is natural. She’s in Finn’s sweatpants and a tank top that makes it clear she is slightly chilled. The thought makes me hard.

  We each start a conversation at the same time.

  “I think we need to discuss a uniform.”

  “You mentioned there was an envelope with cash?”

  “Sorry?” she says, unsure she’s heard me right.

  “You first,” I insist.

  “You mentioned there was an envelope with cash.”

  “Yes.” I don’t offer more, curious to see where this is going. Does it make me an arse that I like for her to be uncomfortable? It certainly gives me an edge. A much-needed edge, because as sure as I’m standing here, this woman is going to be a problem. This is a classic example of why I should always go with my gut. I should have called the agency. Now it’s too late. The girls are invested and that makes this dicey.

  “How do I access it?” she asks.

  Without answering, I turn and make my way to the study. She follows and I guide her over to a pad on the wall. I lift her hand in mine—ignoring the electricity from just her touch—and place her middle finger against the lighted pane, holding it in place. It turns green and the paneled wall pops open. I pull out a cigar shaped box, open the top, count out a thousand dollars, and hand it to her. “Take this. There’s more here if you need it.”

  She frowns before counting out a variety of bills equaling sixty dollars and handing me the rest with a soft “Thank you.” Nothing else. I wanted silence, but not… silence.

  I follow her to the butler’s closet by the lift. There’s a row of cubbies along the right, and she’s turned the space on the left into some sort of command center. There’s a desk calendar affixed to the wall and she has pinned up a string with pegs. Attached to each peg is a card with a task and money clipped to it.

  “What’s this?” I ask. She jumps slightly not realizing I followed her. “I have the agency sending a new maid out next week. They get paid a weekly wage.”

  “That’s great.”

  “These are chores for the girls so they can earn spending money,” she explains.

  “You understand these girls have a trust fund in the millions, and I can more than afford to care for them until they are of age?”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “And having them clean the loo is?”

  “I don’t think Jenny would want them to be spoiled. The maid will have charge of the house, but the girls will be expected to clean their rooms and bathrooms.”

  “And you think a five-year-old can do that?” I challenge mostly because like I said, I’m an arsehole tonight.

  “Not on her own,” she agrees, her back to me as she populates the calendar, “which is why I will have to help her.”

  “I can’t think of anything worse.” I really can’t.

  “Then you my friend,” she turns toward me, “are living a sweet life.”

  She’s right. And this is something I have lost sight of recently. Unexpected, her statement triggers the feeling of utter grief at the loss of my best friend. Out of the blue, without warning, it slams into me. My breath hiccups and suddenly the room feels small and confining. I search out the exit in hopes of making it out of here before the emotions I’ve been holding back since the accident show themselves. I would have made it, too, but I must have tripped her Spidey senses because before I reach the door, her cheek presses against my back and her arms wrap around my chest. And…she hugs me. A real hold-me-until-I’m-ready-to-be-let-go hug. Jesus Christ, how long has it been since I’ve had that.

  “I’m sorry you lost your friend,” she says delicately. It’s the most I’ve allowed myself to be comforted since the accident, and I have to will my body to step out of her embrace and walk away.

  The week goes by more smoothly than any since the girls came to stay. Begrudgingly, I admit that Samantha was right to take the girls out of school. They’re opening up in ways I haven’t seen before. In ways I never thought were attainable.

  I attribute it to some of the changes Sam has made around here. The girls understand they have mandatory chores for their weekly allowance and chores they can do for extra money. A comment my mum once made plays in my head: “Boundaries give kids security.”

  Zinnie pushed back as I’m sure most teenagers would and went on an hour-long tirade about how h
er parents left her money and she wasn’t cleaning a bathroom even if it was hers. Sam didn’t budge and I sat in awe of her.

  Ten minutes in, Zinnie gave me the pup eyes and clung to me like she knew I would save her. But I stayed strong, even though every part of me wants Zinnie to like me. But I was more scared of the look Sam shot me when she noticed I was starting to cave.

  Twenty minutes in, I was ready to throw Zinnie over the outside railing.

  Thirty minutes in, I attempted to leave the area, but Sam wouldn’t allow it.

  Forty minutes in, Sam put her foot down and said it was enough, taking away one week of allowance. It was clear that Zinnie was going to stay the course, but Sam threated to take away another week and she finally caved, storming off to her room.

  “I need a strong bevvy after that,” I moan on my way to the bar, where I pour myself a strong drink.

  “You did good.” It’s a simple and rather unnecessary praise, but it spreads warmly through my chest. But that could also be the scotch.

  “Today I brokered a deal for a little over 30 billion dollars. Tonight, I listened to a girl have a hissy fit for forty minutes and I’m told I did good. Consider my standards lowered.”

  “She’ll even out, but I suspect it will get worse before it gets better. She’s not sure how to handle days where she enjoys herself. It feels wrong to her right now, but it will get easier. She just needs an outlet.”

  I did good, I think, realizing how insanely proud I am to have earned that statement. Sam pats me on the shoulder before heading to Poppy’s room to put her down for the night, and I’m left feeling like I’ve got this.

  I don’t have this. In fact, I’m beginning to wonder if Sam has this.

  I took Camilla away the following weekend in an attempt to find our way back to who we once were as a couple. What I came to realize is that I didn’t like who we were. I don’t even recognize those people anymore. Camilla made it clear that I had not been taking her into consideration in all this, so I made a pact to try harder for the new us. I was rewarded with a stack of brochures for boarding schools she had contacted.

  When I entered the apartment after dropping Camilla at her place, Zinnie was in a full-blown melt down, and she and Sam were close to coming to blows. Best I could make out was Zinnie had slapped her sister in frustration and later accused Sam of liking Poppy more than her.

  I tried to help Zinnie calm down, but she quickly turned on me, and soon I was losing my temper, threatening to ground her for a month. She promptly yelled that she hated me for moving her here, and why couldn’t I understand she just wanted to live with her grandparents.

  I was seconds away from saying something I would have regretted but, thankfully, was never given the chance. Zinnie had run to her room and slammed her door, vibrating the walls around her.

  I watch Sam close her eyes, take a deep breath, and count. She hits ten, her eyes open, she takes another breath and picks up Poppy, who is softly crying into a pillow on the couch.

  “She’s mean,” Poppy says sullenly, laying her head on Sam’s shoulder.

  “She’s sad. She doesn’t mean it. I’m sorry she hurt your feelings and I know she is, too. Try to be patient with her. Do you understand what that means?”

  Poppy shakes her head and Sam hands her over to me. “Walt will explain it to you while I run your bath.”

  And that’s it. She leaves me here.

  I fumble it, but eventually I get Poppy to understand what it means to have patience. A feeling of accomplishment matched by none other trickles through me.

  Sam calls when the tub is ready. In no time, Poppy is swimming in bubbles, my sleeves are rolled up to my elbows and I’m washing her hair. I think she would have played longer, but it is late. She has already stifled three yawns, so I pull the plug and we watch the suds swirl down the drain.

  She wobbles as she steps into her favorite pajamas, pink with white bunnies. She hands me a comb and I comb the excess water out of her wet curls.

  “Brush your teeth.”

  She gives a feeble effort, and I make her redo.

  “It’s late. We’ll read a story tomorrow,” I assure her, making sure Edward the Elephant is in his proper place against her chest. Her eyes droop and she fights to keep them open. I run my fingers through her damp hair and caress her earlobe, stunned to hear myself say, “I missed you.” Stunned even more to find it’s true.

  She hugs my hand to her heart, a move that’s becoming familiar the last couple of weeks. The tips of my fingers tickling just under her chin.

  “I love you,” she says before sleep carries her away. My hand freezes and I stomp down the panic attack raising in my throat at her sweet words. Her genuine words.

  “Good night.” I kiss her forehead and reach to turn off a lamp that wasn’t there before I left for the weekend. A nightlight is projecting stars on her ceiling, and I see for the first time her room is different. Sam and the girls have been out shopping every day for the last two weeks. I forgot they were going to outfit the room this weekend with all the items they bought.

  I’ve been watching Sam’s spending on the card I provided and it’s been minimal. I really dreaded seeing the end result, expecting the room to look like a box store and not the designer caliber I’m accustomed to. But the room I’m in now looks like a little girl’s dream.

  The room is a generous size to start. They’ve sectioned it into a place for her to sleep and a place for her to spend her time. Simple strands of ribbon garland mix with strands of twinkle lights in the shapes of hearts and diamonds over her headboard. Understated but impactful. Her bedding is a plush pink linen with little pink hearts on the sheets.

  What’s really eye-catching is her play area. There are cushions and fabrics spread throughout, bookcases filled with books and baskets of things for her to do. In the corner is a swing you would expect to see under a large tree with soft rope handles.

  The space is filled with memories, new and old. There are pictures of her with Everett and Jenny. Pictures of them as a family. There’s a picture of Sam and her squad covered in paint with her and Zinnie. And there’s a picture of me laughing at something. It was from a week ago. Finn said something funny and I remember thinking how good it felt to laugh. I don’t know who took the picture.

  I pull her door closed and walk to the other end of the hall to check on Zinnie in the hopes she has calmed down.

  Sam’s voice is steady, but it’s clear she hasn’t made much headway.

  “Fine. I’m sorry. But I’m not saying sorry to him,” Zinnie spews without a hint of remorse.

  “Don’t say sorry unless you mean it. That’s not an apology, and you were disrespectful.”

  “But I didn’t disrespect you,” Zinnie challenges.

  “To disrespect Walt is to disrespect me. When you’re truly ready to apologize, you know where to find me,” Sam says without raising her voice or a change in her infliction. I have men on my team who would cower against less attitude than Zinnie is heaving her way.

  Fifteen-year olds. They’re terrifying.

  Sam steps into the hall. She doesn’t say it, but I can tell she’s frustrated.

  “Poppy is down.”

  “Great. Thank you. Good night.” She turns to walk down the hall, and I hate the unspoken precedence I’ve put into motion, of keeping her in her place. Otherwise, I would ask her what I really want to know, but am too chicken shit to ask: Will Zinnie always hate me?

  A yellow taxi narrowly misses me crossing against the light at 5th and 35th. I’m catching the chaps for lunch to discuss my meeting with Reid Beckett this morning regarding Everett’s business. It’s a Monday, which means they had to re-work their schedules to accommodate me and I’m running a few minutes late.

  Christ. Pierce is going to be in a mood, I mumble inwardly as I’m shown to our table. They’re all waiting for me, but instead of the agitation I expected to be met with, they are smiling and talking about something they are all apparently seein
g on their phones.

  “Sorry I’m late. Aren’t you blokes a little old to look at nudies?”

  “Get your mind out of the slums,” Colin says.

  “What possibly has the three of you enamored then? Porterhouse, medium, and a glass of burgundy, whatever your sommelier recommends,” I tell the waiter, running my hand down my tie then turning back to the table.

  “We’re looking at Sam’s Instagram,” Quade says, turning his phone my direction.

  “You follow Sam’s Instagram?”

  “We all do.”

  I reach for his phone and glance through the photos. There’s picture after picture of Sam with the girls. Painting their rooms. Decorating their rooms. Eating a hotdog with Gray’s Papaya in the background. A picture of them at the zoo with their heads popped up in the prairie dog holes.

  Christ, she’s only had the girls at home for a couple of weeks and it’s clear she’s had them out and about, showing them the city. My thumb slides the feed upward, stopping on a picture of Quade with Sam and the girls. It’s a selfie from a Yankees game.

  “You took the girls to a Yankees game?” I ask with a bit more force than called for.

  “Sure. Saturday night. You were out of town with Camilla, and Sam asked if I would like to spend some time with the girls.” He pulls his phone back, not sure where my combative tone is coming from.

  “You follow Sam, too?” I ask Pierce, surprised when he’s nodding in the affirmative.

  “It’s been great,” he says. “It gives us a way to keep up with the girls on the days we don’t get to see them.”

  “I’ve decided to sell the business,” I say out of context before taking a long sip of the wine the waiter brought.

  “You decided,” Colin says tartly.

  “Yes.”

  “And did you plan on discussing this with us?” Quade asks.

  “I am. We’re discussing it now.”

  “Fuck you, Walt. ‘I’ve decided to sell the business’ is not a discussion.”

  “I told you all I was meeting with Reid Beckett. We met this morning. Neither of the girls have a desire to run the business, we all have more than we can handle as it is. It makes sense to sell. Reid knows someone interested. I have a meeting with them next week.”