by Megyn Ward
“You want me to leave your four-year-old son with your sister?” Jane laughs, over the sounds of her buckling Noah into his booster seat. I can hear him in the background she probably still smells like fish. “Why? Does she need a babysitter?”
“Jane,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut. “Please—just…” I trail off, taking a deep breath, trying to smooth over the desperation in my tone. “Just please take him home. Delilah can handle things until I get there. I’m taking the afternoon off, so it won’t be for more than an hour or two.”
I hear the car door shut. “What is happening?” she says, the amusement bleeding out of her voice the second Noah can no longer hear her. “Asking me to take Noah to your place is one thing but taking the afternoon off is entirely another.”
She’s right. My priorities are Noah and Davino’s. There is no room for anything else. I haven’t taken a day off in years. Not even an afternoon to sneak off and see a movie.
“Do you rem—”
There’s a knock on my office door, a brisk-knuckled rap that stops me mid-sentence. Probably one of my sous chefs reporting the arrival of my second crate of Langoustine. “Take Noah home,” I say standing to round my desk. “Tell Lilah I’ll be there in an hour or two and then come back after you get off work. I’ll tell you everything then.” I reach for the door and pull it open, already reaching for the clipboard so I can sign for my shellfish but it’s not a sous chef.
It’s Tobias, standing in the narrow service hall that bridges the kitchen and the main dining room.
“Bring wine with you,” I say into the phone. “Lots and lots of wine.” I hang up on a flurry of questions. “Can I help you, Mr. Bright?” I try for polite and professional but land somewhere between haughty and dismissive.
“I keep telling you to call me Tobias.” He pushes past me, into my tiny, windowless office. He lets his gaze sweep the space, taking in my desk, and the filing cabinets. The computer and shelves full of binders, before finally turning his gaze on me. He hasn’t changed. He still looks like he stepped off the pages of a magazine with his beautifully tailored suit, and gorgeous face. “You keep refusing, I’m going to start thinking you don’t like me.”
Why wouldn’t I like you? Because I woke up from a night of mind-blowing sex to an empty apartment and a stack of cash on the nightstand? Don’t be silly. Who would get mad at something like that? Or maybe because nine months later, I had a baby. A beautiful little boy who breaks my heart every time he smiles because he looks exactly like you.
“It’s not dislike, Mr. Bright,” I say, using the same overly pleasant tone on him that I used with Hank the fishmonger. “It’s caution. This project is very important to me and your offer of partnership seemed rash and to be honest, impulsive. I don’t want to rely on someone who might change their mind or back out due to sudden lack of interest.”
He cocks his head at me. “Trust me, Ms. Fiorella, when I’m being rash and impulsive, you’ll know it.”
I think about the way he laid me out on his kitchen counter. His mouth pressed against me. His tongue—
“Are you okay,” he says, giving me a slight smirk that tells me he knows exactly what I’m thinking about. “You look a little flushed.”
“I’m fine,” I say, opening the door wide enough for him to get the hint and get out. “I just remembered I have another appointment, so I’ll have to—”
“Bring wine with you.” He settles onto my desk, making clear he’s not going anywhere until he’s ready. “Lots and lots of wine?”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s what you said to whoever you were on the phone with—” He crosses his arms over his chest, the sleeves of his jacket pulling back just enough to reveal a watch worth more than I make in a year. Hell, probably ten years. Seeing it serves as a reminder. He was out of my league five years ago. And he’s out of my league now. “I can only assume that your impending appointment involves copious amounts of wine and whoever you were talking to.”
“Who I was talking to is none of your concern,” I say, smoothing a thin veneer of civility over my words.
“You may not appreciate rash impulsivity in a business partner, but I can assure you, Ms. Fiorella—” The tone of his voice loses its playful edge. “I appreciate someone who lets their personal life intrude on their professional one, even less.”
“Then we’ll get along famously, Mr. Bright.” I say because I feel both admonished and insulted. “I have no personal life.”
“I’m relieved,” he says, staring at me just long enough to send a warm flush up the entire length of my body before he stands and moves in my direction. “That means you’re free for dinner tonight.”
What?
I shake my head, moving away from the door when he moves to pass through it. “No, I—”
“I’ll pick you up around eight?”
I shake my head as he crosses the threshold. “No, I’m not—”
“Your place.” He’s halfway down the hall, moving toward the dining room before it registers.
My place.
Noah.
Before I can build a plausible protest, he’s gone.
18
Tobias
Things did not go as expected. What I expected was to have lunch with an architect, a temperamental celebrity chef, and his spoiled, princess of a daughter. I expected to listen to them song and dance me about how great the opportunity they were offering was, while dining on overly trendy food and waiting for Angus to bail me out with a fake emergency.
Instead, I spend the better part of the afternoon going over expense reports and cost projections. Blueprints and business plans. The more I saw, the more impressed I became.
I rarely change my mind once it’s made up, but I find myself becoming invested, excited about the project. I haven’t felt that way in a very long time. I tell myself it’s because I’m bored. I’ve been locked in negotiations over this government deal for months and it’s driving me nuts but that’s not it.
What excites me about the project is the prospect of working with her.
Silver returned to the table long enough to make her excuses, telling her father she had an urgent errand to run, that she wouldn’t be back for the rest of the day. Jean-Luc, her assistant, would be handling her front of house duties for dinner service. Then she gave Patrick a quick kiss on the cheek and hurried away without so much as a glance in my direction.
Now, I’m standing in front of my brother’s door, hands dug in my pockets, waiting for him to answer. I’m about ready to knock again when he finally does. Despite the fact that I was supposed to be here hours ago, he looks like he just woke up, wearing nothing but a pair of sleep pants covering in pictures of cats playing electric guitar and the crown tattoo over his left pec. I have the same tattoo.
We all do.
“Nice pants,” I say, giving my brother a critical once-over. He’s the youngest of us and while Gray joined the military and Jase went to college, Logan went his own way. That way landed him in a Boston dive bar in a college town, slinging drinks for Patrick Gilroy. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little disappointed in the outcome.
“Thanks,” Logan says, scratching his bare chest while he stifles a bleary-eyed yawn. “Are you early?”
“No,” I say moving through the door when he moves to let me pass. “I’m about three hours late.”
“Then what are you doing here?” Logan flops back onto the futon he’d obviously been sleeping on and looks up at me. “Don’t you have some important dinner thing to get back to?”
“Canceled it,” I say, looking around the room. It’s sparsely furnished. Futon. Huge flat screen mounted on the wall. An eight-foot-long conference table, dominated by a bank of computer monitors. Hard drives housed in what he once told me were faraday cages. More hard drives cracked open with their guts spilling out and what looks to be a high-end, ergonomic computer chair. That’s it. No pictures on the wall. No end tables or accent lamps. No throw pillows
or color coordinated sheets.
If there’s one thing my brothers and I have in common, it’s our aversion to acquiring stuff. Stuff can be taken away. Stuff weighs you down. Makes you slow. Weak. Some people who grew up the way we did become obsessed with it. Need stuff to fill the hole. To feel like they’re worth something.
I’ve got billions.
Cars. Private planes. Real estate. Designer suits.
And not one thing I couldn’t walk away from without a backward glance.
Still, I find myself asking. “You ever met a friend of Patrick’s named Silver?”
“Silver?” Logan runs a hand through his mop of thick black hair, leaving it sticking straight up. I expect him to say, she’s not his friend. She’s his girlfriend. Instead he shakes his head. “Nah,” he shakes his head. “Only woman I ever see him hang out with is Tess.” Logan grins. “Why? Who is she?”
Who is she?
I thought I knew but obviously, I have no idea.
“She’s the daughter of that chef friend of his. The one you hooked me up with,” I say, casting a long look at his army of computers. “She’s spearheading the project and I’d like to know who I’m dealing with.”
Liar. You want to know if she’s seeing anyone.
“So,, you came here to ask your degenerate little brother to hack her IRS files?” He says it like I asked him to borrow a cup of sugar.
“You don’t have to dive that deep,” I say, slipping out of my jacket before tossing it on the futon. “I just want reassurance that she’s a safe bet.”
“Alright,” Logan says, hefting his lean, muscular frame off the futon to make his way to the table where he digs around in a pile of what looks like half-chewed computer parts. “I’ll do it.” Coming up with a pair of dark, thick-rimmed glasses, he slips the glasses on before sliding into his chair. “But you’re paying me in breakfast burritos.”
19
Silver
When I get home, Delilah and Noah are sitting at the breakfast bar, eating what looks to be a banana split, made in one of my large mixing bowls while chattering at each other like a couple of magpies.
Clearly, Lilah has reclaimed her favorite aunt status.
“Hi, Mom,” Noah chirps from behind a mask of hot fudge and whipped cream. “Aunt Lilah made lunch.”
Most times I can get past it. How much he looks like Tobias. I can forget how much it hurts when he gives me one of his wry smiles. How hard it is to breathe sometimes when he slips his hand into mine.
Now is not one of those times.
“That’s good,” I say, forcing myself to offer him a weak smile. “Can you go wash your hands and face, please?”
His face scrunches up. “But—”
“No buts.” I fit my hands under his arms and lift him off his stool to set him on his feet. “Hands and face. Now.”
He stomps off, muttering something about how pointless it was to wash his hands and face when he was just going to have to take a bath later. As soon as he’s gone, I turn to look at my sister. “You look…”
“Sober?” Lilah flashes me a quick grin, around a mouthful of ice cream.
“I was going to say better,” I say, sliding into Noah’s empty chair “Thank you for keeping an eye on him. I owe you one.”
“You’re kidding, right?” she says, offering me Noah’s abandoned spoon. “I showed up on your doorstep, drunk, at 3AM, ate my way through five pints of strawberries, threw-up and passed out. I think we’re even.” She digs her spoon into the mound of ice cream in front of us. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”
“What makes you think something is going on?” I say, chasing a maraschino cherry around a pool of half-melted vanilla.
“Well, for starters, you asked me to watch Noah. Me.” She takes a bite and rolls it around on her tongue for a second. “For enders, I just fed him his own body weight in sugar and all you’ve had to say about it is that’s good.” She points her spoon at me. “Either something’s wrong or you’re a pod person, so spill it.”
I never told anyone who Noah’s father is and while I didn’t know who he was, exactly, I knew enough to know that telling him he was going to be a father would be impossible.
Besides, I knew what my father would do. He’s old-school. He’d have hunted Tobias down and, multi-billionaire or not, drag him to the altar by his hair. I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to have to look at him, even once, knowing what he thought of me. That I got pregnant on purpose. That I expected to be taken care of.
That I could be bought.
But I can’t hold on to it anymore. It’s too big and Tobias is suddenly too close. I have to tell someone.
“Noah’s father came into the restaurant today.” I say it to the cherry I finally managed to scoop up with my spoon. When she doesn’t respond, I risk a look up.
Delilah is staring at me, mouth slightly open, melted mint chip, dripping off her spoon.
“He’s actually the potential business partner that dad’s friend, Patrick, scored us a meeting with.”
Still nothing. Just staring.
“His name is Tobias Bright and he’ll be here to pick me up for dinner in three hours.”
When I say Tobias Bright, Lilah’s eyes go wide. “Are you kidding?” she drops her spoon and grabs mine out of my hand and drops both into the bowl between us. “Tobias Bright? Are you freaking kidding me right now?”
When I shake my head no, she lets out a muffled shriek and jumps out of her seat. I watch in horror as she grabs her phone, her thumbs flying over the screen.
My sister is the undisputed Queen of Twitter. She makes Chrissy Teigen look shy and demure. I imagine her ruining my life in 140 characters, but before I can tackle her, she brings the phone up to her ear.
“Get your ass here, now,” she hisses before rolling her eyes. “I don’t care if you still have filing to do, Jane—move your ass.” She looks at me, her face grim. “Silver’s in trouble.”
20
Tobias
It took Logan less than fifteen minutes to find out everything I needed to know about Silver Fiorella.
She was born Argenta Danielle Fiorella in Paris to Davino Fiorella and actress, Solange Moreau—a freakin’ French national treasure.
She’s basically a French Julia Roberts.
She also happens to be my neighbor.
Silver attended an exclusive boarding school in Switzerland from the time she was five until she turned fourteen, when she moved to the US to live with her father. When I met her in 2013, she was a junior at NYU and applying to colleges to pursue her MBA, which she earned from Boston University in 2016.
Her credit score is 825.
She’s never been arrested.
She has four sisters and six brothers, all of them split between her father’s five wives.
She lives in an apartment in Backbay. The same building as Patrick Gilroy, who also happens to own it.
Her birthday is June first.
Same as mine.
Everything she told me that night was true. She’d been as honest and open as possible, considering the circumstances, and what did I do? I left her a stack of cash on my nightstand and sent Angus in to clean up my mess.
I knew I screwed up as soon as I came home after Angus gave me the all clear. Ten thousand dollars shredded into ten million pieces and thrown all over your bed has a way of driving a point home. But instead of finding her and apologizing, I rationalized what I did. I told myself it was better to cut my losses because there was no way I was ready for all the ways a woman like Silver would change my life.
And I was right. I wasn’t ready.
I’m still not ready.
Which makes the fact that I’m practically forcing her to have dinner with me a confusing and potentially self-destructive exercise in futility.
“You want me to keep digging,” Logan asks, leaning back in his chair to look up at me. “I can have Con—”
Conner Gilroy, the architect’s cousin. I’ve neve
r met him, but I’ve heard stories about the sort of things he can do with a computer. The sort of things that, upon hearing about them, make you an accessory after the fact.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “That won’t be necessary.” I look at my watch. It’s heading toward seven. “I have to go.” I turn away from him to retrieve my jacket from where I tossed it.
When I turn around, Logan is standing next to his chair, scowling at me. “So, you basically just stopped by to sweet-talk me into committing a couple felonies and now you’re going to bounce?”
“I can’t stay. I’m having dinner with her in an hour, and let’s be honest.” I shrug into my jacket, stifling a sigh. “It didn’t take much sweet-talking.”
“Yeah,” he says, skirting around me to the kitchen area which consists of a refrigerator half his size, a two-burner stove and a sink. “Whatever, man.”
It’s not what he says that gives me pause, it’s his tone. He sounds hurt, which make me feel like an asshole.
So, of course, I have to make it worse.
“When are you going to move home?” I swore, when he left, I wasn’t going to ask. I was going to let him go. Stop being the micromanaging older brother. Gray and Jase and Logan—they don’t need me to protect them anymore. We left Brighton a long time ago. They can survive without me. But I’ve been looking out for them for so long that it’s been hard-wired into me. I don’t know how to stop. So I ask, because I don’t know how to do this any other way. I’m his big brother. I don’t know how to be his friend.
I watch while he pulls a clean bowl from a stack on a shelf above the sink and pours himself a bowl of cereal from an open box on top of the fridge. “This is my home, Tob,” he says, opening the fridge. “Might not look like much but it’s mine.” A well-aimed jab. When he insisted on leaving New York I offered him a job as the head of my IT department at any one of my corporate offices, with all the Bright family perks. Apartment. Car. Expense account. He turned me down flat. Came back to the one place he knows I’d never follow.