Two for Dinner

by Rachel A. Smith

  She takes her seat at the head of the table with all the grace of a queen. “Why don’t you take a guess?”

  “A month. Two?”

  “A week is all it took for me to come to realize I was in love.” She raises a hot cup of coffee to her lips then lowers it to add, “I made your grandpa wait another three months before agreeing to marry him, and another three before we were married. He was a saint to put up with all my shenanigans.”

  A chuckle rumbles in my chest. “I can only imagine the mischief you caused.”

  “Well, I had to make sure he loved me. The real me—the one I hid from society.”

  My fist clenches my fork. Did I fall for a woman just like my grandma? Grandpa’s chuckle and voice ring clear in my head. To love such a woman is a gift. Memories of him shaking his head as he looked lovingly upon Grandma fill my heart with warmth. The same warmth that creeps into it when I think of Irene.

  Chapter 17

  Irene

  I wake up to male voices yelling outside on the connecting terrace. Slipping on my robe, I pull back the curtain to see Clayton swinging a fist at Chef Eric. Shit. He found me.

  I yank on the handle of the sliding door, but it’s stuck. Racing through the house and out the door, I freeze as I take in the sight of two men wrestling on the lawn. Their fists, elbows, and knees are all moving. Clayton took Krav Maga lessons, but it doesn’t look like he’d mastered the self-defense skills taught. In fact, when I get a closer look, he’s squirming and flying about like an untrained teenage wrestler. Fucking liar. He probably never went to those stupid classes. Maybe that’s when he’d sneak off to be with Melissa.

  I fist my hands and march over to Clayton. Oh, I want to get a piece of the lying, cheating bastard. Chef Eric has him pinned face down to the ground, holding Clayton’s hands together at the small of my ex’s back. The urge to kick him is strong, but I’d never kick a dog, so I take a step back before I do something I’d regret later. Taking a deep breath, I ask, “Why are you here?”

  Clayton lifts his head. His left eye is already changing color. “You didn’t give me a chance to explain.”

  “What makes you think you deserve anything from me?”

  “Call off your bodyguard so we can talk.”

  Chef Eric glances up at me, and I shake my head. “No. I’m not talking to you. In fact, you need to leave and never contact me again.” I start walking back to the house.

  “Sweetheart, just let me explain. I love you and still want to marry you.”

  I stomp back to Chef Eric. He’s straddling Clayton, pinning his head down with one hand while the other hand keeps a firm grip on his wrists. He isn’t even out of breath. The only evidence Clayton had put up a fight is a small trickle of blood on Chef Eric’s lip.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  Simultaneously, he says he’s fine while Clayton whines, “No, make him let me go.”

  Chef Eric ignores him and says, “Crestwater should be here soon, but probably not for a few more hours. Sorry I didn’t catch him before he woke you up.”

  “Damien’s on his way?”

  He nods. “Yeah, Charlie called and said he should be here by lunch.”

  “Damien Crestwater?” Clayton’s voice is muffled since half his face is pressed into the grass. “How the fuck do you know Damien Crestwater?” His eyes widen. “Ah. Crestwater must own the publishing company that pumps out your comics.”

  When I hear him use the word comics, my foot comes off the ground. Clayton knows I prefer the term graphic novels to comics. My books are complete stories, not serials like comics. It’s just another reminder he doesn’t care about me. Then I plant my foot. The bastard isn’t worth a broken toe. I pivot away. “I’ll wait for Damien inside.”

  Clayton grunts and groans. “Dude. Get the fuck off me.”

  “Stay still, you piece of shit. You ain’t going anywhere near her until Crestwater says it’s okay.”

  “You can’t sit on me for hours.”

  Chef Eric chuckles. “Watch me.”

  “I can’t feel my arms,” Clayton continues to whine.

  “I can’t believe I agreed to marry you,” I mumble.

  Chef Eric laughs. “No kidding. What a loser.”

  “Hey!” Clayton wails, struggling in vain to buck him off.

  I walk into the house and search for something to tie Clayton up with. Looking through the kitchen drawers, I find nothing. I move to search the office and still don’t come up with anything. Walking into Damien’s room, I search the nightstand. A pair of fluffy pink handcuffs are stuffed in the back of the bottom drawer. I run my thumb over the cheap fur material covering the cuffs. Huh. I can’t picture Damien walking into a store and buying these. He’s definitely more the type to bind a woman with his necktie. An image of him dressed in a suit and standing in the guest room doorway loosening his tie sends sparks of desire through me. I close my eyes and count to five. Now isn’t the time to be daydreaming of having sex with Damien. I bend down to search for a key. There isn’t one. Screw it. I don’t need it. I make my way back outside.

  Clayton’s voice has gone up an octave. “Seriously, man. Irene will forgive me, and you are going to regret this.” He’s given up trying to free himself and is probably hoping to talk his way out of the situation. Not this time.

  I’d love to slap off the smug smile that appears on his face when he sees me approaching.

  “Irene. Sweetheart.” Clayton’s super syrupy voice I used to believe was real and that made me feel adored now makes me feel sick to my stomach.

  Stopping a foot away from the asshole, I clench my hands at my sides. The metal of the cuffs in my right hand cuts into my palm. “I’m never going to forget you fucked Melissa on the eve of our wedding.” I throw the cuffs to Chef Eric. “Cuff him and lock him up somewhere far enough away that I can’t hear his bitching.”

  Clayton’s eyes bug out. I’m no longer the meek little mouse he thinks I am. Spending time away from this asshole and my ridiculous parents has made me see things differently. I’m way stronger than I thought, and I’m not afraid of speaking my thoughts anymore. If the press or Clayton wants to ridicule the way I look or my lack of speeches, I know I’ll be fine. I won’t die, and I refuse to hide anymore. Screw those who don’t really know me. But I’d like to give others a chance to find out who the real me is. Others like Damien Crestwater, who showed me a real man treats a woman with kindness and respect.

  Chef Eric gives me a broad grin that says attagirl. He puts the ridiculous pink handcuffs around Clayton’s wrists. “I’ll be in the pool house keeping an eye on him.”

  Hauled to his feet, Clayton tries to maneuver out of the hold. I don’t take a step back or shrink into my shell. Chef Eric won’t let him get anywhere near me. Not because Damien said so, but because he cares about me. The real me he got to know because, without the threat of the press lurking behind buildings and plants here on the island, I’ve just been me.

  I flash a grin at Chef Eric and rub my hands together. “Oh, goody. Now I get a chance to make you breakfast.”

  “Yeah, Irene’s a real Martha Stewart in the kitchen.” Clayton’s smirk quickly disappears as Chef Eric’s lips thin into straight line. He makes him howl, “Ow. That fucking hurts.”

  I’m not going to let the asshole dampen my mood. Ignoring Clayton, I walk back to the house to get to work in the kitchen. Scanning the fridge, I then spend five minutes standing in the threshold of a fully stocked pantry. Wrapping an apron about my waist, Clayton’s mocking tone and words drum in my head. I grip the door frame. The asshole is right. I’m no Michelin three-star cook. Releasing my death hold, I reach behind me to tug at the apron strings but stop halfway. Fuck it. Chef Eric won’t care. He’ll know whatever I make will be from the heart. Screw Clayton. I’m going to thank Chef Eric for dealing with that prick with an omelet and some hash browns.

  Chapter 18

  Damien

  I glance at my watch as we walk down the tarmac. W
e’re late. It took me a full hour to answer all my grandma’s questions about Irene and appease her need for details about emotions I didn’t even know I possessed, let alone could articulate. Then it took her another hour to locate the family heirloom that during Grandma’s inquisition became increasingly clear I had to have in my possession. Proposing right when I see Irene is a preposterous idea, yet the sentiment doesn’t give me hives or make me run in the opposite direction. In fact, it drives home my desire to get to know her better. My caveman instincts to keep her close haven’t subsided. And when Grandma placed the engagement ring in my palm, it didn’t burn me or turn me to dust. The metal was warm, and my whole body was light. Free.

  I slip into my seat on the small Learjet and sneak a glance at Michael. He was quiet the entire drive to the airport. No teasing remarks. No jokes about love. At least Michael is focused. My brain is a mess, mostly tangled because of my Grandma’s prodding. I click in my seatbelt and settle in for the five-hour flight before peeking at my watch again. Fuck. I wanted to be there by lunch, but with the delays I’ll be lucky if I get there before dinner. If I could move the clock back and arrange a romantic dinner for two, I would. Instead, I’m going to arrive, hurt her by telling her her mom betrayed her trust, and then deal with her worthless piece of shit ex-fiancé.

  Letting out a deep sigh, I reach down and pull out the antique wooden box my grandma gave me along with the ring from the duffel settled between my feet. I spin the box around and around by two corners. The words engaged and married replay on repeat in my mind.

  Flipping open the lid, I pull out the ring. A rainbow of colors glitter off the diamonds surrounding the exquisite sapphire sitting in the center of the ancestral engagement ring. It isn’t the gems that make the ring appealing to me, but the fascinating metal filigree. I’m pretty sure Irene will love it. It suits her perfectly. Wait. Only a week ago, Irene was engaged to that ass Clayton. She’ll need time. I shouldn’t presume to know what she would want. Women hate that. I can be patient. It’s not my strongest personality trait by any means, but I can change.

  Arms crossed against his chest, Michael nods at the ring and says, “Don’t worry, she’ll say yes.” He has a smug look on his face like he knows something I don’t.

  “Really? You think after only knowing me a few days, she’d get engaged again?”

  “Nope. But I know you. And you won’t propose until you know for sure you’re in love with her and she’s in love with you.” Michael knows exactly how to get under my skin.

  “Why would you say that?

  “Because I know you,” he repeats.

  I know he’s right but I ask, “Say I propose next week and she’s not ready?”

  “You’ll wait.”

  “What makes you so sure?” I tuck the ring back into its small box and stuff it into the side pocket of my duffel bag.

  “Lydia and your grandma.”

  I laugh. Michael doesn’t mince words, and he’s absolutely correct. Once Lydia and Grandma meet Irene, they will fall in love with her, too. I’ll be outnumbered. I might even have to steal her away back to the island just to get time alone with her.

  Fuck. When I left Irene and the island days ago, I was intent on destroying Montgomery for cheating on her. But there is nothing for me to take from the bastard. He’s already in dire financial straits, and he doesn’t really care about anything or anyone else. Through gritted teeth, I say, “Montgomery deserves to have the shit beat out of him, but that’s not the solution.”

  Michael grunts. “I say we hold him down and let Miss Gilliard have at him.”

  It’s an excellent idea. The image of Irene wailing on him makes me smile. It might even be very therapeutic for her, but I wouldn’t want her to break a bone in her hand. Irene deserves to be treated better by her so-called family and friends.

  I lean my head back against the headrest and close my eyes. “There is no way to tell Irene about her mother and Montgomery’s scheme without hurting her.” I hate the thought of seeing Irene hurt. When this is all over, I’ll make damn sure no one hurts her ever again.

  Michael sighs. “If we’re not going to lay a hand on the idiot, what are we going to do?”

  That’s my problem. For the first time, I don’t know what to do. None of my ideas on how to handle the situation have a satisfactory resolution. “We’ll let Irene decide.”

  “Don’t fuck with me.” Shock rolls off him in waves. His voice is even elevated an octave. “In all the years I’ve known you, you have never willingly given up control over a situation. And now you’re going to let sweet, compassionate Miss Gilliard decide the cocksucker’s fate?”

  I turn to confront a very red-faced Michael. “Yes. And Irene is stronger than you might think.”

  “Oh, I know she’s smart as a whip and has a backbone. She would need one to deal with you. But we are talking about the man she was going to marry less than a week ago . . .” As the words tumble out of his mouth, recognition registers on his face. “Ah. You’re a crafty SOB. You think because she now knows Montgomery is a liar and a cheat, she won’t fall for his bullshit.” He settles back into his seat, smiling and closing his eyes before saying, “I like your plan.”

  I’m glad someone is happy because my stomach is in knots and my heart is waging war with my brain. Michael isn’t wrong. I have control issues. Relinquishing the position of President over to Charlie is the first step in my recovery. Meeting Irene and spending three uninterrupted days with her was pure heaven and spurred me to seek a more balanced life. Irene is by no means the needy type. For fuck’s sake, I was the one constantly texting, leaving voicemails, and emailing her. It’s scary as shit to think I might care for someone more than they care for me. I’ve never put myself in such a vulnerable position before, and I hate not knowing what’s coming next.

  Michael pokes me with his elbow. “You should get some rest. It’ll be a while before we get there.”

  “I’ll need help arranging transportation to get Montgomery off the island.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve got the logistics covered.” Michael slumps back into his seat, his whole demeanor relaxed as if we’re not about to walk into a shit storm.

  I look over at him. “I know I don’t say it enough, but thanks, man.”

  He shrugs it off. “I like the effect Irene has on you.” He adds, “Is now a good time to ask for some time off?”

  I scan his face for signs of stress. Michael never asks to take time off. After two years of working for me, I realized he never intended to, so I started telling him I needed a few weeks away from him every six months. It’s even scheduled in my calendar he has access to. “What are you thinking?”

  His arm muscles tense. It’s the only clue he is uncomfortable. Michael is the steadiest person I know—rock solid. What on earth has him asking for time off?

  “It’s been a while since I visited my folks.”

  His parents? He never goes back to his hometown, always meeting them someplace on their bucket list. They just met him in Ireland of all places three months ago. “You’re going back to Illinois?”

  “Yep. Seeing you with Irene, I’ve decided its time to make amends.”

  I shake my head. “You’ve lost me.” He’s on good terms with his parents, the last I knew. Unless something happened on their last trip he didn’t tell me about it.

  He opens his eyes, and I see the guilt. Michael clears his throat. “Eight years ago, I kinda broke a girl’s heart. My parents mentioned she’s recently moved back into town.”

  “You love this girl?”

  “Yeah, I get the same goofy look you have on my mug when I’m around her.” Michael chuckles. He leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands. “I’d like to try and win her back if she’ll forgive me.”

  He looks like he’s praying for forgiveness. Michael isn’t the religious sort. He’s honest, hardworking, and as far as I know, he hasn’t had a serious relationship in the last six years. “Man, ta
ke as much leave as you need. I’ll have HR hire someone temporarily . . . unless you’re thinking of going back for good.”

  Head bent, he answers, “I haven’t decided. Kinda depends on Tracie. Either way, I’d never leave you hanging. I won’t leave until everything with Irene is sorted and I’ve gone over everything with a temp.”

  Which means he doesn’t think his vacation is going to be a quick jaunt to Illinois. He knows I can only do without him for two weeks at a time. “Take as much time as you need. I’m pretty sure I owe you days, anyway.”

  “About a year’s worth of vacation.”

  My jaw drops. Really? Have I been that selfish?

  Michael sits back and smiles. “Just pulling your leg. It’s really only like a month. And if you can fall in love with a stranger in three days, I reckon a month’s worth of groveling just might be long enough to convince Tracie to give me another chance.”

  “You’re a jerk. I hope she holds out for at least three weeks.” I cross my arms over my chest in an imitation of him. “Shut up and let me get some rest.” I’ll let him stew on that for a bit. Michael’s handsome and a teddy bear under all that brawny exterior. I bet he’ll have Tracie’s heart within a week.

  Chapter 19

  Irene

  I close my eyes, pressing my fingers into my temples and rubbing small circles as I count to ten. I can’t stand the sight of Clayton’s arrogant features. For two hours, I’ve been sitting face-to-face with the bastard, trying to understand what he had to gain by coming here. But the asshole won’t come clean.

  I try again. “Okay, let me get this straight. You left your office and Melissa after you finished . . .” I can’t help but roll my eyes before I continue, “And went home to look for me.” Which is a total lie. Clayton never lasted longer than thirty minutes at most. To believe it took him three hours to finish was purely ludicrous. But that’s about how long it was that I sat like a dummy in his apartment before I came to my senses and grabbed my shit and headed over to Allison’s.