I’ve spent hours contemplating what every sparkle in his dark eyes might mean, years wondering what mysteries lie in his mind, and what feels like forever wanting to be underneath him, caged in by his arms and body. Thoughts of him are the only thing louder than all the other voices telling me to work harder, smarter, longer.
“How was Stacylynne’s class tonight?”
Okay, then, so he definitely saw me air humping. I slurp at my shake, praying the iciness will keep my cheeks from pinking up again. “Great. She’s always great.”
I’m such a conversationalist, I think sarcastically.
“Yeah, she scared the shit out of the investor today, but surprisingly, Kayla brought him around.” He shakes his head like he can’t believe that.
“I’m not surprised. Stacylynne is” —I search for the right word— “boundary pushing. In a good way. She helps everyone feel good in their skin and own their sexuality.”
I did not just say that.
“And health and functionality!” I add quickly, sending AJ a thank you for planting that phrase.
Kaede’s jawline pops, the muscle appearing and disappearing. I’m not sure if it’s because I said sex or because I’m quoting AJ all of a sudden. Or because I’m reading something into absolutely nothing, and this is just a one-sided misread on a completely normal conversation with your brother’s best friend.
Back on track, I ask a reasonable follow-up question. “How was the investor meeting?”
“Good, I think. He said he’s on board.”
My jaw drops, and before I know what I’m doing, I hold my arms wide. He looks surprised but comes in closer for a hug. “That’s awesome! Congratulations! You deserve it.”
His muscles are hard against my chest, and I remember that I don’t have a proper bra on because this tank has a built-in cami. But we all know those do absolutely nothing to disguise headlights, and I’m at full high-beam, so hard Kaede can probably feel them poking him like little pencil erasers.
We both pull back, and Kaede’s voice has gone deeper, rougher somehow. “Thanks, Courtney. That means a lot.” His tongue peeks out to wet his lips, and he says, “Just have to sign the papers this weekend.”
The smoothie guy chooses that moment to set Kaede’s cup down, and he picks it up, taking a healthy swallow.
I watch his Adam’s apple bob and want to lick the slight stubble that’s shown up because it’s so late in the day. He’s just as handsome as he was when we worked together, maybe even more so. He’s ditched the dress shirts and computer geek tablet he always used to carry for a One Life T-shirt that’s slightly molded to his ripped body, but more importantly, he just looks . . . happy. Tired but happy.
“I thought I was drinking the big smoothie. What is that?”
“The Eddie Hall Special,” Kaede says with a chuckle. “AJ’s invention. Named after a massive strongman he told me about.”
I look at the thick dark pink shake. “That looks . . . gross,” I admit. “What’s the pink?”
He holds it out, looking at it as if he’s never seen it before even though he’s the one who ordered it. “Cranberry juice. It’s not the best, but it’ll keep me going tonight.”
“Hot date?” I ask automatically, not wanting and needing the answer equally.
“No. I’ve got at least an hour of work to knock out before I can even dream of getting out of here,” Kaede groans. “Then it’s an amazing night of driving home, crashing into bed, and getting up at five tomorrow to do it all again.”
“Ouch! We must really be losers. That sounds too much like my schedule.”
“To the biggest losers in the city,” Kaede says, offering his smoothie cup. We clink rims, and he takes a sip of his. “So what about you? What’s up in Courtlandia?”
I smile at the silly name, which sounds outlandish and ridiculously whimsical coming from him with his stoic, straight face. It’s something my family used to say when I would disappear into my head. That he even knows it shows how close to my family he’s always been. “The usual. Work, with a side of work, and an extra helping of work. I’ve got a presentation coming up, my first big time at the plate, and I might be stressing out over it a little bit.” I hold my thumb and index finger up, an inch separating them.
Kaede reaches up with his hands, one cold from the smoothie cup and one hot and electric against my skin, and spreads my inch into something much wider. “Knowing you, your stress level is more like that.” He narrows his eyes, measuring the distance now. “But you shouldn’t worry a bit.”
“No?” I ask, taking a sip of my smoothie. “Why?”
“Simple. You’re brilliant, so you’ve created the best presentation possible. You’re always prepared, so you have planned for every potential problem and pre-handled them. And worst-case scenario, you can have them eating out of your hand with that smile.”
I am floored. Or something stronger than that. Maybe deeper than that? I am basemented. That’s not a word, but it’s all I can come up with right now because my mind is going bonkers, my body is buzzing, and my inner self has never felt so . . . seen.
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me, Kaede. Thank you.”
He shrugs as though he didn’t just rearrange my entire mood about tomorrow with two seconds’ worth of a pep talk. Picking up his smoothie cup, he clinks the plastic against mine again. “No problem. I gotta get to work or I’ll never get out of here and will end up sleeping in my office on the couch again. Have a good night. Oh, and Court . . .” I blink, still spinning. “Knock ’em dead, girl.”
As he walks away, I melt into a big pile of goo right there on a stool in the smoothie bar.
Chapter 5
Kaede
White shirt? Check.
Charcoal gray suit, fresh from the dry cleaners? Check.
Red power tie, with a perfectly tied Windsor knot? Check.
Square toed Oxfords shined to the point I could count my nose hairs if I wanted? Yep, and trimmed.
In fact, I’m feeling pretty pumped. It’s been nearly eight months since I’ve been in a corporate environment and I’m eager to see if I’ve still got it.
I check myself in my mirror and am impressed by what I see. The uniform and persona go back on with ease as I pose, one hand in my pocket and the other on the buttons at my center. I’m a little John Wick, a little Matrix Agent. Either way . . . “You one bad mutha!”
It’s a little joke I’ve used for years, but in this case, it really feels true. I’m ready for today’s meeting. I might not be the corporate ninja I was eight months ago, and the skills might be a little rusty, but I can handle this meeting like a pro, no doubt.
We’re going for a contract signing and a little back slapping celebration, not actually pitching anything. The hard work is never done, but this deal is a lock.
A beep from outside interrupts my thoughts. Grabbing my keys, I head out the front door to meet Ross. He lives downtown in the Andrews-worthy penthouse he had as a VP, but that was never my style. After a short stint in a high-level condo, I invested in a brownstone in an up and coming area just outside of downtown proper. It lets me come and go without polite niceties in the elevator or hallways with my neighbors and have a space to let the day fall away, and long-term, it will provide the best return on investment as the area grows.
Huge, by city standards, with two bedrooms and two bathrooms, and now, with a little help from Violet, it’s slightly less bachelor pad and more . . . home.
On the street outside, Ross waits in his Mercedes Maybach. The neighbors probably wonder who picks me up in the flashy car, but I don’t talk to any of them to answer any questions.
Climbing in, I see that Ross is also dressed for success in a sharp navy-blue suit with a golden-hued tie. We’re equally badass and ready for whatever comes.
“I see Violet let you borrow the Mercedes today?” I deadpan.
Ross laughs but feigns throwing a punch my shoulder’s way. I don’t even flinch, trusti
ng him implicitly to not hit me, at least not before a meeting. I’ve given him plenty of shit over the past few months that his lovely wife has his balls in a jar on her dresser, an expensive hand-blown glass one, of course. But the fact is, my best friend’s never looked better or happier. With Violet at his side and the completion he’s found deep in his soul, Ross Andrews has found something that very few people ever find.
I’m happy for him and not at all jealous. Not even a bit.
“Just for that, I’m driving.”
As if he’d have let me drive. He pulls away from the curb, instantly making the engine growl like the deepest demons of hell are under the hood, and a small smirk lifts my lips when I see blinds moving as people peek out their windows.
“We’re good for today, right?”
Ross has asked me that question before countless board meetings, investor discussions, and even games back in the day. I give the expected answer, “Abso-fucking-lutely. Like finding shit in a pig pen.” I don’t even remember how we came up with the crude version of ‘taking candy from a baby', but it works for us as a sort of superstitious habit.
Pulling up to the Sanders address is an experience. I’m not unaccustomed to opulence, having virtually grown up at the Andrews estate with more bedrooms than I have fingers, more bathrooms than bedrooms, a resort-worthy pool, an outdoor basketball court, and an indoor gym the size of One Life’s studio space.
But this? This makes the Andrews house look frumpy and middle-class.
The huge estate’s tall, wrought iron gate is solid and imposing, towering an easy fifteen feet before curving into an archway of scrollwork. The whole complex monstrosity is topped by a gilded ‘S’ in the middle, as if there’s any doubt of whose property you’ve arrived at.
Driving up the crushed pink marble gravel driveway, we look left and right, both of us slightly agog. The lawn’s easily the size of a city park with manicured hedges, rows of nearly identical fruit trees, and emerald green grass that’s so bright it’s almost impossible to believe. I don’t think grass dares die in this lawn. It’s too afraid to disturb the nearly Oz-like perfection.
The house is just as amazing. With three-story Corinthian columns and lots of white, it looks like the White House’s richer cousin, more ornate and less severe. It’s not the home of a president. It’s the vacation palace of an emperor.
“I don’t know,” Ross quips as he puts the car in park. “I was expecting something flashy. This is so basic.” The dry delivery breaks the tension in the car, and we chuckle, the nerves about this meeting relaxing a bit.
We’re greeted at the door by a butler straight out of central casting, right down to the old-fashioned tails on his coat, before being shown upstairs to a ‘waiting room’.
“Mr. Sanders will be with you shortly,” the butler, who never introduced himself, says in an impeccable British accent before disappearing. I glance at Ross, who’s taking it all in stride.
We’re silent, standing comfortably. Well, Ross probably is in truth, and I’ve learned to fake it so well that it’s impossible to tell that it’s a front, even to myself sometimes. Visually, I scan, checking out the waiting room. I’m curious to see if the books lining the walls are real when the door opens and Jeffrey Sanders comes in. “Good evening, gentlemen. Sorry to keep you waiting. I was just having another business conversation. How’s your day been?”
He’s back to cold and distant, not sorry in the slightest and reminding us that we’re only one of many irons in the fire he’s stoking. Put on guard, I wonder if perhaps this is more of a continuation of our business meeting than a celebration?
“Excellent,” Ross says with a business smile, having caught on to the same vibe. “And you?”
“Ready to make a future,” Jeffrey says, going over to one of the bookshelves and pulling one of the books. Fake, I knew it! It’s a hidden latch, and the bookshelf pops open, revealing that it’s actually a door. “Shall we?”
“Impressive,” I admit dutifully as we step through the door. “Must be great when you need to make a quick escape.”
“It also doubles as a panic room,” Jeffrey gloats casually. “An insistence from my family that we have one. It was a month of annoyance as the workers did renovations before my daughters convinced me to go on vacation.” He lowers his voice as if sharing a secret confession. “I would never tell them, but they were right. A week in Dubai was exactly what I needed.”
“It’s the most luxurious one I’ve seen,” I tell him truthfully, conveniently leaving out the fact that his office is also the only panic room I’ve seen. The closest thing I’ve got is locking the front door and setting the security alarm.
“Thank you,” Jeffrey says with a small lift of his lips, apparently pleased to have impressed us. “Gentlemen, please sit.” He holds out a hand to a semicircle of leather chairs in front of his desk. “Before we get to the contract, I want to discuss why I am choosing One Life as one of my investments. You see, I have a vision. One where someone can live a full and meaningful life under the Sanders umbrella.”
I blink and take an invisible breath to calm myself. One Life is our vision, not Jeffrey’s, and we have no intention of changing to meet whatever dream he has. We’ve checked the paperwork multiple times to confirm that the gym stays true to us. Yes, Jeffrey’s investing a lot. But Ross and I maintain majority control of One Life with the investment and incorporation deal set up to insure that—we’ll control twenty-six percent of the company each while Jeffrey will have forty-eight percent.
“What exactly does your vision involve?” Ross asks carefully. I’m glad he asked because his attempt at pinning Jeffrey down is gentle compared to my current sledgehammer feelings.
“I suppose that did come off as a bit megalomaniac, didn’t it?” He waits for us to disagree, but Ross and I stay silent, not playing his games. He sighs lightly and continues, “I’ve invested in health care, in schools and education, in farming and grocery stores, in banking and construction, and quite a few other industries. Each company has had one thing in common, and that’s an eye toward the future and in giving their customers the best experience possible. Experience of the consumer ultimately creates loyalty and continued revenue as well as a fuller, richer, more active life for us all.”
It’s a hell of a monologue. Not quite a speech, but at the same time definitely worthy of a TED talk on becoming an enlightened, semi-philanthropic one-percenter. I feel like we just attended a symposium on his corporate mission statement. It’s good, slick, and practiced, but that’s exactly why it sets my hackles up in concern.
“I want, if someone chooses, of course, for one to be able to be born in a hospital I’ve built. To be fed by food I’ve grown, to go to a school that’s been built to the highest standards by my contributions. I want this person to be able to have a job, a family, a house and a home . . . and if they choose, to do it all with companies that I’ve helped make. And I feel that if we do it right, by focusing on enriching the life of this hypothetical person and the society they come from . . . well, it’ll come back to us in kind. And your proposal is going to be one of the jewels in that lifestyle. To One Life Gym and innovative collaborations,” Jeffrey summarizes.
Whoa. And I thought the house had delusions of grandeur.
But we need the money and the connections. He stands and offers Ross a handshake and then me. I take note that for all his posturing and proselytizing, his hand is cool and dry, showing that he’s utterly at ease in this situation that is odd, even for someone of Ross’s upbringing.
Jeffrey sits down, and we follow his lead as he presses a button on his phone. “The scotch, please.” A disembodied voice says, ‘Yes sir.’ Jeffrey pats a manila folder on his desk which likely contains the contract documents. “I do want to let you both in on a small secret.”
Oh, shit, here we go.
The butler appears, pouring three glasses of scotch. I pick mine up but don’t drink, too on edge to hear this secret.
“
A secret?” Ross prompts, a hint of strain in his voice.
“Oh, yes,” Jeffrey says, a grin spreading as he makes us wait. “Like you gentlemen, I insist on researching my potential investments thoroughly. Ross, you’ve made a few splashes in both the business and the society pages, and I needed to be certain you had the focus to do what you planned. And Kaede, many perceived you to be little more than a coat-tail rider, and I worried that you might lack vision.”
“I assure you, we are both more than capable of—” I start to argue.
Jeffrey holds up a hand. “Rest assured, I no longer have concerns. As soon as I became interested in One Life, I sent in an undercover researcher. First-person consumer experience is invaluable, and based on that feedback and inside scoop, I feel like you are what you present yourselves to be . . . the next brand in the fitness lifestyle.”
My mind is whirring, replaying faces and names to determine who might be Jeffrey’s undercover sleeper agent. Karen? Gus? Stacylynne? Fuck, it could be anyone. The only thing keeping me in my chair is that I stand behind the experience we deliver and know that whoever it is, we rocked that shit.
“She certainly feels passionate about your capabilities at One Life. Quite ravingly, in fact.” Jeffrey drops that bomb, narrowing my field of suspects by half. He pushes the button on his phone again. “Honey? Can you come in, please?”
Ross and I both look toward the door to the office as the sound of high heels click their way through the waiting room.
“Hello, Daddy.”
Oh, shit wasn’t nearly enough of a reaction. This is a full-on fuck, fuck, fuck moment.
“My daughter, Melissa,” Jeffrey says, “or I guess you know her as Missy. Honey, thank you for joining us.”
Missy looks totally different than I’ve ever seen her before. For one, she’s actually wearing something that’s approaching full clothing. Her skirt’s still a bit too tight and a few inches too short, her sleeveless silk blouse has a deep V that shows off a Grand Canyon of cleavage, and those clicking heels are fuck-me high. But even so, it’s a far cry from what she wears at the gym. Even her usual ponytail is missing, her hair down and curled softly around her shoulders.
My Big Fat Fake Engagement Page 5