“I’ve never had the occasion to poke around her office, and frankly, Ryan, so the fuck what?”
“John,” he muttered. “Her junk drawer is just … unnatural. Nobody can possibly be that organized or so neat all the damn time.”
“And this bothers you, why? Because you’re trying to see if she fits?”
“Whoa, dude. That’s deep. Especially for you.”
His brother gave new life to the Lloyd smirk. “Despite common misunderstanding, I do not in fact have Asperger’s. It’s not a fucking crime to be shy.”
“You aren’t shy when it comes to the business,” Ryan reminded him. “And don’t pay attention to that garbage. You’re a late bloomer is all,” he said with a good-natured chuckle and a slap on his brother’s back.
“Uh, yeah. Nice dodge. You didn’t answer my question about Jen.”
Fuck.
What was he supposed to say? I’m thinking about fuck loving her into a coma twenty-four seven? Or maybe he should admit to the thousand and two erotic thoughts he entertained about her mouth.
Oh, yeah. All that was bound to go down smooth with John.
Not.
“I don’t think there is an answer. She assumes an awful lot about me and …”
“You assume a lot too. Those cracks about her pens and junk drawer. What is the problem, man? Jenna Carlton is what mom would call a smart cookie. For all you know, she could be putting on an act. Nothing to see here.”
He led John far from the workmen and leaned against a wall with his hands shoved in his jeans pockets.
“What are you saying? She’s sandbagging everyone? That doesn’t sound like her.”
The tell was in how fast his brother’s eyes dropped away and the kidlike way he toed a pile of construction debris on the floor. What the hell was going on?
“Um, no. I’m just pointing out that business is a man’s world and maybe Jen has figured out the best way for her to navigate the corporate jungle.”
Okay. He wasn’t stupid and could tell when reading between the lines was necessary. John was suddenly way more in touch with his fellow humans than Ryan was used to.
Because of Jen?
Or Samantha?
Probably both.
“You know,” John said as he smoothed his tie for no reason. “It wouldn’t hurt to be nicer to her. Women like that nice shit.”
Nah, it was too funny not to, so Ryan exploded with laughter. “Oh, my god! Are you giving me chick advice? John! Do you realize how fucking great this is?”
John puffed out his chest, instantly reminding Ryan of their dad and the way he liked to play the clueless nerd with the heart of gold. In some weird way, the fit was natural.
“I’m just saying you need a different approach with Jen. You’ll have to trust me on this.”
Ryan slapped his brother’s back and gave him a hearty dude hug.
“I worried coming back to the city would be a shitty move,” he confessed. “But I gotta tell you, man. So far? Best decision I’ve made in a long time.”
“I’m glad, Ryan. Traipsing around the world is your job ... I know that. But I’ve missed you.”
“Likewise, brother. I know you have to get back to the office, but I need to ask. Have you invited Samantha to mom’s dinner get-together?”
John groaned and made a pained face. “No. And I’m totally gonna eat it on this one ’cause Jen made a dinner reservation for Friday night too.”
“What the hell for?”
He rolled a shoulder. “It was her way of keeping me focused while she’s gone. I guess she thought a week was enough time to find my balls, man up, and ask for a real date.”
“Oh,” Ryan muttered. “I see. And then Mom ups the ante with a command performance. Can I help?”
The pithy sneer his brother gave made Ryan jolt.
“Help? Dude! Save yourself first! Have you asked Jen to this little soiree?”
Yeah ... and then there was that.
“I might have mentioned it before she went off radar.”
“Did she agree?”
The astonishment in his brother’s voice didn’t offer much confidence. Ryan shrugged.
“Yeah, uh ... that remains to be seen.”
“And how do you plan to contact her, Sherlock? She won’t answer her phone or check her email.”
He scoffed. “I’m going to knock on her door, of course.”
John started. “You know where she lives?”
“Well, yeah. Don’t you remember? After the museum, you took off, and we shared a car ride.” What in the fucking hell was going on in John’s mind? “What am I missing?”
“Nothing, nothing,” John said although he was acting like someone on a covert mission. “I should go. Give me a call later and maybe we can grab dinner.”
“What’s Samantha up to tonight?”
“If that’s your way of asking for an update, here it is. School nights are all about Chelsea. We message after the kid goes to bed. I send a car to drive her to work in the morning. She resists, and I persist per Jen’s guidance. She had lunch with me yesterday, and we sort of discussed doing something this weekend with Chelsea. Not having much luck taking it to the next level where it’s just her and me. So the easiest answer to your inquiry is that I’m a ball-less wonder and can’t seem to find my way home.”
They shook hands. “Well put, Mr. Lloyd.”
John chuckled. “What do the kids say? Fuck my life? Yeah. That.”
Ryan waved him off with a short laugh. John was changing, and he really was glad. Acknowledging that their dad’s death and John being suddenly thrust into the CEO’s seat had effectively shut his brother’s whole life down, he did the math and grunted. It only took eighteen years.
It worked for Ryan because he believed that at the end of the day—it was never too late.
Jen marched with an empty mug, her footsteps on the hardwoods in the high Wellie boots sounding like a seal slapping along as she headed from the terrace into the black and white tile kitchen.
“Need more coffee,” she griped. Someone needed to invent the coffee hose. Some sort of nozzle thingy she could hook to the coffeemaker and haul around the apartment with her. Save her the trouble of the constant back and forth.
She started a fresh pot of her latest Trader Joe’s obsession—medium roast blend from Kenya—and washed the dishes in the sink while she waited. The rest of her place might qualify as a bombsite, but that didn’t mean her kitchen and bathrooms weren’t hospital clean. She had to draw the line someplace.
Wiping her hands on a kitchen towel, she turned around and leaned against the counter. The first thing her eyes fell on was her phone connected to a charger and shoved out of the way on the counter.
Every single damn day, she struggled against the growing impulse to check in. Her problem was deciding who she’d check in with.
She could pretend her only thought was of John, but she’d be lying so badly her nose was sure to grow several inches.
It was that scruffy beast Ryan Lloyd and his simmering sexuality that had her thong in a knot.
“Simmering sexuality,” she murmured aloud. “Oh, my god. What’s happening to me?”
The enticing aroma of the roasted blend filled the small kitchen. It was easy to admit with a hallelujah-style chorus that she had a thing for coffee. Hot, iced, leftover, reheated, flavored, frozen—it was all good. In fact, if picked apart, it was clear from appearances that after college, her only substantial relationship had been with old Joe.
Good ol’ Joe. He didn’t care which wardrobe she grabbed from or whether her hair was up or down. Coffee was a uniter, not a divider—men, women, heck, even dogs loved coffee.
Dogs? How did she know dogs liked coffee?
Jen chuckled.
Because she’d seen it on Instagram—her other guilty pleasure.
Speaking of which, she poured a liberal stream of the piping hot brew into her gigantic mug and eyed her cell phone. The digital card for h
er camera was jammed with the pictures she’d been snapping of her new project, and that was great, but if she wanted to get something up on her Instagram, she’d either need to upload the pics to her computer and go from there, or…
She lifted the mug and took a feeble sip so as not to scorch her lips or tongue. Ah, that first mouthful of fresh brew!
The stupid cell phone continued to taunt her.
Another sip, this one bigger, warmed her as it slid down her throat.
Shit.
Jen put the mug down with a thud and snatched the damn phone off the charger. She dismissed the warning scold from her mind. She could turn it on, access the camera, shoot a few pics, and get them up on Instagram—all without checking her email or texts. Or she could trample all over her written-in-stone requirement that separated work and her personal life. The choice was all hers.
Did she want to know?
Know what? her conscience muttered. Whether the cute boy with the quirky outlook on life had sent her a note.
She sniggered. It wasn’t just about John anymore. Yeah, she was fully invested in adding another heart to her cupid tally board, but the tree hugger with the mesmerizing blue eyes who invaded her thoughts and dreams was what led Jen to consider breaking the rules.
Bending from the waist, she shook her messy hair then gathered it into a tangled tail as she straightened. The coffee combined with the morning’s exertions had made her overheat. Twisting the tail into a tight knot, she tucked in the wispy strands and got back to business.
Tucking in her grimy t-shirt seemed like overkill, so she brushed it off, slid the phone into her pocket, grabbed the mug, and slap, slap, slapped her way from the kitchen and back outside.
The second Jen stepped through the wide, glass-paned French doors onto the L-shaped terrace, she remembered why she loved this place. It was the reason she’d survived living in the city.
The Carltons were a family of pioneers, explorers, entrepreneurs, and daredevils. All were colorful characters.
During the early 1900’s, her great-grandparents made the jump from farm to city and opened a general store. This apartment had been used by them and their descendants ever since. The unusual corner apartment on the top of a three-story Beaux Arts-style building included a wide, private terrace on two sides of the building large enough to accommodate a rooftop greenhouse and an extensive garden.
Her parents had lived here in the early days of their marriage while Mom finished medical school. And her older brother, Dave, took up residence for nearly a decade during his urban warrior phase. Now he owned a ranch-style house in Tennessee where he ran a horse farm.
A horse farm, go figure.
But she wasn’t an explorer, a pioneer, or an entrepreneur. She was just Jen with a business degree. Her choices were limited to struggling small town job markets or life in a sprawling metropolis.
Dubbed Carlton Manor by her irreverent family, the turn-of-the-century luxury apartment made the decision to be a city dweller a foregone conclusion. And the rent was reasonable—hashtag giggle-snort.
The terrace was her escape from the day-to-day grind. Her earliest memories were of gardening with her grandmother, which led to her love of natural things and a green thumb others were jealous of. If she wanted to, Jen could have supplied the reception area at Lloyd with a weekly arrangement, no problem.
But her green thumb and inner slob were none of Lloyd Global’s business.
In the greenhouse, Jen smiled. She took a glorious mouthful of coffee and then set the mug down to reach for her phone.
An entire side of the greenhouse held tiered shelves for her collection of orchids. Aiming her camera, she zoomed in on a bloom called Barbara Belle and took several shots at different angles.
For a moment, the lemony scent from a yellow hybrid named Golden Elf surrounded her, and then the stronger aroma from the Lady of the Night flowers overtook her senses.
“Everyone looks beautiful today,” she told the plants. Spritzing a few of the blooms, Jen tended to her scent garden and hummed as she worked.
Checking the snapshots, she found one that was perfect and started an Instagram post.
“Look who was ready for her close-up,” she mumbled while typing. Quickly adding a few hashtags about gardening, she reviewed the post, found no errors, and pressed share.
Jen slid the phone into her bra, took the mug, and left the greenhouse. Should it concern her that with every slapping step she took in her Wellies a battle raged inside?
She really, really, really wanted to troll Ryan and see what he was up to.
Ugh.
Back at her work station on the terrace, she ditched the phone, grabbed a spade, and turned her attention to the landscaping design she’d meticulously researched and designed. When she was finished, the terrace garden would look and feel like a natural oasis in the midst of a busy city.
She checked her watch—still a few hours before the nursery would deliver the trees she planned to put in concrete planters. A crepe myrtle for color, a birch tree, and a small flowering dogwood were just what she needed to create her private sanctuary.
A bead of sweat tickled the channel of skin in the center of John’s back. He stretched one leg out and then changed his mind, but sitting straighter meant the sun shone directly in his eyes.
This was a joke, right?
Samantha reached for the vintage teapot he’d picked up at a local antique store and poured steaming liquid into his cup. “It’s called Lady Grey tea. Think of it as a cousin to Earl Grey but with different highlights and undertones.”
John moved heaven and earth to create a spot on the terrace where he and Samantha could have tea. She’d been delighted by his efforts and attention to detail. Watching her so effortlessly assume the hostess role as she poured their tea reminded John that she was the catch—not him.
He cleared his throat, knowing it was time to make his case. The one where his tea companion would come to see what a great parent he’d be.
Was he jumping the gun? Probably. But things were in motion that he simply had no choice but to deal with, so no time like the present.
His plan was simple. Though he’d much rather enjoy a quiet dinner with Samantha at Mama Rosa’s, his mother’s demand that he and Ryan turn up with their presumed significant others had put him and his brother in a tight spot.
Plus, he had no doubt that Samantha would not react favorably to being trotted out on an inspection tour when their relationship was still wet behind the ears.
Unless, of course, he managed to sweep the sexy single mom off her feet with a display of his parenting potential that he convinced himself was beyond awesome.
Once she fully understood what he brought to the picture, John was sure things would be smooth sailing with nothing but clear skies ahead.
He watched her take a small sip of the tea. The way she held the fancy cup looked completely natural.
She smiled into his eyes.
No time like the present.
“Chelsea has a brilliant mind.” He winced oh-so-slightly at the high-handed tone he used.
Samantha half laughed, half scoffed. “She’s seven. Her interests change almost daily.”
He chuckled at the dry, unamused expression she gave him.
“This year, it’s space travel, dinosaurs, and robots.” She gave a little shrug. “Next year, it could be tutus, leotards, and ballet slippers. You just never know.”
He plowed ahead without stopping to consider what Samantha was trying to tell him.
“I pulled a few heavy-duty strings and got Chelsea a spot in a special session at NASA’s Space Camp.”
Samantha’s teacup hit the saucer and rattled slightly. “Say what?”
“Space Camp,” he crowed with self-satisfaction. “It’s in Alabama. Typically, the seven-year-olds only participate in the family camp activities, but I figured since she’s beyond the kiddie stuff, a shot at a real training session would be better.”
“You f
igured, did you?”
Pleased with himself, he launched into the Space Camp commercial. Sam wasn’t saying anything, but he assumed that was because she was so blown away.
It felt good to be so awesome.
“Had to negotiate because nine is the youngest they usually accept, but they made an exception for me.”
His chest puffed up, and he laid on a big, pleased-with-himself grin.
“So one of the astronaut recruits will be her buddy. A female,” he assured her.
Assuming her shocked expression was one of delight, John enthusiastically blurted out the entire scenario he’d created in his mind and explained the favors called in and the billionaire swagger he ended up laying down to pull off the whole thing.
Absently spooning sugar into his teacup, he struggled to appear natural with the tiny, ornate implement in his big hand. He felt like a giant in a dollhouse.
Gulping a mouthful of tea, he enjoyed the overly sweet brew as it washed his tongue and slid down John’s throat. Not bad, he thought. Subtle but nice.
He observed his ginormous hand place the delicate teacup on its saucer and almost gave a victory hoot when the landing was successful. Things were going well!
“John,” Samantha prompted. “What are you doing?”
Her tone sent his eyes to her face. She looked different somehow. Something about the way she held herself didn’t seem right. Her white-knuckled grip on the arms of her seat was a warning sign, but still thinking he was in the home stretch, he said the words running around in his head.
“Chelsea doesn’t have a dad.”
“I’m aware of this, John,” she hissed.
Ready to accept congratulations for his good-guy thinking, he reached for Sam’s hand, squeezed, and started to explain what a great father he’d be when she suddenly stood.
“I’m out,” she spat.
Whoa, what? “Sam?”
The glare she shot his way landed squarely on his heart.
Without another word or sound, she stomped away.
The unfortunate two or three minutes of head start that Sam got while he sat there stunned meant he would end up following after her like a lost puppy.
Enduring (Family Justice Book 8) Page 56