Red Hot Rival

by Cat Carmine

  It was a lie, of course. I was sick, but it wasn’t with a cold. This kind of sickness can’t be cured with sleep and a hot toddy. Believe me, I’ve tried. This kind of sickness takes time — nothing else will heal the pain of a broken heart but time.

  And time passes much more quickly when you keep yourself busy.

  That’s why I’ve finally started tackling the townhouse. Boxing up a few of Dad’s things, organizing the kitchen cupboards, calling storage facilities to figure out if maybe I can store some of the insane amounts of furniture Dad collected. I’ve got no idea what I’m going to do with it long-term, but maybe getting it out of the house temporarily will open up the space a little and give me some breathing room to figure it out.

  The one area of the house I’ve been avoiding is Dad’s office. I haven’t attempted to tackle that room since the night a few weeks after he died, when I’d started to go through his things and ended up sobbing over a pair of his old reading glasses.

  Actually, I think with a start, that was the same night that I went to the Design Times anniversary party. The same night I met Luke.

  Well, I’ve put it off long enough. I ease the door of the office open and flick on the light. Dust motes swirl in the air, just from the current caused by opening the door, and I curse myself for putting this off for so long.

  Just one more reason that it’s good to no longer be so distracted.

  I step across the plush carpet and over to the desk. Everything is as it was last time I was in here. The closed laptop. The stacks of papers from the lawyer’s office. Those damn reading glasses.

  I slip into the seat behind the desk, then lean back and look around the office objectively. I don’t need two desks. I definitely don’t need three chairs. And why on earth are there so many lamps?

  I start inventorying what I might be able to put in storage. Who knows? Maybe I can actually turn this into a useable office again. If I’m going to be devoting all my free time to Bailey Living, that means I need a place to do it, and this is as good as any.

  I root around the desk for a piece of scrap paper so I can start to make a list of what can go, when I see the envelope from the lawyer’s office.

  “Ugh.” I know I should have gone through this ages ago, but looking at property deeds and bank records is the last thing I’ve wanted to do.

  I pick up the envelope and a sneezing fit overtakes me. I shake the dust off the envelope.

  Clearly, I’ve been putting this off long enough.

  I slide the sheaf of papers out of the stiff yellow envelope and start to thumb through them. A single sheet of paper flutters off the pile and into my lap.

  I gasp. I’d recognize Dad’s handwriting anywhere. I pick the page up carefully and realize it’s a letter.

  A letter to me.

  A letter that’s been sitting here for months, without my knowledge.

  I choke back a sob.

  “Oh, Dad…”

  I lean back in my chair. With shaking hands, I hold the letter and begin to read.

  My dear Bree,

  If you’re reading this letter, that means I’m already gone. I don’t know how well I’ll be when we see each other, so in case I didn’t get a chance to say it, let me say now that I love you so much. More than words can say, really. I’ve loved you since the day you were born, when the doctor put you in my arms and I caught my first glimpse of that shock of bright red hair.

  You were a wonderful little girl. So bright and spirited and curious about everything. And you’ve grown into an even more amazing woman. I’m so proud of everything you’ve accomplished and I know you’re going to go on to do even more great things throughout your whole life.

  So if I didn’t say those things to you before I died, please know that I wanted to, and that if time were on my side, I would have.

  I’m sure my lawyer has spoken to you about the terms of your inheritance, but I wanted to mention a few things to you in particular, as I’m sure you will be overwhelmed by everything and translating Gil’s “legalese” is not something you should have to deal with right now.

  So first:

  I have left you the brownstone and everything in it. There is very little of sentimental value there — or, I suppose I should say, there is a great deal that is of sentimental value to me, but I don’t expect you to hold on to. The wingback chair in the office, the one with the forest green leather — that was the first piece of furniture we ever sold at Bailey Living, so I would hope you might hold on to that, but everything else can go.

  As well, I have a small collection of your mother’s old jewelry in the nightstand beside my bed. Just some necklaces and a few pairs of earrings. I’d like you to have them. I’ve removed everything from the nightstand that a father would not want his daughter to see ... I’ll let you decide for yourself whether I’m joking or not.

  Everything else in the house can go. I’m completely serious — don’t hang on to these things, Bree, under some misguided notion that they’ll make you feel closer to me. Too many things can weigh you down. That’s what I’ve learned in life, if it can be said that I learned anything at all — the best things in life aren’t things.

  An ironic observation from someone who made his living selling things, I suppose.

  Which brings me to Bailey Living. I’ve already begun laying the groundwork to sell the company. I know that Rich would like me to let him run the place, and I did consider it, but I have never felt that his vision was completely aligned with mine and the last thing I want is for the company I built to end up tarnished by poor decision-making. No, I think it would be better to go out on a positive note, at a time and in a manner of my choosing.

  This will come as a surprise to you, I’m sure, but I’ve reached out to Trent Whittaker from Loft & Barn to see if they may have any interest in acquiring the company.

  I know you might think this is crazy, but I’ve been watching them come up through the industry over the years and, to be honest, they remind me a little of me when I was getting started. They have a passion for this industry — the same passion I once had — and most of all, they care about quality and customer experience. If I have to think about entrusting Bailey Living to someone, I’d like it to be someone who shares my values. I think you would like both of the Whittaker brothers — especially Luke. He has a sense of humor that often reminds me of you.

  Of course, you may wonder why I don’t turn the company over to you — well, my dear Bree, the answer is simple:

  Because you don’t love it.

  I don’t say that disparagingly or with any disappointment. I say it because it’s the truth. I had a passion for furniture and you have a passion for clothing. I may not understand the difference between tulle and toile but I understand the way your eyes light up when you talk about your business, and that’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted for you. I want your heart to light up the way mine has all these years. I know that Bailey Living won’t do that for you, and I want you to be free to pursue the things that will.

  I will make every effort to have this business taken care of before my passing, but I apologize in advance if you are stuck running things for a little while in the interim. And if, God forbid, I should not be able to get things as far along as I would like, I want you to continue those efforts to sell the company.

  I mean it, Bree. I don’t want you to torture yourself, trying to run things in my absence. And don’t listen to Rich either — he will most certainly be against the sale, but you needn’t take his opinion under consideration. Rich is good at many things, but vision isn’t one of them.

  I believe those are the main things — the house and the business. Everything else I will trust you to do or handle as you see fit.

  I wish there was more I could say to you, Bree, but I’ve never been good with words. I’m good with numbers, and with spreadsheets, and with making tough decisions. Matters of the heart have always been another thing entirely. And of all the matters of my heart, you, my d
arling daughter, are the greatest of all. No words (or numbers) will ever allow me to express the joy that you have brought to my life, the pride I have felt in watching you grow, and the absolute and unconditional love I have felt for you since the day you were born. You are my daughter, my heart, my life, and my light. You are my legacy, and my final sleep can be peaceful knowing that the world is a better place with you in it.

  Yours in eternal love,

  Dad

  By the time I’m done reading the letter, I can barely see. Tears are flowing down my cheeks, pooling in the hollow of my collar bone, and I’m a soggy, snotty, red-faced mess. I root around for a tissue and blow my nose. I dab at my eyes, take a few deep breaths, and read the letter again.

  It makes me cry just as much the second time around. My heart is a swirling ball of emotion, and it hammers wildly in my chest like it’s rattling a cage. I couldn’t have asked for a nicer goodbye, and knowing Dad loved me so much fills me with such a sense of warmth and comfort that I can barely stand it.

  But it’s his other words that are really throwing me for a loop. He wanted to sell the company? And to the Whittakers, of all people? It’s surreal.

  Luke’s face flashes through my mind, and my heart seizes for a second, stopping its mad clattering. Luke.

  It was almost like Dad knew somehow. He couldn’t have, of course, but ... I read his words again and shake my head.

  Well, he was wrong about one thing at least. I’m way funnier than Luke.

  I set the letter down on the coffee table and look around the apartment. It’s stuffed to the gills with Dad’s furniture and my racks of clothing. I try to picture what it would look like empty, all ready for a new family to move in.

  That sets off a fresh wave of tears, and I realize I’m not ready to start thinking about that yet.

  I get up and walk to the bathroom, where I splash cold water on my face. I look up in the mirror and have to laugh — I look absolutely terrible. My face is blotchy from crying, my eyes are bloodshot, and my hair has that sexy not-washed-in-five-days sheen. There’s nothing to be done about it now, though, so instead I go back into the office, where I read the letter through another time. I have a feeling I’m going to be doing that a lot over the next few days.

  Part of me wants to call Luke, and I almost do. After all, this could solve all of our problems. The phone is already in my hand and I stare down at it, as if might be able to offer some answers.

  For once, it actually does.

  I realize I can’t call Luke. This is a business decision, one made by Dad before he died. I don’t want Luke to think I’m doing this for the wrong reasons or that I’m taking the easy way out.

  So I won’t call him.

  I scroll through my contacts until I find the one I’m looking for, then hit the dial button.

  It rings only twice before it connects.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Hannah? This is Bree. Bree Bailey.”

  “Bree! Hi! How are you?”

  “I’m good, thanks.” I take a deep breath. “Look, this is going to sound a bit weird but ... can I talk to your husband?”

  33

  Luke

  I fasten the silver cufflink onto the sleeve of my white tuxedo shirt. I immediately get a flashback to the last time I attempted to wear cufflinks and ended up dropping one of them into the toilet. That was the night of the Design Times anniversary party. The night I met Bree.

  At least this time, it’s going a little more smoothly. And if all goes well, this should be the last damn time I have to wear cufflinks for quite some time.

  Tonight is the final fundraising gala for Trinity Central Hospital, and Trent is coming back to work in a week. I plan to spend the foreseeable future wearing nothing but jeans and flannel. I might even wear it to Jace and Celia’s wedding.

  Well, okay, I guess I’ll bust out the cufflinks again for that. But not a moment before.

  Once I’m dressed, I head into the kitchen and grab a beer. I wander around the apartment as I drink, looking at all the rooms I’ll never again need to be in. Because once Trent comes back to work, I’ll also finally be able to move full-time back to my own house. No more crashing in his city pad.

  Just the thought of being back home fills me with satisfaction. My own space, my own things. Easy access to my workshop whenever I get the urge.

  Of course, my workshop reminds me of her now. Bree. Will I ever be able to use it again without seeing her there, humming away while she sews? Maybe once I finally get rid of all her things. I’ll have to figure out what to do with them at some point. Not exactly looking forward to that. Maybe I can get Hannah to drop them off to her.

  I finish the beer and debate pulling out a second one, until I realize I’m just putting off the inevitable. I don’t want to go to this fundraiser, because I know she’ll be there. We’ve both done a couple of events recently, but, with some courteous back and forth emailing, we’ve managed to miss each other completely. There’s no avoiding this one though — it’s the big final gala, and we’re both expected to be there. Even though I fully expect it to suck, I know neither one of us wants to let down Tomas.

  I toss my bottle in the recycling bin and readjust my bow tie.

  Might as well get this over with.

  When I get to the Grand Windsor Hotel, the first thing I do is scan the room for Bree, but I don’t see any sign of her yet. The second thing I do is start making my way over to the bar — after all, a glass of scotch or four will make this evening go down easier.

  Before I can make it though, Tomas catches up with me.

  “Luke, so nice to see you.”

  “Of course. Nice tie.” Tomas looks sharp in a slim cut tux with a hot pink bow tie and matching cummerbund. It’s not my look, but hey, if you can pull it off …

  “Oh, thank you,” he chuckles. “Let me walk you through the way the evening is going to go.”

  He leads me back out into the east lobby area, where we had done photos last time. This time there’s a podium set up, with a microphone and a backdrop that blasts the hospital and fundraiser logos.

  “We’ll break at nine o’clock for the press conference portion of the evening,” Tomas explains. “That’s when we’ll announce the winners of the design competition, and then of course, of the homes themselves. That’s what people are really here to find out.”

  “Of course. That sounds good.”

  “We’d like our sponsors to be present for the entire event. Have you and Bree decided how you’ll present the winner of the design challenge?”

  I nod. “Bree’s going to do it.” That was another thing we’d worked out over email. I know she’s been eager to get the publicity for Bailey Living, so I don’t mind letting her be the one to announce the winner. She deserves to get to do it.

  “Perfect.” He glances down at his watch. “She isn’t here yet but I expect her any moment. I chatted with her and Trent earlier today and they’re both very excited.”

  “Trent?” I furrow my brow. “You were talking to Trent?”

  Tomas looks stricken. “Oh. I mean… nothing.”

  He scurries away like his tail is on fire and I stare off after him. Why would he be talking to my brother? I know Trent is slowly easing himself back into the CEO role, but I thought we’d agreed that there was no problem with me finishing up the work on the fundraiser.

  I shake my head. No point in worrying about it. If Trent wants to run this, he can run it. I’m not in the mood to fight about it.

  With Tomas gone, I finally make my way over to the bar and order a scotch, neat. I’ve just taken my first sip when something tells me to turn around. A buzzing at the back of my neck.

  I turn slowly. Somehow I already know what I’ll see. It seems inevitable.

  Bree.

  Like the first night I met her, she’s wearing a green dress. This one is floor-length, with a high neck. There’s some kind of jeweled beadwork across the bodice, and even from here, I can see how s
he sparkles under the light of the chandeliers.

  Luminescent. The word comes to me again, just as it did the first night. She’s absolutely fucking luminescent.

  Her long red hair is pulled up in some kind of intricate twist, and her mouth is open as she laughs enthusiastically about something. I look to see who she’s talking to, what bastard is making her so happy.

  But when I see who it is, I do a double-take.

  That bastard is my brother.

  I down my scotch and slide off the bar stool. I pick my way through the crowd, laser-focused on Bree and Trent. As far as I know, they don’t even know each other, but now they’re laughing together like two little school girls, and I want to know what the fuck is going on.

  But just as I arrive, Tomas sweeps in. He whispers something to Bree, and then leads her out of the room into the lobby. Right before my fucking eyes, she disappears again.

  I turn to Trent instead. “What are you doing here?”

  “Well, hello to you too.”

  “I’m not joking. What are you doing here?”

  He grins. There’s a note of smugness to it. “Just wanted to come out and support Tomas. I have a lot of history with this fundraiser, as you know.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” We Whittaker brothers have a strong bullshit detector when it comes to each other, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’s not telling me the truth. At least not the whole truth.

  Trent has one hand in his pocket and a grin on his face that reminds me of … well, how he always used to be at work. At home with Hannah, he always seems deliriously happy, but he seems humble too, like he can’t quite believe he got that lucky and he wants to make damn sure he doesn’t fuck it up. At work, he’s always been different — more arrogant, more confident. Like he’s got the answer to everything and will crush anyone who tries to tell him otherwise.

  I narrow my eyes at him. “What’s going on?”