One Night with Him

by Sienna Ciles

  I nodded and headed over to the table to get the car keys and the money, wondering just what I'd gotten myself into . . .

  Chapter 4

  Jax

  I stared out of the window of the limo, watching the world go by as we drove through the streets of San Jose.

  “How are your mother and your father?” asked Cara.

  “They're good, Aunt Cara. Dad just got over that cancer scare—luckily the tumor turned out to be benign—and Mom, well she's the same. Soldiering on, you know. She's taken up power walking and mountain biking to try to stay fit. And there are plenty of great trails for walking and biking in upstate New York, as you know.”

  Cara nodded, clasping her liver-spotted hands together.

  “And when did you last go out there to visit them?”

  “Around six months ago,” I said, looking away as I felt a flush of guilt heat up my cheeks.

  “Six months! You should see them more often than that, Ernest. It's not as if you're a poor, struggling software engineer who just started a fledgling company out here anymore! No, from everything I've read you're doing very, very well, especially since Quickchat has just exploded across the country—and the world—like it has. It's not as if you're hurting for cash, my boy. And while your parents may seem like they're not that old, they won't be around forever. And you'll miss them when they're gone. My, my, I can't believe my niece is sixty-six years old now.”

  The niece she was talking about was, of course, my mother.

  “I know, I know,” I said, still feeling guilty. “You're right, I can easily afford to go out there and visit them, it's not a question of money at all, it's about time. I'm so busy with the company, Pete and I—”

  “When are you going to ditch that boy? Pay him off and cut the deadweight off. He's holding you back,” she said sharply.

  Her bluntness took me by surprise.

  “Whoa, wait a second Aunt Cara, hold up, hold up, I can't—and I won't—ditch Pete. He's been my best friend since I was twelve years old, and he did a heck of a lot of work on Quickchat. Without him, there wouldn't be anything called Quickchat. And he's helping me out with some essential upgrades to the program, and—”

  “He has the wrong attitude. He's too laid-back, too easy-going. He can't make a hard decision when a hard decision has to be made. He can't be ruthless. He doesn't have it in him. And I promise you, Ernest, when your company goes public, things are going to change. Things are really going to change. Trust me, I know all about it. I know, I know, before you say it, my company went public in the late '80s, back when you were only a little baby, and things are different now. But trust me when I say that I've been there and done that. Remember, Ernest, that I've had large shares in other companies that have undergone the same transformation in much more recent times. I'm up to date with it all, and I've seen it all, and been through it all. You need my advice, and I hope you appreciate the fact that I'm even willing to give you advice. You are my darling niece's child, but that doesn't mean I owe you a dime or a nickel or a spare minute of my time. Remember that. I'm doing this for you out of my own generosity, not because I owe you anything—and I dare say, I hope that you appreciate what I'm doing for you.”

  “I do Aunt Cara, I really do, please, trust me on that. I just . . . Can we just leave the Pete issue alone for a while and talk about something else?”

  She stared at me, her blue eyes cold, magnified to a huge size by the thick coke-bottle lenses of her glasses.

  “Very well, we'll ignore the Pete issue for now, but sweeping problems under the rug never makes them go away, Ernest. In fact, it allows them to fester, and grow even more poisonous and rotten. And if that rot is allowed to reach the core of the company, it could spread like a plague and corrupt everything. Mark my words, you're on the cusp of true greatness here, you really are, there's no denying that. But if you go in the wrong direction, you'll slip, and you'll fall all the way into obscurity. I've seen it happen, many times.”

  I nodded.

  “I'll think about the Pete issue, all right?”

  “You'd better.”

  We pulled up to the huge wrought iron gates of her mansion and waited as they swung silently open. The limo then drove up the winding driveway and parked outside the palatial veranda at the entrance to the massive mansion in which she lived. The driver, with his smart uniform and white gloves, rushed out and hurried over to open the door on my aunt's side, and helped her out. I, meanwhile, was left to get out on my own.

  We walked up to the huge doors, which swung open as if by magic as we reached them. I saw a wide-range retina scanner mounted discreetly on the wall next to the doors; it appeared that despite her advanced age, my aunt was on top of current tech trends, at least regarding security.

  I walked into the marble-floored lobby, replete with tasteful modern art sculptures, paintings, and well-kept plants.

  “This way, Ernest,” she said, veering off to the right.

  We entered a huge, brightly lit room with floor-to-ceiling windows all around, giving a fantastic view out over the town. There was a grand piano, pearly white, and more art. On a brand-new designer sofa, a young man, dressed impeccably in what looked like an Armani suit, was sitting reading the latest copy of Forbes magazine.

  He saw us walking in and smiled warmly at my aunt, but for me he had a different look—one of cool judgment, as if carefully sizing me up.

  He was a good-looking man, I had to admit that. Stylishly cut blond hair was slicked back over his scalp and buzzed short at the sides, and he had a goatee of meticulously trimmed stubble. Deep-set green eyes sat beneath straight, thick eyebrows, and between these was a long, handsome nose.

  “Mrs. Smoot, it's good to see you,” he said, his voice smooth and his attitude that of a slick charmer. “You look like you've just had a wonderful afternoon out.”

  She beamed a warm smile at him.

  “Thank you, Chad,” she said. “And I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. My great-nephew here wasn't as punctual as he could have been. We can go and discuss business in my study shortly. I suppose I'd better introduce you two though. Chad, this is my great-nephew Ernest J. Cooper IV. Ernest, this is a new business partner of mine, Chad Burton.”

  Chad walked over to me, an unmistakable gait of arrogance and overconfidence in his stride, smiling smugly all the while. I extended a hand to him, which he gripped, and then tried to crush in his hand. I returned the favor, and he almost yelped. I could see surprise and shock flash across his face as he felt the raw strength of my grip.

  We each held the grip for a few moments before letting go, testing each other out.

  “You've got decent grip strength there, Ernest,” he said to me, smiling strangely. “Not too bad.”

  “I do Brazilian Jiu Jitsu,” I said. “You need good grip strength for effective grappling.”

  “Oh, I know,” he said casually. “I'm a black belt in BJJ. I was the Californian champion for a year, actually.”

  “Really?” I said, unable to hide the skepticism in my voice. “It's kind of . . . weird that I haven't heard of you.”

  He chuckled and almost looked as if I had called him out.

  “Well, it was a few years ago,” he mumbled. “And anyway, I now do a new sport that takes a lot more balls. I just couldn't get the kicks, the rush I needed from BJJ. It was getting too easy to defeat my opponents, and I have to have a challenge.”

  “Oh really, huh. You could just, like, beat anyone who stepped into the ring with you, could you?”

  “Yeah, I could, actually.”

  I nodded. He could see that I didn't believe him, but he shrugged this off with a smirk and a cool sneer.

  “So, what is that you do now that takes 'so much more balls' than BJJ?”

  “Free climbing. You know, rock climbing up vertical cliffs. No safety ropes, nothing. Just you, a bag of chalk, and a cliff to conquer. Now that—that you need grip strength for. When the fingertips of one hand gripping a quarter-inch
lip of rock are all that stand between you and certain death a mile below, you have to have pure faith in your grip strength.”

  “I bet.”

  “Could you two quit jabbering?” asked my aunt, annoyed. “You're wasting my time.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Smoot,” said Chad, putting on an attitude of fake politeness, sneering at me all the while. “Come, let's go have that meeting.”

  “If you'll excuse me, Ernest,” she said, “Chad and I have a few things to discuss—in private. There's a butler who can take care of whatever you need while you wait. We'll be about half an hour. There are plenty of means to amuse yourself in my household, but I'd suggest picking a book on effective finance and management strategies from my library and immersing yourself in it while I'm busy. You have a lot to learn, young man, a lot, before your company goes public. So, don't waste any more of your time or mine. Go on! Busy yourself!”

  She then turned to Chad and beckoned him over.

  “Come on, Mr. Burton,” she said. “We have business to discuss.”

  “Yes, we do, Mrs. Smoot, yes, we do,” he said, walking away and locking me with a mocking stare every step of the way. He was going to be trouble, I knew it. I could feel it in my bones . . . he was going to be trouble.

  Finish reading TAUGHT, now available on Amazon

  Lost and Found

  (A Bad BoyRomance)

  By

  Sienna Ciles

  www.SiennaCiles.com

  Chapter One

  Bethany

  When I saw the sign for the Greenleaf Diner, I knew I needed a break from driving. I needed to stop and get something in my stomach in order to finish up the trip back home. I changed lanes and turned off of the highway at the exit, fighting off the brief flurry of irritable anxiety that I was somehow going to be “late,” even though I didn’t technically have a deadline for getting into town.

  I’d been planning my tactics for my homecoming for weeks--for months, even--ever since I confirmed that I would be going. It might seem silly to put so much stock into a stupid high school reunion, but I wanted to make as much of a splash as possible.

  I yawned as I turned off of the highway and pulled into the parking lot for the diner. It had been years since I’d been this close to my hometown; even for holidays, my parents and I would go to my grandparents’ place, or to my aunts’ and uncles’ houses. I found a parking spot--not hard, so late at night--and turned off the engine to my car. Closing my eyes, I rested my head on the seat.

  I’d worked up to the last possible moment, making sure that everything at the office was taken care of so that I would be able to hit the ground running when I got back in a few days. I’d made sure to pack my laptop, my charger, and my work phone--just in case. If something happened at the agency, I would need to be in contact, and if I had some spare time during the trip, I planned on at least looking over paperwork and reading a few emails, so I’d be as prepared as possible when I got back.

  The fact was, as pathetic as it was to admit it, I was as close as a human being could come to being addicted to work. I tried to tell myself at first that it was because I was doing something that I loved and it was because I was doing Important Work, but the truth was--as I realized a few months before the reunion announcement--that I really didn’t have anything else going on in my life.

  I opened my eyes and rubbed at my face before making myself get out of the car. “A cup of coffee, and something to eat, and then I’ll get back on the road and get to the house,” I told myself, even as I locked the car up behind me and crunched on the icy-cold asphalt of the parking lot. My parents’ home would be abandoned because my parents were spending the winter in Italy, and they’d given me the keys to the house when I’d told them I was going to my high school reunion.

  The door to the diner creaked on its hinges in a welcoming, homey kind of way when I opened it, and a gust of hot air, full of the scents of cooking meat, hot oil, and frying starch blew against my face. This was definitely a warmer welcome than I would have gotten at my parents’ house, and my stomach lurched in my body, reminding me that I’d started feeling hungry about thirty minutes ago.

  I stepped into the diner and let the door shut behind me. The place was decorated with old, classic photos and knickknacks. At just before midnight, it wasn’t that busy; there were maybe three people seated at the tables, and a guy sitting at one end of the bar, hunched over the counter with his back to me. I spotted a couple of waitresses moving around, and the cook behind the counter, working away.

  “Come on in, honey--it’s raw out there,” one of the waitresses said. I had to agree with her; it hadn’t been so cold when I’d left the city after work, but as soon as the sun had gone down, it had gotten colder and colder. According to my Prius, it was thirty-five degrees outside, and the weather forecast stated that it would get even colder, dipping below freezing overnight.

  I sat at the bar and one of the waitresses brought me a menu, giving me a quick smile and telling me to take my time as she poured me a glass of water. “I definitely want a nice, big cup of coffee, if nothing else,” I told her, and she nodded.

  “I’ll bring you a pot, how about that? Maybe some hot chocolate, too? On the house,” she said quickly.

  I smiled up at her.

  “You’re just trying to make it look like you’re not giving our Casanova here special treatment,” one of the other waitresses called out from behind the counter, where she was doing something to the register.

  “No, I’m just a nice person all around,” my waitress countered. Casanova? I looked around the diner to try and figure out who they could possibly be talking about. The booth across the dining room had an old man seated at it with one of his buddies, both of them reading newspapers over cups of coffee and the remains of some kind of deep-fried feast. Clearly not them--or at least, I was pretty sure it wasn’t them. One of the other tables had a few college-age girls seated at it, and obviously it wasn’t them.

  That just left the guy sitting a few seats away from me, hunched over the counter, looking down at his phone. From behind, I wouldn’t have ever called him any kind of Casanova, and even in profile I couldn’t really see the allure at first; he had dark hair combed and slicked into a weird 1950s style, and from the side, his nose looked a bit too big for his face. He was wearing heavy jeans and a thick, dark green hoodie, with worn-down, washed-out boots on his feet and a leather jacket slung over the back of his chair.

  “She’s just jealous, Lucy, don’t pay her any attention,” the guy said, turning to look in our direction, speaking to my waitress.

  Seeing his face, I had to admit he was handsome. His nose wasn’t as big looking at it from the front, and the lean, sharp jawline--speckled with some stubble--balanced it. He had the nicest eyebrows I’d ever seen on a guy, framing big, dark brown eyes, and a smiling, cupid’s bow mouth that had the faintest little twist at the corners like he knew the punchline to a joke he wasn’t telling anyone just yet.

  “Of course I’m jealous; she got to you first,” the other waitress said.

  I had to chuckle at that, and turned my attention back to the menu, listening as the two women continued to banter back and forth about the guy, with him occasionally chiming in. It took longer than I would have believed possible for me to finally decide on something to eat; my waitress brought me coffee and hot chocolate both, and I’d even taken a couple of sips, by the time I figured out what I actually wanted.

  “Made up your mind?” There wasn’t any impatience in the waitress’ voice as she asked me, for which I was grateful.

  “I’ll have the steak and eggs--and can I get some spinach in those? I saw you have a spinach and cheese scramble.”

  “Absolutely--not a problem,” the waitress replied; I watched her scribble some notes on her pad. “Do you want pancakes or french toast with that?”

  “French toast, I think,” I said.

  “Good choice--the pancakes here have always been a little on the dry side,
” the man at the other end of the counter said. I glanced at him and in spite of myself I felt a little rush of heat in my cheeks. Whatever charm he’d already worked on the waitresses at the diner, apparently I wasn’t immune to it, either.

  While the waitresses playfully scolded the handsome stranger, I felt my phone buzzing in my purse. I took it out and checked the flashing screen to see my friend Jess’s name. I figured she was probably worried she hadn’t heard from me yet.

  “Hey,” I said as soon as the line connected. “I’m fine; just got off the road to eat some dinner finally.”

  “How far are you from town?”

  I thought about it for a moment. “About forty minutes, maybe an hour?”

  “Oh--where did you stop off at?”

  “Green Leaf Diner,” I replied.

  “Ah, so yeah, you’re not too far,” Jess agreed. “You ready for the whole shebang?”

  “I’m just about as ready as I’ll ever be,” I said, thinking about the level of planning that I put into something as simple as a high school reunion.

  “I mean, realistically, it’s not like you have to worry that much; you legitimately are one of the most successful people in our graduating class,” Jess pointed out.

  “I know, I know,” I said, sighing. “I just...well, you know.”

  “I know,” Jess agreed. “What about that last detail we talked about?”

  I grinned wryly to myself. “The contingency? That, I had a little bit of trouble trying to arrange,” I admitted. I glanced over at the good-looking stranger still holding down the other end of the bar. “Though there’s a possibility I can take care of it before getting to town.”

  “Do tell,” Jess said.

  “I don’t know for sure. It’s just an idea, anyway. If I can’t stand on my own two feet and make my reputation, I shouldn’t even try, right?”

  “Well, as far as I’m concerned, you shouldn’t try just because there’s no point,” Jess pointed out. “But since you’re determined to be Queen Shit of Turd Mountain, you might as well do it big.”