The Essence of Fate

by Alison E. Steuart

  Jackson returns the fist bump, and his face lights up. “Oh, I don’t know about that, but I do know I’ll enjoy it. This shit’s been boring for the past eight years, at least. It’s like watching the same damn movie over and over again.”

  “Good, since you’re so damn bored, you can head back over to the resort and get with whomever your contact is…something with a T, I think”—I was too focused on Charlotte getting ready to shut the door in my face to remember the name she said—“and figure out the details for Wednesday. Regardless of Charlotte’s cold reception, I still intend to use that conference room. It’s fucking brilliant. I may even have to steal the idea.” It really was spectacular; the whole resort was spectacular. I’ll have to make a point of checking out the rest of it, give myself a personal tour of what Charlotte spends most of her time overseeing. The idea has me suddenly looking forward to it as I have a vision of running into her in the hallway again. This time with a more cordial exchange.

  “You do realize it’s Saturday, right?” Jackson says with a little impatience in his voice.

  “Yes, I do. But the Novas Alturas meeting is Wednesday, and since I changed the venue at the last minute so I could stalk Charlotte, the details need to be ironed out now so any snags can be dealt with,” I say, sitting at my desk and waking up my laptop.

  “And why exactly do you need to send me to work out these details when you have two assistants that could do it for you?” He’s definitely getting annoyed now.

  “Because I trust you more than I trust them.” It’s the truth. I trust Jackson more than I trust anyone, and I know that he will run into Charlotte again—and when he does, he will put in a good word for me.

  Right as he opens the door to leave, I hear him say, “It’s a good thing you pay me more than I’m worth.”

  Five

  Charlotte

  I texted Erika right after I shut the door in Ian’s face, my heart racing as my rage slowly faded to a steady anger that’s still simmering, causing a slight headache. The audacity of this man has me completely shaken.

  Me: OMG! Meet me at Laney’s Cafe, like now!

  Magic Mike just showed up as my impromptu 11:00 appointment!

  * * *

  Erika: WHAT THE FUCK??? Tell me what happened!!

  * * *

  Me: At Laney’s. Hurry!

  * * *

  Erika: UGH!

  Sneaking out the back door of my office so I don’t get ambushed by Ian again, I don’t even bother changing into my Saturday gear. I want to get out of here and go over everything with Erika so we can analyze what happened. I am totally on autopilot right now and am a little freaked out about slapping him in the face. Erika is going to flip!

  Fifteen minutes later, we are walking toward each other in front of Laney’s, our favorite go-to for something casual but healthy. Seeing me, she shuffles faster in a mini-run.

  “Oh my God, Charlotte! I can’t believe he showed up at the resort. Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I think so. Let’s get a table. I have to tell you everything. You are going to freak!” We opt for an inside table in the back corner for privacy and out of fear my mind-warping stalker nemesis will appear out of nowhere again. Sitting down, we both order our usual kale wrap. I contemplate adding some kind of alcoholic beverage to accompany it, but decide against it, saving that for tonight.

  I go through everything, rambling it off to get it out of my head, telling her about my surprise at finding Jackson as my liaison instead of some pissy intern. How his charm and unique presence was disarming, in a good way. “That’s probably why the bastard sent Jackson in first, the old distract-and-attack technique. Well, it worked. Because when he walked into the room, I was so caught off guard and hit with such a rush of adrenaline, I barely remember what I was thinking. It was like a fifty-car pile-up in my head!” My heart rate picks up again as I relive it.

  Erika is so enthralled with every word, her eyes are dilated and she is leaning forward over the table. But, of course, she has to get to the important stuff. “Was he actually as hot as you thought he was yesterday?” She’s dead serious, too.

  Not wanting to disappoint her inner slut, I answer truthfully. “Hotter. And I’m not kidding. I swear to you, the sounds of his footsteps are even hot! How is that possible?” I exclaim, remembering the measured cadence of him walking toward the conference room and the butterflies that swarmed inside me. “But none of that mattered once my mind cleared and reality set in. I saw the look in his eyes and saw his intent, like he was coming to get me, and all I could think about was how humiliated I was yesterday when he arrogantly took over my body, my mind, all sense of dignity…then left me there, sitting in my car like a total idiot wondering what the hell just happened. All the while, picturing him laughing his ass off as he zooms away in his car that costs as much as a house.”

  The waitress interrupts my tirade, putting our plates down in front of us. Once she’s out of earshot, I continue. “I don’t know, Erika, something came over me. Maybe it was pride or just the anger I hadn’t fully let out yet, but in that moment, I decided I wasn’t letting him get the upper hand again. So I turned around and walked out, not giving him a chance to even speak a word to me.” I laugh a little at her expression; she has no idea how good this gets. “Once I was out in the hallway and I wasn’t overwhelmed by his presence, it hit me, hard, that I had been duped…again. I couldn’t believe it. It made me so angry”—I pause, swallowing my emotions—“that when he ran up to me and grabbed onto my arm, asking me to wait, I turned around and slapped the hell out of him.” With a sudden lump in my throat, I put my head down, trying to keep my emotions from bubbling over. Perhaps it’s a letdown from the adrenaline rush, or maybe it’s because I’ve never hit anyone before and it’s honestly not as satisfying as it sounds, or maybe because I hit him and a part of me wishes I could apologize.

  After Erika recovers, she asks, “In the face?” Her voice is high. “You actually slapped him in the face?” I knew she’d be shocked—hell, I’m shocked, and I’m the one who did it. “My God, that’s pretty major. What did he do… What did you do?”

  “He definitely took it like a man. I can’t believe how hard I hit him. It stung my hand so badly, but he barely flinched. Then I told him not to fucking touch me, and the look on his face…ugh, it made me weak for a second. So I turned around, again, and walked away.” In a frustrated voice I add, “I get so flustered and confused around him. I don’t know who I am. I’m not myself! Look at what’s happened with only two encounters. If this shit keeps up, I’m going to have to ask Uncle James if I can manage another resort, like the one in France!”

  With a mouth full of kale wrap, she swallows. “If you do that, I’m coming with you. But in the meantime, we need to analyze what happened.” Shallow Erika is gone, no longer interested in hotness and nipples. Now serious Erika is on the scene, ready to do forensics on this morning’s sneak attack by Ian and his accomplice, Jackson. “First of all, did he ever mention why he was there?”

  “According to him, he turned around and came back to Sommelier’s yesterday, but I was already gone.” Her jaw drops at that little tidbit. “He wanted the opportunity to look me in the eyes and give me a sincere apology. When I asked him why he couldn’t just call or email instead of sneaking up on me and potentially embarrassing me at my place of employment, he said the other options were cowardly and left an opening for me to ignore him.”

  Erika chews on that for a minute. “Hmmm…I’m intrigued. This guy’s got it for you…bad.” Holding up her hand to fend off my argument, she continues. “Ah, ah, ah, not so fast, opposing counsel. Hear me out. You cannot deny that he had the hots for you yesterday. There was way too much fire between you two for it to be something that happens to the guy every other day. There’s just no way. Then, you said his parting words were, ‘You are perfect, but don’t ever lie to me again.’ That statement says it all, Charlotte. I don’t know how we missed it last night!”

 
She’s having a eureka moment, so I let her continue. “He had every intention of seeing you again, and he knew it before he even got out of his car and turned your brain into mashed potatoes. I bet he got your tag number when he was following you, then, once he tasted a sample of what you had to offer, the hook was set. His comment referenced the future, honey. You’re right, he’s smooth and he knew what the hell he was doing.” It’s like she just solved some decades-old mystery, like what the heck ever happened to Amelia Earhart? However, she does have a point. That statement did reference the future. How the hell did I miss that, too? It’s like he’s surrounded by an energy field that scrambles your memory so you can’t remember any details that could incriminate him.

  “Okay. I don’t disagree. So what if he planned on seeing me again? That doesn’t mean I wanted to see him! The arrogant jerk automatically assumes I’m good with that?” I pick up my uneaten wrap, turn it over, and put it back on the plate. More mindless bullshit brought on by Ian Von Kryptonite. “Oh! And did I tell you I know his name now?” I hear the slight hysteria in my voice. “Ian McAlistair. Not McAlister,” I say, emphasizing the er sound. “Like it’s supposed to be, all normal and every-day. No, it’s McAlistair, all sexy and unique with that yummy little flare at the end.” I roll my eyes and play with my wrap some more.

  “Yummy is right,” Erika says in a deep, sultry voice. “Ian, Son of Alistair, that is seriously fucking delicious. You’re doomed, sister.” It’s like she’s thrown in the towel on my fate. I’m not okay with that. Then to rub salt in the wound, she adds, “If he shows up in a kilt next time, I’m out. I simply will not be able to handle that level of hotness.” She leans in to rest her head on one hand, giving me a slow, dreamy-eyed blink.

  “Erika?” Her name comes out slowly as I wave my hands in front of her preoccupied stare. “Team Charlotte, here. I don’t need you telling me I’m doomed then giving me ammunition to conjure up visions of this obnoxiously good-looking man in a kilt like some Scottish hero in a bloody romance novel! I need your advice on how to deflect any more of that shit!” The waitress approaches our table, but makes a quick turnabout at the tone of my voice and, more likely, our ridiculous conversation.

  “Okay, okay, you’re right. I’m sorry. I got distracted when you said his name.” She laughs at herself. “Ian McAlistair…ooohhhh, this just keeps gettin’ better.” Looking up, she sees the impatience on my face, apologizes again, and reluctantly asks, “Is it safe to assume that he did not book the Garden Room for next week’s pornography summit?”

  I throw my head back and laugh. “You should see your face! It’s like you’re scared of my answer!”

  “I am scared of your answer! And I’m scared of your reaction to my reaction to your answer!” She says it so dramatically, the last part flying off her tongue so fast we both have to stop and look at each other, replaying it in our heads to make sure what she said even made sense. As if realizing at the same time that it did, we both burst out laughing again.

  A few minutes later, wiping tears from my eyes, I look up and say on a drawn-out sigh, “Oh, you’re gonna love this one, too. He’s the owner of McAlistair Architecture, Design & Development. Look them up, they’re huge.”

  Her hand hits the table. “Are you kidding me? So not only is he wickedly good-looking, ridiculously rich, and capable of instigating spontaneous nipple orgasms, he’s got brains, too? There is no way. He has to be a playboy that works for his father, Papa McAlistair, who owns the company and is probably terribly unattractive, but because he’s stupid rich, he’s married to a younger, drop-dead gorgeous woman who provided him with a son that isn’t really his, but the spawn of her affair with the local fitness trainer.” She’s on a roll now, and I think we’re starting to annoy the other patrons with our outbursts of laughter.

  “That is some classic stereotyping there, Erika. And you’re probably right. He can’t be that successful. He only looks like he’s in his mid-thirties, max.” We look at each other as the same lightbulb beams over our heads, and we grab our phones to Google him.

  “Holy…everything! Is this him?” She holds her phone up, and I nod in agreement. There he is. It makes my stomach hurt and my hands sweat to see him. I grab her phone and stare at him. Flipping to the next picture, my chest joins in the fun with a deep ache as I see him arm in arm with a gorgeous brunette, dressed to the nines for who-knows-what society function.

  Quickly handing her phone back, I return to mine and continue my perusal of his company’s website. “No luck here. He’s named as the Founder and CEO. Evidently, there is no unattractive Papa McAlistair to pin all the success and praise upon.” Crestfallen, I set my phone down. “That was a bad idea. Can’t say I feel much better.”

  Always the optimist, Erika looks on the bright side. “Why not, Charlotte? This has the potential to be fun! He wants you…big time. And from what you’ve told me and from what I see here”—she holds up her phone featuring his image— “that’s a pretty major compliment. I hate to be shallow…” She tips her head and looks off into the distance, briefly questioning the sincerity of that statement before continuing. “But men that look like that, with money to burn and magic fingers, don’t chase women. They don’t have to. Ol’ Ian McAlistair wants him some Charlotte LeFay. The question is, do you want him?” She matter-of-factly cuts to the chase.

  Staring at my poor wrap that is probably going to end up in a to-go box, I sigh and answer, “Physically, I do. That’s a given. My body has a mind of its own when he’s around and it’s game for anything, look what it allowed to happen yesterday! But he’s nothing but trouble and I know it…all too well.” The thought makes me sad, conjuring up memories I practice avoiding. “I have more sense than to set myself up for that kind of disaster. I’ve worked so hard to get where I am, and as you know, I’ve made it through some major hardships. It would be insulting to everything I stand for to let some arrogant jerk ruin my life. Guys that look like him, with that kind of money and experience, leave a trail of broken hearts everywhere they go. I refuse to be one of them.” That last statement boosts my confidence as I sit a little straighter and lift my chin.

  “You’ve got a pretty solid argument, girl. And I can’t say I disagree, considering. But there is one thing you can take to the bank—Ian McAlistair is not going to give up easily. He wants more of what he had yesterday and he’s not going to stop until he gets it. Men like him don’t quit. They thrive on success, they thrive on control, and they relish the idea of a challenge.” She reaches her hand over to cover mine. “You better put on a thick suit of armor, sister. You’re going to need it.”

  Six

  Ian

  “Good morning, Mr. McAlistair. I hope you had an enjoyable weekend. Your grandmother is on line one,” Maria, one of my assistants, informs me as soon as I walk in the door Monday morning. Nana knows my schedule and my work habits. I’m always on time, 8 a.m. sharp, and I don’t start booking calls or appointments until 10 a.m. She knows if she catches me first thing, the chances are good we can chat.

  “Thank you, Maria. And yes, I did. I hope you did as well.” I’m always polite and respectful to my assistants, but I never let it lean toward friendship. I keep it strictly professional. I made the mistake one time of being somewhat of a friend to an assistant, and she ended up falling in love with me. It was a disaster that I have no intention of ever repeating.

  Sitting down, I pick up the phone, greeting my favorite person in the world. “Good morning, Nana. How has the world been treating you since our last chat?”

  “Well enough. But you haven’t called or stopped by, and you didn’t answer my call yesterday. I thought maybe you were bound, gagged, and tied to a chair in some run-down warehouse nobody knows exists. I’ve been waiting for the ransom call for days.” Hearing that ridiculous scenario told in her sweet voice is such a contradiction, it makes me laugh.

  “Nana, have you been watching cable TV dramas again? You know that stuff never really happens, right?” Sh
e loves making up dramatic events based off the bullshit she sees on TV. She’s addicted to crime mysteries and anything with raunchy sex scenes.

  “If it wasn’t that, I figured some husband found out you were tapping his wife, got jealous, and did you in.” I can tell she’s biting back a laugh. Nana loves trying to instigate trash-talk, and since she’s made it to eighty-eight and is still going strong, I let her have her way.

  “You know I don’t tap married women. I have no interest in being done in by a jealous husband. Plus, there are plenty of single women to choose from.”

  “You’re a smart man. Leopards don’t change their spots. If she’s cheatin’ on him, she’ll cheat on you. Dishonest women are dangerous, Ian. Always weed out the bad ones.”

  She’s right about that.

  “Not to worry, Nana. I can smell them from a mile away.” Thankfully, I do have an uncanny ability to detect women that are lacking any moral standards. She can be physically beautiful, but if she’s the shallow, back-stabbing, gold-digging type, she has an off-putting smell that I find totally unattractive. It’s been easy to rely on that instinct, and it’s never let me down.

  “It’s your old soul, dear. You’ve had enough past lives to ensure your instincts are sharp. You are fortunate to have it, so don’t ever take it for granted,” Nana tells me for the umpteenth time. She is very proud of our heritage and often insists that I am a reincarnated Scottish Highland Chief from somewhere way back in our history. She enjoys telling the stories, so once again, I let her have her way, redundant as it may be. “Never forget, our ancestry runs deep in Scotland, and the Scots have better instincts than anyone. We may be a superstitious lot, but it’s for good reason. It’s the Fey, Ian. That sixth sense has always been strong in you.”