Sugar and Spice

by Shandi Boyes

  His expression hardens with distress, but not all of it is due to my demand. Even angry, he is fighting the urge to touch me. He wants to brush my cheek, to catch my tears before they fall, but something is holding him back.

  “I don’t need to know your secrets. I don’t even care what they are. But you need to be upfront with me. You’re not the only one new to this, Cormack. I’m flying blind as well, but if you don’t start talking to me, we’re going to crash not long after takeoff.”

  Cormack’s chest rises and falls in rhythm with mine. His eyes are as pained as mine, his heart as achy. From the absolute terror radiating out of him, I’m anticipating he’ll say something more significant than, “Did you drive here?”

  With chaos clutching my throat, I nod. Faster than I can snap my fingers, he pushes off his feet and stalks away from me. I watch him leave, equally stunned and devastated. My words may have been hard for him to hear, but that doesn’t mean he can abandon our conversation. I want answers. I deserve answers.

  My turmoil eases when he leans into the passenger seat of his town car instead of climbing inside as I expect. After a quiet word with Augustus, he returns to my side. My bewilderment grows when his Bentley pulls into the stream of traffic, leaving him stranded on the sidewalk with me. This is a risky move for him to make. I’m not insane, but I’ve been known to tiptoe across the line occasionally. Even more so when I’m subjected to feelings I’ve never handled before.

  Cormack turns his eyes in the direction I came mere minutes ago. “Where’s your car?”

  With words still eluding me, I point to my little blue sedan.

  “Okay, let’s go.”

  Even with Cormack’s hand on my back to guide my steps, it takes a mammoth effort for my legs to move, and even then, I more stumble than walk.

  “Why didn’t we take your car?”

  There is nothing wrong with my car. It is only four years old, and it is in perfect condition. But it isn’t a Bentley.

  After cranking open my driver’s side door and aiding me inside, Cormack replies, “Because when you hear what I’ve got to say, you’ll be grateful you have your own means of getting home.”

  His cryptic reply fills me with panic, and let’s not forget his tone.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Cormack

  Harlow appears to keep her eyes on the road during our short trip, but I catch the occasional glance directed my way. Although she is still breathtakingly beautiful, the dark circles rimming her eyes reveal her sleep the past week has been as lacking as mine.

  With my body clock adjusting to the hours of a baker, I’ve spent more time staring at the ceiling in my room the past six days than actually sleeping. Although the solution for my predicament was only thirty miles away, I couldn’t seek solace from the woman who hadn’t seen my unsightliness.

  I don’t want Harlow to see this side of me. Not now. Not ever. But what she said is true. I need to be honest with her. Furthermore, what I am striving to hide can’t be hidden. And with the #MeToo movement last year, I’d rather her hear my side than read the vindictive stories circulated by the media. That is why I brought her here, to the place that created my secrets as much as it hid them.

  “Pull in behind Augustus,” I direct Harlow when the driveway of my family estate forks at the end.

  I requested for Augustus to meet us here with the hope his reciprocated adoration of Harlow will make her feel safe. For strangers, Harlow and Augustus get along very well. Harlow did keep him well-stocked with baked goods last week, but that isn’t the reason he developed a soft spot for her. Augustus and Valerie never had children of their own, and although Harlow doesn’t need any help taking care of herself, she attracts people in need of nurturing as well as those who are nurturers themselves, like Augustus and Valerie.

  After her wide eyes absorb the darkened manor I once called home, Harlow swings them to me. “Did you bring me here to kill me? If you did, maybe next time give a girl a heads up. I would have brought a change of underwear if I knew I was going to be massacred. As my grandmother always said, ‘cleanliness is next to godliness,’ so the mess your face causes my panties may send me straight to hell.”

  “Jesus Christ, Harlow,” I mumble under my breath, appreciative of her humor but panicked it will be the last time I’ll hear it. “You don’t need to worry about your panties sending you to hell. Your potty mouth is doing a mighty fine job of assuring your place.”

  Harlow smiles, pleased I responded to her tease as she hoped. She is hating the tension in the air as much as me. I won’t lie. I was fuming mad at her last week. Her accusation—whether playful or not—stung like a thousand bees. But I’m not angry anymore. I’m scared. Scared of losing the way she looks at me in admiration. Scared of opening myself up only to be rejected. Scared of losing her.

  Pretending I can’t feel my heart smashing into my ribs, I guide Harlow to the entrance of the McGregor mansion. When we enter the foyer, I glide my hand down the wall, seeking the light switch. I don’t know why I keep the electricity on at this place. No one comes here anymore. Not even Clara.

  Once the three chandeliers in the foyer flicker on, I place my hand on Harlow’s back and direct her toward my father’s office. Her steps are slow, her eagerness to absorb the ballroom-like space reducing her speed.

  “Why let such a beautiful space go to waste?”

  Since her question is more for herself than me, I don’t answer her.

  Her breaths quicken when we enter my father’s office. The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and old-school ladder make it appear like we’re on the set of a Beauty and the Beast remake. My father didn’t read, but that didn’t stop him having a library fit for a king.

  “Are they originals?”

  An ordinary person would assume Harlow’s question is directed at the priceless paintings hung between the Bocote bookshelves. I’m not an ordinary man. She is questioning the first edition hardcover books to the right of a priceless Monet. I’ve learned many things about Harlow the past few weeks, the most obvious, her love of romance novels.

  Although we’re not here to marvel at my father’s extensive collection of first edition books, I nod.

  “Can I touch them?”

  Smiling at the plea in her voice, I nod again.

  After scrubbing her hands down her skirt to rid them of sweat, Harlow secures a well-known oceanside cover in her hot little hands. While she submerges in the phenomenon of books, I pace to a safe bolted to the floor in the corner of the expansive space.

  My hand shakes when I twist the barrel lock. Although it’s been years since I’ve opened this safe, I’m certain the items I’m seeking are still inside. My father never threw anything out, especially something he cherished more than his own children.

  As the sound of a bolt sliding out of place booms into my ears, I take in a deep breath then swing open the heavily weighted door. Just as anticipated, the documents that siphoned my will to live sit top and center.

  Ignoring my shaking hands, I gather the documents, slam the safe shut and pivot around to face Harlow. I’m taken aback when I spot her sitting in the large leather chair behind my father’s desk. It doesn’t look anywhere near as evil with her angelic face and body occupying it.

  “Have you seen the inscription inside this one?” she asks, her love of romance heard apparent in her tone.

  When I shake my head, she gestures for me to join her. I agree hesitantly. When her focus shifts from fiction to nonfiction, she’ll most likely prefer distance.

  “Look: Be yourself no matter what. Some will adore you, and some will hate everything about you, but who cares? It’s your life. Make the most of it. I love you, Pookie Bear.” Her finger glides along the fading ink as she reads the inscription. “How beautiful. I wonder who Pookie Bear is? Nothing against your father, but he doesn’t seem the Pookie Bear type.”

  My eyes stray to a picture of my father sitting on his desk. It is a staged photo that reflects his wealth and com
mand. His dark hair is slicked back, and his hard-lined lips barely conceal his snarky smirk. “He was a bear, just not a Pookie one.”

  Pretending I didn’t hear Harlow’s gasp from my sneered comment, I remove the book from her clutch and place it on the desk. Like the sun peeking over the horizon, the reason for our visit to my family manor smacks into her hard and fast. She straightens her spine and clears her throat with a cough before she locks her eyes on mine. She looks panicked. Rightfully so. I’m shitting my pants as well.

  “I don’t know why we couldn’t have done this on the sidewalk. I got so caught up, I forgot why you invited me here.” Her tongue delves out to replenish her dry lips before she exhales a sharp breath. “Okay. I’m ready. Get it over and done with quickly. I don’t like delayed maulings. Just rip off the band aid in one fell swoop—”

  She stops rambling when I place the documents I’m clutching for dear life into her line of sight. The tiny vein in her neck flutters manically as she speed-reads the headlines.

  When her eyes jackknife back for a second glance, I swallow harshly. Drama generally follows second glances.

  The bile surging up my esophagus has barely scorched my throat when Harlow locks her wide eyes with mine. I’m about to tell her the stories are nothing but fabrications, but she beats me to the punch. “Who wrote this crock of bull? I hope you sued the living shit out of them! I don’t care what the articles say, this isn’t you. You would never do something so heinous.”

  Her faith knocks the wind from my lungs, but, in all honesty, it doesn’t utterly blindside me. You don’t earn Harlow’s trust. You have it from the instant you meet her, only losing it when you do something untrustworthy. And even then, you’ll still have the chance to gain it back. The way she responded proves what I’ve always known. I can trust her.

  She sucks in wild breaths while tossing the news articles written during my three-month trial onto the desk. The natural hue of her cheeks returns when she murmurs, “Oh my god. That’s why you got upset. You thought I was accusing you of the same thing.”

  Her eyes snap to mine when I mutter, “No.” When she calls out my deceit without words, I add on, “Not entirely. The charges were a long time ago, but it still affects me to this day.”

  I replenish my lungs with oxygen before sharing a story I’d rather forget than rehash. “Nine years ago, I was accused of rape. The charges were brought forward by the same woman who failed to pin a pregnancy on me only two months earlier. I was blindsided by the accusation, but my defense was the same I gave months prior: we hadn’t had any form of sexual contact.

  “Unfortunately, two charges of criminal sexual misconduct can’t be deflected by demanding a paternity test. I was dragged through the mud. The media played it out as if I believed my family wealth placed me above the law. I had never once thought that, but it was a classic case of her word against mine, and with her word being that of a Christian girl with a humble upbringing, I was cast the role of the spoiled sinner who took what he wanted without asking and condemned those who dared to say any different.

  “My lawyers suggested a settlement out of court. I refused. I hadn’t done anything wrong, and I was determined to have my name cleared. The evidence was in my favor. I hadn’t been alone with my accuser, much less in the same room. My defense was solid. . . until a lapse of twenty minutes destroyed it.

  “The night in question was a party hosted by Lucinda’s sorority. Although I had multiple witnesses who could verify my whereabouts for a majority of the night, a conversation with my father in private was my downfall. Twenty measly minutes, and I was going to burn at the stake.

  “I was gone—sentenced to a possibly seven years in a maximum security prison. I didn’t think matters could possibly get any worse. . . until they did. Two and a half million dollars, that is how much my freedom was worth. Not to me or the woman accusing me of rape. To my father. That is the amount he paid Lucinda to fabricate the charges. To some, it is an exorbitant number, but to my father, it was a small price to pay to get his hands on the inheritance my grandfather gifted me.

  “People often assume I inherited my fortune when my father died. I didn’t. I’ve had it since the day I turned sixteen. With greed steering my father’s business decisions for longer than I’d been born and my mother diagnosed with dementia just shy of my fifteenth birthday, I leapfrogged my mother’s place in her family crest, becoming the sole heir to the Attwood wealth three years after my grandfather’s death.

  “My father fought tooth and nail to have his father-in-law’s decision overridden. It was a woeful waste of time and money. My grandfather didn’t build the largest electric corporation in the world by exhausting the ratty, underhanded tricks my father used. He was smart. He was kind. And he is a man I’m still striving to emulate. Unlike my father, I miss him dearly.

  “If it weren’t for him, I’d still be recovering from the fabricated charges. My grandfather wanted me to experience college life as he had, so that meant no private lodging outside of college grounds. I was to attend college in the same fashion as every other American low to middle income family: in a co-ed dorm room with a freshman named Isaac Holt.

  “When I was arrested, Isaac called in a favor. At the time, I didn’t know what that meant. In all honesty, I’m still clueless to this day. I don’t know how Isaac’s contact discovered the truth, but when it was unearthed, I was both relieved and frustrated. I couldn’t believe money was more important to my father than the reputation of his flesh and blood. It was that discovery that saw me making my riskiest decision to date.

  “The day the charges against me were dismissed, I left my family compound with nothing but the shirt on my back. The management fee Isaac paid me after each fight in the underground fight scene kept me fed the first few weeks, then within months, Isaac’s love of foreign investments rubbed off on me. And as they say, the rest is history.”

  Harlow stands from her chair and paces around the desk, her eyes never leaving mine. “I’m so sorry that happened to you.” Her watering eyes dance between mine when she says, “A father is supposed to protect his offspring. What your father did to you was wrong.”

  Realizing that Harlow hasn’t fled, Augustus discreetly leaves his post at the entrance to the office. He won’t go far, just far enough to give us privacy. Augustus was one the men Isaac used to clear my name. Instead of retiring after my trial, he moved here and took up a position on Isaac’s security team. Three years ago, he became my driver. Having an ex-military man drive me around seemed pointless, but Augustus was adamant he wouldn’t have applied for the position if it wasn’t what he wanted, so who was I to argue?

  Harlow returns my focus to the present by covering my hand with hers. It is as sticky as it was when I guided her to her car nearly an hour ago, and her pulse is just as crazy. “Why keep the articles? It must hurt to look at them.”

  I half-shrug. “I wouldn’t necessarily say it hurts. I use them as reminders of how far I’ve come and how far I still have to travel. They are the reason my goals shifted to music production the past two years. I was so determined to clear the dirt from my name after my charges were dismissed, acquisitions and financial charts soon became my life. Within months, I forgot who I was. My grandfather sent me to a standard public university as he wanted me to experience life, yet I was dwindling it away in the boardroom.”

  Harlow listens attentively as she did earlier, not once interrupting me to put in her two cents. I can tell by the groove between her dark brows that she is struggling, but I appreciate she is giving it a shot.

  “I love music. It got me through some very dark months. I just can’t hold a tune to save my life, so I started a record label instead.” I add on my last statement in jest, hoping it will weaken the tension hanging thickly in the air.

  It does when a noise I’ve missed hearing the past week sounds through my ears: Harlow’s beautiful giggle. “Those who can’t, teach?”

  I laugh. “More like those who can’t are
well aware they can’t.”

  I lift my hand to her face, praying the can of worms I just opened won’t make her pull away. It doesn’t. She peers up at me with the same glimmer her eyes held when I carried her through the alley last weekend. They are full of awe and wonderment.

  “It’s kind of like you teaching me how to bake. Your heart is in the right place, and you wish for me to succeed, but we both know it’s never going to happen.”

  The last bit of tension in the air evaporates when Harlow’s eyes roll skyward. “Anything can be taught. Especially baking. My aunt’s determination is proof of that. If she hadn’t persevered with me, decades of family recipes would have passed with her.”

  “Did she not have any children of her own?”

  Harlow shakes her head. “She never married either. She was quite the spinster.” The pride in her voice reveals her comment wasn’t meant to be hurtful. She loved her aunt and still does. “If I don’t watch it, it won’t be just a bakery I’ll inherit from her.”

  “You inherited your bakery?”

  A gloss shines in Harlow’s eyes before she once again nods. “The property has been in my family for generations. It wasn’t always a bakery, but it’s always been associated with food. It has more sentimental value than monetary worth.”

  Shock clouds me. A family connection to her building was never disclosed during preliminary investigations. In all honesty, it wouldn’t have changed my wish to secure her premises back then. But now. . . now it riddles me with guilt.

  Harlow loves baking, but I could never work out why her love of the craft couldn’t be done anywhere. Now I have a better understanding. I also know what I must to. I have to tell her the truth. She absorbed my deepest and darkest secret without the simplest balk, so who’s to say she won’t handle my campaign to take over her bakery in the same manner?

  “Harlow. . .”

  My words trail off when the clicking of heels thuds through my ears. Harlow’s throat works hard to swallow, revealing she is foreseeing the same intruder I am.