Sugar and Spice

by Shandi Boyes

  Her intuition is proven spot on when Clara enters my father’s office. She has the socialite/mood killer attire down pat. Her no doubt four-figure dress swishes around her slim thighs as her conditioned-to-within-an-inch-of-perfection hair bounces on her bare shoulders. She breezes into the room without any remorse, not caring if she is interrupting a private conversation or a multi-million dollar business transaction.

  “Oh good, Valerie was, for once, right. You are here. We need to talk.”

  She acts as if Harlow isn’t standing a mere inch in front of me. That pisses me off more than seeing her in the very room that hosted most of our family bickering.

  I press my finger against Harlow’s lips, stopping whatever reply she is planning to give. “Don’t. You’re not going anywhere.”

  I’ve spent every single second of every day since we met with Harlow on my mind. That didn’t change because I was mad about something I had no right to be angry over. I’m sure if I had explained to Harlow why her comment negatively impacted me, we could have avoided a near week of turmoil. Unfortunately, I’ve never been good at expressing myself.

  “I was just going to ask if I could borrow some books. This place is the size of a library, so I may as well treat it as one,” Harlow mumbles against my finger, her glistening eyes revealing her reply is only a half-lie. “Talk to your sister, then we’ll continue our conversation in a better location.” The disdain in her eyes matches mine anytime my father pops into my thoughts.

  “Alright. Just don’t go far.”

  She smiles, loving the need in my voice. I’m glad my confession hasn’t dampened the sparks that fire between us. Unwilling to let her slip away before expressing how much I appreciate her support, I fist the hem of her shirt and gently tug her toward me. Clara gags when I request to kiss Harlow. If she thinks that’s gross, she better turn around, because it is about to get ten times grosser. I haven’t had Harlow’s lips on mine for six days. My tongue is done waiting.

  “You’re naughty, but I’d never deny you,” Harlow whispers before pressing her mouth to mine.

  Her eyes expose she isn’t referring to my confession or my inability to express myself; she thinks I’m naughty for wanting to kiss her in front of my sister. She shouldn’t be shocked; not even the threat of another lawsuit could stop me. I’ve missed her taste so much the past six days, the richest banquet tasted bland.

  Even with Clara glaring at us in disdain, our kiss is the hottest we’ve had. I take my time savoring Harlow’s unique palette, the nips of my teeth and lashes of my tongue fueling my insatiable appetite.

  By the time I pull back from her sinful mouth, I am breathless, panting and utterly bewildered as to why I am standing in my father’s office. Only a humble baker can make me forget the world exists. When Harlow is in my arms, it truly seems as if we’re in our own little bubble.

  “I’ll be right over there if you need me.” Harlow nudges her head to the massive section of romance novels.

  I smile, mindful my dad’s collection is about to be sliced in half.

  “I won’t be long.”

  Before she can get two feet away from me, my hand darts out to seize her wrist. Minus the whiskey courage I guzzled down last week to ask this same question, I nervously mumble, “Are you free tonight. . .?”

  Harlow eagerly nods.

  I swish my tongue around my mouth to ease the dryness there before asking, “And tomorrow morning?”

  Harlow tries to act coy, but her expanding pupils foil her ruse. “I could arrange something.”

  “Yeah?” My voice is barely recognizable, all thick and gravelly.

  “Yeah,” Harlow agrees with a smile. “But on one condition.”

  I arch my brow, demanding further information without words.

  “Tonight we do things my way.” Her bossy tone forces a grin on my lips. I have control over every aspect of my life. . . except one. Her.

  “I’m pretty sure we’ve always done it your way, but I’m willing to pretend we haven’t.”

  Air leaves my lungs in a grunt when Harlow throws her fist into my stomach. For someone with tiny hands, her hits pack a real punch.

  “I’ll call Renee. See what I can arrange.” Acting like Clara’s glare isn’t scorching her temple, she presses her lips to mine. This kiss is much more reserved than our first, but it is full of promise.

  After a flirty wink, she pivots on her heels and stalks away from me, only dashing past the romance section of the library long enough to secure six books in her arms.

  When I hear Augustus offering to carry her books, my eyes drift to Clara. Her face is red with anger, and her eyes are slit.

  “What did I tell you last week, Cormack? Rude.”

  Her bitchy tone would usually send men running, but I’m so accustomed to hearing it, it nearly sounds sincere. “You’re the one interrupting. How does that make Harlow rude?”

  She crosses her arms in front of her chest and glares at me like I’m intolerable.

  Recalling that changing her mindset is a challenge I gave up years ago, I ask, “What are you doing here, Clara? I thought this place ‘haunted your memories.’ That was the excuse you gave Isaac when you begged to stay at his penthouse, wasn’t it?”

  Clara is obsessed with Isaac. He believes it is a fondness that will weaken over time. I’m not as convinced. I have an arsenal of properties at my disposal. Clara merely needed to ask, and I would have put her up in any apartment she wanted. But she is hoping her damsel in distress routine will help her sink her hooks into Isaac.

  After seeing a brief interaction between Isaac and Isabelle, Clara believes Isaac’s interest in Izzy revolves around her less reputable upbringing. She said numerous times during brunch earlier this week that men of power feel threatened by an equal counterpart, so they seek partnerships with those less fortunate to ease their guilt over their success.

  Her constant glancing my way revealed she painted my relationship with Harlow with the same brush. She fails to realize that it’s your morals that make you who you are, not your pedigree or wealth. Isaac is living proof of that.

  He grew up in a low-income family in the middle of the ‘burbs, went to a regular public school, and watched the same Simpson episodes as every other American kid. But instead of listening to the naysayers like Clara tell him he couldn’t have the wealth of my grandfather, he set out to prove them wrong.

  If I hadn’t met him all those years ago, I would have never had the courage to turn my back on my inheritance like I did. I would have become a male version of Clara—or even worse, our father. Thank fuck my grandfather was set in his ways. He saved my hide years after he took his final breath. It made me love him even more.

  Clara waves her hand in front of my face, snapping me from my thoughts. “Are you on something? Is that the cause of your stupidity of late?” She smiles when I snarl, baring teeth. “Come on, it has to be something. She’s pretty, but she’s. . .” A grimace finalizes her sentence.

  “What do you want, Clara?”

  If I believed her dislike of Harlow wasn’t just because she is a friend of Isabelle’s, I’d take her disdain more seriously. But the longer I try to drum sense into Clara, the less time I’ll have with Harlow. I’ve got wasted days to make up for. I can’t dawdle.

  Clara shimmies her shoulders, exposing her demand without words.

  “How much?” I walk around the desk and throw open the drawer my dad kept his checkbooks in. Although they haven’t been used in years, my name scribbled at the bottom makes them instantly cashable, regardless of their expiration date.

  Clara coughs to clear her throat. “Fifteen thousand.”

  I stop writing her name to peer up at her. “Going cheap this week?” Her first interruption cost me six figures, so I’m surprised by her low number.

  “Ha ha. It’s a down payment.”

  Don’t misconstrue the first half of Clara’s reply. She is not being playful. She is as snarky as ever.

  I scribbl
e my signature at the bottom of a blank check before handing it to Clara. Just before she takes it, I yank it back out of her grasp. “Down payment for what, exactly?”

  She snatches the check from my hand, nearly shredding it in the process. As her throat works hard to swallow, she tucks it in her clutch purse. Her 10 carat diamond tennis bracelet clinks on our father’s polished desk when she leans across it to intensify her glare.

  “You know this could all be avoided if you’d just give me the share I’m entitled to.” She says her statement as snootily as it sounds.

  Numerous times since my father’s death I have considered transferring the Attwood fortune to my younger siblings. The only reason I haven’t is standing directly in front of me. Clara has gone so far down the rabbit hole, injecting a massive amount of money into her account will only push her down further. She may raise my hackles more than any woman before her, but she is still my sister. I care for her—I love her—so I’m hopeful one day I will save her from our fatal upbringing. Until then, she’ll have to continue interrupting uninterruptible moments to fund her love of shopping.

  Taking my silence as an answer to her suggestion, Clara huffs noisily before spinning on her heels. She exits our father’s office as quickly as she entered it. I’m certain she thinks my decision is fueled by greed. She is way off the mark. My life would be ten times less complicated if I weren’t the CEO of a multi-billion dollar corporation. If I didn’t care about my grandfather’s legacy, I would have stepped away years ago. But just like Harlow, the morals my grandfather instilled in me keep me going back time and time again.

  I stop staring at the Attwood Electric emblem embossed on the checkbook when Clara calls my name. She tries to conceal it, but I catch the quickest flare of emotion blazing through her slit gaze when our eyes collide. She looks scared, and if I’m not mistaken, panicked.

  She exhales a sharp breath before forcing out words she rarely uses: a plea.

  “Don’t tell her.” Her voice is as low as the flutter in her neck. “If she is who you really want, I wouldn’t tell her your secret. When it comes to the truth, only the strong can handle it. You may think she’ll take your news lightly. I can guarantee you she won’t.”

  She doesn’t need to mention Harlow’s name for me to know whom she is referring to.

  “She already knows.”

  My eyes drop to the dozen news articles stretched across the desk, assuming that is what Clara is referencing.

  My assumptions are proven wrong when Clara says, “I’m not talking about your trial.”

  When my eyes return to her face, I take a step back. Parts of the girl I used to know are flaring in her eyes, dying to break free. I haven’t seen that girl in years. Not since she dashed out of her sixteenth birthday party with tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “When you have nothing, you fight tooth and nail to keep any scraps you have. Harlow has nothing, so she’ll fight even harder.”

  “You know about my bid on her bakery?” I’m sure she can hear my quickening pulse in my tone.

  Clara’s grin turns smug. It isn’t her usual kill everyone without mercy smirk. It is more reserved. “I know everything, Cormack.” She steps closer to me, her façade hardening with every inch she gains. “That also means I know she isn’t worthy of your time or our money, but like all silly men, admitting that will only encourage you. What did Daddy always say? ‘There is no sweeter fruit than the forbidden one.’”

  “This isn’t about that.”

  “Then what is it about? You and Isaac are both successful, handsome men, so why lower your standards so boorishly?”

  I scrub my hand over the prickles on my chin. I should have known better. This has nothing to do with Harlow and me, and everything to do with Clara wanting to sink her nails into Isaac. I’ll admit it, her ruse of acting concerned nearly worked. I honestly thought the girl she once was had re-emerged. Time and time again this month I’ve been shown that business smarts don’t equal common sense, so I don’t know why I thought today would be any different?

  “Do you want to know why Isaac never returns your advances?”

  Clara rolls her eyes. Even with her bitch façade returning stronger than ever can’t stop me from saying, “Because relationships aren’t about what the other person can give you. It is refusing to give someone up you can’t go a day without thinking about.”

  Although I intended for my reply to reflect Isaac’s viewpoint, it reflects me more than him.

  “I don’t know what happened to you all those years ago, Clara. I thought it centered around Mom’s diagnosis, then my charges a few years later, but I’m beginning to wonder if it was either of those things.”

  The sheen in Clara’s eyes weakens my tone, but it doesn’t stop me. “I love you, Clara, and I’ll always be here for you, but you need to start contributing more to this family than you have the past few years. You’re practically a ghost, only floating in when you want something. That’s not how family works.”

  “You don’t think I know that?” She straightens her spine, hating that her words were delivered via near sobs. “But I suggest you look in the mirror before demanding morality. My insides may not be as attractive as my outer shell, Cormack, but at least I don’t pretend they are.”

  With that, she spins on her heels and leaves, this time her exit void of a dramatic return.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Harlow

  I exhale a deep breath while storing my cell phone in my pocket. I just arranged my first day off in years. I can’t remember the last time I had a day off. Even suffering a debilitating hangover and an even more baffled mind didn’t save me from my dreaded work schedule last weekend.

  A near fire meant I needed to join Renee in the kitchen within an hour of Cormack fleeing my loft. The fire wasn’t Renee’s fault. It was some moronic teen who thought it’d be funny to set a trash can on fire. He was carted off for a stern talking to by Renee’s dad, while I had the pleasure of cleaning up his mess.

  The story of my life lately.

  Although, I’d rather clean up melted plastic and food scraps than the mess Cormack was served nine years ago. The headlines on the articles he showed me were horrendous. God—I can’t imagine what he felt seeing his name degraded like that. The “alleged” part of his charges were barely visible. The press took an accusation and treated it as a conviction. I’m not surprised. The media are the lowest of the low. Not even Satan can compete with them.

  Some may say I’m foolish for dismissing the claims without first hearing all the facts, but I knew in an instant that Cormack didn’t do what he was accused of. If that makes me foolish, so be it. I’d rather be viewed as stupid than as a gossipmonger. I take everyone I meet at face value. It has served me well the past twenty-five years, so until I have a reason to no longer trust the system, I’ll stick with it.

  If only there was a cure for sticking your foot in your mouth. I spent the start of my week racking my brain about what caused Cormack’s bizarre reaction. I was honestly at a loss. Now I feel terrible. I need to be more cautious of what I say. I’ve always had verbal diarrhea, but that can’t be excused in cases like this. A lot of unnecessary tension could be avoided if I just think before speaking. Not just for me, but for those affected by my callous words.

  Just because I haven’t been affected by domestic violence, sexual assault, and verbal abuse doesn’t mean I can’t be thoughtful of those who have. And today proves what I’ve always known: it isn’t just the victims who need support. So do the men and women wrongly accused. Cormack is fortunate he had the support and means to see his unfounded charges dismissed. There are thousands of others who aren’t as lucky. My ex-boyfriend Maddox is living proof of that. Just like Cormack, I don’t care what the reports say: he didn’t murder anyone.

  Maddox and I dated a few months after high school. It was nothing serious, just a mutual attraction we acted on the weeks he wasn’t at college. It could have been a foundation for a great lov
e story, but not once did I have that crazy, giddy feeling I get when Cormack is around, so I’m beginning to wonder if it was more lust than love.

  Whatever it is, I will always care for Maddox. He was my friend long before he was my lover, and no matter how many times he requests I stop visiting, I’ll still make my twice-annual trip to the penitentiary where he is wrongly incarcerated. I’d go more often if it wasn’t so far away.

  I’m snapped out of my thoughts by the clicking of heels. Although Clara’s interruption earlier could have been anyone, the cloud of tension that walked in with her couldn’t be missed. It doesn’t take a genius to realize Clara isn’t a fan of mine. If she is worried I am going to financially fleece her brother, she has no reason to fret. Money makes life easier, but it doesn’t make the world go around.

  Although I doubt someone in a Lizzie Alder dress and Christian Louboutin heels would understand that. I love fashion. I just hate the way it divides people. We already have a massive divide between classes. Do we really need it spelled out in fabric as well?

  Just before Clara enters the driver’s seat of a white BMW convertible, she cranks her head in my direction. I muster a smile while lifting my hand into a wave. She doesn’t return my gesture. She just stares at me long enough it becomes uncomfortable before slipping into the driver’s seat and gunning it out of the estate.

  I only stop staring at the imprint her tires made when a spicy scent overtakes the smell of burning rubber. “How did you go?” Cormack asks, stopping to stand in front of me. “Did you get the morning off?”

  The slightest pink adorns his cheeks when I nod. His wordless response instantly diminishes my worry. He’s not here for a good time or a fast time. He’ll happily accept anything I’m willing to give him. If that doesn’t make a girl giddy, I don’t know what will.

  “So where are we heading?” He tucks a stray strand behind my ear as his eyes lower to my lips. I can tell he is dying to kiss me, but because he doesn’t want to give me the wrong idea, he’s holding back. I want to kiss him too, but since this is a prime opportunity to show him a side of himself he’s not seen in years, I hold back—barely!