“I wonder if you could do that.”
“Do what?”
“Connect your outreach projects to Moorehead. I know you don’t want to give that up, but it seems like maybe you’re starting to settle into your role, and you’re so good at leading people. It’s something to consider.” Her smile is soft and almost hopeful.
As much as I dislike the city, I might be able to get used to it if Wren was a constant and I could find some kind of happy medium.
CHAPTER 17
PERSPECTIVE
LINCOLN
Griffin and I sit on camping chairs in the sand while the girls do flips on the floating trampoline. Wren is quite agile, and it’s entertaining watching the two of them out there, spotting each other for roundoffs. A group of guys in their late teens, possibly early twenties, loiter close by. They’re like a bunch of peacocks, squawking and preening as they check out Wren and Cosy.
“Please tell me we didn’t act like assholes around girls when we were their age.” I nod at the guys as one of them crushes an empty beer can on his forehead.
“I don’t remember doing anything that stupid, but you never know.” He sips his beer. “I’m on the fence as to whether or not I want one of those guys to hit on Cosy, so I can see her shoot the SOB down.”
“Same.” I clink my bottle against his.
“So, you saying this isn’t serious is bullshit, eh?” Griffin asks, pulling my attention away from Wren in her sexy red bikini. I may not like it when she wears lipstick that color, but those little scraps of fabric are a whole different story.
“As serious as it can be for something that can’t be public.”
“Well, her contract doesn’t last forever, does it? Once it’s done, you’re free to make out with her on every street corner in New York.”
“Yeah, but I have that project in Costa Rica, and I’ve already had to push back the start date because I’m here. Besides, she has her own plans, and I don’t know that Costa Rica is going to fit into them.”
“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Plans can change.” He side-eyes me. “And who says you have to go to Costa Rica and stay there? Your project in Guatemala is going pretty damn smooth despite you being here.”
“Yeah, but that’s the thing I miss. Being part of the project. I don’t want to manage them remotely all the time.”
“I get that, and I’m not saying you have to step back completely, but what if you had everything in place so that you could set the project up, get it rolling, and then come back to New York and manage Moorehead?”
“I don’t know if I want to manage Moorehead permanently. Dealing with Armstrong for six months is one thing, but to commit to every damn day?” The thought alone makes me both nauseous and irritable.
Griffin makes a sound in the back of his throat. “Do you really think you can walk away, though? Armstrong is never going to be able to handle running that place. It’ll sink if you don’t stay.”
“Me and G-mom are going to find a replacement.”
He gives me a look. “Come on, Linc, do you really think that’s her plan? It’ll take a good year or more to train anyone new. I know you want to believe you’re here for a few months, but I think you might need to reframe your future plans. I’m pretty sure your grandmother’s idea was to groom you for the role and keep you around long enough that you’d get settled.” He motions to Wren, who’s in the middle of doing some kind of walkover thing.
She’s damn bendy. And Griffin is 100 percent accurate. G-mom probably had no intention of finding someone to take over for me, because without me keeping Armstrong in line, the company will likely go under or we’d have to sell it. “Dammit. G-mom played me.”
Griffin grins. “As a good business woman does.”
I’m going to give her shit the next time we video chat. “I don’t want to give up the work I’m doing. I can’t run Moorehead and organize projects in South America.”
“Why can’t you, though? You have this huge media company and all these resources at your fingertips. Why not shift the Moorehead focus and diversify? You could have an entire magazine dedicated to your outreach projects.”
Wren mentioned something like that on the way here. I’ve been so wrapped up in learning the ropes, I haven’t had a chance to look at what Moorehead Media is missing, and this could be it. “That actually might work.”
“Look at what Amalie does for William’s Media with all those makeup tutorials for the pediatric cancer unit. That video she did for the Christmas gala thing they threw kicked up their ratings something like fifteen percent, which is big revenue dollars. You could do something similar with your outreach projects, couldn’t you?”
“Yeah, maybe.” And Wren’s big into charity work with wanting to start her own foundation. I know she volunteers at the neonatal unit at one of the hospitals with her mom every week. It’s not quite the same as outreach and creating sustainable communities, but at least our goals sort of seem to align.
“I haven’t seen you this into anyone since … well, ever. I’m just saying, if you want this to work, Linc, there are ways to make it happen.”
Several hours and many beers later, we’re all sitting around the fire roasting marshmallows. Well, Wren is roasting marshmallows like it’s her profession, and Cosy is charring hers. So far, she’s lit every single one on fire. Wren, on the other hand, inspects her perfectly toasted ones before offering to share with me. Her cheeks are pink from the drinks she and Cosy have been consuming.
“So, how exactly did you two meet?” She motions between Griffin and Cosy.
I chuckle. “Oh, please do share this story.”
Griffin gives me the cut-eye and opens his mouth to speak, but Cosy interrupts. “He was buying a double-headed dildo.”
“What?” Wren’s eyes bug, and the word comes out garbled since her mouth is full of marshmallow.
Griffin rolls his eyes, but his cheeks heat. “You love leading with that, don’t you?”
“I love watching you blush.” Cosy leans in and kisses the end of his nose, but her chair tips toward his and she has to scramble to right herself.
“Cosy used to work in an adult toy store.”
“Called the Sex Toy Warehouse,” Cosy adds.
“I drew the short straw and had to buy a bunch of stuff for a bachelor party,” he explains.
“Why didn’t you buy it all online?” Wren asks.
“It wouldn’t have arrived on time.”
“Not even with express shipping?” she presses.
I burst out laughing, because this was exactly my question.
“I couldn’t risk it,” Griffin grumbles.
We spend the rest of the night talking, sharing college stories, and I love that Wren fits in so seamlessly with the people who matter most to me.
By the time we finally get into bed—we get the trailer and Griffin and Cosy take the tent, although it’s big enough to sleep ten people and it’s set up on a platform, complete with a king mattress—Wren is drunk and languid. “I had fun tonight.” She sidles up next to me and throws her leg over mine.
She’s not wearing panties based on the sudden heat against my thigh.
“So did I.”
“Thanks for inviting me.” She trails her fingers down my chest. “I know time with Griffin is pretty rare, so the fact that you’d included me was nice.”
“You’re my girlfriend, why wouldn’t I include you?”
She lifts her head. “I’m your girlfriend?”
“Uh, is that actually a question?”
“No. Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.” She bites her bottom lip. It’s still a soft shade of pink. At least it’s not the red I find so distracting. “I hadn’t defined us in my head.”
I grin because she looks unsure now. “So up until now, how would you have defined me in your head? Am I the project whose bed you’ve been sleeping in and whose cock you’ve been riding?”
Her mouth drops open, and her eyes go wide with s
omething like horror. “What? No! Of course not. It’s not, you’re not … I just—” She scrambles for an explanation.
I roll her onto her back and edge my thigh between hers. She parts them automatically. “Am I your fuck buddy? Is that it?”
“I’ve never had a fuck buddy.”
“Really?”
“Why do you sound so surprised? It’s more a guy thing, isn’t it? I bet you’ve had loads of fuck buddies.” She sounds annoyed at the possibility.
“Actually, it’s never really been my thing either.” Have I had casual, no-strings sex? Sure, but it’s never been something I was all that comfortable with, nor was it something I sought on the regular. I prefer to connect with the person I’m sleeping with, whether it’s on a superficial level or deeper—like what I have with Wren.
She runs her fingers through my hair, allowing them to trickle along my neck until she cups my face. “You must’ve had a few in college.” I think it’s supposed to come across as playful, but her expression is serious and somehow sad. I don’t understand why this conversation has taken a sudden serious turn.
I draw a line across her temple and down to her chin with my fingertip. “Not a lot. I lived with Griffin; he was the king of monogamy. It felt wrong to bring home an endless stream of women who didn’t matter. I didn’t ever want to be like my father, uncommitted and absent.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“It’s okay. I was mostly absent too, so I wasn’t exposed to most of it. I never wanted to be that way when I was in a relationship, whether physically or emotionally. I didn’t find the thrill in things that were meaningless, so I didn’t pursue meaningless things.”
Wren nods. “I was the same.” She presses her thumb against my chin and slowly drags it down my throat. “You’re everything and nothing like I expected you to be.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, in my head, you were this elusive introverted mountain man, which I mean, you kind of were at first. But I was positive I would find out all of these horrible things about you, that the image you presented couldn’t possibly be authentic and you’d be just like Armstrong, or maybe even worse because you made it look like you cared. But you’re nothing like Armstrong. You honestly couldn’t be more opposite. If you didn’t have at least a couple of physical similarities, I’d be hard-pressed to find any real way to connect the two of you.” She bites the tip of her tongue. “I’m rambling. I do this when I’m drunk. I get all introspective, and then all this stuff comes out of my mouth and I don’t really have control over it.”
“I think I might want to get you drunk more often.”
She giggles, then nibbles my chin. “Your dimple does things to me.”
“I noticed that.”
“As a good boyfriend does,” she murmurs. Her eyes lift to mine. “Saying it out loud makes it real, doesn’t it?”
“It’s always been real, Wren. This is you and me choosing to acknowledge it and own it. Now we see where it goes from here.”
I end the conversation with a kiss that becomes more. We have soft, slow sex that feels like it’s weighted down with words that mean more than either of us are willing to say for fear of breaking the spell we’re under.
And I fall more in love with the woman who fits so perfectly into my life, like she’s always been part of it, like she’s somehow been sewn into the fabric of who I am, without either of us realizing until now.
I don’t know how I’m going to keep my feelings for her masked much longer. As I wrap her up in my arms and wait for sleep to come, I consider how deep I am with this woman. All the things I thought I wanted are changing, and it’s all because of her.
CHAPTER 18
TRUTH DOESN’T SET YOU FREE
WREN
Lincoln slides into my office and closes the door behind him. Most of the time we’re extraordinarily careful about the way we interact at work, and I make a concerted effort not to fix his tie or smooth his suit jacket when we’re anywhere a photo could be taken. As a rule, we also keep our office doors open when we’re together. I’m about to remind Lincoln of this, however, his expression is tense, not playful.
I stop typing and give him my full attention. “What’s up? Everything okay?”
“Can we make a stop on the way home?”
My stomach flutters when he says things like that. I’m sure it’s subconscious, and that he’s just referring to his place as home—which isn’t even technically his—because it’s easier. But in my head, it sounds like he’s referring to it as our home.
“Yeah, of course.”
“You almost ready to go?” He drums his fingers on the doorknob.
He’s obviously antsy about something. “Give me five?”
“Yeah. Okay. I can do that.” He doesn’t make a move to leave, though.
“Would you like to sit while you wait?” I motion to the chair across from my desk.
“Sure.” He crosses the room and drops into the chair, crossing one long leg over the other. The finger tapping resumes, this time on the arm of the chair.
I don’t bother finishing the email I was about to send. He’s clearly on edge. Instead, I shut down and start packing up my things. “Where are we going that has you so agitated?”
He glances at the door and shakes his head. “I’ll tell you once we’re out of the office.”
Well, that’s cryptic. I throw my laptop in my purse and double-check that I have everything I need so I can finish up the last few emails once we’re at home. Penelope should be back from her cruise soon, but she’s been in regular contact as long as she has reception. Mostly, she checks in to make sure Lincoln is managing okay and that Armstrong isn’t causing problems.
I sleep at Lincoln’s at least four times a week. He would probably like it if I stayed every night, but I have to justify paying my rent, and I need time with Dani and my family. My mom and I have made volunteering at the hospital a weekly event followed by dinner. Sometimes I go back to Lincoln’s afterward, but other times I need space since it can be emotional.
Lincoln doesn’t say much on the elevator ride down to street level other than to exchange pleasantries with a couple of people heading home for the day.
“Okay, what’s going on?” I ask as soon as we’re in the car and Lincoln has given the driver the address. “Why are we going to Lower Manhattan?”
“You know that penthouse my father had?”
“The one you think he used to see his mistress?” Even the word makes my skin crawl.
“That’s the one.” Lincoln runs his hands up and down his thighs. “Someone’s been in there recently, and I want to check it out.”
“How do you know someone’s been there?”
“Every time a person enters the penthouse, I get an alert. I cancelled the housekeeping service after I discovered the place, so there’s no reason for anyone else to be there. And I checked with Armstrong, and he said it wasn’t him.”
“And you believe him?”
“He said, and these were his words, playing dress up in Dad’s old fetish gear isn’t how he wants his sex to go down.”
“He’s unbelievable.”
“He certainly is that. Anyway, I wanted to check things out, because obviously someone else has an access code for the penthouse besides me and Armstrong, and I’m assuming it has to be a mistress.”
“Have you managed to dig up any other information about the property?” I ask.
“Honestly, I’ve been too preoccupied with everything else that’s going on, and there are so many files to go through. I have some I want to look over this weekend, see if any of it links to this place.” He runs a hand through his hair and sighs.
“Anything I can do to help, you let me know.” I reach over and squeeze his thigh. “You know, Dani’s a PI, so say the word, and I can ask her to look into it for you.”
He frowns. “Really? I thought she worked in IT.”
“That’s part of her job.” Often she fi
nds backdoor ways to get information. I don’t ask a lot of questions about how she comes by it. I just know she has access to things I know nothing about it.
He laces our fingers together. “Let’s see what we find when we get to the penthouse.”
He doesn’t let go of my hand until we have to get out of the car. The ride up to the penthouse floor is tense with Lincoln nervously tapping against the handrail.
I follow him through the penthouse, wondering who Fredrick met here, and how that person felt about being the other woman. Did she consider how it damaged the relationship he was already in? Was she the reason he never connected with his wife? Who else was hurt because of their affair besides Lincoln and Armstrong? There are too many unknowns and what-ifs in a situation like this.
Lincoln stops in every room. The drawers in the master bedroom have been emptied, as have the closets. The sex room appears to be untouched, so I get to see, in three dimensions, exactly what Fredrick got up to in the bedroom, at least with his mistress. I honestly can’t see, and don’t want to imagine, Gwendolyn taking part in any of this.
Lincoln spends only a few seconds in there before he closes the door and returns to the kitchen. He opens the fridge to find it bare. “I wonder if his mistress has been here.” He strides across the room and yanks open a door, which leads to an empty pantry. “This was full before, and there was stuff in the fridge.”
“Do you think she came to clean it out?” It’s obvious someone did, but I don’t know what else to say.
He turns to me, looking lost. “Is it wrong that I want to know who she is? I just want to understand all of this.”
“I don’t think it’s wrong. It’s human, Lincoln, and understandable. This is a part of your father you don’t know and that doesn’t make sense to you. But even if you find out who she is, you’ll never really get the answers as to why, as least not from your father’s side.” For a moment I consider telling him that I’m a product of an affair, that the man I call my father doesn’t share any of my DNA and the man who does gave up his legal rights without a fight. That I’ve spent the last ten years wondering if my mother looks at me and sees her biggest mistake. That I’m ashamed of how I came to be, or that I’m here, and my sister, their real child, didn’t even survive three days. But I don’t want to shift the focus away from him and his pain, so I keep it where it’s safest—a weight in my chest I can’t ever seem to unload.
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