by Peyton Banks
My dad takes every opportunity to remind me I’m in line to produce the next Andrew Delany Baxter-Scott, another heir to the Baxter-Scott fortune. Andrew the fourth, my father, thought I wouldn’t amount to anything. Given time without rules in place, I may have proven him right, but I’m tired of not having control of the Baxter-Scott company. It’s mine, and I want it.
I’ve worked hard, graduating in the top three in my class at Stanford. I received honors with my masters from Yale—I didn’t do law like I’d wanted. Instead, I studied business. To top it all off, I graduated early, but that wasn’t enough. No, I had to have the beautiful woman not just on my arm, but on my bank account for my father to think I’d achieved something worthwhile. He thought marriage would make me responsible, hell, it would probably make me wilder.
Sandra, my intended, may not be the smartest woman in the world, but she looked good doing it—whatever “It” was. Currently, it was sugar scrubs. Not that she sold them or made them or produced any money with those sweet-smelling scrubs. No, she spent my money finding the best sugar scrub in Manhattan, going from store to store, purchasing a scrub then taking it back to our apartment—which she hated—and Instagramming the whole adventure to her fans. Yes, she has fans and takes every opportunity to rub it in my face.
I didn’t hold her activities against her. She seemed happy, at least from my point of view she did, not that I spend much time with her. Her parents are the exact opposite of mine and required nothing from her. From my perspective, it is all good. She will produce beautiful children, which my dad informs me at least once a week is what it’s all about. Once I’m married and have a spawn, I will have my company to run.
The main issue continues to be how my dad threatens to leave the business to someone else unless I produced another Baxter-Scott. Time and time again, my dad would shake his hands at me, shouting to the night, the moon, the stars, and God only knows who else would listen as he listed my faults. I had plenty. From underage drinking—what football playing, drag car racing high school senior didn’t drink—to going with the wrong girl. Hey, it was a girl I'd been caught with, and he'd wanted me to produce an heir, just not an heir with someone so young or from the wrong zip code. That woman was amazing but vulgar as a stripper the day rent was due. I don’t remember her name, but she’d been smoking hot and ready for fun. Plus, she’d reminded me of Heather.
I sigh and think not for the first time, that the group in charge of running Baxter-Scott Enterprises would probably do better than I could, but it is the principle of the matter. I'd worked in the company mailroom when I was too young to get a job. I cleaned the toilets when my dad thought I needed more structure. When I proved myself, I was allowed to give input to the person doing the landscaping. Yes, I know what you're thinking. Landscaping. My father must own a landscaping company; it couldn't be further from the truth. After I proved myself in landscaping, I was allowed to shadow the sanitation crew. I cleaned every single office in the building at least once and all the toilets a hundred times, if not more. Then, finally, after I'd received my degree from Stanford, I was allowed to be an intern. I wasn't a paid intern. No, I was the chump who got coffee and donuts for the guys in sales—did I mention I didn't get paid? So in addition to getting my master’s degree, I’d been stuck working for free for my dad.
It was wonderful…so wonderful. I’m not sure if I gave off enough sarcasm there. I freaking hate how much my dad has manipulated my life.
In the middle of my master’s degree, my dad had a health scare. He installed the new management team then dangled the carrot again. If I got married, proved I was responsible, then and only then would I get the company. We both thought I had time to get to this point, but newsflash, I didn’t since my mom insisted he not work after they knew he would live.
From my perspective, getting married has nothing to do with proving I’m fit to run the company, but I was in this to win it. Thus, enter Sandra. Pretty, but not bright. I could marry her, produce one child, maybe two, possibly three, and continue with what I wanted to do in life. She fit my parent's expectation, though I didn't love her. But this is business, and she doesn't care that I don't care. Maybe I hadn't really been one hundred percent honest with her, but she would have money, and she could do her own thing, which she really seemed happy doing.
I check my watch for the tenth time. Where in the heck is Sandra anyway? She is supposed to be here by now. Maybe she’s going to meet me at the bar, but we’d discussed this more than once. I should have made her come to my office earlier. She is habitually late.
The problem is my parents are flying in from Venice, not the Venice, but Venice, Florida today, and want to meet us at their favorite bar before they head to their apartment. My mom always wanted to retire to the beach. My dad hated living in Florida. I’m a little ashamed to admit it gives me pleasure that he suffers.
My phone rings and I notice Sandra’s name on the display. “You’re late,” I bark, irritation deepening my voice.
“I’m not coming.”
Her words hit me like a splash of freezing water on a cold winter day. Responses form in my mind, but I can’t get them out.
“Ha, speechless. If I’d known that’s what it took, I would have done something like this a long time ago just to get you to shut the hell up.”
Anger boils, and I fight the urge to yell. "Get over here now," I say calmly. "We can talk about this later."
“No can do. I’m headed to Miami to spend time with another man I’ve been seeing. The thing is, he pays attention to me. Bye, Baxter, see you never again.”
She hangs up, leaving me holding my balls on a platter. Why hadn’t I seen this? Why didn’t I know about her seeing another guy? We are engaged. That is the plan. Why the hell hadn’t she called earlier and told me she wouldn’t be here?
There is no way I can find someone to be my fiancée in the—I check my watch—forty-five minutes I have before my parents arrive. What the hell am I going to do?
My secretary steps into my office and for a brief moment I think about asking her, but my dad would never believe I was dating this woman. She was too old, and not my type. Plus I think she’d married, but I’m not sure.
No, whomever I presented them with has to be amazing. Telling my dad the truth isn’t an option. He will never allow me to run the company if I can’t keep a woman. He’ll say something like If you can’t keep a woman, how the hell are you going to keep a company? Yes, I say those words in my head in his voice, and it almost makes me laugh, but this isn’t a laughing matter.
Since I’d gotten serious about my now ex-fiancée, I’d stopped dating other women. There are no alternatives. No women I can call. No backups. I have nothing, and my parents will be in Manhattan, ready to meet the future Mrs. Baxter-Scott in less than an hour.
I am doomed. There is no one at work. No one in my building. No one I know who is available.
I leave my office as I scroll through my contacts. I find no one I can call. This is terrible. After not finding anyone in my desperate attempt to search my contacts, I pull up LinkedIn and search through my connections from school. I have forty minutes to find someone, convince them to be my fiancée—well pretend to be my fiancée—and present them to my parents all the while keeping the truth hidden.
I open my messages in LinkedIn and freeze. I can’t. I won’t. The message is from someone I swore I’d never contact again because she’d broken my heart. She’d moved to New York last month—okay, two months ago I see after reading her whole message—and wants to get a drink or wanted to because the message is from a month ago. I hate myself for what I’m about to do.
Hell, this is worse than rush week, worse than finals, worse than working with my dad, worse than anything—but not worse than meeting my dad and telling him I am a failure.
Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad. She’d been nice through school—too nice really. I close my eyes, wishing I could avoid Hurricane Heather, but I’m desperate.
&nbs
p; 2
Heather
* * *
I’m not gonna lie; I love New York. It’s not what I expected, but I still love it. I’d been warned about how bad New York City was when I’d moved from LA, but they’d been wrong. The city, the people, everything is so much different from LA. I like the people, the community, and yes, I even love the subway. My sweet little walk-up on the west side, just south of Columbia University, is perfect.
I still have a store in LA and one in San Francisco, and a couple of large retailers want my items, but I’m not sure I want my line available so widely. Exclusivity keeps me in high demand. I was weighing developing a line for a midline retailer but offering my clothes at Target would change everything.
One thing which helps me think is yoga. I’m in the middle of warrior two in a field close to the Great Lawn in Central Park when my phone rings. Honestly, I thought of ignoring it but I can’t, not with everything I have going on.
“Hello, Heather here.”
The person on the other end clears their throat then silence ensues. I’m about to ask if anyone is there when they speak.
“Hi, um, Heather.”
The voice takes me way back and a mix of pleasure and pain hits. God, I’d been stupid sending him a note. In my defense, I’d consumed a half bottle of chardonnay. I mean I wanted to see him, but the reality of facing Andrew has me shaking.
“Andrew Delany Baxter-Scott the fifth or is it the sixth, I can’t remember,” I say, trying to keep the feelings out of my voice.
He chuckles, and my heart squeezes. That chuckle had invaded my dreams for years.
“I go by Baxter now.”
“Of course you do.” Everyone in college who didn’t like him had called him Bastard. I’d defended him, losing more than one friend over that name.
“Um, so I was wondering, you know if—”
“Spit it out, Baxter.” In college, if he didn’t want to tell me something, he would stammer. It makes me sad to remember so much from that time.
“Would you like to meet for drinks tonight?”
I wipe my face with a towel. A one of a kind HipFeather—that’s me, HipFeather—towel that had been sold in my boutique in Hollywood since last year. I’m going to say no, but I’d been the one to send the first note. I need to see him to know I’d dodged a bullet. Plus, I need a diversion. My best ideas hit me after a distraction.
“Sure. Where and when?”
“So could you meet me at Red Fire off Madison at 76th in twenty minutes?”
Baxter has me intrigued. “I don’t know.” I gather my water bottle and start walking that way. I want to pull his chain and hold back a giggle as he sighs.
“Please, I could throw in dinner too.”
More than curious, I pick up my pace. “Okay, if you toss in dinner. A girl’s gotta eat.”
He blows out a breath that is full of frustration. “Thank you. I’ll explain everything when you get here.”
I roll my eyes and skip a little as I approach the Met. I’ll be dressing two women at the huge gala next month. It’s an honor. My clothing line is quirky, more do yoga in the Great Meadow and grab coffee with friends kind of clothes, not Met Gala type of designs. I do have a few dresses and casual occasion clothes I’ve developed over the years, but I’d caught the eyes of a few women in Hollywood. Since the women had both asked for me specifically, I couldn’t say no, not that I ever would. I mean come on; it is the Met Gala.
“Baxter, I’ll be there, and you’d better be prepared to explain everything.”
I hang up and hitch my bag higher on my shoulder. I tug down my crocheted shirt, taking it from right under my bra to a near bellybutton covering crop. It was one of my favorite pieces because it was so versatile. My hair had been in a band to tame it for most of the day, and I pull the band out, letting the curls go wild. I'd been trying to go natural, but fear of past inequalities had me conscious of what some people thought. I know, it was ridiculous to be so self-conscious. My brand was about breaking free, being yourself, and here I was afraid to let my hair do its own thing. A quick look at my reflection in my phone confirms I’m presentable. If someone doesn’t like my hair, that’s their problem.
The walk to the bar takes ten minutes. Surprise hits me when I see Baxter already at the location. An intense expression covers his face, one I remember well from college. I’d been on the receiving end of his ire more than once. Maybe I was twisted, but I take great pleasure in riling him up. Usually, I don’t even try to get under a guy’s skin, but with Baxter, it was almost a requirement.
He glances up, and a horrified expression crosses his face. His judgmental attitude hasn't changed much in the years since school, but back then he'd let his judgment fall on others. One thing I would never do was apologize for my clothes, my look, and I would stop apologizing for my hair. Sure, my designs were different from what most people wore, but my clothes were for women who were secure in their skin no matter their size.
I march over and pull him in for a hug. “Calling you Baxter is going to take some getting used to.”
His body stiffens, and I almost lose my nerve.
“Dammit,” Baxter whispers. “Why are they here already. Shit, this is a nightmare.”
His words confuse me, and I let go from around his neck. I turn and spy his parents. At least I think it's his parents. I haven't actually met them, but I'd seen photos. More than once, Baxter and I had bought beer or wine and had a powwow about how hurt he'd been by some shit his parents had done. Needless to say, I didn't get any warm fuzzies seeing them now.
I draw in a slow breath, wishing I’d worn something different. Dammit, I was proud of my clothes, but a woman like Mrs. Baxter-Scott wouldn’t appreciate my style or my designs.
His mom’s lips turn down in a frown before she recovers. “Well, you must be Baxter’s fiancée. Isn't it nice to meet Baxter's fiancée,” his mom says loud enough for everyone in the bar to hear.
Shock pulses through me, stealing my breath. I was about to tell her no freaking way was I Baxter’s wife-to-be when I notice a pleading look in his eyes. My heart twists in a way reserved for lost puppies and injured kittens.
I turn back to his mom and hold out my hand. “I’m Heather Burke, it’s nice to meet you.” Burke was my real last name. I own the business under the name Devonshire, which was my mom’s maiden name. It’s a way to honor her and keep myself hidden from crazies when I just want to be left alone. Right now, I’m glad for the separation because I know Baxter’s parents will bend over backward getting a background check done on me.
"Nice to meet you. I'm Lucinda, and this is Andrew the fourth. Jacey hasn't told us anything about you, not even your name. Honestly, we figured you weren't real." Lucinda lets out a bark of laughter that draws more stares.
Baxter shifts uncomfortably behind me. His dad nods and I get the distinct impression he doesn’t approve of me. His lips turn down in a frown and his nose curls a little. What the heck was going on? I want to ask Baxter, but that would have to wait. Based on their nickname for my friend, I would never be able to call him Andrew again.
“Mom, Dad, it's nice to see you." Baxter's voice is strained and his stance stiff.
His dad grunts and flags down a waitress by snapping his fingers. Maybe the waitresses were used to such treatment in this part of town. Moneyed-up wealthy act like they own the place, and maybe they do, but their treatment of those in the service industry is nearly inhumane.
“Hi, can I get you all something to drink?” the waitress asks.
“Whiskey, neat,” Andrew the elder says.
“I’ll have a cosmo,” Lucinda adds.
"Darling?" Baxter asks, and for a brief moment, I have no clue who he is talking to.
All eyes are on me, so I answer. “Just tea, please.”
“I’ll have a whiskey,” Baxter says.
Maybe he’d changed since college, but back then, he hated whiskey. I narrow my gaze, and he gives his head a quick shake. Thi
s isn’t my issue. Then Andrew the elder levels his gaze with me and a sneer mars his features.
“So do you think my son is a ticket to money?”
The question hits my solar plexus like no kickboxing, barre, or CrossFit class ever has. I think a gasp escapes my lips, I’m not sure. “He has money? I didn’t know.” The lie rolls off my tongue like butter on a hotplate. Everyone in school knew Baxter is loaded. “We’re usually busy with other stuff.” I giggle and lean in, brushing my lips over Baxter’s cheek.
A few things happen all at once. Blush stains Baxter’s cheeks. I realize I like it when he blushes. The waitress approaches with our drinks, and Baxter’s mom shows us how fast she can slam a cosmopolitan. The waitress asks if she wants another and Lucinda nods and says to make it a double.
No one says anything until the waitress brings Lucinda’s second drink. I wish I’d ordered something stronger and eye Baxter’s whiskey which he has hardly touched. I get the sick feeling this is fast becoming my problem—Baxter that is, and his parents.
“So, how did you two meet?” Lucinda is trying to be nice and I kind of regret suggesting anything sexual, but Baxter’s tales from his youth still affect me. I may have been drunk those nights we’d spent talking and revealing our scars, but I wasn’t so drunk I didn’t remember every word he’d said.
“Baxter helped me up after someone knocked me from my bike. Of course, it happened at school." It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth. Baxter had been the one who'd knocked me off the bike, and we'd both cussed a blue streak at each other until we were throwing out insults like you're a scrubby little chihuahua rocket, and your mother is a miniature goat herder. When I'd lobbed that one at Baxter, he'd thrown back his head laughing manically, then vowed to be my friend forever.
“Undergrad?” his dad asks.
“Yes.” I nod, wishing I could forget the goat herding memory before I laugh and they want me to explain what’s so funny.