by Sloan Archer
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
FORGOTTEN HEARTS
Dunblair Ridge Series Book One
Copyright © 2018 by Sloan Archer
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any electronic or written form without permission.
BOOKS BY SLOAN ARCHER
Dunblair Ridge Series
FORGOTTEN HEARTS
Montgomery’s Vampires Series
MERCY’S DEBT (Book #1)
MERCY’S DANGER (Book #2)
MERCY’S DESTINY (Book #3)
Standalone Novels
THE LAST DAYS OF ORDINARY
For Christian
PROLOGUE
Dunblair Ridge, Montana, 1991
Promises of supper wafted through the swaying indigo landscape, far beyond the weeping willow and its worn rope swing where Cash and Vanessa had spent their happiest summer days. Beef stew, mashed potatoes, fresh bread. There was something else, too. Something tart and sweet.
Vanessa’s stomach rumbled, loud as thunder. “I think Aunt Jeanie is making apple fritters.”
“We playing or not?” Cash demanded, his mind on bigger things. He rubbed his hands together, wriggled his eyebrows. “I know a spot where you’ll never find me.”
“Fine, as long as you don’t peek, you cheat.” Vanessa turned her head so that Cash couldn’t see that she was laughing. Cash would never cheat at hide-and-seek, but she could tease him like that, since they were best friends. Aunt Jeanie said they were peas in a pod, a comparison Vanessa didn’t really understand, since she wasn’t too crazy about vegetables. She thought they were more like two different colors of M&M’S in the same bag—alike, because they were both kids, but also a little different. Cash was a boy, but Vanessa didn’t hold that against him.
“Hah! Cheat!” Cash was laughing, too. “Yah, right . . . Vanessa? What’s wrong?” he asked, his smile dimming.
Vanessa’s gaze was focused on the driveway across the field, where the dust had only begun to settle. “My mother.” She was too proud to cry, though she wanted to. “She’s back.”
“Does this mean you’ll have to go?”
Vanessa did not answer, and instead picked a handful of forget-me-nots from the field that separated their two farms. She tied them together using a ribbon from her hair and solemnly pressed the bouquet into her best friend’s hand.
“You’re not supposed to give me flowers!”
She placed a hand on her hip and cocked it. “Why not?”
“‘Cause I’m a boy.”
“These aren’t regular flowers, Cash. They’re forget-me-nots. As long as you keep them, you’ll never forget me. They’re magic,” she said as if this were fact.
“I wish we could run away together.”
“Me, too. But I’ll come back as soon as I’m old enough.”
Cash went quiet for a minute and then he took her hand. “When you do, I’m going to marry you. Then no one can ever take you away. We’ll be grownups then, and we can do what we want.”
After they said goodbye, Vanessa and Cash shared their first kiss, an innocent pressing of one set of popsicle-stained lips against another. Just one kiss before twenty-seven years would divide them on opposite sides of the country . . .
CHAPTER ONE
From the moment Vanessa Paul stepped out of the polished chrome elevator doors that opened to Jersaw & Morris Financial Services, she knew something was amiss. As a member of the fairer sex, she might have dismissed her certainty as women’s intuition, but anyone who possessed a working pair of eyes could see something far less mysterious was happening.
Everyone in the office was staring at her in stony silence.
It started with the receptionist, Samantha, who on most days subjected Vanessa to some blatant form of kiss-assery before she even managed to plant a single high-heeled foot onto the lobby. Love the outfit, is it new? Today, Vanessa was met with a quick onceover and a tight smile that bordered on a sneer.
Vanessa chalked up Samantha’s perplexing behavior as a rough Monday morning after a wild weekend out on the town—word around the water cooler was that the girl loved to Party with a capital P—but then it dawned on her that she’d felt similarly snubbed by a colleague back in the elevator. She’d figured that she was being paranoid, as she could think of absolutely nothing that she might have done to incite anger. Now, she wasn’t so sure.
With a nonchalance that felt feigned, Vanessa brushed her wavy, honey-colored hair off her shoulders and started toward her office, her face growing increasingly hot from the attention. As she passed the reception desk, she threw a curt hello at Samantha, who said nothing in return and began studying her computer as if the secret meaning to life might be hidden on its screen.
Odd. Very odd.
A few whispered conversations came to a halt as Vanessa neared the section many of her colleagues snobbishly referred to as Cubicle Corner, where the lowest-ranking employees worked. Most higher-level employees at the firm simply ignored the Cubicle Corner dwellers altogether or, worse, treated them like lowly slaves whose sole purpose for existing was to cater to their every demand. Vanessa was unlike her contemporaries in this regard: Whether janitor or management director, she treated everyone under the J&M roof with respect.
A drowsy-faced NYU intern, who’d been a good twenty pounds heavier before his tenure at J&M, locked eyes with Vanessa. A low-level grunt, he had most likely spent the night at the office crunching numbers. Vanessa threw a pitying smile the kid’s way, as if to declare Hang in there, we’re all in this together. He quickly averted his attention to the contemporary painting that dominated the wall behind her.
With a shrug, she continued on her way.
Vanessa knew all too well what is was like to be in the intern’s position. Although it seemed like a lifetime ago, she’d sat at the very same desk only a few years back. She appreciated exactly the sort of hideous difficulties, both professional and personal, the kid was up against as an entry-level financial services professional: the long days that morphed into even longer evenings of slaving away until sunrise; the choked-down granola bars in bathroom stalls due to the lack of any kind of sanctioned break, and the rushed phone calls to loved ones when the big bosses finally went on theirs; the strain the inhuman work hours put on personal relationships; the backstabbing and conniving, the unrelenting competitiveness amongst coworkers, who saw each other more often than their own family and friends; the pressure to constantly prove your worth. All of it—the exhaustion, the fear, the heartbreak—for the hope of an eventual big payoff and a bright office with lush views of the treetops.
Though Vanessa herself was a financial planner, Jersaw & Morris, a self-proclaimed “one-stop shop” of economic services, housed a variety of industry professionals: investment bankers, hedge fund managers, and even a couple lawyers. While Vanessa was not at the very top of the J&M food chain, she had worked herself up to a respectable mid-range position. She appreciated the perks that came along with her job, yet it meant a whole lot more to her than merely a sizeable paycheck and an enviable office space. Her career provided her genuine happiness, for the most part, and she was good at what she did. What gave her the most fulfillment was making money for others through her keen planning, which translated into an overall better quality of life for everyone involved.
Despite what the media so often portrays about those who work in he
r industry, Vanessa was not a callous shark-type out to score billions for large, faceless corporations. Though she had plenty of high-dollar clients, not everyone she assisted was mega-rich. On the contrary, what she loved most was working one-on-one with those who’d come from modest backgrounds, taking a little bit of their savings and turning it into a lot. It thrilled her knowing that she’d helped clients save for things like their first home, child’s college education, and retirement.
Where Vanessa thrived most of all was her creativity in finding unique ways for her clients to generate revenue, whether it be through adapting a slightly modified business model or incorporating radical changes—she’d saved more than a couple mom and pop businesses from going under. Vanessa understood that, at the end of the day, her job boiled down to her being a number cruncher and a predictor of risks, yet she was proud that she’d made a positive difference in her clients’ lives.
This was, of course, before her new boss, Antonio Melane, had sauntered into his cushy J&M position with all his ludicrous demands. Shortly after his arrival on the scene, colleagues had privately teased Vanessa that she should be getting two salaries, since she was doing her job and his. The joke began to lose its power as Melane began increasing her workload—which should have been his—with each month that dragged on. More aggravatingly, he was a credit stealer who condescendingly reminded Vanessa that they were all “a part of a team” whenever she spoke up on her behalf, as if wanting to be recognized for her ideas was immoral. The funny thing was that Melane never took the credit when things went wrong.
While Vanessa had faced plenty of sexism as a woman working in financial services, she suspected her ill treatment had less to do with her gender and more to do with the background Melane shared with one of the company’s founders. Antonio Melane and Michael Jersaw had grown up in the same rundown New Jersey neighborhood. Though they were relatively the same age and had lived only a few blocks apart, they hadn’t gotten chummy until they became roommates while attending Yale on full scholarships. The two men now touted themselves as “slum kids done good,” thus they could do no wrong in each other’s eyes. If there was one thing more rampant in the industry than sexism, it was nepotism.
Vanessa had been at J&M long enough to understand how things worked. If she were to take her gripes about Antonio Melane to higher-ups—one of which was Jersaw—she’d probably be ignored or, worse, demoted. Vanessa had never been much of a complainer, anyway, so she did what came naturally: She kept her head down and her work standards high, often going above and beyond her sanctioned duties.
Heartbeat matching the clickety-clack of her sleek patent leather Louboutins, Vanessa strode down the long marble hallway that branched off to her small, smart office. Each time she passed a colleague, she was once again snubbed. He or she swiftly became engrossed in the paperwork they carried, or they veered off into another direction altogether.
A huge smile began to spread across Vanessa’s lips. She was being treated like a pariah, which could only mean one very magical thing.
Promotion!
At a cutthroat firm like Jersaw & Morris, the success of one translated as the failure of another. The more Employee A succeeded at his or her job, the less successful it seemed Employee B was at theirs. It was a never-ending, vicious circle of one-upmanship: If Employee A secured a ten million-dollar account, Employee B now felt as if they must secure twenty. If Employee A was promoted to a higher position after three years on the job, Employee B vowed to get promoted in two. Vanessa had even witnessed two coworkers go as far as bringing a tape measure to work to see whose plush office was bigger, the winner gloating for weeks over the eleven-inch difference. If the way colleagues were treating her so nastily today was any indication—the same people who’d been friendly and jokey with her only yesterday—Vanessa was in for a very BIG promotion, indeed.
Most days, the heavy glass door to Vanessa’s office seemed like a literal and figurative obstacle to her success. This morning, she pushed through it as if it was made of feathers. She stowed her handbag and set her coffee aside, and then did a little dance once she was sure nobody was watching.
Goodbye, Antonio Melane. Hello, freedom.
Hello, life. Hello, sleeping in. Hello, sex.
Hello, hello, hello.
Vanessa took a moment to observe the numerous milestones she’d placed on her wall that marked her rise within the institution she had devoted so much of her life to. There were photos of the company retreats that had allowed her to network with those capable of furthering her career. Plaques given for her excellency on the job. Framed letters from satisfied clients.
What made Vanessa smile most, though, was the photo on her desk of her boyfriend, Greg. She picked up the silver frame that held his beautiful, smiling face and traced her finger along his jawline. Her amazing Greg Dashner, a man who had the patience of a saint. A steadfast partner, who’d stood by her through thick and thin—the endless months of her working through the weekend, the frantic middle-of-the-night phone calls from overzealous clients, her gloomy moods of self-doubt. Now that Vanessa was being promoted, she would be the one dictating her schedule, and they’d finally, finally have the time together as a couple that they so desperately needed.
Maybe, Vanessa thought, they’d even manage to get married. They’d been dating for over two years and had been living together at his place for the past ten months. During the first few months of cohabitation, they’d discussed tying the knot. Yet, each time they’d ventured to plan for a wedding—or even shop for rings—Vanessa’s hectic schedule had gotten in the way. Eventually, they’d stopped bringing it up altogether.
Vanessa was all too aware how much Greg resented playing second fiddle to her job, since he’d confirmed as much during their arguments over her lack of availability. Vanessa could never find another solution, no matter how many different angles she had scrutinized their schedules. She was dutybound to look after her clients, many who’d entrusted her with their entire life savings. Things moved fast in the financial industry, so even one ignored phone call or a single missed meeting could result in the loss of tens of thousands—or even millions—of dollars.
Vanessa couldn’t remember the last time she and Greg had made love—two, three months ago. Maybe four. But she did remember that it had not gone well, since she’d fallen asleep during the act. Greg’s touch had grown cold since, his body stiffening ever so slightly with each embrace.
Not surprisingly, things had been strained at home as of late. Though Greg had never come right out and said it, he was running out of patience—he had run out of patience was more like it. Vanessa could hardly blame him. She herself had grown pretty sick of being lifeless.
Thinking of her impending promotion, Vanessa sat back in the high-backed office chair that she’d come to think of as her personal throne, propping her feet up on her expensive modernist desk. Savoring the moment, she took a hearty gulp of her latte, relishing its rich, creamy flavor on her tongue—was this how delicious coffee was? She’d gotten so accustomed to consuming caffeine like medicine that she’d all but forgotten the simple pleasure of its taste.
Micah, an associate investment banker who worked a few doors down, passed by her office windows. Though she knew the gesture would be in vain, Vanessa stretched over and rapped on the glass with a knuckle, providing him a friendly wave. She hadn’t expected Micah to stop, given the poor treatment from her other colleagues, but he did . . . just long enough to jab his middle finger at her. Micah seemed to take great pleasure at the sight of Vanessa’s mouth falling open. He provided her a vicious glare and then skulked away.
All Vanessa could do was laugh at the lunatic. Geez, what a sore loser. She took another sip of her coffee and shrugged. Let them enjoy their sour grapes—why shouldn’t she get a promotion? She’d earned it. All those years of missing her friends’ birthday parties, their weddings, baby showers. All those dark circles under her eyes from lost sleep . . . All those fights she’d had wit
h Greg . . . She hadn’t just worked hard, she’d sacrificed. So, if downers like Micah wanted to begrudge her success, that was their problem. They could all—
“Ms. Paul?”
Vanessa’s breath caught in her throat when she saw three very important men entering her office: Mike Jersaw, Evan Morris, and the ever-loathsome Antonio Melane. Panicked by their sudden appearance, she scissor kicked her tight-skirted legs off her desk in a hurry, flashing them her faded purple panties and spilling her coffee over in the process. Without thinking, she used the sleeve of her white blouse to mop up the mess until Evan Morris—who had always been Vanessa’s favorite—handed her his handkerchief in mortified silence. Vanessa accepted it and dabbed at her desk in a frenzy.
“I’m sorry, I was lost in my own thoughts for a minute there!”
After she and the desk were as clean as they were going to get, Vanessa made a move to hand the handkerchief back to Morris. At the last second, she thought better of it and instead set it aside on her desk. Suddenly, she didn’t know what to do with her arms. She crossed them across her chest casually, saw that a dampened sleeve was stained brown up to the elbow, and then quickly moved both arms behind her back.
Well, this was an impressive way to enter into a promotion.
It was Mike Jersaw who spoke up first. “Would you please take a seat, Ms. Paul?”
Vanessa couldn’t understand why they kept calling her Ms. Paul. Though J&M were certainly a professional firm, only first names were typically used amongst associates. Perhaps this was a negotiation tactic, formalness intended to throw her off her game, like asking her to sit down so that they were positioned above, looming.
As if such obvious intimidation tactics would work on her, Vanessa thought smugly. Smiling amiably, she humored them by taking a seat.