If the Sun Never Sets

by Ana Huang

  “I’m in San Diego for the association’s annual retreat.” Cheryl sniffed. “So much drama. The membership chair’s wife filed for divorce right before the trip, and he drank so much yesterday he passed out on the beach. So stupid. He’s lucky he didn’t get mugged.”

  “Wow. You’re living on the wild side,” Farrah teased.

  “Hmph. I should’ve stayed home. All people do here is gossip, gossip, gossip.”

  “You say that every year, yet you go on the retreat every year.”

  Her mom had a love-hate relationship with the local Chinese dance association she’d joined right after Farrah graduated high school. As in, she loved to say she hated it, but Farrah knew it was all for show. The association provided a much-needed source of entertainment and company for Cheryl, who’d lived alone since Farrah moved to New York three years ago.

  Guilt prickled the back of Farrah’s neck. She should call and visit more often. Even though her mom had a robust social life, Farrah worried she was lonely. Cheryl hadn’t dated anyone since her divorce, and she was only in her fifties. Still plenty of time for a second chance at love.

  “Well, I come for the food and dancing.” Cheryl yelled at someone in the background, “Be quiet, I’m talking to my daughter!”

  Farrah laughed. “It’s okay. Enjoy your trip. I can call you later.”

  “No, it’s fine.” Cheryl hesitated. “You’re coming home for Christmas, right?”

  “Of course. I always come home for the holidays.”

  “Good, good.”

  Farrah’s spidey senses tingled at Cheryl’s tone. “Mom, what aren’t you telling me?”

  “Nothing. I was just thinking.” Cheryl cleared her throat. “Anyway, will you be bringing a boyfriend with you? A son-in-law would be the best Christmas present, but I have to vet him first. Moms can always tell if someone is a good egg or bad egg.”

  As subtle as a sledgehammer to the head. Cheryl’s gentle nudges about settling down, getting married, and birthing lots of grandbabies had evolved into outright shoves, and Farrah was only twenty-five.

  “There are no eggs, good or bad. I’m not dating anyone.” Technically true. Right?

  “No one?” Disappointment seeped through the phone into Farrah’s ear. “Not even a date? You’re young and attractive. Maybe you’re not going to the supermarket often enough.”

  Ok, the egg analogy was getting weird. “I’ve been on dates.” Farrah chewed on her bottom lip, wondering whether to disclose her sort-of dates with Blake. “I’ve been, uh, hanging out with Blake.”

  “Blake? The boy from Shanghai who broke your heart?”

  Cheryl had been there, tissues and ice cream in hand, to comfort her daughter when Farrah returned home from Shanghai and collapsed into tears whenever she saw or heard something that reminded her of Blake—a movie they’d watched together; a song they’d danced to; her set of Kelly Burke limited-edition Pantone markers, which he’d gifted her for her twentieth birthday and which she couldn’t bring herself to throw away until they ran out of ink.

  “Yes.” Farrah gave her mom a quick rundown of what happened, minus the sex part. She’d already told Cheryl about Blake’s design project—she just hadn’t named him as the client. “Before you say anything, I know I’m being reckless. Given my and Blake’s history, I shouldn’t even be talking to him. Right?”

  “Not necessarily.” Farrah knew her mom so well she could hear her shrug over the phone. “He sounds like he’s changed and wants to make things work. Besides, you were so smitten with him. Maybe this is your second chance.” She sounded wistful. “Grudges are the worst thing to hold on to. No matter how bad someone hurt you, you can’t heal until you forgive. Sometimes that means moving on. Other times that means giving things another shot.”

  Farrah tightened her grip on her phone. “You think I should give Blake another shot?”

  Two months ago, she would’ve scoffed at the idea, but now, a strange warmth filled her at her mother’s advice.

  “I think you should do what your heart tells you. We can be so afraid of getting hurt we lock it up in a fortress, but hearts are meant to roam free until they find what they’re searching for. Let yours lead you to where you need to go.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  After weeks of headaches, Blake’s business was running on smoother grounds again. He’d fixed the plumbing issues, found another liquor distributor who could deliver on time, and knocked his Miami visit out of the ballpark. Not only did he have the city officials eating out of his hand, but he’d found the perfect venue for Legends in the trendy Wynwood district.

  The New York branch may not be open yet, but when business operated at the size Legends did, he didn’t have the luxury of waiting until one project finished before he started on the next one. Blake worked on a fast-paced rolling schedule.

  But as much as he’d enjoyed Miami’s beaches and the thrill of seeing a business deal snap together, he would much rather be where he was now: in his kitchen, hands braced against the counter, while Farrah sucked him off like she was auditioning for a Hoover gig.

  “Fuck.” Blake’s groans echoed in the marble space as Farrah worked him mercilessly. Tongue. Hands. Teeth. Taking him to the edge over and over again until she drew him all the way down her throat and pressed on his taint.

  His orgasm ripped through him, brutal and unrepentant. His knees buckled, and he would’ve collapsed onto the floor had he not been squeezing the kitchen counter with a death grip. Blake was sure he shouted—loud—but he couldn’t hear anything past the roaring in his ears.

  When his vision cleared, he found Farrah staring up at him with a self-satisfied smirk.

  “I should go on business trips more often.” He lifted her up and sat her on the counter. She wasn’t naked yet, but that was something they could remedy in a second.

  “Hmm. Maybe. That was for the pastelitos.” She tilted her head toward the box of flaky guava-filled pastries he’d brought back from Miami. “An appropriate apology for running off and leaving me with BOB.”

  Blake’s brows snapped together. “Who the fuck is Bob? What’s his last name? I just want to talk.” And kill him. Don’t worry—it’ll be slow and painful.

  Farrah’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “BOB. Battery Operated Boyfriend. Last name: Vibrator. I think he’s getting sick of me, so it’s a good thing you’re back.” She hooked her legs around his waist and swiped her tongue across his bottom lip, which made him harder than the marble slab she was sitting on.

  Yes, already. When it came to Farrah, Blake’s dick could run longer marathons than an Iron Man champion.

  “I’m second place to BOB Vibrator? Bullshit.” Blake’s shoulders relaxed now that he didn’t have some asshole to hunt down. “For one, I’ll never get sick of you.”

  “Hmm. We’ll see.”

  “We don’t have to see. We know. At least, I do.” Blake ran his hands up the sides of her thighs. “I can prove it.”

  “Tempting,” she murmured. “But first…” She pushed him away and hopped off the counter. “Coffee.”

  Blake’s jaw unhinged, and Farrah broke out into sunny laughter that filled the room with its warmth.

  “Coffee can wait. You haven’t gotten your turn yet.” Not to mention, there was no way he could walk out of here with a hard-on the size of the Statue of Liberty.

  “I have, which is why I need coffee,” Farrah huffed. “We didn’t sleep at all last night, and it’s already…” She checked the clock on the microwave. “Nine-thirty in the morning.”

  Okay, Blake may have been overzealous in making up for lost time yesterday. Farrah hadn’t complained, far from it, but now that he looked closer, she did appear tired. Her lips drooped, and she attempted to hold back a yawn with no success.

  “We’ll get you coffee,” Blake said with some guilt. “I ran out of coffee beans but there’s a cafe downstairs.”

  “Perfect.”

  Blake got dressed, taking extra care to tuck hi
s package so it didn’t look like he was going to knock someone out with a baseball bat, and rode the elevator down to the lobby level, which boasted a coffee shop, library, screening room, and several conference rooms.

  There weren’t many people up and about on a Sunday morning, and they snagged a prime seat by the window after Blake paid for their drinks.

  “I have good news.” Farrah stirred her coffee until the heart-shaped latte art dissolved. “I signed another client.”

  “That’s amazing news!” Pride coursed through Blake. “Who is it?”

  “A model. Up and coming, but she just signed a big beauty contract and is looking to make her apartment feel more like home. She’s not paying much, but anything is better than nothing.”

  “Still amazing.” Blake squeezed her hand. “I knew you could do it.”

  Farrah’s eyes softened. “Thank you. I—” She stopped short. “Oh my God.”

  Blake followed her gaze to the couple walking in with their arms around each other. The guy was around their age. Mid-to-late twenties, decent-looking in a metrosexual douchebag kind of way. The woman was impeccably groomed but older than her boy toy by at least twenty years. She looked kind of familiar, but he couldn’t place her.

  Farrah’s grip tightened on his hand, cutting off his circulation. “That’s Kelly Burke.” Shock dripped from every word. “My old boss. And that’s her godson, Matt. The one who got the promotion after the Z Hotels project.”

  So that was why Kelly looked so familiar. Farrah had idolized the woman and shown him a picture of Kelly—not to mention every hotel Kelly had ever designed—when they were together in Shanghai.

  Blake watched as Matt whispered something in Kelly’s ear, and the older woman giggled like a teenager. They hadn’t noticed Farrah yet.

  “Uh, he’s just her godson, right? No biological relation? Because if so, that’s pretty fucking disturbing.”

  “No relation. But still.” Farrah’s voice shook. “He’s her best friend’s son and her employee.”

  Blake’s mouth set in a grim line. “Now we know why he got that promotion.”

  Matt noticed Farrah first. His eyes widened before he smoothed his expression into one of nonchalance. He removed his arm from Kelly’s waist and whispered something else to her that caused her to hone in on her ex-employee with laser eyes.

  Kelly was pretty hot for a cougar. Shiny brown hair, curvy figure, and a subtle touch of Botox that kept her skin smooth and unlined. But she had snake eyes, dark and cold.

  Blake hated her on sight.

  “Farrah.” Kelly glided over with Matt in tow. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

  “I’m surprised to see you here. With Matt.” Farrah threw a pointed glance at Matt, whose ears pinked.

  “He is my godson, and he lives in the building. I was helping him with…something in his apartment,” Kelly said, cooler than the A/C blasting from the vents.

  Blake hadn’t seen Matt around before, but all four of them knew what the “something” Kelly was talking about was.

  “We miss you in the office.” Kelly oozed insincerity. “Which firm are you at now?”

  Farrah withdrew her hand from Blake’s and took a gulp of her coffee. “I’m consulting at the moment. After KBI, I thought a corporate career might not be the best fit for me.”

  “I see.” Kelly’s smile slashed across her face. “Which firms did you receive offers from? I’m friends with many designers in the city. Perhaps I can get them to sweeten the deal, so you’ll reconsider. You’re so talented.”

  Despite her encouraging words, Kelly resembled a cobra, coiled to strike.

  Beside her, Matt rubbed a hand through his hair. He, at least, at the grace to look embarrassed.

  Farrah’s face paled. Something sparked in her eyes—realization. Over what, Blake didn’t know. “Thank you, but no thank you.” She stood up. “We have somewhere to be, so I’ll leave you two alone. Always a pleasure running into you.”

  Blake followed Farrah into the elevator, where she jabbed at the button for his floor so hard, he was surprised it didn’t break.

  “You were way nicer to them than I would’ve been,” he said. “What assholes. I know someone who knows someone. If you want, they can make it quick.”

  His joke fell flat on its face.

  Farrah stared straight ahead, her face set in stone. “It’s her.”

  “What?”

  “Kelly’s the reason I haven’t received responses from any of the firms I applied to.” He detected a slight tremble in her shoulders. Not from nerves, but from anger. “She blackballed me. God, I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. She’s vindictive and petty enough to do something like this. There was a senior designer who worked at KBI when I first joined. Julie. She got a shoutout in some magazine’s list of the fifty top up-and-coming designers in the city. Kelly couldn’t stand it, even though she wasn’t an up-and-comer nor eligible for the list herself. She fired Julie, badmouthed her to the entire industry—something about Julie stealing design ideas—and forced her to move back to Michigan. I was new and under Kelly’s spell. I thought she was telling the truth. But now that I think about it…” She shook her head.

  The elevator dinged. “Can she do that?” Blake didn’t know much about the design world, but based on what he saw on reality TV, he didn’t put it past Kelly to do the things Farrah said. People were crazy.

  “She’s the most influential and well-respected interior designer in New York,” Farrah said flatly. “She sits on the board of NIDA. People believe everything she says.”

  “She’s also banging her godson and employee.”

  “No hard evidence, and knowing Kelly, she’ll cover her tracks.” Farrah groaned. “It’s true what they say. Never meet your idols because they’ll disappoint you. I knew she wasn’t the warmest person on the planet, but I never thought…” She rubbed her eyes as Blake opened the door to his apartment. “God knows what she’s said about me.”

  “I’m sorry.” Blake hated how helpless he felt. “I can talk to Landon. He’s a big KBI client.” At least, until he dropped their ass, which he’d do in a heartbeat. Blake got the sense Landon wasn’t the biggest Kelly Burke fan himself.

  “No.” Farrah drew in a deep breath. “I don’t want to bother him with small stuff. He has enough on his plate, and so do you. You have the New York opening and the Miami rollout…don’t worry about it. It’s my life. I’ll figure it out.”

  “Hey.” Blake cupped her face in his hands. “It’s not ‘small stuff.’ Like you said, it’s your life. Your career. And I will help you in any way I can. Just say the word.”

  “Thank you.” Farrah swiped under her eye. “Can we not talk about this anymore? I just want to eat pastelitos and watch bad reality TV. I’ll deal with the Kelly stuff later.”

  “You got it.”

  The two spent the rest of the day gorging on pastries and Chinese takeout and watching Love is Blind on Netflix. Blake had a shit ton of work to do, and today had been his least productive day in years, but as Farrah’s hand curled around his on the couch—her first time holding his hand since they ran into each other again—he knew it was worth it.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  If Farrah tried hard enough, she could use the Kelly-screwing-her-godson-and-employee info to her advantage and take down her old boss. Kelly wasn’t married, but it would be a big enough scandal to tarnish her otherwise spotless reputation.

  Farrah had been ready to do it. She’d even drafted anonymous emails to the gossip rags and Kelly’s competitors, tipping them off on her salacious discovery. But she’d deleted them before ever hitting send.

  She wasn’t that kind of person. She didn’t care about drama and revenge, and she refused to stoop to Kelly’s level. Plus, Farrah didn’t have concrete evidence that Kelly blackballed her, though that seemed like the most plausible explanation.

  She believed in karma. If Kelly did screw her over, she’d get her comeuppance.

&n
bsp; After an afternoon of wallowing, Farrah threw her energy into her new project instead of plotting her old boss’s downfall like a soap opera villain. Thank God Kelly’s reach didn’t extend to every single person in Manhattan. Farrah could find enough clients to tide her over if she hustled hard enough.

  Yuliya, the model, proved easy enough to work with. Her studio apartment was small, and she needed an interior decorator more than a designer. Decorators focused solely on aesthetics; designers focused on aesthetics, space planning, and structural execution. It didn’t take Farrah long to pull together a concept that had Yuliya squealing in excited Russian.

  “You’re back early.” She looked up from her computer when the front door slammed open, and Olivia marched in wearing her new green wrap dress and strappy black heels. “Date didn’t go well?”

  Olivia had been on a record number of dates since the Fourth of July, though none of the poor men ever made it past date three.

  “It was fine.” Olivia kicked off her shoes and placed them between her black ankle boots and black sandals. The shoe rack in their entryway was, like everything else in the apartment, organized and color-coded to Olivia’s exact specifications. “But men in finance are so boring. Just because I deal with financial models during the day doesn’t mean I want to discuss them over bucatini alla carbonara.”

  Farrah’s lips twitched. “Perhaps you should venture outside the finance world for dates.”

  “I hate hipsters.” Olivia waved a hand in the air. “That’s the entire New York dating pool. Finance, hipsters, and vain model/fitness trainer types.”

  “You’re generalizing.”

  “Generalizations exist for a reason.” Olivia plopped onto the couch next to Farrah. “How was your night? Where’s Loverboy?”

  “Blake is on his way to Austin for his father’s birthday.”

  “How filial.” Olivia snatched a chip from the open bag of salt and vinegar Lays on the coffee table. “Can’t believe he didn’t take you.”

  “We’re not at that stage of our relationship.”