Breach of Contract (Kavanagh Family Romance Book 1)

by Elizabeth Miller

  “Well, whatever. It’s nice. Listen. For Christmas, Mom is surprising us with a round of theatre tickets to all the newest shows. Isn’t that exciting?”

  “It’s not much of a surprise if I know about them now.”

  “True, but she has so much on her plate with the holidays, she asked me to take care of it. Do you want two tickets? Maybe you’d like to bring a plus-one?”

  “Yes, do tell,” Henry says with a twinkle in his eye. “Who’s your date?”

  My heart does a hopeful flip. There’s no chance Mr. Kavanagh will go with me. Not my boss, not in a public forum and with hundreds of people in attendance. I’m almost certain provision six of the contract means I’ll have to go it alone. But he did arrive with me at the theatre last night. And afterward we stopped at Joe’s, an out-of-the-way burger joint. We did it all together. That’s progress. We’re progressing. So I could ask?

  “I’ll take two.”

  “You will?” Lily’s wide eyes affirm her shock. I’ve never had a plus-one before. “I mean, that’s fantastic, Mais. I can’t wait to meet him.”

  “Don’t get too excited. I’m going to bring a friend. To each play, I’ll bring a friend.” If Mr. Kavanagh says no, I’ll take Dee or Sasha. Piper will fly in for a weekend visit. Even though I have loads of options, my heart hopes for one man in particular. I’d like to go on a date with him—a very public date where he’s proud to be with me.

  “Oh, there you are.” Mom sighs, her heels clicking a clipped pace on the wood floor.

  Her tsk is heard loud and clear when stopping directly in front of me to tug on my tight skirt. “For Pete’s sake, Maisie. This is a holiday, and your father’s business associates are here. You could have worn something decent. Have I taught you nothing?”

  “It’s nice to see you too, Mom. How are things?” I step out of her grip and smooth a hand over my hips, drawing her attention to the round swell of them. “I’ve been great, thanks for asking.”

  “Don’t take that tone with me, young lady. This attitude is what living in the city does to little girls. You’ve no business traipsing around New York.”

  “I’m not traipsing Monday through Friday. I’m working. I have a job, an important job with a great law firm.” And a sexy-as-sin boss who spanks my ass. “However, on the weekends I may schlep from one place to another and I talk to boys too. I even touch them.”

  Henry laughs, and then coughs it down when his mother-in-law shoots him with her trademark glare.

  “Looks like a hussy, talks like a hussy, must be a hussy,” she hisses.

  “Yup, that’s me, ma. Hussy Walker. You must be proud.”

  “Who are we proud of, Susan? Ah, Maisie. There’s my baby girl.”

  “Daddy.” I smile and throw my arms around his neck, only to be engulfed by his. This is the guy who makes all the hurt go away. Every snide comment slides right off my shoulders because he taught me they should. Mom may want to tear me down, but Dad built me up too high for her spite to reach me.

  He pulls back and gives me a once-over with so much pride in his eyes they shine. “So, beautiful, how’s work?”

  Mom’s lips pinch into a straight line, and then she pivots. “Dinner, everyone.” She claps and motions to the dining room.

  I fill Dad in on some research I’ve been tasked with as he guides me to the sixteen-person table where there are only fifteen place settings, the chair next to me glaringly empty. I suspect it’s an attempt on Mom’s part to drive home my single status as I approach my twenty-fifth birthday.

  I sit and smile at Nathan and Kate who are across from me, and then greet the others before finishing the rest of my drink. Of course, Mom has a chef and staff on hand to prep the meal. When a waiter passes, I beg for a Bacardi refill. Just as it arrives, my cell buzzes in my pocket. Mom’s seriously evil glare finds me as I reach for my phone to silence it, but I can’t help but see the text is from Mr. Kavanagh.

  J: I like green bean casserole. It has to have the fried onions on top or it’s nothing. But my favorite is a corned beef hash brown dish I think only my family has ever made. It reminds me of home.

  My smile starts small and then stretches into my cheeks. I hide my phone in my lap and when everyone’s head is bowed for grace, I respond.

  M: Who’s cooking?

  J: Group effort. But I’ve got to give props to Declan for grocery shopping. Without him we’d have hot dogs.

  M: Green bean casserole?

  J: With extra onions.

  M: Excellent job then.

  J: And you? Mashed taters and stuffing?

  M: I’m two courses away from the delight. What about dessert? Apple pie with whipped cream for me, maybe a sliver of pumpkin if I have room.

  J: Peach cobbler.

  I laugh and shake my head.

  M: That’s for summertime.

  J: Not true, not for me. Peach is in season year-round.

  J: For thou hast given me in this beauteous face a world of earthly blessings to my soul . . . Happy Thanksgiving, beautiful Maisie.

  Oh, my heart. It slides into my stomach where butterflies flutter, making it impossible to eat even though I skipped lunch. I like his sweet side. As much as I like the sting of his hand on my ass, I look forward to his soft caress, his even softer words, and when he quotes Shakespeare and shares childhood memories. The man is a puzzle and I’m enjoying the hell out of picking through his pieces.

  Mom watches me from the head of the table. To her left, Henry winks at me, and then draws her attention away by commenting on the acorn squash soup. I stay locked in my thoughts through the salad, nodding when appropriate and responding to questions as they come. With Mr. Kavanagh still clouding my brain, I get giddy when the main course arrives. Kate and Nathan and the rest of the guests are served plates piled high with all of my favorite things. Dad and Mom and then Lily and Henry are next, and finally, the meal I’ve waited for all day is placed before me.

  I stare at it, and then Dad’s generous servings. Sweet potatoes with marshmallows, spiced cranberry glaze, chestnut and apple stuffing, garlic mashed taters, a cornbread muffin, and of course, turkey with loads of gravy. It’s the dinner we’ve had every year for as long as I can remember. But mine is not. Using my fork, I push around the white mash that may resemble potatoes but smells suspiciously like grated cauliflower. Grilled asparagus, five stalks to be specific, sit next to a slice of dry white meat. That’s it.

  “Chef Todd was kind enough to make you a low-carb option, Maisie.” Mom points and draws every set of eyes to my meal in comparison to their own. “Such a shame when one member of the family can’t eat what everyone else is having. We’d like her to at least try to lose weight. And you will try, dear. Won’t you?” She stares with such condescension I feel it course through my whole body.

  “Susan!” Dad admonishes, but it’s too late.

  It’s too late for her to take it back, for her to take back years of insults and the disappointment that clouds her eyes every time she looks at me. It hurts even more because she doesn’t want to. “Don’t use that tone with me, Maxwell. If Maisie won’t take action herself, I will. Obesity places her at high risk—”

  “Enough,” Dad roars. “That is enough, Susan. Not another word. Not today or any other day.”

  My heart lurches, and anger tingles down my spine. It simmers in my gut replacing the onetime sweet fluttering until it churns and spurs my legs into motion. I grab my phone and stand, tossing the napkin that had been on my lap. “Thank you, Daddy. If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Maisie, sit down and finish your dinner.” Mom motions to my empty chair with her knife before using it to slice through her meat. “We aren’t done here.”

  “Yes, we most certainly are. Henry, Lily.” I nod to them and then the rest of the guests who conveniently play with their food as I say my goodbyes.

  Stepping aside, I whisper in Dad’s ear, “I love you. But Mom—I just can’t do this again. I’ll call you.” After kissing his che
ek, I race from the room to grab my coat and purse from the foyer closet.

  “Maisie!”

  I shake my head at Mom’s tone, as if this debacle is all my fault.

  “Stop right there, young lady.”

  At the front door, I turn to face her with the November air at my back cooling my temper. This is my life. It has always been my life. But I’m a blessing and I’m also beautiful and worthy of respect. Mr. Kavanagh thinks so. His words and constant reminders straighten my spine and I stare at my mother with as much disdain as she affords me. “No, you stop. Just stop talking to me. Stop talking about me. Stop pretending I’m your daughter when I’m not. No decent mother cares for her child the way you do. No parent tells her ten-year-old she’d be pretty if she’d lose fifteen pounds. No Mom crushes diet pills and slips them in her thirteen-year-old daughter’s smoothie every morning during summer vacation so she’s hyped up on caffeine and having heart palpitations. Or calls her a lardo when she comes home from a year away at school. Or sends her to fat camp because, and I quote, ‘I can’t stand to look at your fat ass.’ If you had an ounce of feeling in your black heart, you would never have done any of these things.”

  “I’m trying to help you.”

  I raise my eyes to the ceiling, holding back an expletive. “Being different isn’t a disease. I don’t look like you. My body is different and I love it. Other people do too—and I can’t help that you don’t. But I can manage how I react to your shit comments and the crap you pull. I don’t want your kind of help. Not ever again.”

  Henry appears behind her, sliding his arms into a black leather jacket. “I’ll drive you home, Mais.”

  “You don’t have to. I’ve got a seat on the train back to the city. I’ll call a cab to get to the station.”

  His eyes snap to mine with a plea, and I suspect he wants to escape this disaster as much as I do.

  “Come on then. I’ll let you take me.” Relief washes over me as soon as I step outside, my cell gripped tight in my hand. Piper knows my life story and would listen and talk me through the latest Mom drama, but I scroll past her number. It’s not my best friend, but my sexy, dirty, sweet boss I long to call.

  I’m in so much trouble. The ache in my chest tells me so. It’s only my heart. Surely I can lone it to him for a few months without it being crushed.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Lights On” 3:20

  Jayce

  HAPPY THANKSGIVING, BEAUTIFUL Maisie.

  I groan and toss my head back to stare at the stark white ceiling. I can’t concentrate on anything. Not giving thanks. Not cooking or the party going on around me. Not my family: Dad in his recliner five feet away—released for the day with a home-care nurse, namely my sister’s best friend, Emma. Not my aunt and uncle. Not my cousin Dani standing behind Ash and Maggie who are curled up on the couch across from me, hashing out a plan for Black Friday shopping. Or my brothers in the kitchen. The only person missing is Ava, who’s with her mom.

  None of it matters.

  A rare disease called Maisie-Walker-itis has infected my brain. Symptoms include heart palpitations, increased respiration, a constant hard-on, and muscle contortions resulting in a ridiculous upward curvature of the lips. The only known cure lies between my assistant’s legs. Or with my nose pressed against her neck. God, she smells good. Like peaches and springtime. I like her smile and the laugh that goes with it. And I like talking with her too. I like that a lot. It’s something I’d like to do now. I miss her.

  I wish she was here.

  In Hamilton. With my family.

  Squeezing my eyes shut is a mistake. It’s a big fucking error on my part because I see her—the smile, the ass, the tits, her eyes, the long slope of her neck, and the curve of her waist. Before I can stop myself, I view the picture she sent again. For the twentieth time in as many minutes, I’m lost in her ivory skin. The buzz of voices are adrift in my imagination. My heart thunders, the distant din of my name an annoyance amongst the haze of lust.

  “Earth to Jayce. Hey, you with the phone.” Maggie lowers her damn camera as if she just took a shot of me and then reaches for my cell. I rear away like Ava protecting a cookie from her dog, Beau. Mine.

  The word boomerangs in my head and I glare, exasperated at my sister. “What?”

  She rolls her eyes. “We’ve been talking to you for five minutes. Have you heard anything we’ve said?”

  I glance from Mags to Dani to Ash—her mouth turns up at the corner like she knows my secret—and then Emma. All four of them stare at me.

  “Everything.” Nothing. “It all sounds great. Bergdorf Goodman and Saks. I’m sure it’ll be fantastic.”

  “Right,” Ash says. “Actually we’re headed to SoHo. We want to hit up Forever 21 and Ugg first thing in the morning.”

  “SoHo?” I swallow a groan. Maisie’s teacup-sized apartment comes to mind.

  “Yeah, then we thought we could meet up with you at Kav’s for lun—”

  “For sure,” Flynn interrupts, poking his head out of the kitchen. “I’ll take you on a tour of the space next door. Jayce, you remember. The property Danny Rivetzer wants to offload. It’s great, Ash, you’ve got to see it.”

  “Oh?” She looks at him expectantly. “You’re expanding already? The bar’s doing well then?”

  “It is, but hold up, hotshot.” I stand and slip my cell in the back pocket of my jeans. The fridge is full of food, so Lachlan brought a cooler of beer and I stop to grab one. I’ll need it for this conversation. Twisting off the cap of a Coors Light, I find Flynn’s expectant eyes on mine. “I’ve reviewed every possible way we could make it happen and found we’re not in a position to spend that kind of money. It’s a no.”

  Lachlan peeks up from chopping greens. “How much are we talking?”

  “Nice apron.” I point to the phrase that says ‘I’ll feed all you fuckers’ and then direct my next comment to everyone. “It’s more than we have access to finance.”

  I take a long drag from my bottle. Flynn’s chin falls to his chest as he puts a casserole in the oven. When the heat is closed behind the door, he faces me with determination etched in his features. He wants this, but it’s impractical to spread the family’s money so thin.

  “We could use Kavanagh’s as collateral,” he says.

  “Are you serious?” Lachlan bellows, cutting Flynn down with a hard glance. “Not an option, kid.” He pokes a carrot at his flannel-covered heart. “There’s no chance in hell we’ll gamble my bar so you can expand yours.”

  “I could help.” Ash rises from the couch, every eye in the room cutting to her.

  Moving to the same cooler I was at minutes ago, she grabs a Sam Adams. She’s at home with this group and in this house. She knows exactly where the bottle opener is—second drawer to the left of the fridge—and she uses it. Two long sips in, she waits for my answer. The worn curtains Mom made by hand thirty years ago hang behind her. The cottagey, red floral print in stark contrast to her Hollywood style. Even in leggings and a sweater, Ash is full-on glam.

  “No,” I say, shaking my head. “Thank you, Ash. I appreciate everything you’ve done. But we are not asking you to extend yourself, again.”

  And she has—too many times. Dropping her established legal counsel in her early twenties to hire a novice lawyer. Me. Recommending the firm to all of her Hollywood contacts, thereby expanding the business beyond myself. Selling me the flat in the Upper East Side at a highly reduced rate after graduation when I was looking for a place in the city. The list is endless. A pseudo adoption into the Kavanagh clan is not enough payback.

  “Can we talk outside?” Ash nods at the back door and walks toward it before I agree.

  It’s cold, the late November wind merciless in its quest to roll in an even colder December. I round my shoulders to brace against a gust and her glare. But she’s looking at her boots or the wood deck that extends along the back of the house. The cedar has seen better days and sags beneath the weight of our feet. I gl
ance through the kitchen window at the honeyed oak cabinets on the wall, one with a door hanging slightly askew. The house could use some work. God. I run a hand through my hair and then over my face. Everything in my life could use some work. Except Maisie. She’s perfect.

  I could use her now, her smile. The size of her heart and how it makes my stress level shrink by fractions every minute we’re together.

  “Let me help, Jayce.”

  I hang my head, gripping the back of my neck. Leaves rustle as the breeze kicks up. “Ash,” I say, almost plead, hoping she can hear just by my tone that I appreciate her and would never take advantage of our friendship. And this, her offer, feels so very close to that bridge. “I owe you—”

  “Stop right there.” She holds out her hand. “You don’t. There’s no debt between us. And if there was, it would be mine to you and your family. Don’t speak,” she says when my mouth opens. “I’d be all alone in life without the Kavanaghs. Drake is a friend, not family. But you.” Her eyes glass over. “Maggie, Lachlan, your dad, everyone. God, Jayce, don’t you see? You’re all my saving grace. The world threatens to swallow me up and every time, you make sure it doesn’t. So all the stuff you think I do for you, is really for my benefit. It makes me feel good to give back because I’m so selfish. I use you as my friend and family, my counsel and agent because I don’t trust anyone. I call and you’re there, no questions asked, because you’re my person.”

  My pulse irrupts and I shake my head, afraid. No way can she think our relationship has changed. But she laughs, easing my thumping heart. “My platonic person. I know something’s going on with you. Or, should I say, someone. The nonstop texting. The hickey.”

  “What?” I grab my neck and she laughs harder, her head tipping back as the last sliver of sun falls below the horizon. My lips twitch in a smile. She got me. I did a once-over in the mirror just to make sure Maisie didn’t leave any parting evidence last night and I knew I was free from marks; but Ash said it with such confidence I couldn’t help but doubt my perusal wasn’t as thorough as I’d thought.