Breach of Contract (Kavanagh Family Romance Book 1)

by Elizabeth Miller

  “To answer your question, Mais.” His voice rumbles under my cheek. I smile at Piper who is mirroring me on the other side of the large expanse of his chest. “We men are idiots, no doubt. There is a large probability he wasn’t thinking with the right head when you met. I’d bet my left nut that was the case. No offense, sweetheart.” The term aches in my chest, but I say nothing so as to continue enjoying his perspective. “But have you seen yourself? You’re indecent.” Piper pinches his nipple and he grunts. “In a stunning, men-will-do-anything-to-keep-you kind of way. And I mean anything. To understand how stupid he is, just look at the facts. He was your boss. There was a business to protect. Also family. He had history he wasn’t ready to talk about. He wanted to have you, keep you, and manage everything he had before Maisie-gate without any changes.”

  I find his chameleon-colored eyes, blue one second, green the next. “Sounds like you have experience in the matter.”

  He shrugs the best he can with two women in his arms. “I get it, to a certain extent. I’m a guy. We protect. It’s built into our balls when we’re in the womb. Caveman-like. Hunt. Protect. Provide. It’s what we do.”

  “So Jayce was protecting his family. Ash and Quinn,” I clarify.

  “I think he was.”

  “And he didn’t yet trust me enough to tell me he had to.”

  He nods and Piper’s hand finds mine for a little squish. “I think he was working up to that part, Lollipop.”

  “Hamilton?”

  “Yup,” she says with another squish. “These were big things that required a lot of confidence that the knowledge wouldn’t be used for a nefarious purpose.”

  The lump in my throat forces my eyes closed. I’m afraid I’ll lose a tear or two. Dehydration is a real possibility this week. “Stop making sense,” I murmur into his red plaid.

  Caden’s arm tightens at the same time as Piper’s hand does on mine. I’m squeezed in, held up during the biggest stumble of my life.

  “We could talk about threesomes, if that would make you feel better?” Caden asks.

  My lids blink open to find Piper’s narrowing in on me. A plan passes between us in a second and then pillows are in our hands.

  “Wait. I was joking. It was a joke.” Caden crosses his arms in front of his face for protection as we stand and land one hit after the other, laughing as we do.

  “I surrender,” he declares after two serious blows to the head. Mine feels great. Right this second, with my best, best friends and my sister surrounding me, I know I’ll be just fine.

  Whether my future belongs to Mr. Kavanagh is unknown, but for sure, the people in this house own my heart.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “If I Can’t Have You” 3:11

  Jayce

  POST-MAISIE APOCALYPSE, work is an exercise in futility. I’m a joke. A complete lunatic with rumpled suits and hands in my hair. Chest pain is a constant companion. I should call my physician, but why? If I can’t have Maisie, then what’s the point?

  The first week, I mope. Sulk. Stare at her desk, the credenza where she weathered her first orgasm, and the copy machine she managed with a solid hip-check.

  Week two, I rage. At Keller, Lucas, Lisa, myself, anyone who dares breach my office doors. I’m insane. Completely, utterly out of my mind.

  I can’t sleep.

  I can’t eat.

  Everything sucks. Except my text messages. I compose one daily and send it to Henry. I’ve got to share my feelings with someone and he’s the closest I can get to her. And also, because she needs space—without me in it. Sometimes I quote Shakespeare; other times, my words or a simple I miss you. Because, dear, sweet baby Jesus, I. Miss. Her. I miss her laugh and the goddamn dimple. Her eyes and that fucking ass. I long to squeeze it, smack it, and see it redden under my palm. Oh, Christ. I bite my hand before crying into my drink.

  Flynn shakes his head in disgust. Kav’s is the only place I feel semi-human, but I’m not sure my brother agrees with the assessment. “Man up, asshole,” he says with so much compassion I close my eyes against the rush of feels. Brotherly love.

  “This is me—the man, the mission. Whiskey neat. One after the other.”

  He grunts. “You fucked up. So what?”

  “So what?” I yell and the couple sitting next to me turns for a glimpse of crazy and then doubles back to their drinks after a hasty second. I look like an insane homeless person who needs a shower and a counselor. Not necessarily in that order. “Flynn, you bastard. You don’t understand. She is it for me. I can’t just pick up and move on to the next brunette in line. You can, fine. But . . .” I gulp the last quarter of my drink, relishing the burn on the way down. I tap the bar for another. “But trust me. When you find the girl there is no going back. I will never be okay. There is no next for me.”

  Grabbing my glass first, he tucks it behind the counter. Then it’s my tie, and he yanks my ass off my stool to get my attention. “Then fix it, dick weed. There is a way. Find it, do it. You’re a Kavanagh, for Christ’s sake, and we don’t sit and wallow in the drink. We get it done.”

  We get it done. Damn straight we do. Scoop. I relieve him of my tie and then smack his cheek. A loving tap so he knows I got the message.

  I’m going to fix this because my life depends on it.

  FIRST THINGS FIRST—I complete Carla’s reference letter. It’s direct—a reflection of the work she’s done with the firm. Suitable. Fine. She’s pleased and I move on without so much as an acknowledgement. Then I tell Lucas to terminate her employment. The duration of our contract extended through to the instant she received her recommendation. It’s over.

  We hire a couple of temp legal assistants. One sits at Maisie’s desk and I almost lose my shit. It’s a shrine, for God’s sake. The moment of insanity passes. I shake my head and move on to step two: Maisie’s reference letter. Peach, I almost write, but quickly remember this is to the admissions team and they don’t need to know I long to spank her ass. They do, however, get a poignant and direct summary of the integrity she brought to the job every day. That and the excellent work she constantly produced. Then I put on my big boy pants and deliver it myself.

  Frank Portillo, head of admissions, doesn’t need the details. But he gets a few. In summary, I explain both letters—one was a favor and the other, Maisie’s, has the full weight of the firm’s support behind it. He may read between the lines. I’m so desperate to convey how superior Maisie’s performance is that he can’t help but tell how obsessed I am. He says nothing but that he’ll consider all applicants in a fair and unbiased manner. I nod and leave the rest to Maisie. She can and will astonish the panel all on her own. I have no doubt.

  There is a chance Carla will find out about bother letters, and that hers is not as robust as the second. But Maisie is worth any consequence I face.

  Step three. I file suit against the owner of Maisie’s SoHo apartment building on her behalf. I’m going to sue the piss out of that bastard and I let Gerald McKinnon know it with scathing intent. It was his responsibility to maintain the property, including providing safe passage for the residents in their lobby. He failed. That I’m doing this post-Maisie brain trauma is the guilt I have to live with daily. I’ll make sure he does too. I’m also working under a no-secrets clause, so I send notice of the suit to Maisie through Henry.

  Step four. Maisie was right about a lot of things. She doesn’t need to be saved. She’s strong and courageous all on her own. What she needs is to be seen and loved openly.

  A plan formulates in my mind. It’s weeks away from fruition and I don’t know how I’ll survive. She needs time. She told me so and I have to support her wishes. It doesn’t mean I can’t wallow in self-pity, or yearn for her.

  Or plan the moment we’ll meet again in great detail.

  Talk about a stalker.

  Oh, but I am—as devious as the good doctor himself. We become fast friends. I think all of the text messages have gotten to his brain. He feels sorry for my sorry ass a
nd each Wednesday we meet for lunch at the deli on the corner of Houston and Elizabeth. His sister-in-law, the love of my life, is aware of our weekly sessions. Because again, the no-secrets clause is the motto I now live by.

  “Did Maisie submit her application to Parsons?” I ask and then shove a bite of corned beef on rye in my mouth.

  Henry nods, chewing before he provides an answer. “She did.” He takes a long drag of soda, so long I wait and wait. It’s my evil eye that breaks the stalemate, and he laughs. “She has to submit drawings for a full collection and three complete samples of her work. She’s been holed up in her room for the last two weeks with Betty White.”

  “Good.” I like that she’s busy. I like it better that she’s a hermit at home and then I berate myself for thinking so. This is Maisie’s time to explore, and my interference, real or otherwise, can’t hold her back.

  “By the way, she applied to both programs.”

  My head snaps up. This is news.

  “We’re waiting on the date of her interview at Columbia. Funny thing, or actually not that funny. They gave her a copy of a reference letter submitted by her former boss.”

  Food sticks in my throat and I cough it out. “Did she read it?”

  He keeps his eyes stuck on mine and nods again. “She did.”

  “And?”

  “She locked herself in her room for two hours.”

  My heart stops. “Is that good or bad?”

  Shrugging, he takes another bite, chewing so slowly I want to strangle him. “When she came out, I thought it would be a good time to forward your fifty-nine text messages.”

  “Jesus Christ, Henry.”

  He smiles and I think I might not be as devious as I’d thought after all. “How’d she respond?”

  “Another two hours in the room.”

  “Fuck.” I set my food down and scrub my face. “What do I do?”

  “Nothing. Or, the same thing. She knows you care and that’s important for her right now. So is deciding her career, and being safe.”

  My heart, which had started beating again, stutters for the one hundredth time during this conversation. I hate that she struggles with aftereffects of the mugging. “Nightmares still?”

  “A couple. They’re getting better.”

  “And security at your building is tight? You’ve checked?”

  He shakes his head, stuffing the last of turkey on wheat past his lips. “No,” he mumbles through the mouthful. “You did. Twice. You need to calm down or I’m recommending a psych evaluation.”

  I wave his thought away. “Too late for that. My psychosis has come and gone. You know.” I point while I eat. “That first week I really thought I could hear her talking to me.”

  “Don’t tell me that.” He balls up his napkin and tosses it on the table. “I could have you committed.”

  “Nah. Listen. That was just the first week. Then I only heard her voice every other day. Something about wanting to suck my dick.”

  He rolls his eyes and I laugh. It feels good to do it and with someone who understands my obsession. It rubs him raw when I bring up sex though, so I limit the topic to quick jabs that pay him back for the coma incident.

  “Seriously, though. She’s good? She looks good? Healthy? Eating? Does she need more peanut butter and jelly?”

  I think he’d like to roll his eyes again, but he just stares, unamused. I hope so. This is serious business. “I’ve already delivered two cases of each on your behalf. No more. No more text messages. No more flowers. Calm down. She’s fine. Looks good. Eats food. Laughs at my jokes because I’m irresistibly charming.”

  “Whatever you say. How’s Lily? She must be due soon?”

  “April seventh.”

  Five weeks. Just after Maisie’s runway walk and my grand gesture. “Perfect timing.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Expect an email tomorrow. It’ll explain everything in detail. Anything new with their mom?” I ask before finishing my sandwich.

  “They had a talk.” This is news. Big news. “Susan Walker donated DNA, but she is nothing like her daughters. I doubt she’ll change. Yet, she’s willing to try to build a more positive relationship. Time will tell if this proves to be true.” He stands, dropping a tip on the table. “Same time next week?”

  I nod. “See you Wednesday, doc. Call me if she needs me.”

  “Don’t hold your breath.”

  “I won’t. Air—it’s good. The woman I love once told me that.”

  His hand lands on my shoulder and then he’s gone. But I’m still thinking about Maisie Walker.

  THE LATTER PART of December and early January were a haze of alcohol and self-hate. February was painful, but I had a plan and executing it was the point to my life. March, though? March is hope. And equal amounts fear. It’s do or die.

  While I waited for little tidbits of information, my girl was out there doing it. Living her life. Figuring shit out. Even as I looked forward to Henry’s Wednesday updates, I had faith she was on the right path for her. My only regret: that she was doing it without me. Today, I’ll know for sure if I have any part left to play, or if my story line has ended.

  Knowing that my fate will soon be decided, I walk with a heavy pulse the final two blocks to the Sky Room. Located in the heart of Manhattan, Time Square to be exact, it’s the club everyone wants entry to. Tonight is no different, or maybe even more so. Not just because Christian Siriano’s line is on display. But because the fashion elite are in attendance. Models. Designers. Influencers. Celebrities.

  Ten people squeeze in the elevator with me. Four hundred move with the beat when we step onto the rooftop, the Manhattan skyline and Hudson River the backdrop to the party. Everywhere I look is purple, including my white shirt painted a new color by the ambient lights. It’s expensive, posh, and packed. Exactly what I’d hoped for.

  Sitting at the small high-top table I reserved months ago, I tag a waitress. Or she finds me. She doesn’t hide her gaze as it stalks from my chest to my dick and then thighs. I point to my eyes and she smirks.

  “A bottle of Dom, chilled. Two glasses. And a whiskey neat.”

  “You got it, handsome.” She winks before leaving but I only see the stage set ten feet in front of me. To my left are five tables surrounded by familiar faces. Flynn and his flavor of the month. Maggie and Emma—they hold up drinks and dance. Both attract a lot of attention. Declan glowers at Emma and the guy trying to sidle up behind her. I know the feeling. Quinn looks hopeful, no doubt it’s due to the prospect of seeing my girl on stage. I still might kick his ass—I haven’t decided. Then Lachlan. He tips a scotch my way and smiles. Ash is next.

  Even though she rarely attends high-profile events, she wanted to be here. One, to support Maisie. Two, she thinks an explanation, a reassurance she wants nothing to do with my penis, will go a long way toward our reconciliation. I said thanks but no. I have to do this all on my own. Big boy pants—I’ve got them on again.

  Dee and Lucas are practically on top of each other. They beam, and reek with the joy of their burgeoning relationship. Keller is here, much to my dismay. Sasha and her boyfriend too. Mr. and Mrs. Walker. Everyone in Maisie’s life is in attendance, including Piper and Caden. Henry and Lily fill the final two chairs and with a salute, I silently thank them for coming. And for their semi-secretive support.

  This is real life and my heart knows it. It thumps, pounds, pulses with the techno beat until the music cuts out. A hush falls over the room. Complete silence.

  This is it. This is fucking it.

  I can’t breathe. I haven’t breathed since I walked from her hospital room and to my apartment in a daze. It’s been weeks, months since I set eyes on my girl and I shake with the need to hold her.

  Christian Siriano steps on stage first. He takes a quick bow and cuts to the right. Boom. First woman walks. It isn’t Maisie. Neither is the second or third, fourth, or fifth. She’s the thirtieth. The last and most coveted spot.

  Seconds tu
rn to minutes, my nerves dial up a notch or two and I wait. Dear Jesus, I wait and then nearly fall out of my chair when she appears.

  It becomes very clear that I need a medical alert bracelet. Something to wear at all times that plainly states my condition: lovesick. Only known cure: Maisie Walker.

  God, she stuns. The light behind her is so bright at first, I can only make out the long line of her body. But I would know it anywhere. Sleek curves, round ass, luscious—perfect. Then the pulse of the beam lowers and she walks. One beat, she’s completely still; the next, she glides, a long stride, one foot in front of the other on towering heels. They’ve left her hair long, but slicked it back from her forehead—no scar in sight. Henry told me it was hidden in her hairline but I wouldn’t believe she was fine until I saw her for myself. And she is. Striking. Gorgeous. Healthy. Maybe a little thinner, but stunning nonetheless.

  The dress she’s in is black and stuck to her like glue. No one has ever looked better on any runway in the world. Her curves rock with the sway of her hips and she owns that catwalk. Owns it. My heart swells. Pride fills me to bursting and my smile is proof.

  She’ll see us. The group is too big to miss. I know the instant she does. Her smirk stumbles for all of a second and then it grows into a broad grin. That is until she spots me. Our eyes connect for one beat. A heavy beat that matches my pulse. Her face freezes. She schools her features and turns. Pivoting on her heel, she walks back the way she came with the grace of a feline. A lioness, head high and proud.

  Fuck. Shit, fuck, shit. What was that in her expression? I can’t tell and before I can decipher her mood, the entire line of models is back for the last call. Or whatever the hell it is. One after the other, they smile to the pounding throb of applause.

  This is it. Holy fuck. I stand and as Maisie makes her last appearance, Christian Siriano on her arm, I hop on stage. The crowd goes nuts. And I wait. She sees me. She does because she can’t stop staring. First at my face, then her gaze drags to my thighs and catches at my zipper before crawling over my chest and to my eyes.