by Sara Cate
When I climb out, Zara is there with her arms around my waist and holding me up without even knowing why. She just knows. Maybe this is something she learned from growing up with a sister, knowing when your best friend needs a hug and someone to keep them upright, but it’s my favorite thing about Zara. She doesn’t make being me any more exhausting than it already is. I didn’t grow up with best friends and affectionate women.
After Nash drives away, Zara and I tip-toe inside. It’s not super late, but I’m sure the baby is already asleep. I can only assume Alistair is too. We move straight for the wine rack and she pours us both a glass of something red before we head for the patio.
There is a cozy chenille throw blanket draped over the back of each chair, and I cocoon myself in it as I tell Zara all about my evening. I see the interest pique on her face when I tell her I dragged a woman to the stall instead of a man.
“I didn’t know you…”
I point a finger in her direction. “You don’t get to judge me.”
“Why would I judge you for that?” She sets down her glass and looks at me again. “The only part that concerns me is you’re being reckless, Hanna. Pulling anyone into a bathroom stall while you’re drunk and alone at a bar is a red flag.”
I don’t respond because I don’t disagree. I’m not just waving a red flag; I’m practically leading a parade with it. Then she hits me with the truth.
“I’m worried about you.” This is where the conversation gets heavy. Where I have to face reality and unleash every gross and toxic thought in my head. I haven’t exactly been honest with Zara, or anyone, about how things are with my mother. How they’ve always been.
When you grow up in toxicity, live in it every day of your life, you can’t see past the tidal waves that drown you in it again and again. Zara knows the pressure of dance became too much, I had a nervous breakdown, and was let go from the company for health reasons. As far as she knows I’ve been in a state of rehab for the past eleven months, living at my mother’s house while I rest and recuperate. She has no clue things have only progressively gotten worse.
And I’m not going to tell her now. It’s too much. If I open that box, we’re going to need a lot more than this bottle of red to get through it.
“I need to get away,” I mumble, not exactly knowing what it means.
“No more auditions?”
Zara is under the impression I’ve been auditioning and actively trying to get rehired, but the truth is I haven’t even been rehearsing. Even if I did show up to an audition, the chances of me getting picked up are nonexistent.
I simply shake my head.
She watches me for a moment. “What are you not telling me?” Zara’s level of intuition is unmatched, but I’m also not a discreet hot mess.
“I just wish I could escape everything for a while. Dancing, rehearsing, the constant reminder I fucked up, my mother.”
Her eyebrows pinch together, and she leans toward me. I know she’s scared I mean escape as in the permanent kind, but I settle her worries with a smile. “You don’t have to worry about me, Zara. I’m not going to do that.”
“I’m still going to worry about you. You know..." she says, her voice trailing, which tells me she's about to say something risky. "You could always stay at Del Rey for as long as you need."
My eyes dance up to her face, trying to gauge how serious she is. Del Rey is a dream land, and I've stayed there plenty of times with Zara. And if I wanted an escape, there is no place better. It's a secluded island without much contact with the real world. If I wanted to be far from my mother, it would be a great option.
There's one problem. Del Rey is where Nash Wilde now lives. And I can't be around Nash, not that much.
"You wouldn't have to worry about anyone bothering you. Nash works out there, but he works so much you'd never see him. You'd practically have the island to yourself. Except for Nash and the staff, you'd be alone."
Fuck, it’s tempting. It could be the fresh start I need to get away from my mother and make a real plan for my future. Or maybe never come back at all.
But can I stand being around Mr. Perfect, even if I never see him? Because I can't tell Zara how Nash scares me. She’s told me how he was with her, and I can’t quite describe how that makes me feel. That I want to be as far from him as possible, but also can’t seem to avoid the pull of curiosity.
Some nights I lie awake thinking about him losing control on me, and as much as I know he and I would never make a good pair because we're both too hot-headed and reckless, I still crave the chance to find out.
But I couldn't do that to her. It’s crossing a line best friends don’t cross. She may have chosen Alistair, but I know a part of her still belongs to Nash. And seeing how he has never moved on, I’m assuming a part of him still belongs to her too.
2
"Don't you two have a baby to take care of now?" I grumble, coming out of my office and crossing the helipad toward the hangar.
Zara gives me a harsh glare. "She's with Astrid. Your dad just wants to help." He's already in the hangar. I can see him looking over the new model that came in from the shop two days ago. It still needs work, but my palms are already sweating with the way he's scrutinizing it. This is my model, and he doesn't need to be looking at it yet.
She grabs my arm, and I flinch. "He's being supportive. Don't start with him."
"He's breathing down my fucking neck." It comes out too harsh. But the more I try to get out of her grasp to get him the fuck out of my hangar, the tighter she squeezes.
"Nash," she says with a warning. "You have a lot going on. It's too much for one person."
"I thought you liked him being retired. Take him home." I point angrily at my father now sitting in the cockpit, looking at everything.
"You need help out here. You can't work yourself to death." She puts herself in front of me, and I know what she's doing. I'm wound up, and if I go in there, he and I are going to fight. She’s simply defusing the bomb before it goes off.
"I have help." I gesture to the new staff moving around the hangar and the new office building set up next to it.
"Those are employees. He's worried you're carrying all of this stress alone. This acquisition is a lot to handle. Let him help."
"Is this why you came? As a buffer?"
She scowls at me, and I pinch her on the hip to make her swat me away. Old habits die hard, and even though things between her and I are dead, I still love to fuck with her. I want her to think I'm still in control, at least a little bit.
In a pair of cut-off shorts and a loose-fitting white top, Zara still looks like the lost girl who started coming to the island all those years ago. She’s an outsider, even now, and fuck if I know why she chose to spend her life around a couple of rich assholes like us. She’s changed my dad, but he can still be the same cold prick with me.
Lord knows I haven’t changed.
"Actually, no. I have a favor to ask."
This stops me in my tracks, and I turn to look at her with an eyebrow peaked. "I'm not babysitting."
She rolls her eyes. I know that's not what she's about to ask, but I have to hold firmly to the reminder I hate kids. I love my new baby sister—a little unsettling how much I do considering I did not see that coming. Harper's only three months, and I'm wrapped around her finger, but I still have no desire to ever have any of my own. Especially when I'm fifty-fucking-three years old. I don't know what the fuck these two were thinking.
"So, what is it?" I ask through gritted teeth as I finally get to the hangar. Dad is keeping quiet, looking over the new model, and I'm itching to hear what he thinks, while also dreading it.
"It's about Hanna." My head spins in Zara’s direction. Hanna?
"What about her?"
"She's going through a really hard time. I think she needs to get away for a few days. Maybe longer. I told her she can stay on Del Rey for a while."
Turning around, I glare at her. "So, you offered up my home?"
"This is where I live and do business. It's not some rehab facility for your girlfriends."
"Nash," my dad barks at me. "Hanna is like family to us. Stop acting like that."
Now it's my turn to roll my eyes. "Fine. She can take the guest house. I'm not going to bother her."
"Thank you," Zara replies.
“I thought you were rearranging the dash on this model?"
I clench my jaw, turning toward my dad as he climbs across the new two seat model and moves the collective to the side to inspect the spot where the additional instruments should be. "It didn't work with the electrical layout,” I answer curtly, hoping he’ll fucking drop it.
"How are things going with the acquisition? Did you get the lawyers to look it over again?"
"I have everything under control. Will you stop harping on me?" I run my hands through my hair. It’s getting too long, and I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My beard is growing thick too, more from neglect than a fashion choice.
"I'm just helping, Nash. It's a lot for one person."
"I tried to tell him," Zara adds in, and I snap.
"That's it. Will you two get the fuck out of here?"
She gives me a worried look as she ruffles my unkempt hair. I watch his reaction, wondering if these little touches between us bother him, but he doesn’t care; he doesn’t even look as he passes by.
“I called ahead to have lunch ready. Come relax, Nash,” Zara says, looping an arm through mine to pull me toward the house.
Sitting around the patio by the pool, the housekeeper brings us a pitcher of tea to go with our lunch. Feeling restless in my chair, I fight the itch to check my email again. I can’t sit here and do nothing, but I don’t want them to see this side of me. It’s a hard pass on the same old rhetoric about being a workaholic.
The manufacturer we're buying out isn't huge, but it's still a big deal. I can't tell them I don't fucking sleep anymore because they’re right. It is a lot for one person, and I know he was better at this, delegating tasks and utilizing the team of assistants and managers, but I can’t seem to hand over control. Every time I want to relax, my brain pipes up with some reminder about a document I didn't get signed or some clause I didn't check. There's too much to keep track of, and as much as I hate to admit it. I do need help. I just don't want his.
My dad will take over. He'll be all over it, ready to make it his own again. This is my goddamn company now. We’ve managed to patch things up fine since everything went to shit after Preston died. By some miracle, his plan to bring Zara in to help bring the two of us back from the brink of self-destruction actually worked. He actually started living his life, and I pulled myself out of my brother’s grave.
Leaning back in his chair, he assesses me through his dark aviators. His hand reaches mindlessly for Zara who laces her fingers with his. She’s scrolling through her phone, probably working on something for her dance studio.
It’s quiet until my dad finally starts talking, giving me all of his sage advice he’s so goddamn convinced I need. "I brought in a business consultant when we went through a similar acquisition a few years back. He was a huge help. You could do something like that."
Fuck that. The idea of some asshole coming in and putting his hands all over my company makes me sick to even think about.
"No, thanks. I'm fine."
"Nash, think about it. I bet Prior is still available if you want me to call him."
The fork I’m holding drops with a clang against the porcelain plate. Bits of orzo salad scatter across the glass table, and I move to clean it before Zara can. Clearing my throat, I shove the plate aside and try to act natural. After taking a sip of my tea, I ask, "Who is it?"
"Ellis Prior. Do you remember him? You were just a kid when he worked with me."
I turn away, focusing on the movement of clouds gently rolling across the sky. "I remember him."
"You do?"
I exhale, keeping my calm. "Yeah. I wasn’t that young."
"Well, he's still in business. He does shit like this all the time. He'll come out and help you through the whole—"
"I said I've got this."
I can feel my father’s eyes on me, and it grates on my nerves. Downing the rest of my tea, I stand up, ready to get back to the office and away from the scrutiny of the two people I’d rather not hate, so it’s easier if I’m not around them.
My dad’s idea is not an option. There's zero fucking chance I'm calling Ellis Prior, not after what went down in Amsterdam, but my dad doesn’t know about that, and he never will.
3
"Good girl," I purr to the pretty little blonde at my feet.
I stroke her chin as she licks up the leftover drops on her bottom lip, staring up at me with a look of adoration on her face.
"I have a meeting to get to now."
"You're welcome," she whispers even though I never actually thanked her. I zip up my pants and lean down to lick at her pink pouty lips, tasting the saltiness there. She jolts toward me trying to deepen the kiss, and I let her for a moment before pulling away.
My meeting is a video call, and I was tempted to keep Valerie between my legs for the duration, but it's an old friend, and it didn't seem quite right to do that to him.
"Let me know if you need anything, Mr. Prior," Valerie chirps, standing and straightening her pencil skirt. She calls me Mr. Prior because she loves to play the part.
"A coffee would be perfect."
She smiles sweetly and scurries out of my office to the kitchen where I hear her preparing my latte the way I like it. The beauty of owning my own business and working from home is I can hire a secretary to do whatever I like, under whatever terms we can both agree to. When she brings my coffee in on a tray, I admire the way her skirt hugs her hips and decide after my call I will pull it up to her waist and fuck her over my desk. But not until after my meeting.
Reclining in my office chair, I wait for the call to come in and stare out at the city view through the large windows. Business has been quiet this week, so I hope he has something new for me to work on. I miss having new projects. Everything lately has been follow-ups and old clients.
Right on time, the call comes in, and I tap the green button to open up my camera. My face stretches into a smile when I see a much older version of Alistair Wilde taking up my computer screen. He's still a good-looking man, but his hair has grayed and the crow’s feet around his eyes have deepened.
"Jesus, you look old," I say with a laugh, and he grins at me before holding up his middle finger on the screen.
"So, do you," he replies.
"It's good to see you. Congrats again on the new arrival. My secretary showed me the announcement a couple weeks ago.”
Alistair stiffens, looking uncomfortable, and I laugh. This isn't our normal conversation. We don't talk about babies and weddings and wives. The last time I saw Alistair Wilde, we were in a much different phase of our lives, a couple of bachelors, impressing women with expensive wine and private islands.
"Thank you," he mutters. "How are you?"
"I'm good. Are we talking shop yet? I thought you were in retirement."
"I am, but Wilde Aviation is about to buy out a small fixed-wing manufacturer, and I'd like Nash to bring you on for consultation through the process."
Beneath the desk, I squeeze the cap of my knee to keep my face from portraying my reaction to his name. I know Nash would never tell his dad what happened between us in Amsterdam. Fuck, I don't think Alistair even knows we saw each other, let alone spent nine months together. So, he certainly doesn't know how it ended.
I knew Nash took over the company after his father properly retired. I know Nash has done well with the business—only because I have stocks in the company, and I watch it closely.
"So, are you open to new clients? I assume the job would take six weeks? Maybe less. You're always welcome on Del Rey, you know."
"Does Nash know you're asking
me this?"
Alistair grimaces. That's what I thought. Nash would never ask me this. First, because it's me and he hates me. And second because Nash is no doubt the same stubborn prick he was three years ago, and he doesn't ask for or accept help. Fuck, he doesn't even take suggestions.
"You know I can't do anything until he hires me, Alistair."
"I know, but I think if you two had a conversation, he'd consider it. He always looked up to you, Ellis."
It's like needles under my skin, bringing enough pain to the surface to make me choke on it. Nash did look up to me.
"I can tell you'd like a new project. This has your name written all over it. Consider it. Give him a call."
I would love a new project. And I’m enough of a curious fool I will contact Nash about this. Alistair and I spend the next fifteen minutes catching up, talking about his new projects even though he’s supposed to be enjoying his new life with his beautiful, young wife and baby. He asks me what is new, and I have to fight the guilt because there is nothing new for me. I’ve been content with that for a long time, but now it’s giving me a sour feeling in my gut. Finally, we say our goodbyes, and I stare at the view out of my window, jaw clenched.
"Valerie, whiskey neat."
"Yes, sir," she calls, her heels clicking against the marble floor.
When she comes in a moment later, holding the golden liquor in her hand, I stand up and nod my head toward the desk, already unbuckling my trousers. Her eyes light up and she bites her lip. She sits on the desk facing me and runs her hands down my chest with an apologetic look on her face.
Sometimes I wish this thing between us was real and that she cared more than a secretary or casual fuck would care.
"Bad meeting?" she asks, and I stroke my hand down her neck, pulling her toward me to nibble on her ear. There is nothing emotional tying us together, and I know Valerie likes it that way. She has her own life, and unless it's a weekday between nine and five, I don't care much about what that is.