by Elise Faber
She knew that because she’d spent the hour after her shower researching.
And not the Pierce files, which Rachel was organizing, but finding out every bit of information she could about Clay, Steele Technologies, and his life growing up. She probably should have begun the search months ago, when he’d come blazing into the picture, all sex appeal and disruption to her normal business ventures. But she’d been swamped since she’d taken over RoboTech from her brother Jordan.
Excuses, she knew.
Because really, she’d been running.
Avoiding.
Losing herself in work because it was a hell of a lot easier than risking her heart.
And her heart had liked Clay from the moment she’d first seen him all broody and self-assured at a conference. His words and demeanor had been like ice upon introduction, but somehow, he’d managed to drum up enough charm to steal her client from her.
Her body had liked the way he looked. Her brain had been alternately furious and intrigued.
No one bested her.
But Clay had.
And that made it easier for her to compartmentalize him. To shove him far, far away from her tender insides.
Tender insides?
Holy balls of Batman, she was losing it. Ab-so-lute-ly losing her mind.
The bottom line was Clay made her feel vulnerable. It was as simple as that.
And if there was one thing Heather O’Keith couldn’t stand, it was feeling vulnerable.
Dammit. She almost wished she could say the reason she avoided men and sex was because she’d been burned badly. It would be so much easier to lament a broken heart or trash a shitty boyfriend who’d dumped her via a Post-It, a la Sex in the City.
But she didn’t have a Post-It breakup or a broken heart sob story.
She was just really, really good at keeping people at a distance.
Plus, parents, man, they seriously fucked people up.
Still, feelings aside, the Internet was a vast place, and there was plenty of information about Clay and Steele Technologies exploding into the market as they’d made one good business decision after another. Then there were the typical top ten hottest bachelor lists from Page Six and similar, and shots of Clay with a parade of gorgeous women on his arm at various events.
Everything was exactly as expected.
Until she stumbled upon an old newspaper article from more than twenty years before and everything, suddenly, became crystal clear.
Heather knew she should close the page. Not only was it a horrible invasion of Clay’s privacy—one that he hadn’t wanted to share—she’d just been texting him an hour before promising to not ask any questions. Now she was reading a graphic article describing how his entire family had been murdered before his eight-year-old eyes.
A home invasion.
Failed security measures—someone had left the front door unlocked, and the perpetrators had walked right in.
Clay was the only survivor.
Her heart broke for him, for the scared little boy. She sniffed and dashed away a tear, knowing that crying on Clay’s behalf was a useless gesture at this point. The horrific deed was done, the pain already caused.
There was no going back.
But she still hurt for him.
And that was Heather’s deepest darkest secret, the soft spot she hid from the world.
She cared.
About all the things.
Sometimes it was just easier to pretend she didn’t.
Her phone buzzed, and she answered, assuming it was Rachel calling to say the car was ready. “Yo, what up?”
“Hey, sis.” Jordan’s voice was amused. “Is that how you answer all those important business calls?”
She rolled her eyes. “So says the man who escapes to the beach anytime he wants.”
Jordan scoffed. “Not since you commandeered my plane.”
The familiar argument had Heather grinning. “It’s the company’s plane, remember?”
“Details. Details,” he said, and she could picture him waving his hand through the air.
“So, what’s on fire?” she asked.
Confusion filled Jordan’s tone. “Huh?”
“You usually call me with a crisis.” She closed her laptop then pressed the phone between her shoulder and ear so she could stow it in her tote bag.
“Lies,” Jordan replied. “Plus, I can handle my own crises. And anyway, can’t I just call my sister to say hi?”
Heather plunked onto the edge of the bed. “Well, I guess you can.”
“Fuck.” All teasing drained out of Jordan’s voice. “I’ve been a really shitty brother, haven’t I?”
“What?” she asked. “That’s not what I meant at all, Jordan. It’s just that—”
“I only call you when I have a problem? Shit, I’m sorry. I know I suck.”
“Jor, bud. It’s not that.” She gripped the phone tightly, hating that she’d let her mouth run and now he was feeling guilty. “You’ve had a hell of a couple of years. I shouldn’t have assumed that—”
“I’d have my head up my ass?”
And the tension broke.
Heather felt her lips tug up. “Maybe. Or maybe not?” They both laughed. “Head-ass position aside, how’s Abby?”
“Very pregnant and miserable and determined to clear the decks before she has the baby.”
Heather lay back, crossing her ankles so they hung off the end of the bed. “That sounds like her.”
“She misses you, and Hunter is requesting an Auntie day when you’re back in town.”
“Done.”
“So.” The two letters were serious.
She closed her eyes, so tired from the previous night that she could have fallen asleep right then and there. “So what?”
“Are you okay?”
Her lids flew open. “I’m fine. Why?”
He coughed, and she pictured him running his hand through his hair, mussing the blond locks. He did that when he was stressed or uncomfortable, and she always had to resist straightening the mess he’d made of his ‘do. But it was one of those quintessentially Jordan things that made him so damned endearing.
A giant teddy bear had nothing on him.
“Well,” he said, “it’s probably stupid, but I just had the feeling that I needed to call you because you . . . never mind. It definitely is stupid.”
“No.” She sat up. “What is it?”
“Well—” He sighed. “It’s just . . . Abby was up all night with Carter yesterday. He was running a fever and was a total snot monster, and she’s already exhausted just being this far along in her pregnancy. But she was trying to do it all anyway, even slept in his room so he wouldn’t wake me up. And I just thought, Abby’s my wife. She knows I’m here, that I would walk through fire for her, and she is still trying to shoulder it all herself.”
Tenderness for the big lug swept through her. “Well, knowing you, I’m sure you took a lot of that burden back.”
“Hunter and I tucked her into bed with new pajamas and free reign over the Netflix account.”
Heather laughed.
Jordan did too before growing solemn again. “So anyway, it just occurred to me”—a squawk pierced through her cell’s speaker—“dang, give me a second to grab Carter. I don’t want Abby to get up again.” Rustling filled the airwaves, alternating with Carter’s babbling and Jordan’s soft, “Hi, buddy.”
A minute later, Jordan came back onto the line. “Okay, he’s good for a bit. Hunter is entertaining him.”
Heather grinned. “Well, we all know that Hunter is Carter’s favorite person.”
“True,” her brother agreed. “And so anyway, my meandering point is that Abby has me and Hunter and Carter, but who do you have? Dad is useless. Your mom is—well, your mom. But more than that, you’re my sister, Heather, and I worry that I’ve been so wrapped up with my own life that you might be feeling—”
Her pulse thudded in response to the words.
�
�I just . . . had this feeling that you might need me, okay?” He blew out a breath. “So now you can tell me I’m crazy.”
Her heart melted. “Oh, Jor.”
His laugh was forced. “Stupid, see? You don’t need anyone, Heather. You’re the strongest, most self-sufficient person I’ve ever met.”
If he only knew her weakness when it came to Clay, when it came to him, to Hunter and Abby and all her friends.
Strong wasn’t the right word for it.
Fragile and self-conscious was more like it.
Had she said the right thing? Or more likely, had she put her foot in her mouth again? Was she a good friend? Was she too cold? Too distant? Of course, she was, she’d spent her whole life perfecting that distance.
But the worst, the most nagging, dastardly question of all . . .
Could anyone really, truly love her?
“Yeah, well, appearances aren’t always what they seem.”
“Heath,” Jordan said. “What can I do—?”
“Dad!” Hunter yelled in the background. “Carter pooped!”
“And that’s my cue,” she said, forced lightness in her tone. “But if you really want to do something for me, you can take me to see the new Captain Marvel movie when it comes out. Abby’s hopeless with superheroes.”
“Just a second, bud.” Jordan’s voice was muffled before he came back on, talking over a babbling Carter. “Not all superheroes. She really, really likes Thor.”
Heather made a fake vomiting sound.
“Regardless,” he said over her, “you’re on for the movie. But Heather?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you do something for me in return?”
Her shoulders straightened, her chin lifted, and calm settled over her soul. She was good at that, good at accomplishing tasks, at doing something for someone else. “Of course, I can.”
“Will you just . . . will you pick up the phone when I call?”
And her heart melted all over again.
“Yeah, Jor. I can do that.”
“Great.” He blew a raspberry, presumably on Carter’s tummy since her nephew giggled loud and shrill. “Unfortunately, for now, dad duties will prevail.”
Her smile was wide. “Enjoy that diaper change.”
“You’re evil.”
She cackled and hung up the phone, thinking she was damned lucky to have Jordan in her life.
Sixteen
Clay
* * *
Two days later, Clay hung up the phone and stood up from his desk. It was Friday evening and late enough that it had already been pitch black outside his office windows for several hours.
Considering he’d entered the building before the sun had risen that morning, he figured it was time to pack it in.
Plus, he was supposed to be meeting his lawyer at a bar outside the city in a little over an hour.
A lawyer in a bar . . . now that was the starting line of a crappy joke.
Still, he’d already canceled on her yesterday—for business reasons, not because he was trying to draw out his marriage to Heather. They had both agreed an annulment was the best option.
No. There was no other option.
They were two exceptionally busy people with businesses that took up every waking moment.
Neither of them should be considering a relationship at this stage in their lives.
But the memory of their night together wouldn’t stay relegated to the back of his mind.
And not just the part where she’d given him three of the best orgasms of his life. What burned just as brightly was the laughter they’d shared, how Heather had teased him, the way they’d worked together—discussing data, arguing its various meanings, teasing conclusions out of each other until they’d functioned as a perfect unit of two.
A portion of Clay liked the idea of being part of a unit, a team, a . . . family.
The rest of him was terrified.
Which was why he was keeping his appointment with Rebecca.
He grabbed his satchel and slung it over his shoulder. Time to stop delaying.
Obviously, marriage was out of the question, but Clay had been thinking hard over the last twenty-four hours and had come up with a way he could still get his fix of Heather.
Business partners.
It was the perfect way to utilize their joint brainpower, to harness their chemistry and put it to use in a mutually beneficial way.
Now he only had to convince Heather—and his cock—of the matter.
He exited the elevator, waved at the security guard in the lobby of his building, then took the stairs down to the basement level, where his car was parked on site.
There were perks to being the boss, and one of those meant he never had to troll through San Francisco’s streets looking for parking.
A few steps later and he was inside the car, the powerful engine purring to life.
Yes, it was cliché to have a nice, sporty car that cost a ridiculous amount of money, but this particular car had been a dream of his father’s, and frankly, it wasn’t like Clay had been forced to buy it. Thirty seconds in the driver’s seat and he’d been sold. His Maserati was sleek, fast, and hugged the curved roads of the North Bay like it was spandex wrapped around a certain celebrity’s ass.
The late hour meant light traffic and a quick drive, so he arrived at the bar Rebecca had chosen almost a half hour early. He circled the block, found a parking spot, and was just about to get out of his car when his phone chimed.
He glanced down at the screen.
Sorry, Steele. I’m going to have to reschedule. One of my junior partners made a major mistake.
“Damn,” he muttered, thinking he could have spared himself the drive. Still, he was already there and parked so figured he might as well go inside.
No problem. How about Sunday?
A buzz.
I’ll make it work.
He tapped his fingers across the screen.
So, since I just got here, any recommendations for food?
Another buzz.
Shit, I’m sorry. I’m an asshole.
He replied.
Who was canceled on yesterday because her ‘asshole’ of a client had his own crisis to deal with? I understand. Don’t sweat it.
Dots appeared beneath his text.
We’ll be assholes together. Have the wings. Sunday 11am.
Clay grinned.
Done.
He pocketed his phone, snagged his satchel—because confidential files—and double-checked his wallet was in his back pocket.
It took approximately two point two seconds for him to regret his decision.
Music blared, and the bar was packed. Which was fine; he could deal with people if he really had to. But the real issue was the bar and dance floor were packed with a completely different crowd—read, college-aged kids— than he was used to.
He had to be older than ninety percent of the people in this bar.
Frowning, because he hadn’t expected a place like this to be Bec’s type, he turned to leave.
Forget this noise, he’d hit the drive-thru on the way home.
But just as he was about to leave, his phone buzzed again. He pulled it out and shook his head at the message.
Don’t panic, pretty boy. Go to the room down the hall. That’s where the old folks hang out.
A chuckle as he decided to go with Bec’s instructions and squeezed down the narrow hallway into the room beyond.
It only took one glance for him to understand why she had recommended this place—wood furniture that was the perfect amount of worn in, a smaller bar, quieter music, and a few round-topped tables. People his age were gathered in little clumps and talking rather than trying to feel each other up on the dance floor. Though, there were a few couples wrapped around one other, swaying in one corner to the melody of a song that the front group would no doubt consider an “oldie.”
The other space was fine, a typical club with kids who were just growing into th
emselves and their adulthood.
And there was nothing wrong with that, nothing except that it made him feel about a hundred and ten years old.
He hadn’t been that carefree for twenty-two years.
Shaking off those painful memories, he took a step toward the bar, only to halt in his tracks.
Blonde hair that shone like honey in the soft light. A delicately curved jaw he knew each minute detail of. Slim shoulders, narrow hips, and an ass a man wanted to drop to his knees and pay tribute to.
Heather.
Straight out of his dreams.
Or not.
But she was dressed more casually than he’d ever seen her—blue pajamas and silky tank aside. She was propped against the bar, one hand holding her phone up to her ear as she spoke on her cell. She wore dark jeans, heeled boots, and a close-fitting flannel shirt with a tempting line of buttons down the front.
What was it with this woman and buttons?
He needed her to invest in clothing with snaps or better yet, T-shirts. Those were less dangerous for his psyche.
His eyes trailed down to her hips and that gorgeous ass when she turned to signal the bartender, then back up to her face when she rotated to lean one hip on the bar. She’d wrinkled her nose, but her lips were curved up into a smile, and he watched them form the words, “It’s okay.”
A second later, she hung up and tilted forward to pass the bartender some cash, but when it was clear she was going to leave, Clay found himself pushing through the crowd.
He slipped an arm around her waist, bent to whisper in her ear, “I hear the wings are good.”
Then he internally groaned. She was right. He had really horrible lines.
But Heather didn’t comment on the line. Instead, she was already spinning around, extracting herself from his grip in a move that left his wrist in a vulnerable position. “Back the fuck off—Clay?” she asked, incredulous. “What the hell are you doing here?”
He would have laughed at the shock on her face, except for the fact that his wrist was currently being bent in a direction that he definitely did not enjoy.
“Can you—?” He glanced down.
“Oh!” Her fingers opened. “Sorry.” A shrug. “Force of habit.”