Stealing the Bride

by Lee, Nadia

  He laughs. “Oh, come on. I’d never treat you to college food. Not even I could stomach most of it. The vegetarian burgers here are supposed to look and taste like real beef.”

  “Really?” I remember hearing something about some magical fake meat, but I didn’t pay much attention. Let’s just say I like my meat…well, meat.

  “I have a friend who wants me to invest in distribution and maybe opening more restaurants. I told him I’d think about it after trying the food myself. Then I thought, why not get a second opinion?”

  “Oh.” I’ve never been asked to advise on a new restaurant venture, especially in a non-number capacity. It’s sort of cool and exciting.

  “So you see,” he says slowly, as a winsome smile spreads across his face, “this isn’t really a date.”

  I laugh at his ridiculously self-serving loophole, torn between being flattered and exasperated. “Oh, really?”

  “Absolutely. It’s market research.”

  A server interrupts us, and we order the not-meat burgers and fries. The menu proudly declares if we don’t like them, we can send ’em back and get something else. I also get spicy curly fries and sparkling water. Court gets the steak fries and a large Coke with extra ice in another cup. It reminds me of the way he declared it a cure-all for stomach issues in Hawaii and tried to take care of me in his own way.

  He really is great boyfriend material, my mind whispers.

  Yes, I know.

  You should just forget the promotion junk. Good men are rarer than a Vulcan with a sense of humor.

  I know that too, but… I just can’t let go of the promotion or my wish to become somebody, to be recognized at work.

  When the server’s gone, I prop my chin in my hand. “So if this is research, then what are the flowers for?”

  “Because you’re beautiful. And for that cherry pie. I really liked it. I was hoping you could bake me another.”

  The look he shoots me is entirely too full of hope. And too adorable for me to reject. “Aren’t you a billionaire?”

  He shrugs, like it isn’t that important. “Yeah.”

  “So don’t you have an army of people baking you whatever you want?”

  The light in his gaze dims a few watts. “Yeah. Back home. But it’s not the same.”

  “The food in Louisiana isn’t good? Really?” I heard from Curie, who’s been to New Orleans twice, that the food there is enough to make you consider giving up a kidney…and a bikini body forever.

  “Of course it’s good. Just not the same.”

  I remember his enthusiasm over the home-cooked meal Mom made. She’s an amazing cook, but it sounded like he hadn’t had anything like that in…forever.

  The coldness in his mom’s gaze pops into my head. If that is how she is normally, I can’t see her puttering around in the kitchen.

  Sympathy stirs within me. And something else. Not pity. It’s more profound and complicated, like abstract algebra. A man from such a wealthy family with a mother that cold should be a self-centered jerk. I’ve seen my share of them, from rich frat boys in college to many of the clients at the firm. It’s always worst when they haven’t made their mark yet and need to feel more important than everyone else.

  But Court is different. He doesn’t make any grand gestures to impress me or throw money around in an ostentatious fashion, but he shows he cares in small ways. He’s considerate and kind to my mom and Nijinsky. He doesn’t try to monopolize the conversation, and he’s scrupulously polite to my dad. And he hasn’t brought up even once that I didn’t text him back over the weekend or that I didn’t go to the dinner party with him. It’s like he just accepts that I might have my own life with things that don’t involve him.

  It only makes me like him more. Makes me think there could be more than just hot chemistry from before…that we can be friends, too.

  This is the first time I ever felt like that about a guy I had sex with. And my fluttering heart says it might not end with mere friendship.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Court

  Skittles relaxes more as the lunch goes on. She seemed happy to see me at first in the office, but I sensed her tensing up pretty quickly. It’s as though she thought I was there to start an inquisition about yesterday or to embarrass her somehow.

  Well… Okay, so I did embarrass her in Maui, but I thought I redeemed myself on Saturday. And the calla lilies were inspired, too. Yuna told me they’re elegant flowers that represent good fortune and magnificent beauty. And Skittles certainly deserves that designation, and also a warning sign around her that says, “Stay away because she’s taken!”

  Besides, I like her. Before I see her, I think the effect she has on me is going to lessen. Hell, I can’t even watch a movie more than once without being bored out of my mind, no matter how good it is. But instead, I crave more of her. More sex, definitely. But also just more time with her.

  I resent the hell out of her dad for not having promoted her already. Then she wouldn’t be on this ridiculous no-dating-until-promotion kick. Why couldn’t he have half the zeal my dad does to have his own kids continuing the Family Legacy?

  “So. What are you planning to do now that you have all your money?” she asks between bites.

  That feels like an interview question. Too bad I don’t have anything clever to say in response. I could make up something that sounds really grandiose. Like the junk people put on their PowerPoint slides to impress investors.

  I’m going to conquer the world. Build an empire that’s going to last a millennium. And start a dynasty to put all dynasties to shame.

  But Skittles deserves better. “I don’t know yet.”

  “Are you going to join your family business?”

  My whole body tenses for a moment, but I force myself to relax. She doesn’t know she’s poking a sore point. “Probably not. My brother’s doing a great job with it, and I don’t see why I should get in his way. So, what do you think about the burger? Just as good as real meat?”

  “Actually, yeah. I wouldn’t have guessed.” She wipes her fingers on the paper napkin. “Definitely worth considering investing in. I’d bring my friends.”

  I just smile. To be honest, I’m not interested in restaurant businesses. They’re competitive and have horrible margins. But Skittles wants the veneer of us “not being in a relationship”. And she doesn’t want me dropping a hundred million bucks into her company. So this is my compromise. If anybody asks, she came out to lunch to help me make an investment decision. And the calla lilies are for being a mean baker.

  A little sneaky, but all’s fair in love and war. And that Chinese dude Sun Tzu said it’s okay to use subterfuge to win. Besides, this is really win-win. She gets what she needs—lunch—and I get what I want—time with her.

  When the bill arrives, Skittles reaches into her purse.

  I raise a hand. “I got it.”

  “No, it’s okay. I always pay for my own things.”

  Must be the same independent streak that made her leave that fifty bucks. So it wasn’t just a one-time thing. I can respect that, but this is a date, even if she doesn’t know it. “Yeah, but I asked you here for your professional opinion. So technically, it’s a business lunch, and I plan to expense it.” On the altar of dating funds.

  She hesitates.

  “Unless you plan to bill me…?”

  Shock crosses her gorgeous face. “What? No. Of course not.” I take the opportunity to slide a few bills to the server. “Shouldn’t you put that on a business credit card?” she says, recovering quickly.

  “Cash is easier.”

  And it’s a habit. Since forever, banks sent all the bills to the trustee controlling my money, which happened to be Dad until a few days ago. Because I didn’t need him knowing when, where or how much I spent, I always used cash unless it was something like an airline or hotel reservation. Trust me, that chafed like hell.

  Her response is a skeptical look.

  I merely smile wider, then take he
r back to her office, while making small talk about her family and the dog. I steer the conversation away from mine because I don’t want her asking about my parents.

  All the while, my brain’s whirring. What should be my next excuse to see her? Another investment opportunity?

  Maybe I can ask her to help me pick out some good wines to go with the burgers we had. There’s a fantastic wine bar I’ve been wanting to check out. I climb out of the car as she does, ready to throw the question at her.

  Before I can say anything, some scrawny guy in a slightly yellowed shirt and worn jeans runs up. “Hey, Pascal!”

  He has eyes the color of burned coal and his tone is entirely too friendly. He puts an arm around her shoulders like it has every right to be there. Who the hell is this fucker and where did he come from?

  I narrow my eyes. All cars should come with an ax. So I can hack away the offending limb, especially when it’s attached to a guy who’s still young enough to get it up.

  She pushes him away. But she could have pushed harder.

  “What are you doing here, Tom?” Her voice is appropriately cold, without any of its usual happy sweetness.

  Freeze that idiot. Make him feel it.

  “I’m back in the city,” he says, spreading his arms.

  “And…how does that give you the right to put your hand on me? We’re through, remember?”

  A clingy ex. Ugh. They’re the worst. She could’ve slapped him to make her point clearer, but oh well. I’ll settle for the verbal rebuke for now.

  “Oh, come on.” He scowls. “I know you’re a girl, but you should be over that by now.”

  “Excuse me?” She puts her hands on her hips, her feet shoulder-width apart.

  Go, Skittles. Kick his ass. I’ll be your backup if you need help. Better yet, let me hold that idiot down for you.

  “It wasn’t a big deal. Why you gotta be so emo about it?” he whines.

  “I’m being ‘emo’? Really?” Her voice goes low and dangerously cold. “You snooped around my phone and decided because my period was a little late, I got pregnant to entrap you. Well, guess what? I’m not. Never was. So we can be cleanly, totally done.”

  What an idiot. Why would Skittles want to entrap a guy like him?

  “You gotta air our dirty laundry like that?” Tom says in a voice so loud he’s drawing attention.

  “I wouldn’t have if you’d stayed away. And it isn’t our dirty laundry. Just yours.”

  Damn, she’s hot when she’s mad, especially at somebody else.

  “Is it because of him?” He points an accusing finger in my direction.

  I preen inwardly. Obviously, if it’s between you or me, she’s going to choose me. She isn’t blind or stupid.

  “You’re hanging out with a college kid?”

  Huh? Where the hell did he get that from?

  Skittles flushes at his tone, which makes her sound like some kind of cradle robber.

  I make a subtle move so I’m shielding her from this jerk. Time to set the fool straight.

  “First, I just finished grad school.” I smile. You should always smile, especially if you plan to deck the guy, figuratively speaking.

  He glares at me. “Nobody asked you, college boy.”

  “And nobody invited you,” I say.

  He smirks, but it’s more forced than superior. “And why would you, when I know all about your family’s dirty little secrets?”

  My entire body goes rigid. It’s been a year, but I can’t help but react badly to any mention of the scandal involving my mom. How she looked the other way from a potential homicide.

  No, scratch that. A homicide, because a girl did die. And the culprit went unpunished for nearly a decade because of Mom’s spiteful silence.

  “Do you think you’re something special? You’re nothing. I dug up everything about you and your family. I even wrote about it. You might have heard of me.” He smacks his chest with his palm. “Tom Brockman.”

  The name makes me scrunch my face with bad taste in my mouth. Tom Brockman is a bottom-feeding tabloid hack who went after my family last year when the sordid details of what Mom did came out. Out of all the so-called journalists, his articles were the most lurid, trying to paint everyone, including Ivy, as people who deserved what happened.

  “You didn’t ‘dig up’ anything. You just repackaged what other, actual journalists researched to try to make a quick buck or two at someone else’s expense. You write about other people’s pain for profit. The Josef Mengele of journalism. Except you’re not as creative.”

  His face turns bright red. His knuckles whiten as he clenches his fists.

  Come on, motherfucker. Throw the first punch so I can break your nose.

  I’m not stupid enough to punch him first and give him the pleasure of suing me for millions in pain and suffering.

  “Tom, you need to go,” Skittles says, placing a hand on my arm.

  The gentle touch soothes my temper, but only a little.

  “I’m telling you, you’re making a mistake.” But there’s a frustrated understanding in his pale eyes. He knows he isn’t going to get anywhere. The shitbag slinks away.

  Then it finally hits me. He dated Skittles. Touched her and thought she was pregnant with his baby.

  Pure outrage pours through me. What’s wrong with karma? Is she on vacay? A man like that should be a virgin. For life. “Tom Brockman was your ex?”

  Her lips grow tight. “Yes. I was dating him before I met you.”

  “Is he one of the reasons you decided to adopt your no-dating rule?”

  “No.”

  I’m skeptical. The data she gathered probably helped her reach the decision, but surely dating a loser like that didn’t help. I’d bet a kidney he wasn’t supportive of anything she wants to do.

  She checks the time. “I really have to go. I have a meeting.” She starts toward the office. “Thanks for lunch.”

  Suddenly, I can’t let her go like this. “Skittles.”

  “Yes?”

  “What he said isn’t all true.” I look away, uncomfortable with this intense desire to explain the scandal. Obviously, she already knows about it. Everyone with access to the Internet does. “About my family and what happened, I mean. The tabloids, they really blew everything—”

  “I know. And even if it were true, it doesn’t matter.” She gives me a warm smile. “You’re you. Family is family.”

  A weight I didn’t know was on my shoulders lifts. I stare, stunned that she knew exactly what I needed to hear. My phone buzzes, but I ignore it. I watch her wave, turn and disappear into the building. The effect of the smile lingers like a kiss, and I find myself smiling back.

  Until I check my phone and see a missed call from a hospital in Tempérane.

  Chapter Twenty

  Pascal

  I walk toward my cubicle. My belly’s full of great food, but my heart is churning. How dare Tom show his face at my work? It’s like he’s forgotten all about the horrible things he said when he thought I “entrapped him with pregnancy.”

  Or the fact that I told him we were through. Utterly. One hundred percent.

  But that isn’t all. He dragged Court and his family into our fight. Bastard. It must’ve escaped his notice that if he hadn’t been such a dick, I would never have hooked up with Court.

  If Tom shows up again, I’m going to forget everything my mom taught me about being a nice girl. I’ll tell him how I feel in every language I know, including Klingon.

  Rodney comes out of a conference room opposite my desk with a tall man in a charcoal suit. Not one of our lawyers. I know everyone on the SFG legal counsel team. And he doesn’t look like an accountant, either. They always have this exacting air about them, an anal retentiveness that demands they calculate everything down to the last penny. The man’s black hair’s too long, and there’s an arrogance and indolence to his dark gaze.

  Rodney smiles broadly. “Cristiano, this is Pascal Snyder, the brain behind that new model
you liked.” As Cristiano turns toward me, Rodney mouths, Your latest Nikkei prediction modeling.

  I try not to beam too hard. That one’s my pride and joy.

  The man’s expression is cordial without being overly friendly. “A pleasure. When Rodney said ‘Pascal,’ I assumed it was a man.”

  “All woman,” I say, hoping my gender isn’t going to be a problem.

  “Clearly. And beautiful as well.” His tone is flattering but also scrupulously professional. He extends his hand. “Cristiano Cortez. Nice to meet you.”

  I shake hands with him. His grip is firm but not overly strong. This is a man very aware of his strength. I wonder if he is the Cristiano Cortez, one of the most important clients at the firm. I’ve never met the man, but I’ve heard about him. But there might be more than one. It isn’t as though the name’s trademarked.

  “I did like that model. If I had a firm that managed money, I’d poach you,” he says. His cool but penetrating gaze communicates that he always says what he means, and I can feel myself glowing.

  He turns to Rodney. “Thank you for your time. You’ll hear from my assistant by COB today.”

  “Excellent. I look forward to it.”

  Cristiano leaves.

  “Tell me if that’s who I think it is,” I say to Rodney.

  “The one and only. He likes your work. A lot. And he isn’t shy about saying so.”

  I put a hand over my mouth. “Oh my God.”

  Excitement bubbles like a freshly popped bottle of champagne. He didn’t just think I was good, but he told others at the firm. This has got to be my year.

  Dad walks by with a fresh coffee in his hand. Before I can tell him what Cristiano said, he leans over the partition of my cubicle with a warm smile. “Back so soon? I thought I said you could take your time with Court.”

  Something feels wrong, but I’m too excited about the exchange with Cristiano to dwell on it. “It was just a business lunch to discuss an investment he wanted to make.” And it’s a good thing it didn’t drag on, because I would’ve missed Cristiano.

  Dad’s expression tightens for a moment until his gaze falls on the calla lilies. “Then why did he send you flowers?”