Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 86340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Yeah. Probably. I never claimed to be a saint. Manipulation should never win. Plus, I should never lose. My new mantra was to do as I wished, not as society expected or wanted. On that note, I was almost obligated to give her the proverbial middle finger.
I dumped a liberal amount of Kahlua in my coffee, sat down on my sofa, and stewed over the decision. Stewed over why Jillian was so dead set against a possibility that hadn’t even become a possibility yet. Was it me? Some hatred of a stranger she’d never met? Or any woman who might interrupt the flow of Brant’s life? How many kitchens had she stood in? Checks had she written? Foes had she faced?
Three cups of coffee later, I slumped low in the couch, the pillow imprinting expensive designs in the side of my face, when my phone rang. I jerked to life, wind-milling my hands and feet for a brief moment as I found my way to my feet and regained my bearings.
I stood there for a brief moment, my bare feet on bamboo floors, blinked, and tried to find the source of my awakening. The shrill sound of my ringtone reminded me, my bleary eyes finding the cell on the kitchen counter, my weak legs bringing me closer.
BRANT displayed on the screen. I silenced it, stumbled back to the couch, and collapsed facedown.
Think of the children.
My second nap ended sometime after lunch, the irritated growl of my stomach punching through any alcohol-induced slumber. I made it through half the steps involved in a chicken salad sandwich before I was reminded of Brant’s call, mayonnaise fingers plucking my phone and dialing my voicemail.
One new message. Received at 11:07 AM.
“Layana. This is Brant Sharp. I enjoyed last night, sorry to skip out without saying goodbye. I’d like to take you to dinner tonight to make up for it. Let me know if you are free.”
No goodbye salutation. Just an ending of the call, my recorded voice informing me of my options in regards to his message. I pressed 4, saved it, ended the call, and tossed down the cell. I finished fixing my sandwich, a frown pinching my features.
He called two more times that week. Left two voicemails.
The next week nothing.
The next week nothing.
The fourth week he sent a large arrangement of orchids. The card simply said, “Call me.”
Day thirty-four: BSX wired their annual donation, meeting our request, eight million dollars.
On day thirty-five, I called him back.
“Hey.” Total silence in the background. No hum of machinery, no busy San Francisco street.
“I’m sorry.”
“Trust me, I won’t leave in the middle of the night again. I learned my lesson.”
I laughed. His wry tone made me smile. “It wasn’t that. Truly. I just needed to get some things in order before I saw you again.”
His next sentence was a grumble in words. “Clear the bench?”
More like wait out a contract. “Something like that.”
“So… your bench is available?”
I laughed. “As unsexy as that sounds, yes.”
“Good. I’d like to take you to dinner tonight.”
I smiled. “Pick me up at seven.”
Jillian must have had a direct line to this man’s brain. She called within three hours. The number unfamiliar, I answered it while folding laundry, whites laid out across my sofa like flags of surrender.
“I didn’t expect you to be a woman who would renege on a deal.” No polite words of greeting, no introduction before diving into the meat of the issue. I recognized her voice instantly, my smile widening as I got a month’s worth of pleasure in the sound of the irritation in her voice.
“All’s fair in love and war, Jillian. We have a year before BSX’s next donation to HYA. That should give us both enough time to sort this matter out.”
“I don’t expect to remember your name in a year.”
I clicked my tongue at her. “Word of advice, Jillian? Don’t push back. It’ll only cause me to pursue him more.”
“Word of advice, sweetie?” She dunked the last word in poison, drawing it out in a manner that made my brow arch with admiration. “Realize when someone is trying to do you a favor.”
I didn’t have a witty comeback for that one. Didn’t really understand it enough to respond. I swallowed, folded the white tank top over twice in my hands and added it to the pile. “Don’t worry about Brant. I won’t hurt him.”
“That isn’t really what concerns me.” She hesitated; I could hear the catch in her breath before she spoke again. “Call me when you find out what does.”
I didn’t talk to her again for nine months. I called her the night I discovered his secret.
Chapter 7
Wealthy men were a breed I knew well; a wealthy man raised me, my impressions of him stolen during brief moments of notability during my first eighteen years. I had dated the young versions, ones who had been born into the world of trust funds, Harvard legacies, and country clubs. Their sense of entitlement had been seconded only by their undeserved egos. Then, I graduated college and moved into the world of men, older versions who reminded me too much of my father, men who took rather than asked, and who expected subservience from anyone with breasts.