Текст книги "The Singles"
Автор книги: Emily Snow
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“I told you, you sounded upset. I couldn’t sit across town thinking of you being here alone like that because then I’d get pissed off.” He loosened his tie, his expression softening. “Let me fix this, so we can go eat.”
“I’m fine,” I argued, my pulse speeding as I processed his words. It was similar to what he’d written on the envelope he sent four weeks ago—I fix what I break. The thing was, nothing that was broken was Oliver’s doing. It was all on his mother. “I’m fine,” I repeated. “But you should probably leave.”
He didn’t budge from his spot. “Let me guess, Margaret is installing new appliances and you’re waiting for a delivery guy?”
Apparently, he had no idea his ex-girlfriend had been invited to his mother’s house, and I waffled over telling him. After all, he wasn’t supposed to be here right now. Biting my lip in indecision, I eventually shook my head. “No, it’s—”
But then the doorbell rang a second time, and I shot Oliver a warning look. “You really might want to go,” I warned.
Starting toward me, he ran his hand through his hair, tousling the light brown strands. “Not until I have your guarantee that you’ll come have lunch with me.”
“You should probably leave because—” The sound of the door opening and heels clacking across the marble floor stopped me, and I twisted to see Oliver’s tall, leggy brunette ex making a beeline toward me.
“You must be Lizzie,” she began in a sticky-sweet voice. She started into the family room, excitement springing into her hazel eyes at the sight of Oliver with his tie undone. Looking like he’d just seen a ghost, his perfectly toned body froze. “Ollie? I saw your car, but I thought—”
In a day full of surprises and disappointments, I shouldn’t have felt anything when she raced across the room with her chin-length hair flying around her delicately boned face. She practically threw herself at him. Oliver was a serial dater—I’d known that since before we met. Still, my nausea returned full force watching Finley burrow into his arms.
“I missed you while I was in Italy,” she breathed into the front of his crisp shirt, before he grabbed her shoulders and gently drew her away. “I had no idea you’d be here to meet me.”
“Fin—” he groaned, and I squeezed my eyes shut and turned away. I absolutely could not stand there and watch whatever was going to unfold between them. Grabbing my purse off the armchair beside the entryway, I rushed into the foyer, only to stop abruptly at the sight of the skinny, dark-haired teenage boy dragging in luggage.
Rolling in a couple of Louis Vuitton bags, a grin broke across the boy’s face as his eyes traveled up my body. He plucked his earbuds out his ears and tucked them in his back pocket. “I’m Mason, and—”
“And way too young,” an older male voice interjected jokingly, causing the kid to roll his dark blue eyes. Angling my body a little, I was grateful for the grand piano in the foyer, because I sagged against the side of it when I saw the man’s face.
I’d met him once before.
In his office.
His hair had been black then, and not the salt and pepper it was now, but I knew this man. I’d met him when I came to L.A. to meet my stepmother seven years ago.
The memory hit me like a ton of bricks, and this time I recalled everything—from his name, to the blue suit he’d been wearing, to the way he’d barely looked at me as he ripped my confidence to shreds.
"Your name is nowhere in your father's will, and Margaret has informed me that you and your mother have been aware of that since he passed away. You are more than welcome to contest the will, Ms. Emerson, but I'm going to warn you—you'll feel the crushing reality of all the legal fees before you can bat your pretty brown eyes. Now, Margaret is prepared to settle with you ... as long as you don't come back with your hand stretched out. You understand what I'm saying, don't you, sweetheart?"
Staring up from the back of my hands, I’d nodded. “I understand.”
“Good girl,” he’d crooned, before calling his legal assistant into the room. “Now, about the settlement—”
“I don’t want it.”
He’d chuckled, a soft, condescending noise that made my temperature rise. “You’re just upset, Ms. Emerson. Of course you want to—”
“I. Don’t. Need. It.”
The memory washed away, and I smiled despite the heavy pounding in my head. I felt like I was going to be sick. Like I was going to throw up all over Margaret’s polished foyer floor.
“You must be Mr. Scott,” I forced out politely, taking a step forward with my hand stretched out. He took my fingers in his. “I’m Lizzie Connelly. I’ve left the key to the house for you on the mantle. Is there anything you need to make your stay more comfortable until Margaret returns?” I spoke mechanically, hardly realizing what I said.
Oh, God. Why didn’t I figure this out when Pen told me Finley’s name? Why couldn’t I remember this then?
His thumb stroked the back of my hand, and acid burned its way up my throat. I was terrified. Terrified and pissed off. What if he recognized me? What if he told Margaret exactly who I was?
What would happen if I hit this man right now?
One teeny-tiny punch to the throat?
“Lizzie, this is Finley Scott.” I turned at the sound of Oliver’s voice. He stood in the doorway, looking beautifully agitated, with his ex standing a few feet away. Her arms were crossed over her chest as she worked her small teeth over her bottom lip furiously. Staring at me apologetically, Oliver gestured to the teen and then to the attorney. His eyes darkened when they dropped to our linked hands. “That’s her brother, Mason, and Michael, her father. They’re longtime friends of ... my family.”
“It’s great to meet you all.” Returning my attention back to Michael, I searched his eyes for some sign of recognition, but there was absolutely none. I pulled my hand from his grip, clenching my fingers by my side. “Margaret has said so many amazing things about you,” I lied.
“You as well, Ms. Connelly. And I think we have everything we need here. Margaret is always such an accommodating hostess.”
The laugh I released grated the tiny fraction of self-control I had left. I pulled my purse in front of my body. Digging inside, I found one of my business cards and handed it to him, making certain not to touch him again. “If you need anything at all while she’s away, please don’t hesitate to call me.”
Unable to breathe, I practically ran to my Mini Cooper, refusing to stop even when I heard Oliver call my name.
*
As I left my father’s home, my muscles so taut it was difficult to move, I should have been glad Michael hadn’t noticed me. I should have thanked the heavens that I’d made it out of that house unscathed, with a phone full of documents and a stack of important paperwork in my purse.
But when I pulled over a few minutes after I exited the community’s gate, dry heaving, the only thought in my mind was that I’d been so inconsequential that there hadn’t been the slightest recognition.
Chapter 10
Two nights later, I was still reeling from the mindfuck of finding out the identity of Finley Scott’s father, but I put on a carefully practiced smile as I scanned my brown eyes around the glassed in ballroom of the Heritage. And it really was something to look at—the event planner had nailed it. With the lush, dark décor, I felt like I’d walked right into a Poe-esque fantasy when I arrived an hour and a half ago.
Despite it being the perfect setting for my favorite holiday, I’d rather been spending the eve of my twenty-fourth birthday at home, pouring over the documents I’d obtained from Margaret’s house. Plus, I needed to figure out a way to get the rest of the file back without her noticing. While the chances of her realizing it was missing anytime soon were slim, and I had taken extra precautions to make sure she wouldn’t find out I’d gone through her belongings, I was already freaking out about returning it.
Attempting to push those worries aside—at least for the night—I glanced at Stella, who was adjusting the mask of her Catwoman costume. “The turnout for this thing is phenomenal,” I said. Aside from the handful of people from work and their plus ones, there were at least an additional two hundred people present.
Even though it was a company event, not everyone from work had been lucky enough to snag an invite. My job as Margaret’s assistant had not only cemented my invitation, it had also made showing up a necessity.
“It was five thousand a plate for anyone not on the Emerson & Taylor guest list, right?” I asked.
“Yes ma’am. And I read in the company newsletter from last month that Margaret’s matching the donations this year. ”
Wow. It was the first I heard of Margaret’s contribution, and the forced expression I’d been wearing through dinner softened. No matter how ironic the charitable cause was—after all, I’d basically been a foster kid when my stepmother brushed me off—I was thrilled when I thought of how many kids this night would help.
Locking her headpiece in place with a couple hairpins, Stella gave me a disgusted look. “Maybe I should have bought the Halle Berry Catwoman; I think the vinyl cat hood might have gone better.” She peered over the table and regarded my flowing turquoise and gold gown with a playful lift of her brows. “And you, Miss I-Made-This-Myself—you make the rest of us look bad!”
A flush crept across my skin at her praise. “I’m just hoping it doesn’t fall apart into a bunch of little pieces.”
I had been so wrapped up in snooping for the documents in Margaret’s home office, Oliver in general, and then meeting the Scotts’—getting a costume had slipped my mind.
Luckily, Pen was there for me, like always.
When I’d dragged my ass into my apartment two nights earlier, she reminded me about the party, and we’d raced to Mood Fabrics before they closed. As we browsed the material, I had no idea what I planned to do, but the moment Pen eyed the pale aqua chiffon and lamented, “Too bad it’s just one color. You could’ve gone as the blonde from Game of Thrones,” my decision was made.
I’d solved the one-color problem with gold fabric paint and a sponge. Thanks to a hardcore fan with an Etsy shop and overnight shipping, I scored the rest of my accessories, including a dragon figurine that was giving me as much trouble as Stella’s cat mask.
Checking the deep V-neckline to make sure the fabric tape was still doing its job over my braless chest, I admitted, “It was sort of a last-minute project.”
She pulled in her bottom lip slightly. “Then you make us look worse.” But she was laughing as she inclined her head to the front of the room. “Give it a year. I bet you a hundred the Red Queen over there’ll have your ass working in design. ”
I stared at Margaret, who was making the rounds from table to table, conversing with her guests and the more prestigious Emerson & Taylor employees—directors, managers, and executives.
“Hmm, I doubt she’ll promote me.” I saw Dora and her husband—Black Widow and Captain America, which I had to admit, worked perfectly for them—return to our table carrying champagne flutes. Even though “Disturbia” was pulsing through the ballroom, making it nearly impossible for anyone else to hear me confide in Stella, I dropped my voice to a whisper. “If she did, who’d hunt down a pair of ruby red Valentino stilettos five hours before an event?”
She shook her head, causing her mask to fall again. “That’s where you were when I stopped by your office this afternoon?”
“I found them at Saks in Costa Mesa and then she sent me back because the sizing wasn’t right. She decided to wear her brocade Louboutins instead.”
Finally giving up on her disguise, she pulled it off and tossed it on the table between her place card and the centerpiece—a Manzanita tree adorned with dangling blackbirds and Victorian cameos.
“I’ve gotta drink to that. I’m going to the bar since the servers aren’t straying this far back.” Combing her dark-painted nails through her thick hair, she pointed to my black martini. “Do you need another?”
“I think I’m okay for now.”
“You’ll probably regret that later when you’re being harassed for a dance,” she warned before slinking off, her tail swishing behind her.
“Hey, Lizzie?” At the sound of Dora calling my name, I whipped my head in her direction and squinted through the dim lighting at the redhead. She moved into Stella’s seat to get closer to me, resting her elbows on the table. “I know this probably isn’t the time, but I found a reminder yesterday about getting you a company credit card. I’ll be out of the building tomorrow, but stop by my office next week and we can do the paperwork?”
Damn. Up until now, I’d pushed all thoughts of that credit card to the back of my mind and had been using Margaret’s personal card for all of her business expenses. Being careful to keep my face neutral, I drew back from Dora. “I’ll stop by before I go upstairs Monday morning,” I promised, hoping it would slip her mind by then.
She looked over her shoulder to see her husband in deep conversation with a woman dressed as a rock star at the next table, before returning her attention to me. “Your boyfriend couldn’t make it?”
Linking my fingers together on the black tablecloth, I sucked in my cheeks. “I’m actually single.”
Her pink lips opened in surprise. “You’re such a beautiful girl that I just assumed....” Her voice trailed off as she stared behind me, her gray eyes narrowing and following someone. I turned and felt my own face harden at the sight of Finley Scott, dressed as Cleopatra.
She was talking to the company’s VP—the one who’d sexed up Margaret’s former PA in the boardroom—with her hand laid casually on his arm and her head thrown back in laughter.
From beside me, I heard Dora mutter something unmistakable. “That bitch better stay away from Oliver.” Startled, I turned around to face her, and I couldn’t stop myself from looking between her and her husband, whose back was still turned to us.
Instead of cowing, Dora’s nostrils flared. “If that look you’re giving me is because of Oliver, I can assure you it’s not what you think.” Sighing, she squeezed her eyes shut. “When he told me you might have the wrong idea about us, I told him to explain, but obviously he hasn’t.”
Oliver and Dora had talked about me? The thought both petrified and intrigued me, so I crossed my arms and waited for her to continue. After a few seconds of frustrating silence, she explained, “Oliver is one of our closest friends—we met in college and he introduced me to Franklin, his teammate. He helped me get this job. He was the best man in our wedding. For reasons I’d prefer not to get into, I’m not a big fan of his ex.”
I started to tell her I was pretty sure Oliver could take care of himself, but instead I cocked my eyebrow. My next question was bold, so I hoped she was deep enough in her champagne not to flip out. “Then what was with that blowout on my first day, in your office?”
She looked confused for a moment, but then her shoulders shook with laughter. “He went on a date with one of my friends. It went as expected.” Thinning her lips into a rueful smile, she shrugged. “Oliver never calls for a second date.”
Ugh. Why had I even asked? It took my mind to places it didn’t need to go.
From what Margaret had scathingly told me earlier today—“He’ll be out celebrating Halloween with one of his sluts”—Oliver wouldn’t be here at all tonight. Since that was the case, there was no reason for me to let him crawl into my thoughts. Except here I was, surrounded by a bunch of people I didn’t know, letting the memory of blue eyes and a charming smile screw with me.
Dora’s husband returned, and when he directed his undivided attention to her, rubbing his nose against her neck and murmuring something, I glanced away.
“I’m going to the restroom,” I said, though I didn’t think she heard me. I tossed back the rest of my fruity cocktail. “Excuse me.”
*
Agitated, I returned from the bathroom ready for my next drink. I was still so distracted by the conversation with Dora that I nearly mowed over the very pregnant event planner as she approached me. Reaching out, I steadied her and she shot me a grateful look.
“Oh, thank God!” she said, sliding her bra strap beneath the cap sleeve of her pink maternity dress. “Have you seen Mrs. Emerson?”
Automatically assuming she was going into labor, my brows scrunched together in concern. Margaret would have a meltdown if that happened. Then she’d tell me to tell Natalie to hold off the contractions until the end of the party.
“Is everything alright?” I asked, genuinely worried.
“She’s supposed to give a speech in twenty minutes, and I wanted to make sure she’s ready.”
Relieved, I scanned the crowd, looking for my stepmother’s red and gold Wonderland-inspired dress that must have cost a fortune. When I finally saw her, at the same table as Michael Scott, I fisted my hands. Seeing those two together, letting those awful memories assault me yet again, tore me up inside.
“Right over there.” I calmly pointed Natalie in their direction, despite that old familiar monster—anger—flaring through me.
She clasped her fingers together gratefully. “You are a lifesaver. Thanks, Liz.”
“Of course.” As she walked away, I called her name and she paused, resting her hands supportively on her stomach. “Thank you for your hard work on all this.” I gestured at the lovely darkness that lingered at every corner of the ballroom and the celebrity DJ in the booth. “This is incredible. And I’m sure that the kids this night was intended for will appreciate all your hard work just as much as I do.”
Natalie beamed. “Enjoy your night, Ms. Connelly.”
Humming the song that was playing—“Radioactive”—I continued toward the bar. When Stella and I made eye contact through the crowd, I mouthed Getting a drink to which she responded to with a nod that screamed Told you so.
There were two bars set up, so I went left, to the one with fewer people waiting. Tapping my fingertips quietly together to the rhythm of the song, I wasn’t aware that someone was standing beside me until a strong hand touched mine. It closed around my fingers, sending a current through my skin.
My head popped up in surprise to take in a masked face.
Well, half a mask.
It took me a moment to catch my breath. There was something about a man in a tailored suit—especially when that man was Oliver Manning—and my eyes devoured him.
Finally, I licked my lips, causing his blue eyes to settle on my mouth. “The Phantom didn’t wear Tom Ford.”
He chuckled. The sound teased me, working its way into my skin, making it an effort to focus on anything else around me. God, I was a mess around him. And he knew it. “You remembered I enjoy Game of Thrones.”
Briefly, I glanced down at my costume and suddenly recalled the conversation in his office when he told me he was a fan of the show. I hadn’t even thought of that as I made the costume, but when I didn’t respond, he took my silence as a confirmation.
“And you’ve been ignoring my calls.” Releasing my hands, he fingered the wide, ornate gold belt of my costume, not seeming to care if anyone saw him as he brushed his thumb over the exposed skin between my breasts where the chiffon fabric met. I knocked his hand away and glowered up at him. “But, God, you’re too fucking much tonight for me to complain about anything.”
“I’ve been busy, and you have guests in town.”
“My mother has guests,” he corrected. “But I’d be happy to take you home with me and entertain you.”
Putting some distance between us, I swallowed down the pressure in my throat. “I was under the impression you had plans. Margaret said you’d be out celebrating Halloween with one of your sluts tonight.” At the amused turn of his mouth, I added, “Her words, not mine.”
“Margaret was wrong.” Splaying his hand on my back, he closed the space between our bodies again, urging me forward to the bar. “I’ll take Lagavulin, neat, and, for my beautiful companion,—”
“A black martini,” I told the bartender politely, before lifting my chin to Oliver. “And I’m not your companion,” I whispered furiously.
“Of course you are. You came here alone, didn’t you?”
I pulled in a breath through my teeth. “Why don’t you go—”
Whatever I was about to say was quickly forgotten when the fingers on my back dug into my skin. It wasn’t painful. No, it was promising, possessive, and it made my throat go dry. He dipped his mouth to my ear.
“Before you suggest I find another woman tonight, let me give you a small piece of advice: don’t let your pride make you say something you’ll regret. I’ve seen the way you react around me and other women—and the way my cock responds to your jealousy. The next woman I spend the night with will be you. Whether it’s your Khaleesi getup on my floor or one of those delicious little dresses you prance around Emerson & Taylor in—you and I will fuck.”
With that, he handed me my drink, leaving the bartender a generous tip before walking away without another word. I tried not to stare after him, God, I tried, but Oliver was magnetic. He was wrong for so many reasons—legitimate, disastrous reasons—and it was getting harder and harder to stay away.
But no woman in her right mind could avoid him, especially after he left her hanging with a comment like that.
Squaring my shoulders, I started in his direction, letting that force between us compel me toward him. I made it past the first couple tables, but then I felt a feminine hand on my wrist. Expecting to see my boss, I spun around wearing an accommodating look.
Instead of the Red Queen, I was staring into Cleopatra’s heavily-lined hazel eyes.
For once, I think I would have preferred Margaret.
“It’s so good to see you again, Lizzie!” Finley gushed.
“You, too. Are you enjoying your visit?” I hoped I sounded genuine. I sure as hell didn’t feel it, not when all I could think about was her hurling herself into Oliver’s arms two days ago. “When are you going back to Italy?”
“Oh, we were only there for a year. My brother was fortunate enough to study art, and I followed along. I mean, it’s Italy, after all.” She blew a stray piece of her black wig out her eyes and shrugged. “The woman renting my dad’s house will be moving out in a month, and starting next week, I’ll be looking for an apartment.”
“That’s ... great news.” Since Margaret was so adamant about Oliver being with Finley, I was sure she was over the moon right now. My stomach twisted into knots that should never have been tied as I contemplated the future between Oliver and the woman standing before me. “I’m sure you’ll find something great.”
“I hope so. Maybe you and I can get together soon. I’d love to help you with the plans for Ollie’s birthday party next month.”
Ignoring the fact that hearing her call him that thoroughly irked me, I lifted an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware I was making the plans for his birthday party,” I said as I stepped out the way of a tall man headed to the bar.
When she smiled, the sheepishness she was trying to convey reminded me of a client I had briefly in the past—a man who was absolutely charming in public but calculating and almost cruel behind closed doors. I tilted my head, examining her.
“Margaret said she was going to mention it to you next week,” she clarified.
“Then I’m sure we’ll be talking again soon. I’m sure you have some fantastic ideas.” I didn’t know if it was jealousy, like Oliver had mentioned a few minutes ago, but nothing about Finley sat well with me. “If you’ll excuse me.”
Lifting the hem of my costume, I headed toward my table, scanning the massive ballroom for Oliver. Each step seemed like slow motion, my heart slowly shrinking when I couldn’t find him beneath the dim lighting.
As the DJ’s voice came over the microphone to announce Margaret would be saying a few words after the next two songs, I felt a powerful body brush against mine. I felt his hands on my hips, but his movements were so smooth and discreet that nobody seemed to realize we were touching.
“I thought you left,” I whispered.
Oliver’s breath tickled my ear, and I could feel every pulse point on my body going into a frenzy at once. “Dance with me.”
Gasping for air, I watched as he moved around me and walked casually out a side door. My eyes darted around to make sure nobody saw us. Then I followed the path he’d taken, stepping out into a narrow staircase.
“Oliver?”
But he didn’t answer. All I could hear was “Seven Devils” and my own heart. With each step, it seemed to throb louder, harder.
“Oliver?” I whispered when I reached a door at the top of the stairs. It was slightly ajar, and I pulled it open to see that it was a private balcony. I glanced around, taking in the sparse furnishings—a black loveseat with a tiny table beside it. His empty Scotch glass and the Phantom of the Opera mask sat on that table.
At last, I looked at him.
He was leaning against the railing with his back to me. Giving the party going on below one final look, he jerked the curtain closed. “Lock that,” he ordered.
A dance my ass, I thought.
But I turned around, my hands trembling as I twisted the tiny lock on the doorknob. Over the sound of Florence Welch’s haunting lyrics, I heard his footsteps closing the space between us. A moment later, I felt his hands on me, one on my hip and the other resting over my collarbone. His thumb stroked my throat, and his lips skimmed my ear.
“You just don’t quit, do you?” I demanded, fighting a moan as my back arched and I molded against him. “Is this it then? That one night? What happened to making it last?”
His fingers trailed from my collarbone until he firmly cupped one of my breasts, evoking a gasp from the back of my throat. “This,” he rasped in my ear, “this is an appetizer. This is me reiterating just how bad I want you.” His firm chest nudged me forward, and I splayed my hands out on the door in front of me.
“Oliver—” I whispered over the music playing downstairs. Drenched with the promise of vengeance, the song was so fitting for this moment, it made my head spin. It was a reminder that I should walk away and pretend I never came up here. A reminder that I had so much to do, and Oliver—beautiful, confident, oblivious Oliver—was a liability if it came down to laying flames to his mother’s kingdom.
“I—”
“I want you, Lizzie.” His fingers moved from my hips, giving my ass a rough squeeze, and the desire building at the base of my spine expanded, overwhelming me. “Everywhere and every way.”
I breathed in deeply, squeezing my eyes closed and trying to find my voice. He’d stolen it right out of my body.
His lips touched my neck, and I felt his tongue flicking against my skin. “I want to taste that beautiful body of yours,” he said. Turning me around, he pushed me against the door. The wind left my body, leaving me dizzy and breathless, gasping for air. He pinned my wrists on either side of me and stared down at me with starving eyes. Painstakingly slow, he eased forward until his thick erection was cuddled up to my aching core, and my sex automatically clenched.
“But first—” he started, and I shook my head, cutting him off in gasping anticipation.
“You play so fucking dirty, Oliver.” Beneath his grip, I fisted my hands. “So dirty it hurts.” Even saying it out loud just seemed to make the dampness forming between my thighs so much more intense.
A wicked smile tugged at his mouth. “First,” he continued, “I’m going to remind you why you want all that to happen.”
“And what would—”
But then, his lips came down hard on mine, obliterating what I was about to say next.
