Chapter Eight
Whatever excited energy I had been feeling only moments ago fizzles with six innocent words.
I see you know my father.
Come again?
His father? You ’ ve got to be shitting me. He didn ’ t. He can ’ t be …
“ Son,” Max responds, his lips pinching in a tight smile. “ Vivienne, always a pleasure.”
He gives me a pointed look, cracking the surface of my shock. I shoot Max a curt smile and shake my head. The infinitesimal movement doesn ’ t go unnoticed before he walks off without a response from Jeremy.
Jeremy.
His son.
Oh. My. Fucking. Fuck .
My heart skids around in my chest, and a million incoherent thoughts race through my head. I don ’ t know how to process this, or what to do about it.
His son. No …
I feel like I ’ ve been hit with a dumb stick. How was I so oblivious? Jeremy never said where he worked, or for whom, and I never asked. I didn ’ t think anything of them both being at the charity auction—half of Boston and this building were there. How is this…real? I have a lady-boner for my newest client ’ s son. Yeah, that ’ s not awkward at all.
If this is my karma, then she can go suck a—
“ Shall we?” It ’ s gritted and cold, rousing me from my unkind thoughts. It ’ s so unlike Jeremy , I almost wince.
All I can manage is a nod. My head spins to the point of motion sickness as Jeremy takes my hand with force, pulling me out the doors, but thankfully avoiding the revolving ones.
“ You remembered.”
“ Hard to forget.” His reply is sharp, but his thumb brushes my knuckles, confusing me further.
I try to force some function back to my mind, but I overshoot the mark, because the next thing I know, my brain-to-mouth filter stops working, or breaks completely, and I ramble. The fear I might not stop any time soon escalates quickly.
“ Okay, I ’ ve been as patient as I can. I can ’ t wait any longer. Spill. You ’ ve been keeping me in the dark for days, Jer. Come on, tell me. How did the presentation go? What did you wear? Was the video a success? Did you wow everyone? Did you secure the deal then and there, or do you still have to wait for a decision? Come on, don ’ t hold out on me, now. You owe me, remember?”
Jeremy stops before we enter the bar next door, his posture rigid. I freeze, wondering what I said.
“ Who ’ s keeping whom in the dark, Viv?”
It came out so quietly, I almost missed it. Almost.
“ Excuse me?”
He drops my hand and opens the door. I almost expect him to take it again, or guide me through the door, yet somehow, I ’ m not surprised when he doesn ’ t. Instead, he storms in, leaving me standing outside, lost and alone. Damn it .
“ Jesus, Jer, where ’ s the fire?” I chuckle, but it sounds flat, forced.
I follow behind as he heads straight for an empty table at the back, sitting down stiffly.
“ How do you know my father?”
Not one to beat around the bush, it would seem. I crumble into the adjacent chair with a sigh. “ I don ’ t. Not really.”
He raises a brow. “ Oh, so you kiss everyone on the cheek?”
“ Maybe.” I didn ’ t think it was possible, but Jeremy bristles more. “ I kissed you on the cheek the first time we met, remember? It was a peck. Nothing.”
He takes a deep breath, seeming to compose himself, but I don ’ t think it works. His eyes still blaze. “ Can you give me a straight answer for once?”
“ About what?”
“ How do you know my father?”
“ He hired me as a consultant.”
Jeremy stares at me a long moment before opening his mouth to respond, but a waitress interrupts him.
“ Hiya, can I get you all something to drink?”
“ Scotch,” we say in unison.
Jeremy ’ s lip twitches, but the grin is gone before it begins, the tension between us as thick as ever. The waitress gives us both an uneasy smile and hurries off. I ’ m still waiting for Jeremy to say something, anything, but he just stares at me longer. The silence is killing me.
“ Consultant? ”
I nod.
“ You expect me to believe my father hired you as a consultant without telling me?”
I shrug.
“ The help the other night, not so out of the blue? That ’ s what you do?”
“ You were in a pickle, and I had nothing better to do.”
“ So what, you were a one-off, a singular occurrence, or is he putting you on the books?”
The accuracy of his question and double meaning isn ’ t lost on me or my sweating palms. “ I can ’ t say.”
“ Can ’ t or won ’ t? ”
“ What are you getting at, Jeremy? What exactly are you asking me or accusing me of? Because from where I ’ m sitting, I don ’ t owe you anything.”
“ Is he hiring you to replace me?”
I ’ m completely taken aback. “ Replace you? Why would he want to replace his own son?”
“ We don ’ t have the best relationship, my father and I, not for a long, long time. It ’ s not a stretch to think he ’ d want me gone, but I own part of the company. He ’ d have to buy me out, which I don ’ t know if he ’ s in a position to do.”
Oh, no.
“ What? What ’ s that look?”
“ Nothing. I don ’ t know what you think you saw because I don ’ t know anything, Jer. He ’ s never mentioned having children, never mentioned you, only ever talked about his wife.” I realize a second too late that I said the wrong thing.
“ He…he told you about my mother? He talked about her with you?” The shock and pain ripples through his words.
“ In passing …”
He says nothing, a million incoherent thoughts playing across his pain-filled eyes. I have this uneasy sensation building in the pit of my stomach and the unmistakable need to reach for Jeremy, to comfort him. His pain is like a gale-force wind continuing to crash into me. It ’ s too much.
“ I ’ m sor—”
“ Don ’ t.”
The waitress returns with our drinks, and Jeremy dismisses her with cash and a tight-lipped smile. I take my glass, noticing how my hand wavers ever so slightly. The minuscule tremor frustrates me. I grip the glass tightly, almost smashing it on my teeth in my haste for the respite the alcohol promises. I swallow half of it, but still nothing eases.
“ Are you sleeping with him?”
For a minute, I think I heard him wrong. Did he really jump from me trying to steal his job to fucking his father? And people say I ’ m fickle-minded.
“ I ’ m sorry?”
“ You heard me.”
Sadly, I did. In all honesty, it ’ s not a stretch—even the logical conclusion—but for some reason, it aggravates me all the same. I know it shouldn ’ t, but I wasn ’ t prepared for this, or more importantly, hearing it come from Jeremy.
I finish my drink in a quick, burning mouthful, being careful not to slam the glass down, and stand, taking my bag in hand.
“ No witty comeback? No snarky remark?”
“ No. ”
“ You ’ ve got nothing to say to that?”
“ Nope, I ’ m done.”
“ Like hell you are.” He reaches for my arm, but I pull back, shutting him down.
“You just lost that privilege. I come at a cost, Jer, and you just ran out of credit.”
The ringing refuses to stop. It started up as soon as I exited the bar and continued as I walked the streets aimlessly, eventually stopping a yellow death wagon to take me home. I barely notice as the cab driver speeds off, cutting off some unsuspecting victim as he merges into traffic.
I slam my way into my apartment, all but breaking the door off the hinges with the force. My cell is still a buzzing, burning presence in my Marc Jacobs; it goes flying across the hall table the moment I clear the entrance. I pay it no mind as it crashes to the floor. Instead, I stomp to the kitchen and the head-splitting sound of the landline. I could hear it as soon as I got out of the elevator. It stopped moments after, only to start up again.
“ What?” I bark out before recognizing the number flashing on the handheld, seven missed messages blinking red next to it.
“ Vivienne, would you care to explain—”
I cut Max off. “ No. I ’ ll see you tomorrow night as planned, Maxwell. Unless you have changed your mind?”
“ No, I haven ’ t. I just need—”
“ Good. I ’ ll see you then.”
I hang up.
This is just peachy. I ignore the messages, even though I should probably check them before Laura does. Yet I ’ m still staring at the red digit a few minutes after returning the phone to the cradle. It takes a lot in life to throw me for a loop, but I ’ ve definitely been thrown today.
Jeremy…Thatcher.
I shake my head. Why didn ’ t I know his last name? The one and only time Jeremy emailed me, it was from a personal email, no name anywhere, no company mentioned either. God, they even have the same jaw and nose, but damn if Max looks old enough to have a twenty-six-year-old son. I really should have put two and two together and gotten the obvious six because everything is adding up to some stupid, nonsensical number. The real kick in the teeth, the bitter pill I ’ ve been struggling to swallow—I still want Jeremy. Even more so. That damn forbidden fruit is tempting the ever-loving crap out of me. It ’ s not like I couldn ’ t go there, though. Surely, he ’ s not really off-limits. There are no rules that state I can ’ t fuck a client ’ s son.
Well, there is the whole not-screwing-around thing of Jeremy ’ s. That ’ s a slight problem, I ’ ll admit. Seriously, who has a conscience these days? The world is full of the corrupt and the indecent, not to mention the morally skewed. Hell, they keep me in the lifestyle I ’ m accustomed to, and I happened to stumble into the one good guy in Boston who pushes buttons I didn ’ t know I had. Images of Jeremy ’ s blue eyes and mischievous grin fill my head, making me curse.
Fucking boy-next-door type.
I spin on my heels and head for my closet, deciding the gym is in order. I ’ ll spend the rest of the afternoon working my frustration out on the kickboxing bag, and if that doesn ’ t work, I ’ ll spend an obscene amount of money on clothes I ’ ll never wear. That always works.
Usually.