Embrace Me Forever (Hartley Brothers #3)

3. Georgia-May

3

GEORGIA-MAY

As the plane touches down at LAX, my heart pounds so hard I swear the passengers next to me can hear it. I gather my things, shoving my laptop into my worn leather bag. Sweat dampens the back of my blouse, my nerves flaring out of control.

The proposal I sent to Hartley Marine is a paradox. My calculations and concept are rock-solid, but I can’t ignore the fact that my persona in that document is paper-thin. In a perfect world, I’d be a high-flying CEO of a multi-million-dollar company, operating from a cutting-edge office and leading a legion of staff. But the Hartley brothers are sharp, seasoned pros who can see through any exaggeration.

Building on the reverse psychology I discussed with my sister, I wove it into my proposal. I made it clear that I want their attention for my work and that I’m a lone operator. No hiding that.

The fact that they even invited me for a meeting means one thing. I’ve got their attention. Why exactly, I don’t know yet. But my charade only needs to hold until I get the money. I’m banking on the fact that what I’m asking for is a drop in the ocean compared to the billions they earn. They might just give me a chance.

Coco needs her surgery before the end of the week, or I’ll lose her.

As one of the last passengers, I step out of the airbridge and into the terminal. The overlapping conversations around me and the constant announcements over the PA system do nothing to soothe my rising anxiety. I weave through the throng of travelers, my eyes darting around for the exit.

“Ms. Williams?” A deep, confident voice cuts through the din.

I whirl, startled by the sight of a man addressing me with a tentative smile as if he fears he might lose me in the crowd. He doesn’t carry a sign, nor does he resemble a typical airport greeter.

“Ms. Williams?” he repeats.

Oh, Jesus…those eyes. I’ve never met a man whose eyes match mine—gray, neither deeper nor lighter. Yet it’s not a reflection of myself I see, but something steely, potent, dangerous. Traits I don’t believe I possess. They abandon the usual wide-eyed charm for a sharpness that tugs my thoughts from business to him .

“Yes, that’s me,” I manage to say, my voice sounding steadier than I feel. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ignore you earlier. I wasn’t expecting anyone to pick me up.”

“It’s quite all right. I’m Simon Blake.” He extends his hand.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Blake,” I say, shaking his hand—or rather, letting him make my hand disappear in his. Look at that giant, veiny mitt. And God, he’s so warm, I almost apologize for my popsicle fingers.

Yet our handshake extends beyond a mere formality, and I detect a rough texture, like scars etched across his palm. Before my thoughts spiral into speculation, his courteous smile hints that it’s me who’s lingering. Reluctantly, I realize it might be time to let go.

A flutter stirs in my chest as I take him in. There’s something about him that recalls a younger Richard Gere, yet this man is a complete knockout. He’s impeccably dressed in a suit that screams bespoke tailoring. I’ve encountered plenty of men in suits, particularly in the soul-sucking world of insurance, but this isn’t just any suit—this is a whole new level of sophistication.

Who is he? And why does his presence make me feel like I’m turning into my sister, having her ‘book boyfriend’ moment whenever she starts a new romance novel? This is a complication I never anticipated in my rehearsals and planning.

“I’ll be taking you to meet the Mr. Hartleys—Rob and Clayton. They thought it would be better if we met here instead of you taking a cab.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it.”

He moves with the kind of grace that screams ‘born leader.’ What does it take to be a billionaire’s chauffeur? A degree from Harvard Kennedy School? I can’t help but think this man could easily outshine his bosses.

My heartbeat fumbles, noting the absence of a wedding ring. Shit! My eyes might be too sharp for my own good. He’s not a member of the Hartley board—the club Anne hoped might offer romantic prospects—but I have to remind myself that fantasizing about anything akin to amore is off-limits right now.

“Do you have any luggage?” Blake asks, looking around as if expecting to see a suitcase.

“No, I travel light,” I reply. “I have to fly back this evening.”

He keeps his expression professional, but there’s a hint of curiosity in his eyes. “Must be a quick trip, then.”

“Yes, just here for the meeting,” I say, trying to keep my voice casual.

We fall into an easy conversation as we head to the car. Blake asks about my flight, and I find myself relaxing a bit more with each step despite my new stilettos seeming to have a mind of their own. “The flight was smooth, no turbulence,” I say. “So, how’s the weather been here in L.A.?” I cringe internally at the cliché question, but my brain seems to have hit a speed bump.

“Sunny as always,” he replies with a smile as if forgiving me for staying in the shallow lane. “Probably a bit warmer than Denver, I imagine.”

“Definitely warmer. It’s a nice change of pace, though.”

As we reach the sleek black Mercedes parked at the curb, Blake opens the rear door for me. “Please,” he says. His courteousness warms my heart, a stark contrast to the rushed and often indifferent interactions I’m used to.

It’s been ages since I last wore formal attire, and this morning, under the low ceiling of my modern-day chariot, I find myself performing an acrobatic feat. Blake’s presence compels me to maintain my grace as I attempt to settle into the plush leather seat. The borrowed suit clings like a second skin, threatening to tear with each movement. I inch my way further, painfully aware of the skirt straining over my thighs, and just as I think I’ve got it all figured out, the tip of my heel gets caught in the doorsill.

Blake extends his hand. Gripping it as if my life depends on it, I lift my legs, shifting my ass as elegantly as I can manage.

“Thank you.” I compose myself as he politely makes sure I’m okay, then shuts the door.

As he walks around to the driver’s side, I draw a deep breath. I’m savoring this brief distraction from the relentless drill sergeant in my mind, constantly reminding me of the looming presentation. Failure isn’t an option…failure isn’t an option.

Blake slides behind the wheel, leaving me captivated by the back of his head, covered in thick, wavy, pepper hair with a light sprinkle of salt. Through the mirror, he checks in. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” I reply, meeting his gaze. For a moment, I catch a flicker of something in his eyes, albeit through the reflection in the mirror. It’s more than curiosity, but it’s gone as swiftly as it came. He’s all professionalism again, but I can’t help sensing that ‘the journey is just as important as the destination’ could be more than a bumper sticker philosophy this time.

As we drive, he continues to engage me. “So, what do you do to pass the time on flights? Work, read, sleep?”

“A bit of everything,” I say, a sense of ease beginning to settle. “I tried to work, but I was too nervous, so I ended up staring out the window.”

“Nervous, huh? Big meeting?”

“It’s more than just a meeting, Mr. Blake. This proposal is do-or-die for me,” I admit. Wait, am I really starting to open up to him? I need to watch myself.

He nods thoughtfully. “I can imagine. Well, both Mr. Hartleys are good guys. Just be yourself, and you’ll do just fine.”

I’ve gone over today a hundred times. Yet, I know my limitations. What if they see through my facade? What if they find flaws in my proposal that I can’t recover from?

If push comes to shove, perhaps I’ll lay my cards on the table and reveal my true intentions. They might still be willing to listen. If my research—and intuition—are correct, Hartley Marine is a unique company that genuinely cares for its employees. Despite my aversion to the word ‘insurance,’ I was impressed to discover that full insurance coverage is a standard benefit at Hartley. Moreover, they provide a range of family-friendly facilities, including a childcare center and even a mini-golf course!

Then again, I’m not going to let desperation define this meeting. I’m not their charity. Coco’s life hinges on this, but I can’t let that cloud my presentation. They need to see the value of my work, not the panic in my eyes.

A smile sneaks onto my face, fueled by the giddy thrill of my handsome driver. “Thanks, Mr. Blake. I needed that.”

“Anytime,” he says, flashing that smile again, crow’s feet and all. There’s a charm in those little lines, adding a rugged attractiveness that’s hard to ignore. He must be in his late thirties or early forties—and, I bet, experienced.

“You seem to know Rob and Clayton Hartley well,” I comment.

“I’ve worked with them for over a decade, so yeah, I’d say I do.”

“That’s reassuring. Maybe I can ask you to do something for me.” I venture, testing the waters. His eyes soften, and for a moment, there’s a spark that makes me straighten in my seat, ready to seize it like a fleeting firefly.

I continue. “Are you good at distracting your passengers?”

He chuckles, the spark in his gaze lingering. “Well, what kind of distraction are you after, Ms. Williams?”

Him, pretending to be my partner, guiding me through this presentation. Shit! I quickly dismiss the silly idea. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Hey, no need to apologize,” he says, his tone easy. “How about you tell me who your favorite singer or band is?”

This man has a knack for disarming people. For someone who’s harboring a lot of secrets, I would hate to be in an interrogation room with him. I would crumble in the first few seconds. “Lainey Wilson.”

“I’m not familiar with her, but I’m sure it’s good music.”

“She’s a country singer. My second favorite is LeAnn Rimes.”

“Mind if I play some of their songs for you?”

“Sure.” His sweet gesture melts me just enough, like sunlight kissing a glacier. I didn’t expect such kindness from a chauffeur for a billion-dollar company, especially when I feel so vulnerable. So far, my instincts about Hartley Marine being a rare-breed company seems spot on.

Blake then says, “Then I’ll let you settle down. There’s chilled water in the compartment next to you and some snacks if you feel like it. A bit of sugar might help.”

The journey feels lighter, and he’s kept me pleasantly occupied without even trying to dive into deeper conversations. Which would be my undoing if I slipped up. I can’t help but wonder what it would be like if I didn’t have secrets. What kind of supportive man would he be?

After about an hour, I don’t have to ask, ‘Are we there yet?’ Even from a distance, the destination is unmistakable. First, the massive globe-like structure of gleaming glass comes into view. It’s enormous, undoubtedly big enough to house the luxury yachts they manufacture.

As we get closer, the sheer scale of the complex becomes even more striking—it probably has its own postal code. The generous green spaces and the glassy facade make it look like something out of a sci-fi movie.

When we finally pull up, Blake turns to me with that same reassuring smile. “Here we are. Ready to make your pitch?”

I take a deep breath. “Ready.”

As I step out of the car, a backward glance at Simon Blake is irresistible. His interactions with me flowed with ease, naturally calming my nerves throughout the ride. He became more than idle conversation—he was a momentary respite. But as I cross the threshold, I know this brief escape must end.

Standing before this surreal building, I feel small but not hopeless. Because from now on, everything I do is for Coco.