Thick and Thin (My Billionaire Enemy #3)

Chapter 1

T ry as I might, I couldn’t stop myself from loving Sinclair.

I’d spent Friday night nestled in his arms, a moment when I should have felt loved and cherished—but instead I’d felt sad and miserable, knowing that nothing about us was real.

And the fact that he had introduced me by my first name only should have told me he knew it too.

I even questioned if his explanation for how we’d met, as employee and employer, was part of that ruse.

After all, Warren had more than hinted that Sinclair had brought employees to family functions before.

At first, I’d had the awful realization that we would never work, but now I doubted that “we” were anything more than a facade.

It made sense.

If your employee—and indentured servant—loves you, she’ll work harder.

She won’t complain.

She’ll do anything you ask.

She won’t try to leave.

After Sinclair got up to work out, I locked my bedroom door, but he didn’t try coming in anyway.

Our arrangement up to this point had been simple: if I wanted his company, I could send him a text message that wouldn’t have meant anything to anyone else.

If he was available, he’d let me know, but his Saturdays were sometimes as busy as his days of the week.

I kept to myself Saturday, finally managing to fall asleep around ten o’clock that morning, and it wasn’t until evening that I spoke with my father.

I prayed he wouldn’t be able to pick up on what an emotional mess I continued to be, even after sleeping all day.

I simply told him I’d been throwing up the night before—true—and told him I’d slept most of the day…

also true.

As for the connection, I let him make it himself, even though the first event didn’t cause the second.

As I often did when I spoke with my father, I felt guilty.

When I’d first arrived at the mansion in late July, the guilt had been caused simply by not being able to be there for him.

Ever since I’d lost my virginity to Sinclair, though, the guilt had been caused from sleeping with the enemy.

I couldn’t help but turn over the events from the previous evening in my head.

I couldn’t deny just how much I’d loved the ballet, regardless of the fact that I’d probably never be able to go again.

And the restaurant—that whole experience had felt decadent and wasteful.

I had to admit to myself that the Whittiers didn’t seem to be so bad, if I ignored what I knew about how they’d destroyed my father.

But then the realization washed over me…

yes, the family members had mostly gotten along, but they could have been coworkers or acquaintances.

I hadn’t actually seen love amongst them.

The evidence was the relationship I had with my father.

If my father and I had met for lunch and I hadn’t seen him in a while, we would have hugged each other and, before getting down to any business, would have asked how each other was doing, what had been happening, just like we’d done over the phone before I hopped in the shower so I could look presentable for dinner.

The Whittiers didn’t seem to have any love for each other.

At best, what I’d witnessed the night before had been…

acceptance.

But there’d been no warmth in the room, even with the discussions and occasional laughter.

It had been hard to notice in the heat of the moment because I’d been all up in my own head—but now I could see it for what it was.

After I got dressed, my eyes lit on the box with the diamond necklace displayed once again.

It really was one of the sparkliest, most feminine pieces of jewelry I’d ever seen…

but I knew now that it really didn’t belong dangling around my neck, any more than the earrings Sinclair had purchased for me to go with it.

But I ran a finger down one of the dangles and I tried to imagine Sinclair’s mother wearing this.

I knew now from what I’d already read in her journals that she had been full of love and light—and maybe when she’d died, all the love had died with her.

Maybe, despite her suspicions, her husband hadn’t been cheating after all, and when she’d gone, the love had gone with her.

I didn’t know if I could reconcile that idea with the words I’d read in her journal.

At some point, I’d need to finish the last one, but finding time to do that had been difficult.

It had also been hard because it was clear that she’d been feeling more and more hopeless and sorrowful, even though there was a small part of her that delighted in having another child…

a child that might not have had actual Whittier blood running in his veins.

Shutting the lid on the box, I remembered the Whittier men’s faces in my head, astonished by how alike the sons looked—but it had been hard to find a strong resemblance to their father.

Even Sinclair’s blue eyes could have come from someone else.

As I picked up the box with the intention of returning the necklace to Sinclair during dinner, I realized I could no longer keep secret what I knew about his mother.

I needed to tell him about her journals, about how she’d spilled the contents of her heart out on all those pages.

Even though he and his family seemed to function in the best way they knew how, I wanted him to know he came from a beautiful though misunderstood person—and, if I could find the courage to say so, I thought I might need to tell him about the other man in his mother’s life.

Regardless of what Sinclair and I were, it was the least I could do…

to let him know there had been someone who had loved him unconditionally all those years ago.

Dinner, however, hadn’t been the right time.

We’d just sat down with one of the meals Edna had made for us—a hearty beef stew with crusty homemade rolls—when Sinclair had gotten a call.

Ordinarily, he ignored them, returning calls after dinner, but he excused himself.

“I have to take this,” he said, leaving the kitchen as he pressed the screen on his phone and put it to his ear.

He should have just taken the call in the kitchen, though, because the main hallway was much like a megaphone.

I couldn’t have ignored his words if I’d tried.

“What do you mean she’s not there?” After a few seconds, he continued.

“Have you tried calling her agent?” Then “Her manager? Her staff?”

There was a long pause and I imagined the person on the other side frantically trying to explain to the boss why something wasn’t working.

Sinclair finally said, “What did Sophie have to say?” I couldn’t even eat because I was so focused on his words.

“Then call her. Report back when you know something.”

By the time Sinclair returned to the kitchen, I pretended to be absorbed in the stew.

Before he sat down, he said, “I see you brought back the necklace.”

“Yes,” I said, sliding the box across the table.

“It really did look beautiful on you.”

“Thank you.”

Not even peeking inside the box, he picked up his napkin, putting it in his lap again.

“You kept the earrings?”

“Yes. You wanted me to, right?”

“I did.”

My eyes focused on that box as he began to eat.

I really needed to talk to him about his mother, but how would I start?

How could I explain away that I’d been reading those journals like novels over the past couple of months without saying a word to him?

I just had to start.

That was all there was to it.

“Uh…” I began, dabbing at my mouth with the napkin, “there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

Was it the apprehension in my voice that caused his brow to furrow like it did?

“All right. Does it have to do with work or is it personal?”

Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “Both.”

And then his phone rang again, seeming louder than it had before.

When he glanced down at the screen, he said, “I’m sorry. I’ll be right back.”

He was barking at the phone before he’d walked out of the kitchen again.

Although I had no idea what was going on, I gathered that the person on the other end had called the woman named Sophie and things were miraculously better—or at least on their way to improving.

But Sinclair’s voice drifted down the hall toward the east wing and his words faded.

I imagined he was heading toward his office, maybe needing to examine some paperwork or perhaps realizing he didn’t have much privacy.

While he was gone, I finished my small bowl of stew.

Even though I hadn’t eaten all day, I wasn’t too hungry, and I began to wonder if my appetite would ever return.

Getting up from the table, I took my dirty dishes to the sink to rinse off before placing them in the dishwasher.

Then Sinclair returned.

But he didn’t go to the table.

Instead, he came straight toward me.

Had his heated conversations had anything to do with me?

When he pressed his lips to mine, I didn’t think so.

Without another word, he led me upstairs to his bedroom where we made love…

and, try as I might, I couldn’t help but fall in love with him all over again.

But the time to tell him about the journals had passed.

As he held me in his arms, Sinclair said, “I’ll have to heat up my dinner again. Edna makes it every few weeks during the fall months. She knows I like it.”

“I liked it, too.” Again, I was poised, waiting for the perfect time to tell Sinclair about the journals, wondering if I would find the courage.

“It’s a good thing it reheats well. But I had to deal with some work issues. We’re hosting a fundraiser in Washington, D.C. tonight and one of my staff members has been begging to do one solo, so I let him.”

“Kind of like what you were doing at WCC?”

“Yes. Leona does most of the work there for getting extra donations, so I don’t have to worry about it. I just have to show up. But we do a lot of fundraising for other charities and for the foundation itself throughout the year. This was one strictly for collecting donations for the foundation so we can make sure to have enough in next year’s budget to spend on worthy causes.”

“Is it hard work? Fundraising?”

“I think that depends on one’s skill set. Jordan is trying hard to acquire the skills he needs but he panics easily. Tonight, we had a celebrity—a famous pop star—scheduled to be there to help promote the fundraiser. In fact, she was the main draw to getting people in the door. But Jordan hadn’t connected with any of her people earlier in the day. Another one of my staff is good about keeping tabs on all guests and especially for rounding up people to endorse our cause—so I told Jordan to call her—Sophie—because she had all the phone numbers. There were some issues with our guest’s private jet, so her arrival was delayed.”

My head swam as I tried to figure out who the celebrity was—but I didn’t want to ask.

“But, as Shakespeare would say, all’s well that ends well. She arrived in time, ready to do what she’d signed up for. And good thing, because I was prepared to tell Jordan he’d never get this chance again.”

I didn’t realize that my expression must have given away the fact that I felt sorry for Jordan.

I knew what it was like to disappoint the boss.

Sinclair stroked my cheek.

“I didn’t. I’m giving him another chance to try. You must be rubbing off on me.”

What did that even mean?

But while he was feeling kind and hoping maybe I really was influencing his tendencies, there was no better time than the present for me—also as his employee—to tell him about what I’d found.

“Cory, there’s something I need to tell you.”

His right eyebrow arched in that sexy way it always did, curious, quizzical.

“All right.”

I shifted my gaze to his chest, where I began tracing a pattern on his smooth skin, hoping that distraction would keep me focused and unemotional.

“As I’ve been going through things downstairs, I’ve found a lot of personal items.”

His voice told me he found that doubtful.

“What do you mean by personal ?”

“There’s a trunk and some boxes—and they were full of loose pictures, medical records, business proposals…”

“Hmm.”

“And a few journals…that I’m pretty sure were written by your mother.” This time, he didn’t say anything but I thought maybe I sensed some unease.

Really, though, that could have been coming from me as I tried to find the best way to say what I needed to.

“And the reason why I think that,” I said, speaking slowly, trying like crazy to gauge his mood but failing, “is because I’ve been reading them.”

In the silence, I imagined his thought process.

He was likely wondering why I had the nerve to read through his mother’s private thoughts, ready to kick me out of his bed for violating his trust.

But there hadn’t been anything about that in that stupid contract.

I’d signed the NDA, meaning I couldn’t go to the press with anything I’d found or even talk to my father about it.

Sinclair, of course, would be an authorized party with whom I could discuss everything, but I wouldn’t even feel comfortable telling Edna about the details I’d absorbed.

And I knew there were clauses in the contract that could be used against me in this case, but I didn’t care.

This felt important, regardless of the consequences.

“And I wondered if you wanted to read them.”

When he finally spoke, I couldn’t tell anything from his tone.

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Because I almost feel like I’ve gotten to know your mother…and I thought you would too.” And then it dawned on me: he didn’t seem angry.

Not at all.

I stopped swirling the patterns on his chest and looked up at him, waiting for a response—but he remained silent.

As I tried searching his face, his eyes seemed like they were looking at something far away…

and perhaps they were.

It was quite possible he was trying to look back in time.

But when he didn’t speak, I decided to venture forward.

“She seemed like a beautiful person, even though a little misunderstood.”

Somehow, those words opened him up much like the server the night before had opened a bottle of wine.

Slowly, the dark liquid had poured out into the clear glass, and that was how it felt like Sinclair was allowing himself to speak.

“Edna has told me a few stories. She hadn’t known my mother for long. She’d been hired to be my nanny, so she did spend a lot of time with my mother. It was just…cut short. Edna always said she was kind and caring—but something was wrong.”

When Sinclair grew silent again, I finally asked, “Wrong?”

“Edna described it by saying it was like she was collapsing in on herself…like a dying star. But Edna didn’t know her very well and at first wondered if she was feeling overwhelmed. Augie was away from home at some boarding school and she was upset about not having him closer and Warren was becoming a spoiled brat. I guess not much has changed.”

Although he chuckled, I couldn’t hear amusement in it at all—maybe because he’d meant it as a joke but hadn’t actually found it funny.

When the room grew still and quiet again, I began to wonder if maybe he was done speaking—and I tried to decide if I should tell him everything I’d read.

But, instead, he asked a question.

“Did her journals say anything about that? About how she was feeling the last month of her life?”

Once again, I forced myself to tell him the whole truth.

“I haven’t finished reading the last journal yet. But I do know she was excited for you to be born. She said she felt like your two brothers had taken after your father—but she thought you would be more like her.”

After a few long moments, he said, “That fits much of the narrative I’ve heard from Edna.” He pulled me close then, so that I had to turn my head to rest against his chest.

“When my father bothered talking about it, he told me my mother took her own life—due to postpartum depression. So, in a way, I killed her.”

“Oh, Cory. You shouldn’t blame yourself.”

After a bit, he squeezed me closer.

“It’s hard not to…especially when you have a father who makes you feel that way.”

Should I tell him?

Would it make him feel better to know that a man named Xavier might have been his true father?

While I was debating it internally, Sinclair seemed to read my mind.

“Did she ever say anything about another man?”

Even in that warm bed cuddled up next to his heat, a shiver shot up my spine.

“Yes.”

“Was she having an affair?”

“I don’t know. She seemed to have an affectionate relationship with a man named Xavier. He was some kind of art dealer. No, that’s not quite right. But he was tasked with procuring rare pieces of art for your father.”

“Not surprising.”

“Your father was doing a lot of business in Europe—and your mother thought he was having an affair with someone there.”

When Sinclair shifted slightly, I tried to crane my neck—but he still kept me too close to move.

“I don’t know about that. But Edna did tell me that he was out of the country a lot when I was little—working on some merger that eventually fell through.” Loosening his grip slightly, he began rubbing one of his hands down my back, but it almost seemed as if he was doing it absentmindedly.

“I guess that could have also been a relationship that soured. Hard to say. He didn’t remarry until I was in college—to Madeline.”

“I know it had to be hard growing up without your mother.” I’d experienced the same—only I had actual memories of the woman.

“Edna did a good job as a substitute. She took good care of me. It’s harder growing up without a father.”

Although my breath was inaudible, I held it, almost as if I were trying to hide—that if, I thought, Sinclair forgot I was there, he would open up more.

I had so many questions…

but I knew I had to wait.

The young boy Sinclair had been put me in the mind of a stray cat afraid of humans—and so I had to be still and quiet as a way to show I meant no harm.

He began talking again.

“Other people were envious of me growing up.” When he spoke again, he made his voice sound gruff like his father’s.

“ The almighty Whittier family. Even the rich kids I hung out with were jealous of me…because I had anything a boy could ever want—any material thing was mine at the snap of my fingers. But I didn’t have the one thing I wanted—a father who gave a shit, who actually spent time with me. And I never had a good relationship with my brothers either because they were too much older. They often called me the baby of the family, telling me they didn’t want to play with a baby.”

Oh, God, I wanted nothing more than to cradle his head in my arms, soothe him and tell him that was all past—but I knew better.

All I could do was allow him to hold me tight and hope he could feel my love and support through all that.

And to think that just last night I’d thought I could turn all that off.

Telling myself I had to stop loving Sinclair would have been like asking winter to skip its appearance that year or to stop breathing.

Impossible.

Finally, he resumed speaking.

“One time, Augie had a girlfriend over. He was in high school then but home for the summer—and they were in his bedroom a long time and the door was locked. When I pounded on the door, he told me to fuck off. But I knew where the keys were.” Was he talking about that old ring of keys he’d stored in his desk drawer?

“And I marched right back up there and unlocked the door.”

I couldn’t help but picture the room I knew had belonged to his oldest brother—the one on the second floor of the east wing, that blue room with the pale curtains that the light shone through.

But I couldn’t quite picture the man I’d seen the night before as a teenager.

“And I caught them in his bed, completely naked. Augustus threatened to beat the shit out of me. I was just staring at the girl’s breasts until she pulled the covers up over herself but when Augie started climbing out of bed, I turned and ran. And I never said a word—but that didn’t stop him from hunting me down later that day. He told me I wasn’t our father’s son—and if I said a word about what he’d been doing in his room with that girl, he’d tell our father and I’d be kicked out, forced to live on the streets.”

I couldn’t help myself.

Although I knew his father was a heartless man, I also understood that he had a reputation to maintain.

“Do you really think he would have—”

“No, of course not. But eight-year-old me didn’t have a clue. When I was older—sixteen—I’d been carrying that secret for half my life, that maybe I had a different father, and it made me feel like an outcast in my own home. My father was always so proud of Augie and Warren—well, Augie mostly—and he never bragged about me. Not once. After you live that way for a lifetime, you begin to wonder why. And I was sure I knew why. If Augie thought my dad was someone else, surely my father felt the same way.

“Dad and I were having a huge argument.

I got my driver’s license the summer after I’d turned sixteen, and I wanted to have my new car with me at boarding school.

Dad refused—and so I finally told him I was sure it was because he knew I wasn’t his son.

”

Although I remained still, Sinclair’s grip loosened.

I so wanted to look in his eyes but instead settled on hoping that my hand against his chest would communicate all my love and support.

“I have never seen my father so angry. He actually broke a lamp in the great room as he began one of his classic rants. I was ungrateful , he said, spoiled and babied my whole life. He’d been the best father he could be and here I was demanding everything on a silver platter, being a little asshole just because I wasn’t getting my way.

“Needless to say, I shut my mouth—but after I graduated high school, I couldn’t keep it to myself anymore.

I decided to have a rational, calm discussion with my father then.

But when I asked if we could have DNA testing just to be sure, he refused.

So I said I’d have my brothers take a test, not knowing if that would work and my dad shut me down.

“He said, ‘Do you really want that? If I find out you’re not my son, I’ll have to disown you.’ And that was that. I never asked again. Even though I’ve wondered all these years, I haven’t pushed it. If my father is another man, he hasn’t come forward to claim me. This here…this is all I’ve ever known. And I despise a good deal of it—this fucking mansion, working for my dad…but it’s the devil I know. And I’ve become accustomed to most of it. I’ve got Edna, probably my saving grace…and I’ve found satisfaction heading the foundation. It…almost feels like my calling.”

Finally, his tight hold on me relaxed enough that I could squirm out of it—and I brought my head up to the pillow so that I could look in his eyes.

In them, I could see flecks of pain but a perseverance as well, a strength born from suffering.

It was a look I knew well.

Stroking his whiskery cheek with my hand, I rubbed the tip of my nose on his.

But I couldn’t find any words—so I told him with my body as I put my lips on his and got lost in the language our bodies spoke fluently.