7. Corm
Chapter 7
Corm
“ H ere you go, sir. Enjoy your evening; your server will be with you in a moment.” The hostess smiles and leaves.
My eyes clash with The Morrigan’s, and by the looks of it, she’s not thrilled about my lateness. Or about my existence in general.
I almost sit down, but then I remember Betsy has accidental bystanders spread around here to take secret footage of our date, so I step closer and lean in, bracing my arm on her backrest.
My lips graze Saar’s ear. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
I linger for a moment, telling myself it’s for the purposes of leaking the news of our rendezvous.
But I can’t ignore the lavender perfume, and the warmth of her skin so close to mine. It’s almost unfortunate she hates me, because we could certainly enjoy this arrangement a lot more.
Keep your dick in your pants, you idiot. That thought flits through my mind, immediately followed by another one. I will make her mine.
She remains completely still, like she isn’t even breathing. I don’t move either. For anyone watching, I’m whispering something in her ear.
In reality, I breathe in her captivating scent and enjoy her discomfort. “You should relax, The Morrigan; people are watching.”
She sucks in air and grabs my biceps, her nails digging in deep. If I wasn’t wearing my suit jacket, she may have drawn blood.
“I’ll relax as soon as you step back,” she says through her teeth.
I chuckle and finally take the seat across from her. “What is it? Am I making you uncomfortable?”
She takes her Martini glass and smiles at me seductively. “It must be your charming personality.”
I adjust my cuffs. “So you are uncomfortable.”
She flinches. “I’m uncomfortable with this arrangement. Of course I am.”
“I thought you needed your trust fund.” I open the menu casually without looking at it. “There is nothing wrong with taking what’s yours.”
She snaps her eyes to me and blinks a few times, like the concept is foreign to her. An interesting slip of her mask?
She doesn’t believe she can take what’s hers? Or is she surprised I said something normal, not motivated by my insatiable need to taunt her?
Our waiter shows up and startles when I glare at him.
“Just get us today’s special and give us some privacy,” I snarl.
I’m being an asshole here, but he interrupted a rare moment of honesty in Saar’s eyes. Goddammit. The moment is gone.
“What a gentleman.” Saar snorts. “A woman choosing her meal is too progressive for you?” She is spitting the words while maintaining a perfectly pleasant face.
“It’s uncanny how good you are at this pretense. Some show you put on.” I chuckle.
“Don’t forget I’ve done this for years.”
I raise my eyebrows but keep my grin. “Fake relationships?”
She rolls her eyes, but covers the gesture with quite believable fake laughter like I said something funny. “Play a role. Model. Be what others want me to be.” She winces at her last sentence.
And suddenly, I’m interested in all her secret parts. And there are many. She tries to hide them from me, but that makes her even more intriguing.
And why is my grin genuine?
“So smile, pose, repeat?” I tease.
She studies me for a long moment. “Yes, exactly, just a prop.”
I lean forward. I shouldn’t care about her feelings. And yet… “You were there when I told Betsy not to ever treat you like that. You were there, so don’t you fucking dare to accept that label.”
She may not like me, but I hate it when people accept a story about themselves that makes them feel less. Not that I’ve subscribed to this belief about myself lately.
“Aren’t you using me as one?” She smiles sweetly.
I snort. I didn’t force her to accept this deal. “This is mutually beneficial, but feel free to walk away.”
“You would love to win, wouldn’t you?” Her saccharine smile may give me diabetes.
And still, this is the face that sold shitloads of brands. Having spent almost no time with her, I already see how fake it is. How it looks colder up close and personal.
“Win? I didn’t realize we’re competing.”
She laughs. “Of course you didn’t.” She rolls her eyes again.
“Why do you hate me so much?”
I reach across the table and grab her hand. She flinches and tries to recoil, but I squeeze.
I have yet to meet a woman who is uncomfortable with my touch. I guess today is the day.
She looks away for a moment, and then raises her chin high. “Not everyone is thrilled about pretending to love a man who has the emotional depth of a spreadsheet.”
That rips an unexpected laugh out of me. I release her hand. “So I’m just a shallow man; that’s your main objection?”
“You humiliated me two years ago. Now you need me to save your man-whore image. That doesn’t make you a candidate for my best friend.” She takes the silver linen napkin and places it on her lap gracefully, smoothing it with her hand.
“I’d argue you humiliated yourself back then. And you need me to get your money, so that doesn’t give you the moral high ground here.” I pause and take her hand again, this time bringing it to my lips.
Staring into her cold eyes, I whisper against the soft skin of her delicate palm. “You’re contractually obliged to pretend to like me, The Morrigan. I suggest you try harder, because Daddy Dearest might never release the fund to you.”
She blanches, but forces a smile. I kiss her knuckles, and try to ignore the shitty feeling my words stirred in me. Or the electricity surging through me when my lips connect with her hand.
I keep patronizing, humiliating, and threatening this woman, while insisting she’s not a prop. Saar van den Linden certainly draws the best out of me.
I don’t let go, my lips just lightly dusting her hand. She holds my gaze, and I wish I could read her train of thought.
She is probably considering if the trust fund is worth this whole charade.
I, on the other hand, am wondering if I can sneak in a clause about a shared bedroom into our agreement.
Someone clears their throat, and we both jump apart.
“Excuse me, your first course.” A different waiter approaches. “A chestnut bisque with golden shavings. Enjoy.” He places the plates in front of us and rushes away.
“Where is your ring?”
I didn’t expect her to wear it. To be honest, I got that right out of spite. Just to mess with everyone, because this situation feels too much out of my control.
Spending millions on a ring for a fake engagement isn’t reckless; it’s unhinged. What point did I make? That I’m a rich bastard who clings to control like a child to his security blanket? Fuck.
“We’re not yet engaged, but I appreciate the thoughtful and romantic gesture.”
“If you wanted romance, sweetheart, you shouldn’t be marrying for money.” I pick up my spoon.
“Not your money.” Her tone is terse, her countenance beaming. Fuck, she really can sell this well.
“The point remains.” I take a spoonful.
“If you think I’d ever wear that ring, you’re out of your mind. You. Don’t. Own. Me.”
“Saar,” I say, an apology for I don’t even know what on my tongue.
She blinks. “Betsy sent me the briefing.” She dips her spoon in the soup and brings it to her mouth. “I think the love story they fabricated is reasonable.”
The draft of our engagement announcement outlines how we ran into each other last year in Monaco and started seeing each other long distance. Saar decided to move back to New York to help me cope with my father’s death.
I hate that angle, but I have business partners to think about, so I agreed.
“I wanted to ask you to give me one more week before we announce it and I move in with you.”
“We both want this to be over as soon as possible. Why delay?”
She makes a frustrated sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan. “I need a week of freedom to get used to the idea of a jail.”
“I can guarantee that living with me is no hardship.” The soup is surprisingly good. “Fine. As long as you don’t go clubbing and get your pics all over the media.”
“Of course, sir. Is this how you won’t control me?”
“Mine and your public images are the reason for this deal, Saar.”
She sighs. “I won’t go clubbing. I need time to tell my brothers. I want them to find out from me.”
“Why do they hate me, anyway?”
She puts the spoon down and covers her face. When she looks at me, there is resolution in her eyes.
“They misinterpreted something in high school. Unfortunately, unlike my parents, Finn and Cal are overprotective, and they blame you for something…” She lets out a long breath through pursed lips, like this is causing her stress. “Something you didn’t do.”
“High school?” I snort. “Why didn’t you tell them I’m innocent?”
“Because they saw me for the first time…” Her eyes widen, and then she drops her gaze and picks up her spoon, dedicated to her soup.
When she looks up again, her eyes are pleading.
To let go of the topic? To not tease her? Again, there is a vulnerable moment she shared—definitely a slip—and I itch to comfort her and find out more.
Neither of those is my right or privilege. And why does it bother me? I don’t need drama in my life.
I decide to skip to the next topic. “Okay, I’ll tell Betsy to announce our engagement next week.”
She exhales visibly. “Thank you.”
“I got an email from the wedding planner.”
A smile ghosts her face.
“Real classy,” I deadpan. “But whatever my bride wants.”
She opens her mouth, and then closes it. Her jaw tightens, and she sags into her chair. I guess she was expecting I’d argue with her. I don’t need to bother; it’s not like that wedding is happening.
She gives me another magazine smile. “I’m glad you approve.”
“You think I’m a Hulk? Are you having superhero fantasies about me, Saar?”
Her cheeks flush with a warm shade of pink. “You wish.”
“I actually do, The Morrigan.”
Her eyes flare with something, and while I don’t know her enough to identify it, I’m sure it’s not disdain or anger. It’s something more simple, primal.
She gives me a fake chuckle—I suppose for the onlookers. “You know what they say, darling, careful what you wish for.”
I guess this arrangement is going to be full of threats.
“What the fuck?” Cal comes from somewhere and barrels into me as I speak to Larissa.
My assistant moves the chair like he could hurt her through the heightened counter of her desk. Or she just wants a better view of the drama. Knowing her, it’s the latter.
I step away from my seething partner and lean against the counter. “What do you need, Caleb?”
“You went out with Saar,” he barks, and grabs my lapels. “I swear to God—”
“Get your hands off me. Your sister is a grownup. She can spend her time however she wants.”
After the semi-uncomfortable dinner last night, I drove her home in silence, and she fell asleep in the car. Like an open mouth, full-on drooling, out-of-it kind of a snooze.
I parked in front of the building where she currently lives with her friend for another forty minutes before I woke her up.
She looked like she needed the rest. Even with her jaw slack, she was beautiful. It was probably my only chance to see her like that. And I enjoyed seeing her so peaceful.
What I don’t like is her neighborhood. To her protest and chagrin, I walked her to the door of her apartment. It’s a small shoebox of a place, barely big enough for one person, let alone two.
I need to investigate just how dire her financial situation is. Something doesn’t add up here.
“Haven’t you hurt her enough?” Cal’s nostrils flare, spitting the words into my face.
I remain calm. Unmoved. At least, physically. I want to punch his face for daring to attack me in the middle of our office. I want to push him away, but I also know that leaning into his wrath would only make him feel justified.
“I’d never hurt her,” I enunciate into his face. “Unless she asks for it,” I add, only because I’m an asshole. And I’ve been having a shitty year, and I want to spread the feeling. I’m that generous.
“My sister is off limits.” He drops my lapels and shakes his shoulders, his hateful gaze boring into me.
“Again, van den Linden, she’s an adult with a functioning brain. I didn’t force her to dine with me. I did, however, enjoy it. And she did, too. Especially the dessert.” Yes, I’m definitely an asshole.
The only thing either of us enjoyed was verbal sparring—I know I did—and the proximity to the end of the evening. The sooner, the better.
The comment sets him off again. “Don’t you fucking…” He clenches his fist, his knuckles whitening before he draws his arm back.
A mess of dreadlocks flashes behind him, and Roxy grabs his arm. She practically hangs from his biceps with her two hands before she pushes us to my office.
Banging the door closed, she puts her hands on her hips. “What is wrong with the two of you?” To say she looks pissed would be a gross understatement.
I put my hands into my pockets and glare at Cal. “You were all for my fake marriage.” I shrug, and Roxy gasps.
Caleb lurches forward, and this time, the fucker punches me. I stagger backward, the metallic taste of blood spurring me into action.
“Idiots,” Roxy shrieks as I return the punch, the shock of contact with his jaw reverberating down my arm.
Fuck, that hurts. And it feels good. I guess I can add brawling to my current list of unreasonable behavior.
Cal swears and launches at me, but strong arms jerk me away from him. I pant like I’ve just finished a 10K run, and it takes me a moment to recognize Xander is holding Cal. I try to shake off the hands holding me back.
“Stop it, you eejit.” Declan’s words penetrate through my adrenaline-infused mind.
My brother lets go, but steps in front of me. He glares at me while I try to figure out how to get out of this like a winner.
Or at least not like a complete eejit . That word pulled me out of the fog. My father used it a lot.
Declan raises his eyebrows, unimpressed. That’s the problem with older brothers. Especially the ones you respect. They can put you in your place without a word.
But there is another problem with older brothers. Especially the overbearing ones who try to steal their sister’s autonomy.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Roxy hisses, keeping her voice down like we could leave this office and pretend in front of our employees that nothing happened.
The room descends into a beat of silence, filled with anger, panting, and if I was willing to look, a lot of judgment from those not involved in the fight.
Have I just fought because of a girl? A woman? Well, that’s a first. Especially since the woman in question would probably side with her brother and add another punch.
Roxy shoves my shoulder. “With his sister?”
“Don’t get involved, Roxy,” I warn.
“I wouldn’t if you took your schoolyard behavior outside of this office.” She bows her head and takes a deep breath, and then turns to Caleb. “While I understand your motivation, next time punch him somewhere that is not here.”
“Of course, it’s all my fault.” I snort. “Get out of my office. All of you.” I wipe the blood from the corner of my mouth, my bottom lip already swelling.
“She doesn’t deserve any of this. And certainly not you. Stay away from my sister.” Caleb rakes his fingers through his hair, pacing in front of my desk like a caged lion.
If I’m honest with myself—which I haven’t been much lately—I see his point. If I had a sister, I wouldn’t want her anywhere near me. Especially not me as of late.
I raise my arms in mock surrender. “As you wish. She will probably be devastated, seeing as she is really interested.”
He spins to probably launch at me again, but Xander blocks his attack. “Bullshit,” Cal barks.
I crack my neck and walk around to sit behind my desk. “Why don’t you ask her?” I regret saying it as soon as the words leave my mouth.
I promised her a week.
Here I was thinking I’ve sunken as deep as possible, but there is always room to improve. Or to fuck up more, in my case. If I give my word, I keep it. Apparently not anymore.
But it’s not like I really broke the promise. Why neither of us thought about her brothers seeing the photos from our date is beyond me.
I suspect all my partners have a news alert set up with my name. Especially since my image is what can make or break this firm.
I guess Saar’s week of freedom just shrank to minutes. But the cat is out, and at least we can move forward faster.
“Are you seriously considering dragging Caleb’s sister into your image-recovery scheme?” Declan shakes his head.
“She came to me.” I shrug.
“No fucking way.” Cal snarls, and Xander puts his hand on his shoulder.
“As I said, ask her. For all intents and purposes, we’ve been dating long-distance for a year. You’d better get the story from Betsy, so you are prepared to sing about me being madly in love.”
“No way Saar would agree to that. Why? What do you have on her? Have you blackmailed her?” Cal yells.
“Caleb, keep your voice down,” Roxy warns, but like all the others in the room, she is looking at me with expectation.
“I don’t need to blackmail people, especially not women.” I lean back in my chair.
“That’s not my experience,” Cal retorts.
Fair enough. I did motivate him to join this company in a not-very-ethical way when I announced his involvement before he signed up.
He got an additional ten percent of the company out of that stunt, so he should be pleased.
“I never blackmailed you. I helped you with your slow decision-making, and made you richer in the process.”
“There is no way she’s willing to do this. Not for you.” Caleb shakes his head.
“Obviously,” I deadpan.
“Why then?” Xander asks.
“For herself. As I said already. She’s a grown-up woman, with her own brain and independence.” I put my hands behind my head and look at Cal. “She will tell you when she wants.”
“I’m not allowing that,” Caleb says through his teeth, the anger radiating from him.
Xander pats his back. “I don’t think it’s your decision, dude.”
Cal gives him a look that could kill, but Xander only shrugs.
“Okay, I suggest everyone cools off in their respective offices, and the two of you”—Roxy looks at me, and then at Cal—“will have coffee together in the staff cafeteria, laughing at each other’s jokes, as soon as you can swear not to get physical.”
“Anytime. I have nothing against my future brother-in-law.” I wink.
“Fuck you.” Cal turns to leave, but Roxy blocks the door.
“Fuck you all. I thought you both wanted that deal. I thought we’re all on board with helping to prove to the world Cormac is an upstanding citizen. And we can all agree that is quite a task. Can’t we?” She glares at Cal.
“Hey,” I protest, while all my partners nod.
She looks at me, daggers shooting from her eyes, but then she focuses her exasperation on Cal. “I’ll now remind all the employees of their NDAs, and let’s hope nobody uploaded a video of your altercation already.”
“Yeah, great for our image.” Xander groans.
“This testosterone-filled environment is way above my paygrade.” Roxy spins on her heels, rolling her eyes, and walks out.
My partners file after her, Cal followed by Xander, who is still patting his back like he’s a puppy that needs training.
“You need to get your shit together.” Declan shakes his head.
“She came to me,” I defend myself, but even to my ears I sound like a douche.
“Since when is Cal’s sister the only woman in the world?” He continues shaking his head, disappointment rolling off his shoulders as he leaves my office, closing the door behind him.
Fuck them. Fuck them all. With their righteous attitude. With their honest opinions and concerns.
Fuck them for calling me on my bullshit.
But my indignation is short-lived, because I may be reckless, but I’m not senseless. Somebody ought to call me on my bullshit since I haven’t been able to.
The dose of candor sobers me up. And pisses me off. I can do what I want. It’s not like I’ve been forcing her. But fuck, the sooner I close that deal, the better.
I fish my phone from my pocket and dial Betsy while I walk to my office bathroom to assess my swollen lip.
“Corm, the date night photos are trending well. Good job. I have some ideas—”
“Announce the engagement.” I don’t let her finish. Why does this woman always think she is in charge? I called her, for fuck’s sake. This is my conversation.
“We will next week.”
“Now,” I growl, putting the phone on speaker and laying it on the vanity.
“Based on last night’s success, and the media speculation about your relationship with Saar—by the way, people love her; we couldn’t have picked a better—”
“Betsy,” I warn.
“I recommend we plan some sort of a public declaration? A romantic proposal?”
I snort, turning the faucet and wetting a towel to wash the blood off my face. “Are you high? That’s tacky. Just fucking announce it and move her in. I’m away for four days, but I’ll leave instructions with my housekeeper.”
“Okay, but a romantic proposal might be a good photo op.”
“Fuck romance. Just get it done.”