Chapter 14
fourteen
“Graham?”
I blink a few times, remembering myself.
You’re at work, you idiot . Look alive .
“Sorry, what was that?” I ask, turning my bleary eyes toward my father.
He sits at his ornate, polished desk, looking exactly like me if I went through a thirty-year time warp and gained sixty pounds. The way he stares when I meet his eyes puts a fine mist of sweat over my brow.
The large room feels stifling. Despite its size, his office always seems stuffy. The sumptuous antique furnishings are priceless collector’s items, but that doesn’t make them attractive. Or comfortable.
I shift in my usual chair, looking for a position that won’t make my lower back hurt.
Jesus, I’m old. And completely checked out .
His dark eyes pierce directly into my thoughts. “You’ve been distracted this week,” he notes. “I saw you had accounts with you when you came in from the weekend. The green binders? I expected them on my desk yesterday.”
Ah yes. Yet another of my recent failures.
“I’ll get them back to you as soon as possible,” I reply, steepling my fingers.
His frown deepens, and I wonder if I, too, will eventually have grooves bracketing my mouth. “There are a lot more accounts for you to review and enter data from before I can give you clients.”
Little does he know I already have a huge deal in my pocket. I swallow the smug urge to flash him a grin. “Naturally, I agree that my time is valuable,” I drawl. “So, if you’ll excuse me?”
I start to rise but freeze in place when I feel his eyes travel down my frame. “What?”
“You’re dressed differently,” he points out, shuffling his papers and avoiding my gaze. “More professional. I like it.”
The dark brown pants, camel-colored jacket, and plain white shirt pain me. My muddy green tie and tweed vest are equally uninspired. But I chose them to keep a low profile and only made one allowance for flair—the damned red pocket square.
“Christ,” I mutter. “I’ll have to burn this suit now.”
Dad flashes a quick smirk, and I pause. Whenever he smiles, it gives me a renewed perspective on the man. A guy with wealth and influence… hiding a weak heart.
Sometimes, I think I see those failings in myself. I’ve never committed to anyone, helped Christian in any meaningful way, or demanded that my father give me a real job.
All of the things I hate about myself are directly from him. My illustrious inheritance.
Another commonality we share: charisma. For better or worse, people respond positively to him… and me.
Unbidden, the image of Juliet’s furious face and stinging slap slips into my mind. My lips curl up as I stride out of the office.
Well, most people.
The stark splendor of Stryker & Sons feels like another planet after a morning of Everett Alexander’s pomposity.
The wide, white lobby provides a bracing burst of freshness—like opening a window for cold winter air after leaving the furnace on all night. Invigorated, I clip my way toward the elevators. Until, halfway over, I see her.
Déjà vu skitters up my spine as I jerk to a halt halfway across the floor, once again standing in the black vein. This time, Juliet stands off to the side, near the exits, looking strangely small.
I’ve come to view her as a force of nature. Now, with her head bent and her arms wrapped around her torso, she seems less like a storm and more like a speck. A bit of warm earth, engulfed by a blizzard.
The urge to go to her hits me head-on, but I rein it in. Maybe she’s waiting for a food delivery… or a quick visit from a boyfriend.
Jesus .
I never even considered a boyfriend. And I certainly didn’t ask if she had one before helping myself to everything up her skirt.
Frozen, I watch as Juliet’s head turns, tracking the movement of a man crossing the floor. He seems too old for her, but I can’t tell if his face is truly as worn as it appears. From my vantage point, he also looks short, with a sunken chest he puffs out in front of him as he marches in her direction.
My hands fist in my pockets. I can’t look away, even when the man barrels right into Miss Rivera and hugs her. Juliet freezes with her arms wrapped around herself.
I drift toward her slightly, trying to catch a glimpse of her expression. The man pulls back and grabs her shoulders, shaking her while he speaks animatedly. Juliet grimaces.
She slips free from his embrace and stares while he goes on. The more he talks, the smaller she looks. Her shoulders round gradually, pressing forward under some invisible weight.
You shouldn’t care , I tell myself. You hate her .
But her stricken expression reminds me of the moment I tore away yesterday, when I left her panting against the wall.
And, right now, I don’t care who this guy is or how much I dislike Miss Rivera.
I won’t watch her shrink.
My steps eat up the floor to bring me to her. The closer I get, the clearer the scene becomes. This man isn’t her boyfriend—I would put money on that.
He looks too old, for one, with weathered russet skin and dull, yellow teeth. His slick black hair hangs limply around his face, cut in a choppy, shapeless style.
Miss Rivera stands almost as tall as he does. Her clothing matches her somber expression—all earth tones with no hint of her usual flash.
Even covered in brown from chin to ankle, she’s striking. I particularly like her hair. Pinned halfway back so I can take in her beautiful features and still enjoy the way her long, shining tresses fall to the swell of her breasts.
The fierce urge to kiss her again—right here, in this very public lobby, in front of the anonymous asshole—claws at my insides. I tamp it down and jerk to a stop at her side.
“Graham.” My name falls from her lips for the very first time as a breathy gasp. Concern wells in my middle when panic flares in her eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m early,” I say curtly, pivoting to pin the man with an assessing look. “Graham Everett,” I tell him, extending my hand. “I’m a colleague of Miss Rivera’s.”
The scent of liquor assails my nose. “Julio Rivera,” he returns. “You know Julieta?”
Julieta .
I didn’t realize her full name isn’t Juliet. Another stupid oversight on my part.
Jules shifts on her feet, obviously uneasy. “ Papi , Mr. Everett and I have a meeting. You need to go.”
Papi . As in… her dad ?
This guy?
Julio scowls, narrowing cloudy brown eyes at his daughter. “I came all the way from the Heights to have lunch with you, mija . The least you can do is tell this pinchao to wait.”
I really need to look that word up.
But instead of siding with her father, Juliet edges closer to me. “I can’t, papi . Graham and I are in the middle of a project.”
“I tried to do this the nice way,” he grumbles, “But you’re not listening, just like your abuela . If you’re going to be a brat , I suppose I’ll have to treat you like one.”
He reaches for her arm and grabs her wrist. My instincts take over. The next thing I know, I’ve pushed a hand into Julio’s chest and stepped between them. My other arm guides Juliet behind my body, tearing her from his grasp.
“I’m afraid Juliet’s time is spoken for,” I tell him, glaring. “As she said, you’ll have to come back.”
I feel her touch, feather-light, brushing from the back of my elbow to my wrist. Somehow, the small gesture of gratitude warms me. I automatically reach to gather her cool fingers in mine.
Julio watches the exchange with a disgusted snarl. “Ah. I see. Is this how you got your fancy job, mija ? Everyone likes to talk about how you hustled to get here, but really you’re just a whore like your mother, eh?”
My fist cocks before he even finishes his insult. But Juliet desperately squeezes my other hand, holding me back.
When I turn my head, I find her eyes shining. “Please don’t,” she whispers. “He’s just drunk.”
Hatred—true, flaming revulsion—burns down my throat. A sensation I’ve never actually experienced for Jules.
What I feel for her may burn just as bright, but it’s a different sort of fire altogether.
I snap back to Julio. “Leave. Now.”
Gritting his jaw, he leans back and spits, “Fine. I’ll see you later, mija . We have many things to talk about.”
He lumbers away, leaving me alone with Juliet. I rotate toward her, keeping our hands entwined between us.
“What the fuck was that about?” I ask.
Her complexion blanches from warm brown to wan beige. “He wants money,” she says, wooden. “He heard about my job here and wants ‘his piece.’ Says he needs it for medical bills.”
I try my best not to act completely repulsed by his entitlement. “Is he sick?”
Her head shakes robotically. “He—has a girlfriend. And she’s… having a baby. Apparently.”
Inside my grip, Juliet’s hand starts to tremble. I hold it up between our bodies, wrapping my other palm over her chilled knuckles to warm them. “You’re shaking.”
“Yes.” Her defiant chin slant makes an appearance. Even quivering, with tears in her eyes and no color in her cheeks, she has her self-respect. And I admire her for it.
We’re alike in a lot of ways. Proud, stubborn, passionate. She clearly wants to cry, but she refuses to do it in public.
How many times have I done the same, swallowing lumps lodged in my throat whenever someone asks about Christian?
“Come on,” I murmur, already moving, pulling her along with me. “I know a place.”