Chapter 6
Liam
Today started out like every other day has for the last ten years. I woke up, worked out, and had a protein shake for breakfast. Then I showered and got ready for the day. Then I do what I always do, I work.
I’ll do a couple hours at home on emails or paperwork, then head out right before lunch time to the office. Sometimes it’s the office in town, sometimes it's the office at Broken Ridge, and sometimes my office is a worksite. It just depends on where I’m needed.
Today, though, I’m at Broken Ridge at the insistence of Tori, who said she needed to talk to me about something important. Chances are high that the ‘something important’ has to do with her getting back in my bed. I knew it was a mistake to start dating her, and to be honest, dating is a bit of a stretch for what we were doing. I think we only ate one meal together the entirety of our “relationship,” not that I would even call it that. I thought she understood it was a hookup, nothing more, but I can’t help but feel she set her eyes on my bank account and thought some good sex would have me falling to one knee and declaring my love.
Worst part was, the sex was mediocre at best. She’s beautiful, but she has the personality of a shark. Even worse, in bed she’d just laid there like a starfish. Probably used to men fawning over her, just grateful to breathe the same oxygen next to her naked body. So now, for the last two months I’ve been dodging the hell out of her, but she just won’t take no for an answer, and I’ve had enough.
Today’s the day I let her go from the MS Group. Well, after she gets my new tenant set up, then I’ll let her go. I’m paying her the commission on the rental already, might as well let her close it out. I know she’s going to fight me on her termination, tell me that Broken Ridge isn’t sold out yet and therefore we need her, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. We only have three estate lots left, and only two of those are “available.” With the market right now, not many people are wanting to pick up acre+ lots for an estate-style home.
Luckily, we planned for this, and it doesn’t hurt our bottom line in the slightest that those lots sit vacant. We’ve run and built an incredibly successful development here and if all that’s left is two estate lots, I’m happy with that.
I’m biding my time in my back office until the tenant arrives to pick up the keys, but really I’m just hiding because I find Tori to be…unstable. I don’t ever want to call someone crazy, but she pushes the boundaries of acceptable behavior right to the brink. She may look like Miss America, but she’s got a little demon living in her soul.
The clock sitting on my desk hits 3:30 P.M. and I decide I’m done waiting. Screw it, I’ll hand the tenant the keys myself. It’s time for Tori to go. I stand up and make my way to the door when I hear the heavy front door open and Tori’s voice rings out through the office. It has the same effect as nails on a chalkboard and I cringe. I pause before walking out in case it’s a resident or client, eavesdropping like a creeper in my own office.
I’m stunned and mesmerized when I hear a soft sweet voice say, “Britain,” immediately grabbing my attention. Next, I hear her say “London,” and now I’m sure my mind is just playing tricks on me. Tori must be talking to someone about a trip or something, so I move in closer, to the edge of the door and strain to hear.
“What brings you to our little corner of the world? Your assistant said you were coming in from D.C., right?”
The sweet sounding voice takes a brief pause before responding. No one else might have noticed the small lapse, but I do the same thing whenever I don’t want to talk to Tori. “Well, I actually grew up around here, which feels like another lifetime ago now, but um, I’m back to take care of some personal business.” Okay, so she grew up around here. Britain. London.
My mind is starting to form pieces of a puzzle, and I’m so damn intrigued I can’t stop listening. I’m hoping they’ll keep talking, but also feel sort of bad and want to grant this other woman mercy when she clearly isn’t trying to make small talk. I mean, anytime someone says ‘personal business’ it’s basically polite speak for “mind your own fucking business.”
“How long has it been since you were last here?” Anndd Tori flew right past that social cue.
“It’s been 17 years.” And with those words, my blood runs cold. Britain, grew up here, left 17 years ago. The puzzle pieces connect, and I flashback to a pretty, 18-year-old girl with the sweetest disposition, and my mind catches up with my body.
“Ha!” A sweet sounding laugh bursts from her. “No, I left when I was 18. I’m sure you can do the math.” Her pause, again, is brief, allowing her dig to hit its mark. “Do you think you could grab-”
My mind registers that Tori has cut her off, but I don’t hear the words, because she just delivered near definitive proof that she is who I think she is, and all I can think is Shit. Shit, fucking shit. Next, I send out the silent prayer. Please don’t let this be my new tenant.
I’m snapped out of my pleading by Tori, “Let me go get the keys to the golf cart and we’ll be on our way!” Followed by the clipping sound of her heels making their way closer.
Fuck. I lean over to swipe papers off my desk so I don’t look like I’ve just been eavesdropping. As I snatch the papers, my phone flies off the top of them, landing on the floor with a soft thud. “Shit,” I let slip. Before I can react, Tori is slipping through my office door, shutting it softly behind her.
I don’t bother with pleasantries. Right now I just need facts. “Who is that out there?”
Tori seems a bit taken aback by my accusatory tone, but I don’t care at all right now.
She uses her thumb to gesture behind the door and says, “Who? Her?”
I could murder her right now. “Yes,” I hiss out, “her,” my voice a ragey whisper.
“Oh, that’s your new tenant, silly!” She’s either as dumb as a doorknob to miss, or a master manipulator to pretend, like she doesn’t understand the vibes I’m throwing her way.
“That’s my new tenant.” It’s a statement not a question as I let the dread seep into me.
“Yup, London Scott. Name’s on the contract I sent you last week. Not that you ever pay attention to my emails.” She pauses for a brief moment to scowl at me. “Oh! But I’m gonna try to sell her on an estate lot! She can definitely afford it. Seems like the rich type with a vacation house in every state. She pulled up in a brand new Porsche, Cartier watch, Hermes sandals. Yeah, she can afford it.”
All I hear is “sell her on an estate lot,” and my reply breaks through my lips without consent.
“No.” My tone is firm and resounding, surprising even myself. “Don’t try to sell her an estate lot.”
Tori’s wearing a face that lets me know I’ve truly shocked her, but per usual, she just keeps on living her life.
“Well, you can’t stop me from trying. I want the commission. Momma needs a new car.” Her voice is sickly sweet and fake. And with that, she winks and leaves me sitting in my office completely gobsmacked.
It only takes me a couple of minutes to come back to the land of the living, but once I do, I immediately lunge for my laptop, flipping it open. I’m on a damn mission now.
I open Google and search “London Scott, DC,” but the hits aren’t what I’m looking for, so I try again. “Britain Scott, DC,” and…jackpot. I click on a LinkedIn account for Britain Scott, Lead UI/UX Designer for Scott Technologies. Her headshot is what stops me in my tracks. She’s really pretty. Still. Not in the fake, Botox and spray tan way that most of my exploits are. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.) She’s just even better than if I tried to imagine what became of that 18-year-old girl I used to know.
I click back to Google, scanning for more info. There are news articles that all say basically the same thing: “Scott Technologies Sells for Staggering $100 million, Damian Scott Will Remain as CEO.” I click on a Scott Technologies bio link and am brought to Britain’s ‘About Me’ page.
“Britain Scott, Leading UI/UX designer, recipient of a UX Design Award. Bachelor of Fine Art degree in Graphic Design from George Washington University Corcoran School of the Arts and Design. Mother of 2, residing in Virginia.” This short blurb is joined with another headshot. Her hair is a bit longer in this one, but there’s no mistaking that it’s the Britain I used to know, and that she’s beautiful.
Britain
“And this, this is the pièce de résistance!” Tori uses one arm to wave at the street in front of us like Vanna White, while the other holds the steering wheel of the golf cart. How she drives this in 5-inch heels boggles my mind. Yet I’m not surprised in the least that she handles it with ease. Right now, we’re parked right at the mouth of the court I drove past when I first entered. The street with the cracked boulder sitting sentry, so close I could reach out and touch it.
“It’s an empty street,” I say, with a slight tremble to my voice, my hands clenching down on the leather golf cart seats. I’m trying to manage the unease coursing through me, partly due to motion sickness caused by her speedy golf cart maneuvers over the hilly streets. Oh, and the fact that we’re in the exact spot that changed my life all those years ago. I never thought I’d be back in this town, let alone back in this exact spot.
Completely ignoring my comment, Tori continues, “On the left is the largest of our three estate lots at 2.5 acres. It features the best view in the entire development. On the right are two smaller, 1-acre lots, which luckily for you, are both available!” Why is this lucky for me?
“What about this lot, though? The 2.5 acres, it’s not available?” At this point, I’m just asking questions to prolong the period we’re sitting on the side of the road instead of moving. I would hate to puke on her Louboutins.
“Uh, uh, I never said it wasn’t available. For the right price, the developer may be willing to part with it,” she says in a way that screams used car salesman.
“So, this is like the developer’s personal lot?”
“Yup, but between you and me,” she leans in close, “I could probably get him to part with it if you’re interested.” So, she’s the developer’s girlfriend? That is if I’m picking up what she’s putting down correctly. I could really give two shits about any of this right now, and I’d say or do just about anything to get the fuck out of here. No matter how many hints I’ve dropped about wanting to end this tour, Tori has just continued on with her master plan. There’s no way she’s that daft to have missed EVERY single one of my suggestions.
I begin to form a plan. “Hmm…” I fake a pondering noise, then “ooooh.” I grimace and place a hand on my tummy where my imaginary illness is suddenly originating from.
“Tori, I really don’t think I’m feeling very well all of sudden.” And then I fake a little gag off the side of the golf cart. I have to play this carefully since I actually am nauseated already. I sit back up and turn to face Tori, whose face has gone pale, almost green.
“Oh my god, we have to get you back. Please don’t throw up. Hold it, please!” Tori pleads with me. I throw my hand over my mouth in mock illness, but really I’m hiding the smile that says victory.
We’re finally back and parked outside the cafe. Tori ushers me back into the sales office with lots of encouragement to use the bathroom while she pops over to the cafe to get me a ginger ale. Damnit, I just want the keys!
As soon as Tori is back out the door walking the several paces to the cafe, I let out a deep sigh. I’m gonna kill Jess for picking this rental. A sound from the back office pulls my attention in time to see a man walk out.
A man I know.
A man who’s aged like fine wine, impeccably. His thick hair has gone silver and is styled effortlessly; he could legit be a hair model. His skin is tanned the perfect amount, probably naturally from swimming laps or something. He still looks like he’s in his 30’s even though I know he must be nearly 50 now. He’s just as tall and built as I remember. His muscles, visible from the tight fit of his dress shirt, are full and begging to be touched. My breath hitches. I really wasn’t expecting to run into someone I used to know right now, on my first day back, let alone William.
“Hi, Britain.” His voice is low and commanding, just like I remember.
“Hi…uh…” I flounder, not sure what to call him. William? Mr. Millar? I decide formal is the best route, “Mr. Mi-”
He cuts me off quickly. “Please, you know it’s Liam,” he says in a gentle voice that entices familiarity.
“Of course. Liam,” I say with a smile. My cheeks have likely gone full beet by now. He holds out his arm towards me, thoroughly confusing me until he turns his palm over, revealing a set of keys.
“Were you looking for these?” He asks with a sly smile on his face. Oh my god, I could kiss you, runs through my head.
“If I say yes, will you let me have them?” I ask cautiously.
He laughs, then says, “Blink twice if you’re being held against your will.” And I blink, many many times, which only elicits more laughter from him. He reaches out, taking my hand in his. He gently opens my fingers and places the keys in my palm, then closes them back over again. His touch is so gentle and warm. Something in me ignites, like a spark. It’s faint, like a pilot light, but it’s there. We look up at each other even though his hand remains clasped over mine and I know he feels it, too. Well, I think he feels it, too. I’ll be the first to admit I might be crap at reading other people’s intentions.
He slowly releases my hand and takes one step back, away from me. Our eyes are still locked, but I know I need to get going. I’d hate to be here when Tori returns. I turn to leave and am almost out the door when he calls to me,
“I’ll see you around, yeah?” His words rip me from the cocoon of our previous moment and thrust me into the present. The words are all too familiar in an all too familiar voice, and my spine goes rigid. Is he trying to remind me? Is he trying to cut me with those same words? I don’t know whether to just keep walking or turn around and tell him off. Old Britain would have turned her face to the ground and walked away, but new Britain is a good bit stronger. So I turn around and pierce him with a gaze as cold as ice. My reply is one word, filled with the weight of 17 years of anger and pain.
“Doubtful.”
Once he registers the look on my face and the tone of my voice, his face drops, and drains of all its color.