Chapter 32
Maeve
The day flies by without a single word from Kellin.
“He’ll text. Or even call, Maeve. He’s a true gentleman.” Lenora hands off a couple of complimentary waters to some guests heading poolside while I finish checking in a party of two from Kansas. First time in Los Angeles. Friends of the bride.
Since my asshole father refuses to vacate the penthouse, we offered the couple our second-best suite, free of charge, as well as a few other comps.
Yet the man still has the audacity to question our profit margin.
“Why do you say that?”
Lenora winks, grinning. “I can just tell that about a guy.”
She is the best, best girlfriend and employee a person could ask for, except I don’t love how she can read me like a pop-up book.
Plus, if she knew the way he acted in bed, she might retract that gentleman statement. Then again, he does like me to come first, so maybe not.
“Please. I haven’t even thought about him once all day. It’s the Friday before the big I dos, which means absolute chaos.” I shrug. Unconvincingly.
Though we are busy. Guest accommodations alone can be a nightmare for a wedding with three hundred-plus in attendance who are all traveling in from around the world.
The festivities leading up to the ceremony can often be more chaotic than on the day itself.
At least the ballroom accommodates that number and higher.
And we pull in waitstaff from the top agency in downtown LA, or DTLA to us locals.
But because our restaurant and bar don’t hold those numbers, Lenora and I do our best to cater and coddle and redirect guests to nearby dining spots with solid ratings. They’re just under Chef Douchebag’s level, but they still cultivate wonderful fine dining experiences.
I really ought to stop calling Moreau Kellin’s moniker in my head. I’m afraid the insult will fly out of my mouth one of these days.
Lenora cocks her head at my reply knowingly.
My phone vibrates, and I check the screen.
Sorry, late business dinner. I’ll just sleep in my own room tonight.
My heart deflates in my chest. I bet Lenora can hear the air wheezing out of me.
She places a hand on my arm. “Hey, whatever he wrote in that text, I bet he means it. He’s a big-ass mogul. The man needs to pay the rent, too, boss. Lord knows you wouldn’t be into him if he weren’t successful.”
She has a point, but she doesn’t know how awkward we left things this morning. And I’m still not sure how I feel about the fact that he’s been maybe-spying on me.
Could that have anything to do with his “late business dinner”?
I massage my throbbing head. I don’t even remember the last time I peed, and I skipped lunch entirely. We haven’t had the time to really discuss anything aside from pre-wedding shenanigans, and I honestly don’t want to start.
Time to pivot. “Hey, what did my brother want? I saw him corner you earlier.”
“He asked if I saw one of his security guards. I told him I don’t have time to keep track of his employees, and if he needs to find them quickly, he should consider microchipping them.
And I also didn’t even know what he was talking about.
He said, ‘You know, Shout. The bald one with the neck tat.’ And I’m all, ‘Doesn’t that describe all of them? ’”
Despite my mood, I laugh, covering my mouth with my palm.
“Maybe they’re all created in the same underground lab, using brains from birds.” Lenora giggles at her own joke.
“I think they buy them at the mob surplus outlet off Figeroa.” My phone vibrates on the counter.
“I’m sure that’s your boy.” Lenora nudges my side. “Probably realizing he can’t go twelve more hours without you.”
I flip the device over. “Oh, no.”
“Oh, no, what?”
Sighing, I slide the phone to her.
Lenora reads the message aloud. “You missed family dinner every Friday in October. Be here in one hour. Not a request. Dad.” She shudders. “Geesh, what normal parent signs a text to their own child? He’s such a weirdo.”
“Normal being the key word, Lenora.” In my Miu Mius, I’m only a couple inches shy of six feet, and I swear that text shaved off a good five inches. My shoulders are so heavy. “I…can’t do it. He knows better. He knows I’ve got this wedding.”
“You can. Unless you’re trying to piss him off.” Lenora pauses to direct a party of four to the elevators. “The rooms are ninety-eight percent booked.”
I check the system and find that she’s right.
“Go, Maeve. I’ve got this. I’ll see you in the morning.”
I grab my purse from the back office, rework my hair into an even tighter ponytail, and set off. “You’re the best.”
She pretends to preen. “I know.”
All I can think about during the drive is Kellin.
And how exhausted I am. Not because of the wedding. That’s the typical spring through fall rush. Weddings are what we do best.
I’m just so tired of feeling like I have no control over my life and career.
This is why when Zenith approached me, the promise of not living under my father’s thumb appealed to me so much. I might be swapping one overlord for another, but I figured the new one couldn’t be half as demeaning or ruthless.
Kellin seemed to care about my management style. I felt seen by him. If we fall through romantically, I’ll survive. I was fine on my own before we ever met. I’ll keep on keeping on.
At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.
I want the Cypress to thrive, and I don’t know how much longer I can succeed with Port Kings henchmen lurking around every corner like the undead.
I freaked him out by asking about long-distance relationships too soon. Everything started to unravel after that.
If so, that sucks, but what can I do? In new relationships, one person often catches feelings quicker than the other. If we can even label what we have as a relationship.
But I refuse to believe he’s setting me up. I’ve been going up to the penthouse—it’s true—and maybe he’s seen me running errands for my father and brothers.
Perhaps he does possess a little jealous streak. A possessive side. That, I can manage.
I’m curious about his past, his present, how he feels about me. He’s the most self-assured man I’ve ever met, but he’s still flesh and blood just like me. He has a functioning heart.
I can tell from the way he looks at me sometimes and says my name.
Boy, time sure flies when you’re all bent out of shape over a guy. I pull up the drive to my father’s humble abode, a five-thousand square foot Spanish Colonial Revival in the Palisades, far sooner than I wanted to.
Headlights flash in my rearview, and then Brody sidles up beside me.
I get out and beeline for him. “Could you not interrogate my staff while they’re working?”
“Well, hello to you, too, sis. I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”
I race him up the semicircle terracotta steps to the bulky wooden double doors. “I’m just saying.”
“And I’m just saying, I can’t find Shout. The guy that hurt you. I have to track him down—”
“So you can hurt him? If he’s gone, you should just leave well enough alone. Besides, I’ve already seen his replacement skulking around.”
Normally, I’d be all for Brody teaching a sexual predator a lesson, but I’m pretty sure Kellin already did that with his fists when he saved me.
“We haven’t hired a new guy yet.” Brody reaches me as I open the front door. “You probably just don’t know them all. This is why I keep telling you that you should attend some of the meetings.”
My ponytail swats at my ears as I shake my head. “Hard pass.”
“The last guy we hired is big and bald with a tat on his neck and a scar on his chin. Was that who you saw?”
Didn’t we just have this conversation?
I ignore him because I hear multiple male voices drowning each other out. Then my stepmother’s as she asks if she can get anyone a refill. We never grew close—Sophia and my father married long after I moved out—but she’s one hell of a cook. And I’m starving.
Connor rounds the corner with a “Maeve” and embraces me with all the warmth of an IRS agent.
He drops his arms and “bro nods” at Brody.
Unfortunately, Brody’s not done harassing me. “Maeve, I really think—”
“Brody, please shut up.” I motion for him to quiet down so I can understand what I’m hearing. I thought Sophia mentioned another whiskey.
My dad doesn’t drink whiskey. He eschews the traditional Irish beverage in some boneheaded protest over our family’s banishment to the West Coast.
A familiar, gravel-wrapped-in-velvet voice separates from the rest, carries over the familiar drone of my family, and causes my heart to gallop.
I hurry around the corner, my heels clacking on the expensive terracotta tile that covers every bit of the first floor.
Kellin.
Talking to my father, a whiskey on the rocks in his hand.
What in the actual fuck. My heart slams into the back of my chest. I can’t breathe.
Having a late dinner or whatever the hell his text said. He never mentioned my father. Is this some kind of payback for not opening up to him when he asked about the penthouse? Is he going around me now to buy the Cypress? Am I nothing to him?
I dig my nails into my palms and do my best not to hyperventilate.
Kellin glances up. His eyes widen once he spots me from across the dining room.
Apparently, he’s surprised to see me too.
Did my father set this all up? That crosses my mind briefly, as that would be just like him.
Kellin is smooth, though, and he hides his astonishment with a laugh, his expression becoming neutral and casual.
No big deal.
“Maeve, how nice to see you.” He hoists his freshly refilled glass.
I glare pointedly at my father, who’s absolutely gleeful, the prick.
“Sweetheart, I’d introduce you, but apparently you’re already acquainted.”
Brody strolls over and reluctantly shakes Kellin’s hand. That little display was for Dad, because I already know my brother doesn’t like him.
My father’s smile widens. “Kellin was just filling me in on his company’s interest in investing in the Cypress.
Since this is a family affair, I figured we could all sit around and have a little chat.
You’re right on time.” He slaps Kellin on the back and orders everyone to sit.
“Maeve, why don’t you take the seat on my left tonight? ”
Great, I’m across from the guest of honor. At least he’ll have a front-row seat when my head explodes. I hope my brains rain all over him and ruin that bespoke suit of his.
My pulse continues to gallop. Am I even walking? Because my body feels weightless, like I’m floating all the way to my chair.
Sophia saves the day as she places a glass of Chianti in front of me. “Eggplant parmesan for you, hon. I’m so happy to see you.”
“You, too, Sophia. Thank you.” She prepares my favorite dish every time she knows I’m coming, no matter how late she finds out.
Sophia and my father met about five years back. She’s of both Irish and Italian heritage. So, once a month, since they married and she moved in, we do Italian night.
I can’t voice this out loud, but straying from the traditional Irish cuisine we were raised on has been nothing short of a delight. It’s changed the dynamic of the dreadful family dinners. Somedays, I think Sophia and her delectable Italian dishes are the only reason I still occasionally show up.
I inhale a hearty gulp of wine and try to exhale some of the betrayal poisoning my stomach in the hopes of surviving this meal without vomiting.
From my periphery, I glimpse the sinister smile plastered on my father’s face. And straight ahead of me, Kellin tries to initiate eye contact.
I refuse to meet his gaze as the churning in my stomach grows.
Did he sleep with me to get close to my father?
Have I been played by them both?
Am I that girl? Falling for a man who’s a carbon copy of her dominant, demeaning, demanding dad?
I can no longer imagine any kind of happy ending here.
Not for Kellin and me, nor for the Cypress.
The only thing I know is that I’m about to need a hell of a lot more wine.