Chapter 4 Sullivan
SULLIVAN
“Come on, lazy bones.” I grab hold of the tiny ankle that’s sticking out from underneath my duvet.
Molly squeals as I use it to slide her abruptly to the foot of the bed and sweep her into my arms.
“You have your own bed,” I tell her.
She wraps her arms around my neck, crushing herself to me. “I sleep with Daddy.”
I bury my face into her dark curls and soak her in.
I thought we’d gotten over her climbing into bed with me at night.
It took two whole years for her to sleep through the night.
But that still isn’t a given. She sneaks in with me at least twice a week, and I’m awoken by an elbow to the face, or a tiny foot to the gut as she commands ninety percent of my California King bed for herself.
I’ve never been one who does well without sleep. But for Molly, there are lattes with double shots.
“We need to get you ready, Sweetheart. I’m dropping you at Grandad’s to spend the day with Halliday.”
“Yay.” Molly giggles at the same time she squishes my cheeks together until my lips pucker like a fish.
I lean closer to her like I’m trying to kiss her, and she shrieks with laughter, trying to get away.
I catch the time on the bedside clock and groan internally.
“Shall we get your clothes, and you can race Daddy to see who’s dressed first?”
Molly pokes out her lower lip like she’s considering my request, despite the fact we played the same game yesterday morning. And the one before that. In fact, every morning. But she humors me, carefully considering my suggestion like it’s the first time she’s heard it.
Every morning she wins the race.
But that’s what happens when you’re two and a half years old and think clothes aren’t mandatory. Molly will stand in her underwear, declare she’s the winner, and I’ll have to wrestle her into her clothes, then dress myself after.
She gives me a serious nod, coming to her conclusion. “Okay. Race.”
“I love your outfit,” Halliday says as she opens the door to her and my father’s apartment.
Molly beams at her and reaches for her hand, the hood of her furry panda onesie slipping off her head.
“I worked with what I had,” I grumble as Halliday bites back a giggle.
It was either leave the house with a small furry panda this morning, or don’t leave at all.
I hand over Molly’s day bag.
“Go,” Halliday says, studying the tense expression I’m sure is on my face. “She’ll be fine. I’ve got a fun day planned. Your father already left for work, so it’s just the two of us.”
“Thanks.” I bend to kiss Molly on the cheek. “Love you, Sweetheart. See you later.”
“Bye, Daddy,” she chirps.
I straighten and my eyes catch on the growing bump beneath Halliday’s clothes.
“You know I can always ask Arabella to—”
“I’m good.” She waves off my concern. “I’m past the sickness stage now. And if I need a nap, I’ll take one with Molly later.”
“Fine.” I nod, knowing nothing about pregnancy to argue. I missed that part of Molly’s life.
Halliday’s my father’s British fiancée. Twenty years his junior.
A world-class dating coach who my sister hired after insisting our father needed love in his life.
No one expected the two of them to fall for one another and for Halliday to get pregnant all within a matter of months.
But I’ve discovered life likes to throw curveballs your way.
Halliday’s nice. Molly loves her. And my father is happy.
Just like Sinclair insisted he would be if he allowed himself to move on after Mom’s affair and losing her and my brother.
Sinclair was due to look after Molly today. But since she confessed she’s been receiving anonymous threats, and that her car was vandalized, my father declared his head of Security, Denver, act as her personal bodyguard. Sinclair was less than thrilled. Knowing my sister, she’ll give Denver hell.
“We’ll have a great day. See you later,” Halliday says.
My gaze drops to Molly, playing with a crystal bracelet on Halliday’s wrist.
“I’ll send you pictures of what we’re doing,” Halliday adds, before taking the bracelet off and handing it to her so she can try it on.
I clear my throat. “Please do.”
“Bye, Sweetheart,” I call to Molly one final time before I break away and stride down the hallway. I haven’t even made it as far as the elevator before the first of many work calls rings out from my phone.
I head straight to the coffee place in the building next to Beaufort Diamonds flagship store on Fifth Avenue.
The décor has a retro vibe with pops of candy pink.
But it’s the scent that draws me in. And the knowledge that their coffee tastes better than any of the ones the top of the range machines in my building can produce.
My PA, Arabella, gets coffee from here for me each morning, but I told her she could come in late today.
Something about her mother’s foot and a doctor’s appointment.
A bell chimes overhead as I enter. The place is busy. I join the end of the line behind a guy in a suit and answer an incoming call on my phone as I wait.
“Beaufort.”
“Fairfax,” I greet.
Rafael Fairfax, the owner of the company that insures Beaufort Diamonds. A ruthless British businessman whose expertise we pay through the nose for. But his company is the best one of only a handful in the world that can provide the billions of dollars’ worth of cover we require.
We talk as the line moves forward. I listen to his clipped British tone telling me the new mine we’ve acquired in Botswana will drive up our premium. Uncle Mal handles all overseas import business, aided by a local guy, Ade, who manages the mines while Mal flies back and forth every few weeks.
“Just a second,” I tell Rafael, keeping the phone held against my ear.
“Latte, double shot, for Sullivan,” I reel off to the woman behind the counter.
“Coming up,” she says as I hand her a twenty and walk away before getting my change.
I stand at the end of the counter, grunting the odd agreement to Rafael as he continues his spiel about rising market costs.
The redhead making my coffee is humming a tune to herself.
The candy pink uniform shirt she’s wearing clings to her like a second skin, the gaps between the buttons gaping around a swell of generous breasts.
Her skirt isn’t much better. The fabric stretches over her ass like it’s trying to contain it from breaking free.
“How much?” I bark, snapping my gaze away from her as Rafael tells me a number that makes me want to get on a plane and fly over to London so I can punch him in the jaw.
“Just making sure you were listening,” he drawls with a soft chuckle.
I shove a lid on my takeaway cup as the redhead places it on the counter.
“Oh, I’m listening. Now it’s your turn, jackass. Call me back when you’re ready to talk real numbers.”
I hang up, cutting off his deep, throaty laugh. This is how we operate. He gives me a number. I call him some choice names that I wouldn’t use in front of Molly. We volley back and forth until we both think the other is an asshole, but that we were the one who got the better deal.
A perfect business relationship. And friendship.
I slide my phone back in my suit pocket.
“Sullivan?”
I look up into the eyes of a woman with long blonde hair wearing a patterned workout crop top and tights.
“Hello.” I flash a brief smile with just enough warmth in it that it will appear like I recognize her.
Her flirty smile and glint in her eyes tell me we must have fucked once.
“Nonfat chai for Jemima!” the redhead in the ill-fitting uniform calls.
“Jemima,” I say smoothly. “Nice to see you. Have a good day.”
I nod politely and move to sidestep her. That call with Rafael has got me fired up and ready to unleash hell. I bet my accountant will have some choice words for him too when I inform him of the ludicrous figure the bastard gave me.
“Sullivan?” Jemima reaches out, placing her hand over my jacket sleeve. Her expression is one of unconcealed eagerness as I turn back to her. “Maybe we could have dinner soon? Catch up?”
One side of her glossed lips curl.
I narrow my eyes as images of those lips begging me to fuck her throat a couple of months ago flash back to mind. But that’s all I’ve got.
“Sounds wonderful,” I lie, injecting disappointment into my tone. “But we’ve just launched a new line at work. Things are busy right now.”
“Oh.” Her face falls before her brows pop back up. “I could come to your office and bring lunch? I’m free tomorrow.”
“I’m having lunch with my daughter tomorrow,” I tell her. Not a lie this time.
“That sounds great. I love kids.” She beams.
Irritation prickles up my spine and my fingers tighten around my coffee.
“My daughter isn’t good with new people,” I say, walking away before she can respond.
As I push through the door and out onto the street, her raised voice hits the back of my navy suit jacket.
“Call me!”