Chapter 3
Holland
There are a few things you need to understand about Phoenix Park.
Phoenix Fact #1: He’s hot. Like, stupidly hot. And he knows it. Taller than is frankly necessary; gorgeous tanned skin; thick blue-black hair that is absolutely wasted on him. If I had hair like that, I would grow it down to my butt and flip it around in people’s faces all day, and they would thank me for it. “Thank you, Holland, for blessing us with the existence of your hair. Thank you for poking us in the eyes with your luscious locks.” That’s what they would say.
Phoenix Fact #2: He’s rich—and at the risk of sounding like a broken record—I would even say stupidly rich. He’s the eldest grandson of the Butterfield corporation or company or whatever it’s called, and the only grandchild who was deemed competent enough to hold an executive position.
I will grudgingly admit that while his hair is wasted on him, his wealth is mostly not. He lives in a nice-but-not-exorbitant home on the west side of the island, and he doesn’t throw money around. He also works a billion hours a week, so it’s not like he’s lazy. This might be the only positive thing I can say about him.
Phoenix Fact #3: Our relationship is nothing short of overtly hostile. We didn’t get along when we met years ago, and we don’t get along now—especially since we knew each other mainly through my brother, and Trev has passed. There are no thinly veiled barbs, no passive aggressive snipes; we go to war whenever we’re together, and we don’t waste time pretending otherwise. Time is a precious commodity, after all, which is what Phoenix says and happens to be one of the only things we agree on.
This sort of relationship would be tragic if I were pining after him, but I am decidedly not. He’s a dream turned nightmare, the kind of man who’s sexy on paper but less sexy when you’re the one who has to put up with him day in and day out. Bossy, arrogant, overbearing—everything I would expect from Butterfield’s youngest-ever chief operating officer.
And don’t let the idea of some giant, successful company seduce you. In romance novels I read about thirty-year-old executives working at any number of cool, suave, urban corporations; there is none of that here. Yes, Butterfield is one of the most profitable companies in its sector, and yes, it’s a household name, but it’s not doing vaguely defined tech work or app development or financial advising. Butterfield is not a shiny, sexy, Fortune 500 company.
Butterfield is a tampon company.
Or, rather, they started out as a tampon company. Tampons made from eco-friendly, nontoxic, biodegradable materials. They then moved on to incorporate other sanitary products—pads, mostly, along with wipes, toilet paper, and diapers for babies and senior citizens alike. And though I will never, ever, ever tell Phoenix this…Butterfield’s tampons are pretty great. As far as tampons go, anyway.
I’m not really a pads girl. They give me wedgies.
“I talked to your grandmother last night,” Phoenix says as he walks, pulling me back to the present. My fist stops mid-punch where I’m hitting his lower back.
“So?” It’s something he’s done for years, ever since Trevor died. Nana Lu adores him. She showers him with love, and they trade stories about Trev, and he’s a total gentleman to her.
I guess if he’s going to be a gentleman to someone, it should be Nana.
“She said she was going to ask you why you’ve been taking extra shifts at the salon,” he says. “Hold your breath; we’re passing the dogs.”
I inhale shallowly and wait; Phoenix’s stride lengthens as he picks up his pace, and I hold my hair aside with one hand so I can wave my apology to Patrice with the other. She watches with a look of bemusement as I disappear out of sight over the shoulder of this caveman. When the dog enclosures are no longer visible, I let go of my breath.
“Don’t use Nana Lu to pry into my business,” I tell him. “You have your own grandma. And put me down or I’m going to spray paint every nickname I’ve ever given you all over the outside of your office.”
“My grandmother is psycho, and Nana would be very disappointed to learn you’d done something like that,” he replies, and I grit my teeth.
He’s enjoying this thoroughly; I can hear it in his voice. And my hair might be swinging around me again, but I don’t need to see to know people are staring. I look like an idiot.
“Put me down,” I say, the words clipped. “Immediately.”
“I will,” he says, “just as soon as you tell me what’s going on.”
“Nothing’s going on!” I pound my fist against his back again .
A faint snort of disbelief reaches me. “You’re clearly lying. Nana says you’re working more shifts even though you’re dead tired as it is, and now you’re trying to work at the adoption fair. Plus,” he adds reasonably, “your voice is going high-pitched.”
Dang it. He’s right.
I clear my throat. “Nothing is going on,” I repeat. “Nothing is wrong. It’s just work. You work all the time; why can’t I?”
“You can,” he says, “but you usually don’t. Tell me and I’ll put you down. Do you need money? Did something happen?”
I could scream right now, and Phoenix’s shoulder is digging into my hips, and I can feel my pulse in my ears.
“Fine!” The word explodes out of me, loud and abrupt, but I don’t quiet myself. I just keep talking to the middle of his back. “Good grief. You couldn’t possibly be more invasive, could you?” Heat is rising in my cheeks, and it’s only partly because I’m hanging upside down. “I need money, okay? Yes. That’s it. That’s all. Can we drop it now?”
“See?” he says as I feel his hands around my waist once more, and three seconds later, my world is righting itself. “That wasn’t hard.”
I stumble for a second, finding my footing and looking around to see where we’ve stopped. The back of the salon, I realize as I spot the glass door that leads to the small lot—unnecessary, since there are no cars on the island. Even from here I swear I can smell the scent of hair product wafting from the little red-brick building.
“You’re the worst,” I say, turning to Phoenix and forcing myself not to smack him. “Did you know that?”
“I’ve heard,” he says with a little smirk. “Now tell me why you need money, Amsterdam. ”
“It’s none of your business,” I say with a scowl. It’s true; Phoenix doesn’t need to know my embarrassing story.
He doesn’t need to know what I tried to buy: a dog bed.
A human-sized dog bed, for twenty-four-ninety-nine. That’s the product that got me to enter my card information on a website I’d never heard of at two in the morning: a human-sized dog bed, about four feet long with poofy edges and a built-in pillow.
It looked plush. It looked soft. It looked comfortable. I was sold.
“None of your business,” I say again, muttered this time.
But he just hums, his dark brows quirking skeptically. The sun overhead loves the angles of his face, his sharp cheekbones, his straight nose. “I disagree,” he says. His mouth twists into a grimace as he stares at me, and for a moment, it seems as though he’s debating with himself. He looks torn, reluctant, like he’s about to do something he doesn’t want to do.
“All right,” he says, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “Fine. It’s possible—I might be able to help you. Might ,” he adds quickly, like coming to my aid is hurting him.
But it always pains him to offer me help, and he always offers anyway. He’s constantly in my space, offering his unasked-for advice, trying to take care of me in his weird, overbearing way.
“I don’t need help,” I say automatically.
This claim is a little less true; I do need help. But I want to help myself. Is that really so bad? Is it really so wrong, trying to stand on my own two feet instead of turning to him for everything?
Because here’s the thing: he doesn’t actually want to help me. If it weren’t for Trevor, he would have nothing to do with me. But because he and my brother were as close as brothers themselves—and because the three of us were together when Trevor died—he clings to that misplaced sense of duty.
It’s nice in theory, I guess, but he’s not sincere, and he dislikes me as much as I dislike him. Why would I put myself in his debt?
“You need help,” Phoenix says, like he can hear everything I’m thinking.
I shake my head, still feeling the blood pound in my ears.
He rolls his eyes. “You need to see a doctor about your knee?—”
“My knee will be fine, not that your little caveman show did any good there?—”
“And I know you’ve been helping your sister?—”
“Maggie is fine too?—”
“And you’re paying for Nana to stay in the senior center,” he finishes. His hands clench into fists, and that little muscle jumps in his jaw again. “So stop being stupid and let me help you.”
“I’m not going to just take your money!” I say, stomping my foot—and regretting it instantly when another twinge of pain ricochets through my knee.
“I never said you’d be taking my money,” he snaps. “It’s a job, idiot. I’m offering you a job.”
The words I was ready to spit out die instead; I narrow my eyes at him, and he crosses his arms, looking expectantly at me.
“A job?” I say.
He gives a little jerk of his head. “A job.” Then, pausing just briefly, he goes on, “Or—I guess—maybe an arrangement.”
That feels ominous, especially since his face has gone oddly blank, devoid of any expressive hints. I shake my head again, swallowing my sudden spike of nervousness .
“No,” I say, and before he can respond, I’m turning around. “Thanks, but no thanks. You mind your business, and I’ll mind mine. Okay?” It’s little more than a wish, because Phoenix has never once minded his own business—not even when we first met, before we knew each others’ names, before I learned he was Trev’s roommate. He was invasive even then.
He says something under his breath as I walk away, but I don’t hear what it is.