Falling for the Enemy (The Hawthorne Brothers #2)

1. “I DON’T GIVE A DAMN ‘BOUT MY BAD REPUTATION”

“I DON’T GIVE A DAMN ‘BOUT MY BAD REPUTATION”

“Will there be anything else, sir?”

Soren Hawthorne barely glanced at the well-dressed waiter as he discreetly nudged his black card forward with the bill. “That’s all. Thank you.” He folded his hands, attention returning to Olivia. “You were saying.”

His date grinned, the aligned, camera-ready smile of a woman who spent her life being photographed at charity galas. Blonde waves cascaded past her narrow shoulders. Her heritage green dress accentuated years of disciplined self-maintenance, and she wore it as if it were a uniform.

“I was saying, how nice the new renovations turned out on the Vineyard house.”

“Mm.” Soren nodded, tipping back the watered-down remnants of his old-fashioned. He set the rocks glass at the edge of the table and signaled a passing waitress for a refill.

He pictured the Aldrich estate as he remembered it from his childhood visits. Like all memories set before his mother’s passing, the sound attached to those recollections mostly faded to faint echoes, dull watercolor glimpses washed out by time.

For a split second, despite the cool autumn night, he could smell the clean, cut grass and hear children’s laughter in the distance.

The muscles around his mouth subtly lifted at the youthful visions of him and his brothers running barefoot across a pristine lawn in Bonpoint linen shirts and seersucker shorts.

The faint sound of his mother’s laughter ghosted through the restaurant, haunting and far away where only he could hear.

Memories from his childhood now wore a vintage haze as if distorted by heavy film grain.

Every time he thought of her, it got harder to determine if he was really remembering the real woman or an amalgam of softness his brain had collected over time.

“Is the property from your mother’s side or your father’s?” he asked, mentally sliding the delicate memory to the back of his mind for safekeeping.

The pleasant scent of woodsmoke drifted from the copper hearth and settled into the low beams of Salt & Ember, warming the dining room against the cool September breeze slipping past the windows, which would close in another week when the weather fully shifted.

The waitress seamlessly retrieved his glass and replaced it with a refill as she returned his card.

Olivia’s gaze noted the byplay without comment, the expectation that he would treat her as sure as her understanding that the sun would rise again.

“The estate was originally purchased by Daddy’s great-great-grandmother.

She was heiress to the Aldrich shipping fortune, back when half of Newport was practically a family affair. ”

Soren was well acquainted with ‘Daddy’ and his portfolio.

Olivia’s father had maintained a seat on the Hawthorne board for more than three decades.

However, his age was starting to show, and since Soren’s father, Magnus Hawthorne, had passed, leaving the multi-billion-dollar company to Soren and his two brothers, some of the board members were dragging their feet about the new direction he was trying to take the company.

Warren Aldrich made it crystal clear Soren would have his vote on one stipulation.

He wanted an exclusive contract between Aldrich Shipping and Hawthorne Fishery.

It wasn’t a deal Soren was opposed to making.

There were plenty of sharks out there in the shipping industry, but landing a solid contract with Aldrich Shipping was akin to harpooning the killer whale in sea transport.

Aligning their companies would deliver multi-billion-dollar benefits to both families and fast-track Hawthorne Fishery into a world of new opportunities.

Olivia traced the rim of her glass with one manicured finger.

“Unfortunately,” she paused for a controlled laugh, “the modernization of the vineyard house has aged the stables where Mother keeps her Hanoverians.” She waved her hand as if swatting away the privilege, a gesture so practiced it lost all self-awareness. “No doubt they’ll be renovated next.”

Olivia was a means to an end, not as leverage to manipulate her father’s vote, but because they had both reached a season in life when all signs signaled it was time to settle down.

They were well suited. She was pretty, had the right background to match the sort of future Soren desired, and she understood how the world worked for people like them.

“Right, the horses.” Another memory he’d nearly forgotten.

If not for the Botox, her brow would have moved when she smiled. “Do you still ride?”

“No. Not since I was young.”

“You should come to the estate, tour the vineyard and see if you still enjoy it. I’d love to take you out. With the leaves already turning, it’s sure to be a beautiful ride.”

“I’ll have to look at my schedule.” He lifted his cocktail, already deciding he wouldn’t have the time.

“I could arrange dinner afterward, possibly ask my father to join us.” She certainly knew where her leverage lay.

Soren steeled his expression so as not to appear too eager. “As I said, I’ll check my schedule and see what I have available, then you can run those dates by Warren.”

Olivia leaned forward just enough for the candlelight to catch the hollow of her collarbone.

“I always think it says everything about a man, the way he handles my father after two bottles of Montrachet. Most of them don’t survive the first.” She lifted the glass to her lips, her eyes studying his over the rim.

“Something tells me you’d get his approval. ”

Flattery used to land on him. Lately, it landed like humidity on a still day.

He cleared his throat again and leaned back. “I shared a drink with your father at the Maritime Commerce Summit in Boston last spring. We talked for about forty minutes over scotch.”

“So you know what I mean when I say he’s meticulous.”

Soren nodded and let his thumb trace the base of his tumbler, the condensation cool against his skin. “Some say the same about me.”

“Daddy has always been a man to go full-tilt after every acquisition. My mother thinks that’s where I get my headstrong nature from.”

A year ago, he would have matched her smile and filed every detail away, cataloging her like a promising acquisition. Tonight, every attractive trait seemed rehearsed, every orchestrated offer a little more pointed.

No woman of stature had raised his pulse in months. And every week these dates with various women of social status felt more and more like an interview process for a position he wasn’t even sure he wanted.

Olivia continued detailing her family’s current events like a soft sales pitch, as if greasing him up for future in-laws.

She wasn’t difficult company to keep. She was poised, cultured, educated, and an heiress to a long line of generational wealth that rendered her perfectly indifferent to his own fortune.

She wouldn’t take a prenup personally. She was the type of woman who would have one of her own. Their lawyers would form a relationship, likely exchanging Christmas cards every holiday.

So why wasn’t he interested?

His attention drifted to the window where the harbor lights bled across the dark water in long, wavering streaks.

Olivia was saying all the right things. Every word out of her mouth was an open door, an invitation to walk into the type of life he planned and wanted, yet he couldn’t be less interested.

Aged bourbon filled his mouth as he let her continue on. The dessert plates had long been swept away. She was merely biding time until he invited her back to his place.

Until? If—he amended.

His eyes dropped to her tasteful décolletage, her body another carefully revealed asset in the presentation. His body registered none of it.

“And you know how that goes,” she said with a delicate laugh. “I swear, my mother’s run through sixteen maids in the last six months.”

Soren’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

He could fuck her. She was waiting for it. Then he could say he had an early morning meeting and push her off for a week or two before needing to sit through another dinner. By then, maybe he would have his head on straight.

His focus returned to her glossy lips. She would make an agreeable wife.

Expensive, but agreeable, performing whatever the arrangement required as far as maintaining appropriate social connections, hosting annual galas, and seeing that the children were well educated and reared toward Ivy League schools.

As long as the diamond and allowance met her standards, the marriage would be the low-maintenance sort.

He inwardly sighed. Low-maintenance and lackluster, year after year, in perfect civility.

They might even get a few decades of fidelity before she busied herself with the pool boy or the gardener. Where would that leave him?

His mind went to one person, and a myriad of images flashed through his head uninvited. Flesh, lush thighs, his fingers fisted in dark chestnut hair, swollen lips, tight nipples, and the earthy scent of carnal abandon.

Shit. He shifted in his seat as those memories manifested in a rush of blood to his cock.

Olivia stopped talking and stared at him expectantly.

He had no fucking clue what she just said, so he lifted his glass and took a slow sip, forcing the misguided blood from his cock back to his brain. “Do you want children?”

She smiled. “Eventually. I mean, it’s expected. But I also enjoy my freedom.”

“How many do you see yourself having?” His questions arrived automatically, polished enough to seem engaged.

She gave a coy smile and countered, “How many do you want?”

“Four.” He knew what he wanted and, as the CEO of Hawthorne Fishery, a multi-billion-dollar global enterprise, he presented a tempting enough package to set an unapologetically high bar for his future family.

Sugarcoating his goals would only waste time when the outcome was always going to be exactly what he’d planned.