Hooked on the Baker (The Sweetest Love Series)

1

Adrian

“Is this party reallynecessary, Mother,” I asked.

“My parties are always necessary and goal-oriented with specific intended outcomes,” she replied. Her bright blue eyes held mine for too many seconds, forcing me to drop my gaze to my office floor. I’d never learned how to out-stare my mother.

“What are the specific aims of this party, Mother?” I asked and moved to the bank of floor-length, hurricane-proof windows. I gazed at my view of the New York skyline. When faced with decisions, I often stood at the windows to gaze at the city below and ponder my life weighed against all the others. This layout of the city at this vantage point—from the Watkins and Williams suites—was a photographer’s dream.

“It’s to celebrate your triumph at the bar exams. It’s to celebrate you taking your rightful place in the firm. It’s to announce that you are ready and willing to take a wife.”

I turned around on the last word and caught her smile. It was a rare smile from her, one of praise and pride, and I held out against it by turning back to the view. So many times in the past I’d longed for such a smile from her.

She came to stand behind me. My nostrils tingled, forcing me to rub my nose to ease the irritation from the overpowering scent of frankincense and myrrh. She must have put on more than a dab of the seven-thousand-dollars-an-ounce perfume with an unpronounceable name. For my mother, only the perfect perfume would do.

“A wife?” I asked and rotated to face my mother again.

With a knowing smile she answered, “Yes. You’ve delayed taking a wife long enough. You’re now a qualified lawyer and, in keeping with the family tradition, it is time you took a wife.”

“Mother, do you fancy yourself a purveyor of debutantes? Do you have a long list?” I asked, dripping icicles of sarcasm. “Does this mean you will be putting on your very own invitation-only formal debutante ball at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel?”

“I fancy myself as your mother. I care about all aspects of your well-being. I care to see you marry well. I care to see you produce more Watkins-Williams heirs,” she declared, her tone flat and calm.

I shifted back to the view. A plane flew overhead, bringing to mind the hundreds of flights I’d taken, the last of which was a few years ago.

“Mother, this is the twenty-first century. We take our time with these matters,” I said, hoping my tone sounded polite.

“You’ve taken your time,” she said and moved to stand next to me at the windows. “You traipsed all over the world for four years before you went to law school.” Her snarkiness exasperated me.

“Mother, please let’s not rehash this today. It was necessary to complete my education by traveling the world. I assure you I’ve purged my thirst for adventure. I am ready to take this great law firm to the next level.” This time I betrayed my irritation with a groan.

When will she let this go?

“Your father and I—and your grandfather, in particular—are quite pleased that you are in place to learn how to lead.”

“I am happy to be at the firm. I am happy that you are celebrating my achievements. But, Mother, I am not happy that you want to choose my wife,” I stated, flat and frank, unable to mask my annoyance.

“Mothers are the authorities on what’s best, son.” She walked over to my desk picking up her black and orange Hermès bag, the chain handle dragging against the glass desk. Sroll, sroll, sroll. Next, she picked up her matching orange shades—the perfect accessories to her black tailored dress with a precise line of gold buttons from the neckline to the waistline.

“We will talk about this some more later. I have a lunch date with an agent to talk about my memoirs.”

“Your memoirs?”

She closed the door on my question.

I had to learn about my fifty-year-old mother’s pending memoirs like this? I squeezed my lower lip into a fat pucker and turned back for another look at my home city. I love New York was not a cliché for me. The city’s fast-paced living energized me. But, there were times, such as this, when my mother was intent on bending my will, that I preferred to be elsewhere. Experiencing the peace of our home at Skyford Cay, for instance. I made the snap decision to get there ahead of the crowd expected at the celebratory party on Saturday.

I turned back to the skyline view and smiled. My mother had waltzed into my office to lay down more demands, more expectations, more dreams of her own for me. She would never understand—her son Adrian Watkins-Williams IV intended to do his life his way.

****

As soon as my motherleft my office, the phone on my desk buzzed. I looked at the screen, the caller ID read, Adrian Watkins-Williams, the second.

The patriarch, this must be big.

I pressed the speaker button and his voice, cultured by decades of courtroom battles, public speaking, million-dollar negotiations, and endless dinner parties boomed into my office.

“Adrian, can you please come to my office now? Your father and I have an important matter to discuss with you.”

“I’ll be right there,” I replied.

What would they want with me?

I sighed and made my way to the office without delay. I had learned years ago never to keep my grandfather waiting. With my father, I could get away with such a minor infraction. I couldn’t with my grandfather or mother.

I walked down the short hallway on white ceramic tiles imported from Europe for a recent refurbishment of the top floor of the building. All was quiet because all the executive suite offices were soundproof—compliments of my grandfather when he took over from his father. Lawyers need quiet to bill efficiently.

I came to the double doors of my grandfather’s office. The only other double doors on the floor were those of the conference room. I placed my hand on the gold W on the right side of the door, and pushed it open.

“Come in and have a seat, Adrian,” my grandfather called out from the small conference table next to the windows with an identical view to mine of the city. This was going to be an intimate discussion. In my grandfather”s book that meant he would be laying down the law.

I sat in the chair next to my father, who gave me a wide smile. The smile did nothing to stop my stomach muscles clenching and clenching like a wrench being squeezed. Before I managed to slide my legs under the table, my grandfather started the intimate discussion.

“Adrian, congratulations on passing the bar exams on your first try. I expected no less from you. No Watkins-Williams has failed the bar exam,” he said and his lips curled into a conceited smile. My father, the dutiful son, smiled too in comradery with his father. I looked at the men I am expected to follow in leading this great law firm—the fifth-largest in the world.

“We are overjoyed that you came to your senses. We need you in place to start learning what it takes to lead this great firm.” My grandfather paused; his probing eyes searched my face.

What is he seeking?

Relax. Relax. Relax.

Don’t break under his stare.

“The law has been laid down; a Watkins-Williams must always lead this firm. I will be stepping down in twelve months and your father will take my place. This means you must be ready to take his place.” He leaned forward, pinning me down with his eyes, resting his hands on the table.

“Your dalliance with travel has cost you years of service. We now need to fast track your exposure to the ins and outs of the firm.” His matter-of-fact tone grated on my nerves. I clenched my fist beneath the table.

My father took over. “What your grandfather is getting at is that we have arranged a series of immersion stints at our various offices around the world. This will take place over the next twelve months.” He sounded far more conciliatory than my grandfather.

“You’re going to send me back out on a travel campaign after everyone complained about my four-year travel?” I asked, unable to diffuse my accusatory tone.

“Four years is excessive to find yourself,” my grandfather said, his tone serious and hard.

“I wasn’t ‘finding myself.’ I was discovering the world beyond my microscopic sphere. I was completing my education.” I clenched my fist into tight balls.

“I am not convinced it will make you a better lawyer,” my grandfather deadpanned, his eyes locked into mine. “Now the program we have lined up for you will turn you into a well-trained lawyer.”

My father went in for his next shot in this intimate discussion. “There are two other important matters we have to put on the table. One has to do with your second trust fund . . . and the other, with your wife.”

Did he say wife?

The wrench is back causing havoc at the bottom of my stomach. “I don’t have a wife,” I said in protest.

“Yes, and that’s a problem,” my grandfather said. “One that needs to be addressed without delay.” His voice was hard as concrete nails.

“Why? I’ve only just turned thirty,” I replied, a pitched edge to my tone.

“Just turned thirty. You are already light-years late for marriage. You’re the only Adrian Watkins-Williams unmarried at thirty. There will be no more delays,” my grandfather said, his tone hard, his pitch high.

He steepled his index finger beneath his nose. In a slow drag, he touched his lips with the same fingers. He removed his fingers from his lips, placed his hands flat on the table and gave me his you-will-capitulate smile.

I gave him my you-will-not-break-me smile.

“Your mother is in charge of Operation Marry Adrian, and she has a fine ensemble lined up for your picking at the party this weekend, planned especially for you,” my grandfather finished with a smug look.

What did I just hear?

My grandfather continued, “Adrian, to have unlimited access to your one-hundred-million-dollar trust fund, you need to take a wife within twelve months, and complete a tour of assignment at every Watkins and Williams office around the world.”

“Sound logic for the Dark Ages. What year are we in?” I asked, incredulous.

“The year you make up your mind to become Adrian Watkins-Williams the fourth. It’s time to adult up. It’s time to stop playing at life and start taking up your legacy responsibilities.” There was no friendliness, no warmth in my grandfather’s tone; it was all granite.

“What if I don’t want it?”

“You want it because you want the trust fund. You have grand plans for it, don’t you?” my father asked.

“What plans?” my grandfather questioned.

This surprised me—the first time my grandfather didn’t know about something.

“My son, your grandson, wants to save and serve some segments of the world he discovered on his travels. He has plans for setting up two foundations,” my father said, uncrossing his knees and unfolding his arms for the first time in the intimate discussion.

How does my father know this and I have never shared it with him? Does he have spies? Did Jacob blow my whistle?

He leaned in close again. One finger tapping the tabletop. It’s not a sign of nerves for my grandfather.

“I don’t care what he does with the trust fund. My father set it up so that each Watkins-Williams would have money before he took up the full leadership mantle for the firm. If you are smart, son, you will keep that money multiplying to guarantee you have an independent source of income, separate and apart from income you will earn from the firm.” He paused for a second to let his words sink in. His blue, cold eyes pinned me with laser-like precision.

“Son in this life independence is paramount. And independence is only guaranteed by money. Specifically by cash. Cash will always be king. Every single world financial crisis has proven that point. You will do well to remember it.” This time he leaned back away from the table, with a smirk which failed to soften his eyes and mouth.

With a pointed finger, my grandfather delivered his next words. “You have twelve months, Adrian, to find a wife. Your access to the trust fund is dependent on adhering to the time limit. However, we reserve the right to modify the timeline if we observe that you need stronger prodding to take action or to make a decision.”

“Twelve months,” I repeated to get my racing pulse under control. “Twelve months to take a wife,” I said, and the room dimmed. “Twelve months like this is eighteenth-century Europe,” I said, my blood pounding through my veins, sending my heart into overdrive.

“This idea is preposterous and so out of touch with reality. Grandfather and father, even European princes get to choose their own wives in their own time, with their own criteria.” I enunciated each word, clear and concise.

“Are you referring to the recent royal debacle? The queen has gone soft. The royal family has lost any semblance of standards, tradition or legacy. They no longer know the meaning of legacy. Are you suggesting that the Watkins-Williams family must descend into the commoners’ arena?” His disdain was unmistakable.

“Grandfather, you are out of touch with reality,” I said through clenched teeth, my lungs dried up like late-autumn leaves.

“Son, you are the one out of touch. Legacies are built on high principles that are maintained over time. If not, they crumble. The royal legacy is crumbling before the eyes of the world,” he said with a self-satisfied smile. He shifted and leaned back in his ergonomic black leather chair.

“You’ve not asked me whether I agree or want to participate. What if I don’t want to?”

“Then you don’t want to carry on the Watkins-Williams legacy. It’s simple, Adrian,” my father said. “You take a wife, you complete your tour of all our offices, and your place as the next head of the firm is sealed.”

“I want to lead the firm and carry on the legacy, but it should not be at the cost of my liberty to choose my wife.”

“Who said you wouldn’t choose?” my grandfather said.

“But you have Mother lining up qualified candidates, already.”

“Adrian, you are being prodded because you are thirty years old. You are the first Adrian to attain thirty years of age who has not seen fit to take a wife,” my father said as if I was still the six-year-old boy he’d sent off to boarding school in London.

“I told Mother in my office, just before coming to this intimate discussion, I do not want her to choose a wife for me. I am quite capable of deciding for myself,” I said and shifted my body in the chair I occupied, ready to jump out of my seat to exit the room. My heart thumped loud techno beats in my ears. When will this nightmare conversation end? A deadline to choose a wife. I looked at my grandfather and father.

They are beyond reason.

“Son, the final decision is yours to make. We are simply assisting you to choose well and to choose within a timeframe that will be highly beneficial to you. I repeat your one-hundred-million-dollar trust fund is yours for the keeping if you meet the deadline. It’s very simple,” my grandfather said, as though daring me to ask another question. I watched as he steepled his fingers under his nose, he rolled his chair away from the table and leaned further back in his chair. The signal that our little intimate discussion was over.

Without a word, I pushed back my chair with force, the room darkened and blood rushed in power-wash force to my heart. I pushed through the double doors and made my way to my office, the walls closing in around me.

Their demands had chosen for me. I wanted nothing to do with this legacy. I wanted nothing to do with Watkins and Williams the law firm. I wanted to choose my own way.

Was I stupid? Wasn’t my dream to set up my two foundations? Did I have enough money left from my first trust fund? Did I want to spend years building a nest egg when the funds were within reach?

Twelve months.

I need to pull up my big-boy pants.

I would take the bait. But meanwhile, I wouldbeat them at their own game.