Chapter Twenty
Thaddeus
I nursed my whiskey as I scrolled through the funeral home’s casket selections.
The warmth from the spirit and my impending freedom blanketed me.
It felt… luxurious. As if I were slipping into a steamy bubble bath after a stressful week of cutthroat politics of back-office deals, verbal gentlemen’s agreements, I’ll scratch your back if you scratch my back favors, and lies and deceit.
It was true; politics wasn’t for the faint of heart, but it was where I flourished because it was a breeding ground for what I liked to call “the functionally insane.”
Politics was one of the only sectors where the public wholeheartedly knew they were being lied to but didn’t seem to mind.
It was the only safe space where the villain of the story was championed as the hero.
It was titillating to see my constituents and eager voters fall over themselves for me and profess to all who would listen that I would improve their lives.
Many suggested I was just what the country needed and that I’d make a fantastic president one day.
That’s the goal, but little do the voters know that I’ll step on their necks, backs, and legs to achieve it.
I paused scrolling when I found the perfect casket.
A cream satin interior with a high-gloss cherry-red exterior will complement her well.
I hummed to myself as I continued my research, trying not to check my watch for the umpteenth time.
My attempts were futile because I’d never been known to be a patient man.
I frowned when I noticed it was ten minutes past the long-awaited party’s reservation time.
Tardiness was a pet peeve of mine, and it irked me how insensitive people could be when they inconvenienced others, only to offer a perfunctory apology and a lame excuse for their lack of proper planning.
To be fair, it is a bachelorette party. Sometimes, those parties get out of hand and tend to operate on their own time.
I scowled at the incoming call from my son’s nanny. Harper was as useless as an empty fire hydrant during a five-alarm fire, and she perpetually annoyed me with her babbling and inability to think for herself.
I’ve said, “Bless your heart,” more than I can count when dealing with her.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Branson, I’m sorry to disturb your evening, but Pete has been inconsolable for the last hour.”
“And what are you doing about it?”
“Um…I’ve given him a warm bath, held him, and read to him.”
“Is he running a fever? Does he seem to be in pain?”
“No to both.”
“What do you want me to do about it, Harper?” The line fell silent for several seconds. “Am I to drop everything I’m doing to return home to soothe a child? Or are you supposed to do what I fucking pay you to do?”
“I’m s-sorry to disturb you, Mr. Branson.”
I hung up on her.
She’ll be sorry when I fire her incompetent ass.
Kiyah had zero issues calming Pete down at the facility.
She handled the situation like a pro, and my son clung to her as if she were his own mother.
It was proof that I needed Kiyah Baker in my life.
Being in her presence was humbling, and despite my outward coolness, I was a tongue-tied mess on the inside.
She was a vision—a tall, cold glass of water in the middle of the Sahara.
And as one could expect, that glass of water did little to quench my thirst. I’d never seen a woman look so radiant in a baseball cap and cut-off shorts.
Not one to waste an opportunity, I didn’t hesitate to snatch her cell phone out of her back pocket when we exchanged my son.
I needed to gather as much information as possible on the future First Lady.
I cloned her phone during my visit with my vegetable of a wife and returned it to Kiyah’s grandmother in the Ladies’ Lounge.
I was damn near kicking my feet when I realized how deeply connected Kiyah was.
Meeting Felicity Baker was the confirmation I needed that Kiyah was the one.
Marcus and Felicity Baker were as wealthy as they came and frequently mingled with the powers to be at the top of the political food chain.
Having their financial support and backing in the future could be beneficial.
The gift didn’t stop giving there. Kiyah was the daughter of none other than Jonathan Baker, a prominent and philanthropic lawyer who made a name for himself as one of the best personal injury lawyers in the country.
He far transcended the title of “ambulance chaser” with his prowess, and it’d been rumored that he’d ended attorneys’ careers when he outfoxed them in the courtroom.
Kiyah Baker had it all—looks, intellect, humor, old money connection, and despite how Felicity referred to Kiyah as her little wayward black sheep of the family, it wouldn’t take much to course correct. Or… so I thought.
I used my resources to run an extensive background check on Kiyah and discovered she was married.
Not only was she married, but married to her stepbrother, Grant, and from how Felicity kept saying Kiyah could use a gentleman like me in her life, one could deduce the marriage was a dirty little secret.
But why? Why would they keep a seven-year marriage under wraps?
In the grand scheme of things, the why didn’t matter.
The only thing that mattered was Kiyah’s marital status changing from married to single.
I needed to test the waters, and I thought that visiting Baker Personal Injury the Nori-sexual confirmed.
Kiyah’s husband arrived not too long after, looking like he was ready to kick ass and take names.
I assumed one of his blabbermouth siblings spilled the beans of my arrival.
My conversation with Grant did not go as I intended because, for the first time in my life, I felt slightly intimidated.
He rattled me easily as he picked me apart.
It was as if he had X-ray vision and could see right through me and my nefarious plans.
He would not let go of his wife without a fight.
I left my interaction with Grant with a newfound determination to get what I wanted… a new wife and mother for my son.
Laughter drew my attention to the front entrance.
Kiyah stood out amongst the sea of people, and my hatred for Grant Baker magnified tenfold.
I hated feeling small in his presence. I hated that he had her first, and I especially hated how he discreetly pulled her close and whispered something in her ear that left a permanent smile on her face.
The sun-weathered clan was escorted to a reserved section of the upscale restaurant that offered a direct view of my target while keeping me primarily out of view.
I savored my drink while I watched Grant and Kiyah’s interactions.
My jaw clenched when he pulled out her seat.
The dork, Kieran, protested that they were “buddies,” and Grant had to pull out his chair, too.
Grant shot him a stern look but eventually relented when the drunk toddler refused to sit otherwise.
For the next few minutes, I watched the couple scrutinize the dinner menu while shooting each other knowing glances.
Kiyah’s bedroom eyes are enough to make me want to turn her into a widow. Speaking of… I’ve just been spotted.
I raised my glass to Grant and prepared myself for a face-off.
If I’m lucky, he’ll punch me in the face and spend the weekend in jail.
When Grant sat across from me, I gave him my best campaign smile. According to a survey, my smile was comforting and trustworthy.
It’s almost tragic how a slight curve of the lips and a flash of teeth can earn so much blind loyalty.
“Grant, what do I owe the pleasure?”
“It’s Mr. Baker,” he reminded me with a seriousness that couldn’t be missed.
“My mistake,” I apologized delicately, hoping I kept the bite of frustration out of my tone.
“You seem to make a lot of those these days.”
My brows tilted in mock confusion. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard what the fuck I said. What the hell are you doing here?”
“I’m enjoying a quiet evening to myself. Well, at least I was before you bulldozed over here and interrupted my meal.”
“Bullshit,” he replied.
I leaned back against the booth’s leather cushion and draped an arm across the back of the booth.
“Then tell me why I’m here, Mr. Baker.”
I maintained a neutral expression as he fought with himself not to be predictable and accuse me of stalking.
I was, but the idea that a soon-to-be grieving husband and single father who was running for governor of Texas was using his downtime to stalk a spoiled, privileged, rich girl who traveled the world on daddy’s dime was implausible.
I would beat the allegation with flying colors; he knew it, too.
I tensed when he smirked.
“If I had to guess, it was the aged whiskey.”
I snorted.
“Do you enjoy your spirits, Grant?”
There’s no need to answer. We both know the answer to that.
I read a text from Kiyah to Grant on the evening of their sister’s rehearsal dinner. She was practically begging him to stop drinking because they had a full day of drinking the next day.
I may have embellished. I wouldn’t say she was begging, but she was nagging.
“G, are you sure you should have another drink?”
“Chill out, Ki. I’m celebrating. Plus, I have to be prepared to write Dad a check on Sunday. Be honest with me, Kiyah. How much am I on the hook for?”
“*Shrugging emoji*”