6. Chapter 6
Chapter six
~DECLAN~
The thing about waking up alone is that it confirms what you already knew.
It's Monday morning, May fifth, and I'm standing on Fifth Avenue in front of the Shaw Entertainment Group's Manhattan offices with an annulment timeline in my calendar and the Tulum property brief under my arm, and I am not thinking about Darcy Madison.
I'm not thinking about the way she felt in my arms Saturday night.
I'm not thinking about the sounds she made.
And I sure as hell am not thinking about the fact that I woke up Sunday morning—the morning after my brother Quinn’s wedding—to an empty bed, a hotel room that still smelled like her, and a note on the nightstand with her phone number and eight words that made it very clear exactly where we stood.
In case you need this for the lawyer. —D
Not “call me.”
Not “I hope we can see each other again.”
Not “last night was incredible.”
Just a phone number and the reminder that this “matrimonial hiccup” of ours was simply a problem to be solved.
To be fucking fair, the note was efficient and professional. Under different circumstances, it’s exactly what I would have done.
Which is why it's been annoying me for the last six days.
And as far as being back in Manhattan goes, the weather has already taken a turn into spring, the city stuck in limbo between seasons, the sixty-eight-degree air no match for the sweltering heat that are my memories of Tulum.
But sixty degrees and sunny or not, today I’m dressed for war.
Tom Ford suit. Hermès tie. The Rolex my father gave me when I opened the New York office.
It’s my uniform, the attire of a man who has his shit together and is absolutely not thinking about the woman he accidentally married and then spectacularly fucked less than a week ago.
At least that’s what I tell myself when my driver opens the car door.
"Morning, Mr. Shaw."
“Antonio.” I nod, stepping out onto the sidewalk.
The Shaw Entertainment Group's New York headquarters occupies floors thirty-six through forty of a glossy glass-and-steel building that overlooks Central Park and about a dozen additional buildings that pale in comparison.
Technically, we’ve only been here two years, and in that time I've turned a risky—and sometimes not-exactly-above-board—nightclub expansion into a profitable operation that's on track to eclipse the LA office by Q4.
Because I'm very fucking good at my job.
Where I could be better is my ability to compartmentalize.
The agenda for today is simple—walk into that building, meet with my team, review the Tulum property acquisition one more time, and then call the annulment lawyer at two P.M. sharp.
And, most importantly…make Darcy Madison a footnote in the story of Declan Shaw—an erotic tryst that I keep to myself. A weekend that happened and then didn't.
Jaw grinding, body braced, I’m almost back to full, 100-percent, no-fucks-given capacity by the time the elevator arrives.
I step inside and hit the button for forty. The doors are closing when a hand shoots through the gap.
My executive assistant, Victoria Andrews, squeezes in with the harried energy of someone who's been awake since five A.M. handling problems.
“Glad you’re here,” she says, already pulling up her tablet. "We have a situation."
"Good morning to you too, Victoria."
"The new receptionist arrived early."
I blink. "And this is a situation because...?"
"Because I haven't had time to do the full orientation, and she's sitting at the desk right now probably terrified, and I need fifteen minutes to prep her on the phones and the scheduling system and the fact that you don't take calls before nine unless it's family or the Tulum seller."
The elevator climbs. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty.
"So prep her," I say.
"I'm trying, but I've been in back-to-back calls since six with the LA office because apparently someone—" she gives me a look, "—forgot to mention that we're pushing the opening timeline for the Tulum property pending final acquisition approval, and now the design team is spiraling."
"I didn't forget. I delegated."
"To whom?"
"You."
"When?"
"Just now."
We hit floor forty, and the doors open.
"Declan—"
"Fifteen minutes," I say, stepping out. "Prep her. I'll be in my office reviewing the Tulum brief. I won't even notice she's there."
Victoria sighs, displaying the long-suffering patience of someone who's worked for me for two years and has learned to pick her battles. "Fine. But she starts today, so please be nice."
"I'm always nice."
"You made an intern cry last month."
"She used a tongue-out emoji in a board presentation."
"It was a draft—"
"There are no drafts in this office. Only final products and learning opportunities."
The elevator doors close on Victoria's eye-roll, and I turn toward my office.
The fortieth floor is the executive suite—my office, the conference rooms, the reception desk that sits in the center of the floor like a command center.
Normally, our receptionist, Beatrice, sits there. A gray-haired powerhouse within Shaw Entertainment Group, she’s been managing executives since the Reagan administration.
At sixty-three, the woman has no equal within the company and she takes no shit from anyone.
But the person currently at the receptionist’s desk is definitely not Beatrice.
No. This woman is too dark-haired, too golden-eyed.
Too fucking attractive and sassy-mouthed for her own good.
Because the woman sitting at the desk is none other than Darcy Madison.
My body registers her before my brain does, locking into place.
She hasn't seen me yet.
She's too focused on the computer screen, frowning slightly as she tries to figure out the phone system. Clad in a cream blouse and navy pencil skirt, she’s the very picture of professionalism, her glossy dark hair pulled back severely into a twist I want to destroy with my hands.
I tell myself I'm having a stroke, that that’s the only explanation for what I’m currently seeing.
I tell myself I'm forty-seven years old and the stress of accidentally marrying someone has finally caught up with me. That I’m having a neurological event in the middle of my office.
But all of those explanations suffer a quick death when Darcy looks up.
Our eyes meet, and I watch—literally watch—as her pretty face cycles through an impressive range of expressions in approximately two seconds.
First surprise, then horror, then panic before settling on a forced neutrality that presses her apple-red lips into a thin line.
"Declan," she gasps.
Not Mr. Shaw. Not “sir.” Just my first name.
One word. Dripping with shock and way more seductive than it has any right to be.
"Miss Madison." I keep my voice level—barely. "I wasn't aware you were joining us today."
"I—" She glances at the computer screen, at me, at the elevator behind me like she's measuring the distance needed to leap to an exit in a single bound. "I applied two weeks ago. Through the standard channels. The listing said TSS Events, Inc. I had no idea—"
TSS Events, Inc.
Thomas Shaw Services.
The hospitality arm of the Shaw Entertainment Group, named after my late great father.
It’s the division I've been building for the Tulum property launch, the one that's been hiring aggressively for the last month.
"What position?" I ask, though I'm starting to have a very clear picture of exactly how this happened.
"Hospitality coordinator. And, um, part-time receptionist? It seems that the woman who is usually here—"
“Beatrice.”
“Yeah, Beatrice. Apparently, she had surgery and she’s in recovery. She had her gallbladder removed. Or her regular bladder. Or maybe it was her appendix…”
She’s babbling, and I watch her closer, enjoying the view.
She’s nervous. Darcy Madison is actually nervous.
And as much as I hate myself for this, I’m so turned on I can’t see straight.
I come back into my own head, tuning into the conversation.
“Anyway,” she exhales, “your assistant interviewed me last Tuesday. Hired me on the spot. I start today."
Last Tuesday.
Four days before Tulum.
Which means Victoria interviewed her, sent me a calendar note I didn't read because I was buried in acquisition paperwork, and hired the woman I would go on to accidentally marry three days later.
The universe has a sense of humor.
A terrible, Declan Shaw-screwing, vindictive sense of humor.
"I see," I say, rocking back slightly on my heels.
"I didn't know," she says quickly. “Jessica mentioned it, and the job listing didn't mention your name. Just the company. You never—at the wedding, you never mentioned where you worked, and I never asked, and—"
She stops, having the good sense to shut up.
If I had any good sense, I wouldn’t do exactly what I’m about to do. But apparently, I left all good sense back in that hotel room in Tulum.
"Conference room," I say. "Now."
"I'm supposed to stay at the desk—"
"Conference room, Miss Madison. We need to talk."
I don't wait for her to respond. I walk toward the glass-walled conference room at the end of the hall, and I hear her chair scrape and her heels click as she follows.
The conference room has floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Fifth Avenue and a table that seats twelve. I close the door behind us.
The glass walls mean anyone on the floor can see us, but they can't hear us, which is the important part.
When I finally turn to my new hospitality coordinator, she's standing near the door with her arms crossed, deciding whether to run or fight.
"Explain," I say, barely resisting the urge to tug at my collar.
The conference room is hot—unbearably so.
Or maybe that’s just me.
“I—" She swallows. “I was moving from Miami to…well, here, and I applied for a job. I interviewed. I got hired. I didn't know it was your company."
"You didn't think to ask?"
"Why would I ask? You were just— you were Quinn's brother. The best man. Some guy who punched a groomsman and argued with me about seating charts. You never mentioned what you did. I never mentioned what I was looking for. It didn't come up."
She's right.
It didn't come up.