Chapter 1
One
3 years later
“What amI supposed to do? When I logged in last night, I had three thousand notifications calling me a bitch and telling me to go off myself!”
I closed my eyes briefly as the anxious young starlet continued to vent on my computer screen. She had gone on a late-night show and, unscripted, regaled her unimpressed audience with a story of how she had turned down her first boyfriend’s marriage proposal because he had given her a diamond ring instead of one with alexandrite. This morning, an article had gone live titled, LET THEM EAT CARTIER.
The actress was crying now, and despite her oblivious diva status, I felt a surge of sympathy. She wasn’t much older than a child, and nobody liked being bullied—not even rich, preternaturally pretty young women who were given almost every opportunity to succeed.
“Sweetie,” I said. “Don’t cry. It’s really not that bad. They don’t even know you. Why do you care?”
I wasn’t usually this familiar with clients, but I felt terrible for this young girl who was likely feeling trapped and panicked. I knew well what that was like, and nobody had sweetied me—no matter how much I wished they would.
“I don’t know,” she said, her voice wet with tears.
The door creaked open. A large shadow obliterated part of the light coming in.
Henry.
Irritation flickered through me, which I quickly suppressed.
After getting married, I condensed my once bustling PR firm to the select clients who backed my husband’s business. Henry insisted that this carefully curated list would demonstrate our united front and that managing fewer clients would ultimately benefit our family goals.
No one had ever accused me of not being a team player, and I’d do anything for our family. Winding my company down in favor of working from home allowed me to focus on growing our family—except it had been three years, and there were no children to grow. Instead of letting it dampen my spirits, I had flung myself into work and didn’t like when Henry casually interrupted my calls. These high-profile clients paid more than my previous clientele and expected my undivided attention.
“Okay,” I said soothingly, glancing in my husband’s direction. This time, I worked to keep my voice professional, conscious of my audience. “Calm down. Here’s what we’re going to do. You’ll post an announcement on your social media that you’re stepping back for a while because you realize you still have much to learn about tone and privilege. Don’trespond to any of the comments. Find a charity—preferably one with good optics—and donate to them. Then we’ll organize a press junket for your upcoming film to wash all this out.”
“Really?” she asked, with the full-throated skepticism only a cynical twenty-year-old could convey.
“Really. Just don’t say anything else. When it comes to news, people have the attention span of a dust mite. As long as you don’t fan the flames, they’ll shift targets within a week.”Or less.
“Well, I have been wanting to try out this new wellness retreat…”
“Great,” I said. “Do that. Give me their name and social media handles, and I’ll see if they’ll give you a discount for a shoutout on Instagram.”
“Oh my god, thank you,” she trilled. “Thank you so much.”
“I have to go,” I said. “But have your agent call me if you run into any problems.”
I ended the video call and turned to face my husband.
He was tall—that was usually the first thing people noticed about him. That, and his piercing eyes and cold, unsmiling demeanor. He looked like a fortress: a solid, unfeeling wall of a man. Waiting for me to get off the phone had done nothing to uplift his mood. Patience wasn’t one of his virtues.
I smiled brightly. “Hello, darling. What can I do for you?”
Henry didn’t return the smile. “When I sent the maid to check on you twenty minutes ago, she said you were holed up in here, busy gossiping.”
I strongly doubted Jenna had said any such thing. She liked me. Most of my husband’s staff did. I remembered their birthdays and their children’s names and quietly parceled out bonuses and small gifts from my account to sweeten the sting of Henry’s ill temper. Most likely, she told him I was on the phone, and he decided to embellish her report.
“I’m sorry,” I said, because as I always tell my clients, apologizing first is best. “I was on the phone with a client and must not have heard her knock.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t keep the door closed,” he said.
I looked around the office. Like the rest of the house, it was luxurious, but I had opted for function over frippery here. It had to look professional on camera when I had Zoom meetings with clients, so I had arranged for a wall of hardwood bookshelves filled with carefully sourced antique clothbound books. “Perform whatever womanly touches you must with the furnishings,” Henry had told me shortly after our wedding. “It’s like a mausoleum in here.”
I had redone the house in Hollywood glam, with everything white and gilt. When the sun was pouring into the rooms of his estate, the light reflecting off all that brilliance could be blinding. Maybe there’s something self-referential in that, I thought. My husband would also like to be a brilliant, shining beacon who forces others to turn away.
When we first met, my eyes were wide with hopes of starting a family with this man. He already had two sons from a previous marriage. I had envisioned them as two towheaded boys who would love me as much as they would love the future children Henry and I brought into this world.
Far from being the angel-faced young boys I had expected, both Xander and Jasper turned out to be grown men. With expressions of hostility firmly etched on their faces, they resembled a pair of Elgin Marbles. It was painfully clear Henry had told his sons very little about me and equally clear they resented him for remarrying. They thought I was a gold digger.
After our wedding, Henry became unceremoniously distant. He frequently went away on business trips and rarely took the time even to say goodbye. These days, it felt like he was always going to conferences and meetings abroad.
His seemingly callous and impersonal responses were also extremely worrying. I wanted to start a family, but how could we do that if we barely spent time together on the same continent, let alone in the same room?
Our whirlwind courtship had left me dizzy, but not as dizzy as his increasing absences. I knew he was busy—I respected it in the beginning because I valued my independence and career—but it quickly got lonely, especially after shrinking my mid-size firm to a home office, a few select clients, and a virtual assistant.
I missed those early days of our relationship when I used to believe Henry was merely blunt, an aftereffect of being a businessman. I thought I could help him the way I fixed things for my clients.
Not everything could be fixed.
“You’re right,” I said belatedly. “These old walls muffle everything. I suppose I can leave the door open when I’m not taking a call.”
A subtle grimace. No matter how peripheral, he didn’t like any references to his age. Or perhaps he felt like I was attempting to defy him.
I sidled closer, smoothing down the tweed Louis Vuitton skirt. “Did you need my help with something?”
“Xander is coming to visit.”
My smile faltered. “What?”
“His last game wasn’t far, and he had a break in his schedule.” His delivery of this was wooden as if he couldn’t care less.
Xander was Henry’s firstborn and a ruthless hockey player in the NHL. Seeing clips of him out on the ice, one got the impression that he was doing his very best to send everyone to hell. With his tousled black hair and brooding green eyes, he looked like a Greek god forged from stone. Or more appropriately, the god of war.
Once upon a time, we had a decent relationship. Then the tide turned abruptly, and he turned against me with it. I’d never forget the way Xander glowered at me before abruptly leaving his father’s wedding. He wore an unexplained mien of betrayal that I couldn’t shake even years later. Furious. Hateful. Cold. I imagined for some of the players he faced down, that look was the last thing they saw before he slammed them against the glass.
“Oh,” I said in a forcibly bright tone as I tried to put the violent images and the frisson of unease out of my mind. “Well, that’s nice. When is he coming to visit?”
“Tomorrow,” Henry said bluntly. “So, get Jenna off her ass. This place is a mess.”
I bristled but shoved the feeling down. I’d rather conserve my energy to prepare mentally. This was Xander’s first visit after he cut me out of his life. It’d be a lie not to admit that his hurtful decision left a gaping hole in my heart that I hadn’t been able to heal. Things had never been the same after he walked out.
“Tomorrow,” I repeated forcefully, mentally listing items I needed to accomplish before his arrival. Arrange for the staff to air out Xander’s old room. Stock our big industrial freezer with things he would eat. Organize a welcome home dinner.
“The eyes of his fan club will be glued to us during the visit. Don’t do anything to embarrass me while he’s here,” were Henry’s parting words.
With a final sneer, he slammed the office door closed with a resounding thud that was echoed by my heart.
I became a one-woman welcome committee over the next twenty-four hours. Xander liked whiskey, so I ordered a case of Cabernet Sauvignon with a structured tannin profile. The notes of cherry and leather would supposedly appeal to any whiskey aficionado. I paid extra to have it arrive early and told our chef we’d have filet mignon for dinner tomorrow night, along with green beans almondine, and glazed carrots. Dessert would be a peach cobbler paired with a Vidal ice wine from Niagara. I’d found a dusty bottle in the cellar, possibly a gift from one of Henry’s clients. The sweet, strong wine would help ease the tension I anticipated. Or so I hoped.
I Googled Xander off and on throughout the day. He didn’t have an active social media presence beyond videos and stills of his games. There were a few photos of him: the obligatory shirtless gym selfie to show off his toned physique, a craft beer at the beach, and another of him buttoned into a designer suit that looked as if it could barely contain his massive frame. There was a noticeable lack of women in the photos. Henry hadn’t said if Xander would be bringing a girl home. Going off his socials, it didn’t seem like it.
I wondered if I should ask Jenna to set up an extra chair, just in case.
Between arranging dinner and overseeing the deep cleaning of the house, I dealt with another one of my clients. This one was a comedian who had responded very poorly to his audience’s heckling.
By “very badly,” I mean he had thrown the microphone at an audience member’s head.
“I’m a comedian,” he kept saying. “Part of being a comedian is being edgy.”
“How is throwing a microphone at someone’s head edgy?”
“It’s avant-garde,” he said, not budging. “Like Gallagher.”
“The guy who smashed the watermelons?”
That pissed him off. Unlike the actress from earlier, he didn’t want to apologize or take time for some introspection at a pricey wellness retreat. I honestly wasn’t sure what he expected from me as his publicist. I could do a lot of things, but I couldn’t clap my hands and undo a concussion.
I saw Jenna approaching and shifted my cell phone to the other hand. This call had already gone on for a lot longer than it should have. Then again, if everyone who made mistakes simply said sorry and moved on, I wouldn’t have a job.
“All right,” I said, as much to Jenna as to the client. “Well, maybe we can say that you meant to gently toss the microphone to an audience member, to put them on the spot. As a joke. But the stage lights were hot, and you lost your grip?—”
He gave an angry squawk, which I ignored.
“Why don’t you draft your version of events, and we can send it to one of the papers asking for your version of what happened?” I’d have to research them all and see which of them had done the least unflattering report of his behavior. They’d be the least likely to stretch the truth to his disadvantage. “I’ll call you tonight. Yes, Jenna?” I asked, hanging up with relief.
“Mrs. Maxwell, I finished the bedrooms and the front hall, and the grocery delivery just came. Everything’s been put into the fridge and the pantry.”
“Wonderful. Great work.” There was an odd look on her face. “Is there something else?”
She hesitated. “Mr. Maxwell had most of Xander’s old things boxed up and put in the attic a few years ago. His room’s, um, empty.”
“Oh.” I frowned. How untapped could his room look? “What about pictures? Or he must have posters on the walls.”
She shook her head. “There’s nothing in there other than a bed and a nightstand. Mr. Maxwell had me remove all the posters and pack away any photos of Xander.”
I suddenly realized I hadn’t seen any photos of Xander in this house. Odd. “Why would he do that?”
Jenna shrugged.
“Bring a box of his things down from the attic,” I murmured unsurely. Xander might be more upset about us going through his things a second time. He was cagey when we first met, seemingly shocked that I’d looked into something as simple as his dining choices. I couldn’t imagine his rage for going through his personal belongings.
On second thought, I could.
When I first met him, Xander was in college and too old for the usual ground rules set by parental figures. I tried to befriend him instead. Not a difficult task to accomplish since I admired him for his endless dedication to hockey, how he looked out for his younger brother, and his resilient devotion to his mother’s health.
Xander’s maturity was so evident that it never occurred to me to treat him as anything but an equal, and I was over the moon when he claimed I was one of his closest friends. Our interactions weren’t a farce on my end; Xander was the only person I counted on to help me navigate the complicated parts of Henry’s life.
Everything fell apart out of the blue. Xander started doubting my intentions to marry his father, and his friendship turned into distrust. I didn’t understand what I did wrong and felt the carpet had been yanked out from under my feet.
As I ate dinner alone that night, I had plenty of time to contemplate Jenna’s words. She was right about Xander’s room. The spacious bedroom looked like an expensive white cell, with a king-sized bed draped in Egyptian cotton sheets taking center stage. I could still see lighter patches on the walls where posters and medals had once hung.
My god, it was depressing. I wasn’t even going to sleep in there, and it made me feel sad for him.
He was going to hate it.
He was going to hate me…for the second time.
I can handle this, I told myself. I repeated the thought later that evening when Henry rolled into our room past the respectable hour of the night.
I thought about it again while clipping mint—a smell he’d found pleasing in the past—and putting the vases of aromatic greenery in Xander’s empty, musty room in a last-ditch attempt to inject some life and color into the space.
I was still thinking about it when I heard a heavy series of knocks on the door that suggested a certain level of self-assurance.
The prodigal son returns, I thought, wondering why Jenna wasn’t getting the door. I belatedly remembered that I had sent her off to the local bakery to pick up tonight’s dessert.
In bare feet, I padded to the door down the long, cold marble hallway. I could see my stepson’s blurred shadow in the beveled sidelights adorning both sides of the heavy doors. I pulled the door open and found myself at eye level with his chest. He was wearing what appeared to be an old band T-shirt and filled out his distressed jeans in a way that seemed downright indecent. The old fabric of his shirt strained at the seams when his arms shifted impatiently, adjusting the duffel slung over his shoulder.
Like his father, Xander was a large man with a tall, muscular frame, but playing hockey professionally had given his body a new definition. I had a glimpse of it in the gym selfie, but it was different in person. A photo couldn’t loom over you like this, taking up space in a way that felt like a threat. A photo didn’t give off bestial heat and the sharp, distinctive scent of sandalwood.
I felt my face heat. His green eyes sparked with an intensity that seemed to burn, even as it left me feeling frozen inside. It felt like he could read my mind, and I resolutely kept my eyes on his face, determined not to let them drift. A humorless smile tilted at the corners of his full, chiseled lips.
“Xander,” I said, forcing a brittle smile, suddenly feeling bone tired from my busy day. “It’s so good to see you.”
“Jordan.” His voice was deep, resonant, and came right from the chest I was forced to look at.
The way he lingered on my name sent off little alarm bells for some reason. I took a step back, and he was quick to close the distance. My stomach plunged as I tilted my head back.
Oh, God. I could handle my clients. I could handle a three-course dinner. I could even handle my husband.
But something told me I couldn’t handle Xander Maxwell.