Cannon’s in the conference room next door when I pick up my phone and find Holly’s contact—not that it’s hard to find since it’s number one in my favorites. Maybe that’s why Cannon’s been pissy lately. He knows he’s been displaced.
It rings twice before she picks up.
“Crey?”
Relief slides through me at the sound of her voice. “Hey, baby.”
“Hi. Can I call you back? I’m sort of . . . busy at the moment.”
I hear voices in the background, and she must have her hand over the phone because I hear her shushing someone in a muted tone. The relief I feel fades.
“Holly? Is everything okay?”
“It’s fine. Everything’s fine. Can I call you back in a couple hours?”
Her voice sounds strained, and there’s no way I believe her everything’s fine line.
“Something’s wrong. What is it?” I demand.
“I can’t really talk now, but I’ll tell you later.”
I force down the urge to push her to tell me what the hell is going on. “Call me anytime. I love you, Holly.”
“’Bye, Crey.”
She hangs up, and it isn’t lost on me that she doesn’t say she loves me back.
I’m not sure why I’m here, but for some reason, when I left my lawyers’ office, I walked to the Rose Club at the Plaza instead of back to my penthouse. I shrug off my overcoat and hang it on the back of the velvet bar stool.
When the bartender heads my way immediately, which isn’t surprising because the service here is impeccable, I say, “Bushmills 21, please. Three fingers.”
“Yes, sir.”
He moves away, reaching for the bottle and a glass, and I ease onto the stool and think about the last time I was here. Jesus, fuck. So much has happened since then.
The night I met Holly, I was sitting on one of the low couches in the corner, avoiding all human interaction, and most certainly avoiding a family dinner that would turn into my uncle berating me for every single goddamn thing I’ve ever done in my life.
Christmas Eve a year ago, after my sister begged, I agreed to go to my aunt and uncle’s and pretend to be a family. Over perfectly cooked duck and way more scotch than he should be allowed to imbibe, my uncle unleashed a tirade about my ineptitude at business before shifting to highlight the failures in my personal life.
The final straw was his muttered comment about the indignity of having to share a last name with me. My aunt blanched, but rather than wade into the fray, she only reached for another glass of wine. Even when I was a kid, she never said a word against my uncle.
I stood, apologized to my sister for being unable to keep up the pretense of family, and walked out.
This past Christmas, I refused to attempt the mockery of a family holiday again. Holly was the cure to my boredom, and to the thoughts of my less-than-ideal family situation.
When the bartender slides my drink across the smooth wood, I wrap my fingers around the glass and move away from the bar. As I settle back into my corner, I smile as the memory of Holly strutting into the bar floods my mind.
Damn. She looked just as gorgeous as she looked out of place. Short skirt, jacket too thin to possibly keep her warm, and cowboy boots. She tossed her wild mane over her shoulder, which I now know is from her crazy stage hair, and scanned the bar like she owned it. Even as her clothes screamed I don’t belong, her attitude yelled But I don’t care. It was that attempt at confidence and bravado that captured me first.
Well, that’s a lie. It was her sexy-as-hell hair, lush tits, and perfectly rounded ass—and then it was her forged confidence with the underlying hint of vulnerability.
Everything about her, even the way she stood, threw out the vibe that she was trying to be strong but needed an even stronger hand to guide her. When I saw another man move in to take a shot, I acted without thinking—something I rarely, if ever, did before her.
I stalked over and claimed her as mine.
I can still remember, almost verbatim, what she said when she finally threw down her proposition after all the innuendos and flirting.
“I came here to find a hot guy who looked like he could handle himself, and see where the night takes us.”
I mean, really, what does a man say to that except grab her by the hand and drag her back up to her hotel room? Because that’s exactly what I did.
The memory slips away when a shadow falls onto the purplish-blue color of the light on the table in front of me. I look up to find Greer.
“Don’t they keep you chained to your desk until midnight every night?” I ask with a smirk.
My sister’s smile doesn’t stretch as far across her face as it used to. She looks at her watch. “I know, right? Hell, Crey, I haven’t gotten out this early in months. And it’s all because I can’t work on the project you’ve got everyone else locked down on. Sometimes conflicts of interest are a wonderful thing.”
I check my watch and hate the fact that my little sister thinks that getting out of work at eight thirty is early.
“You don’t need that job, Gree.” The nickname is one left over from the little pieces of her childhood I got to witness during breaks from boarding school.
She rolls her eyes, drops her briefcase on the floor, and plops into the seat across from me. “I’m not living off your money. Besides, it’s not like I’m going to be at the sweatshop forever. A few years will be enough to get me a job in-house, and then I’ll be living the dream.”
I think of the legal department at Karas International and how hard they’re always working. “You realize the grass isn’t always greener, right?”