It had become impossible, in fact, to maintain any form of detachment. I’d become accustomed to ignoring our looming end, a constant presence that took up a dark space in my heart. But I happily pretended as if it wasn’t silently waiting to be acknowledged.
Pretending felt good.
Being with me had proven to be as easy as I’d promised, and she was happy. And her happiness made me happy, the infectious feeling fuel for my denial. Neither of us had broached the subject of our status, maintaining the front that there were still no strings, exclusive or not. But both of us knew we were in trouble. Whether it was because she had feelings for me or because she was worried I did remained to be seen. And I’d rather live in ignorance in order to keep her than to uncover that particular truth.
It was a trait I shared with my mother, it seemed.
The uncovering of my mother’s secret turned into a massive excavation, resulting in horrifying discoveries. The noncompete in the wholesale contract she’d signed was a five year deal, one that Dad had been filling from the greenhouse unbeknownst to any of us. I’d thought it strange he’d taken to the occasional delivery, citing back or knee pain as a reason to drive rather than dig. But I couldn’t have guessed he was delivering our crops to Bower. Of course, I’d never had a reason to be suspicious before now. Per the contracts, the shop could not gross two hundred thousand dollars in a calendar year, or we would have to either cease business or give the remaining profit to Bower. There was an escape hatch, a clause that said we could buy ourselves out of the contract.
The purchase amount: two million dollars.
Marcus might have been able to pay it had he not sunk all his money into saving the shop. The clause didn’t specify profit, of which there was none—all of the money we’d made in the last few months went straight back in to pay off the debts accrued during the shop’s downturn, with no small thanks to our horrible old accountant. Marcus had a lawyer friend, Ben, who’d taken us on, and the two of them were knee deep in the process of determining the legitimacy of the claim and running through our finances—a complex process involving a decade of improperly filed paperwork, invoices, and tax returns.
Either way, we had a minute before we had to close Longbourne’s doors or turn over every penny we’d made. Which, as noted, was already gone.
In the meantime, it was business as usual. But we’d have some big decisions to make soon, and none of us had a good feeling about it.
I pulled the delivery van to a stop in the service bay of the Plaza, chatting with Charlie, one of the dock managers, about the event everyone was talking about—Natasha Felix’s twenty-first birthday party.
Longbourne had put together the centerpieces, a few garlands, and the table display for the banquet portion of the evening, the “family” dinner that consisted of a cool three hundred guests at five hundred per head. Lila had planned this event, plus transportation for a hundred of those people to Noir, one of the hot nightclubs in town, which the Felix estate had rented out for the night. And it only cost them half a million dollars.
Chump change.
Charlie and I shook hands before I got to work, hauling arrangements out of the back and onto carts, which the staff transported into the venue. Lila’s interns waited with instructions to set up the centerpieces, and I would get the table display and garlands in place. A couple hours was plenty of time, thanks to Tess’s stellar organizational skills. She’d boxed, labeled, and color-coded everything, leaving me instruction sheets in triplicate.
The second I walked into the banquet hall, I saw her. As was her custom for evening events, she was in all black, the deepest, darkest of blacks against the cream of her skin. The pantsuit was tailored to fit her body in exact proportions—the V of her lapels, the bend of her waist, the flare of her jacket, the long, straight length of her pants that made her legs impossibly long. Her hair, which she usually wore up at events, was down and shining in waves like a starlet from the golden age.
When she saw me, she smiled in a stretch of red lips, sending an intern off with a word and striding in my direction. Without thought, I moved to meet her. There was nowhere else to go.
She kissed me, or I kissed her—I couldn’t tell and didn’t care. All that mattered was that we were kissing, brief and delicate as it was. When she leaned back, her gray eyes sparked like flint, bright and hot and lovely.
“What can I do for you?” I asked, my voice low and rough.
She hummed, watching her hand as it trailed down my shirt. “So many ways to answer that question. But let’s start with the flowers.”
I kissed her nose. “If we must.”
“Sadly, we must. But if you’re up for a late night—” She froze, her eyes flicking behind me.
I heard her laughter and knew exactly who was there. Turning confirmed that Natasha Felix stood behind me, tall and blonde and beautiful in that contrived way only achieved by makeup artists and plastic surgeons.
Judging by the way the man at her side looked at Lila and the proprietary way Natasha hooked his arm, I could only assume this was Brock.
He was handsome, I’d give him that. Strong jaw, cool eyes, easy smile. Rich and confident, the kind of guy who walked into a room and drew the attention of everyone in it.
Stupid fuckbag. He had no idea what he’d had in her—and bully for me.
I turned fully, straightening my spine and drawing back my shoulders to flex the extent of my height and breadth on him. I wasn’t even ashamed to posture so blatantly.
I wanted him to know who the bigger man was. The better man.
But Natasha laughed again, a disdainful sound, drawing herself a little closer to Brock the Cock.
“Wait, you’re not telling me you’re fucking the gardener, are you?” Cruel was her laugh as she glanced up at Brock.
He eyed me with challenge and an air of disbelief as he took stock of my appearance. Size aside, I was dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, not willing to mess up my good clothes, which were in a garment bag in the van, to haul up centerpieces.
Brock didn’t seem impressed.
But Lila, ever the professional, smiled and stepped around me. “Not that it’s any of your business, but yes. The bar is over here, already set up and ready. Shall we?”
She swept her hand in the direction of said bar, behind which was waiting a bored bartender on his phone. The minute he saw her glaring in his direction, he straightened up, tugging his coat to straighten it.
But neither Brock nor Natasha moved. Their gazes fixed on me.
“Kash Bennet,” I said shortly, extending my hand to Brock in a gesture of good will, for Lila’s sake.
They looked down in unison. He hesitated, and I didn’t know if it was because he thought me beneath him or because he was just so fucking amused at the circumstance that he figured me for a joke.
I wondered if he’d think a black eye was funny. I sure as hell would.
Brock shrugged Natasha off and took my hand in an exaggerated clap and a squeeze that was too hard. I returned the gesture forcefully enough to feel his bones gather.
“Not every day I get to meet the guy fucking my ex,” he said with a false smile and hard eyes.
Lila stiffened next to me, insult on her lips—I could feel it. But for the sake of her job, she kept her mouth shut. Fortunately, I wasn’t bound by the same laws.