His voice is shrill as he steps towards me, completely unaware of my unease. Or uncaring. He smiles widely, creating a creeping sensation across my skin.
“A delivery for you.”
I stand, retrieving the box from his sweaty hands, careful not to touch the over-imposing man. My stare shifts to Heath standing outside my office, lounging in the hallway.
He pushes away from where he perched against the receptionist’s desk, speaking low to an assistant. The icy rain outside our firm’s transparent walls begins to quicken, and when he looks up from his conversation with another one of our enamored law clerks, we lock eyes, our gazes stuck in place.
His brown hair looks nearly black against his newly-LA tanned skin. His mocha eyes never leave my face. And now we are caught in a staring contest—neither one of us daring to look away.
The splatters of the quickening thundershower match the beat of my suddenly pounding heart, and I find myself unable to turn, my ego freezing my feet, but something else—something hidden, darker…warmer driving a rhythm beneath my breast that is relentless.
Heath blinks—just once, taking a step towards me. I hold my breath…waiting, when, abruptly, tiny fingers tap my upper arm, pulling my scrutiny in a separate direction. I glance up, finding Steve’s curious eyes still staring back at me. He winks.
“I just need you to sign right here.” He holds out a clipboard and a pen, brushing my hand with the tips of his squirmy fingers. Holding my breath, I slip the utensil from his grasp, placing my impression on the paper.
I release the rest to Steven. But when I gaze back up to relocate Heath, the sophisticated asshole is gone, and in his place is the sinking knowledge that I can’t avoid him, can’t stay away from Heath Sparrow if I wanted to…
HEATH
I thought I loved LA. A part of me still does.
It’s only been a year since I’ve moved to the sunny West Coast and in the span of that time, my best friend and my brain-child of a reality TV show has taken off, garnered enough accolades and awards to drown in, plunging me into a celebrity cesspool of parties, pussy and pills and powder.
I’ve passed on the pills, played in the deep end of the pussy and plundered into the after-parties as if my life depended on it.
I left behind the steel of my New York City home and scoured the palm trees and Cali breeze. On a road to success that I’ve paved myself, I should feel on top of the world.
But Mr. Jim Beam in my glass tells another story.
It’s a crime that I’ve even come out tonight, considering the fact that I’ve been fighting to get my father’s firm’s affairs squared away all day and my balls are ready to freeze.
That is, until I see Violet Keats in the office. All warm hues and red hair.
I’ve tried to get her out of my mind. And I was almost successful. Until the delivery guy was directing a hard-on through his eyes at her curvy body, and I’d almost lost it, finally storming out of the office just to avoid turning the entire entity upside down.
I’d never been known for a tame temper.
That damned vice of mine flares up as I take a seat, joining my overly-excited sister who swings in my direction on her barstool as I sit, her breathy voice just a tad too high.
She smiles. Like the cat who ate the canary.
I know that goddamned smile. I groan.
“What, Mare?”
“I heard a rumor. The would-be bride won’t stop talking about it. Elsie apparently loves your cooking.” And I notice my sister squeak. Actually fucking squeak. “I know she would love for you to cater her and Brett’s joint Bachelor-Bachelorette party,” Marilyn starts to plea. “I just know it.”
I blink. “You mean… I would cook the food for the event?”
Marilyn smiles. “Unless you can give a good reason not to.”
My shoulders slump as she stammers. “What the—what the hell, Mare? I’m sure I can give you twenty. For one: I’m not a professional chef. Two: I’ve got a huge court case consuming what’s left of my life, and the man my clients want to prosecute…”
“Is the groom’s father. The bride’s father-in-law,” Marilyn finishes. “We all know the story. Brett’s dad. Chris Jackson. Fraud. Phony bank accounts. Embezzlement.” Marilyn smiles sadly. “Why do you think I’m throwing this party? In the middle of shooting my new season. It damn sure isn’t because I need another distraction. It’s because I know that they do… Brett and Elsie.”
Her eyes grow glossy. “The whole world’s looking at them. They’re the talk of the town. I just thought it would be nice…” She looks straight at me. “If their best friends in the world gave the town something else to talk about. At least, for now.” She frowns. “And since when did dad’s clients turn to yours?”
She glances up at me, her clear irises shining. “Heath Donovan Sparrow, you sneaky little slut, you.” Marilyn practically whispers at the nape of my neck. “Don’t think I don’t know what’s going on here…”
I can feel the heat of her stare on the middle of my face, but I ignore it… just like I ignore the implication of the question she’s posing. I feign ignorance.
“What’s going on?”
“Yeah,” she reasserts. “Between you and Violet, muneca.”
The Spanish term for “doll” doesn’t lessen the accusation in her suspicious voice. In fact…it sharpens it, heightening my senses.
At this point, it’s safe to say that Marilyn knows me better than I do. But if I tell her about Violet, who knows what will happen? The brunette powerhouse was unpredictable as it was. I’m tempted to snort at the thought…
Like brother, like little sister.
My sister—the incomparable Marilyn Daniels, screen siren extraordinaire—had all of her hard-headed older sibling’s Wild Child ways minus the Sparrow name, which she’d shed like a second skin at seventeen.
A walking felony with the fame and wealth to pull it off, her new starring role on the winter season of the TV show, The Hotel, was a scorcher… Made so by a fluke fire that happened on set after-hours and an on-set love triangle around a hot production assistant.
All of which were blamed on Marilyn, a rumor I’d taken to believing was true.
Subtly was never my sister’s style. Not one little bit, and as much as my younger sibling tries to play it cool, the way she searches my face for answers is anything but. Putting her off when she smells blood in the water is almost always the best bet. I order a second drink from the bartender.
“Christ, Marilyn,” I moan, almost believing myself. “Between Violet and me? You must mean the blatant hatred.”
“No,” she stresses, sitting on the leather barstool opposite me. “I mean the blatant heat.”
I stare, swinging on her. “There is no heat between that woman and me.”
“Oh, really?” she rolls off her tongue. “There’s been a five-alarm fire on your face every time her name comes up.”
I grind my teeth, grateful that no one at the office can tell. At least, not yet.
I was just learning my way around the firm, learning to navigate. Trying to save my father’s company from David King’s incompetence was a full time job. And I hadn’t exactly been ready to surrender any more ground to him than I already have.