“What in the hell are you doing here?”

  I jolt at the familiar voice, surprised to be so oblivious in a place where I’m usually aware of my surroundings. Holden strides across the empty street toward me without looking, as if there’s no such thing as traffic or cars.

  It takes my brain a few seconds to shake loose my initial thought—what a striking image he paints.

  He’s a juxtaposition against the destitution surrounding him. His tailored pants and crisp white shirt with a blazer, no doubt custom-made. His jaw is flexed, his hair perfectly in place—he’s casually confident in a place that’s nothing more than a calamity.

  I dislike him. Intensely. Unfortunately, almost as much as my body seems to want him.

  “Last I checked, I don’t have to run where I go or what I do by you.”

  “Then maybe where you go or what you do shouldn’t be here of all places.” He lifts his chin toward my Range Rover, parked a few feet behind me. “You’re lucky you still have rims and tires.”

  “Because you—the man who’s so new to this town—are the expert on this neighborhood, right?”

  He purses his lips and nods. “I know a thing or two about Fairmont, yes.”

  The comment throws me. What the heck would he know about Fairmont when he’s from California? “Where’s your car?”

  “I can take care of myself.” It’s all he says as he moves toward me with a quick glance of our surroundings before trying to take my cello case out of my hand without asking. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  I pull back on my case. “Thanks, but I can handle it myself.”

  “Of course you can. Until you can’t. I’m the nicest person you’re going to meet in these parts and that’s saying a lot.” He tries to take the case again.

  I may find a slight bit of joy when I let go of the case the same time that he tugs, and he stumbles backward. Oopsie.

  Holden glares at me, impatience emanating off of him like the clean scent of his cologne. “Bass? Cello? Dead body?”

  I stare after him, not sure if I enjoy him being chivalrous or despise him more for it. “If it’s not yours, does it really matter?”

  “Will you just get in your car and do as you’re told?” he demands.

  “Do as I’m told?” I laugh. “Don’t look now but Westmore’s rubbing off on you. For the record, Knight, I don’t take orders from anybody.”

  “Except from Rhett, right? Or from Chad? Let’s not forget your dad too. I mean…” He shrugs, his smirk taunting me to refute him.

  I want to throttle him. But I stand there like an indecisive pansy and that pisses me off even more.

  “Suit yourself then. No skin off my back.” He sets the cello case down on the oil-stained asphalt and starts to walk off just as a loud noise—a firecracker? A backfire? A gunshot? Something I don’t want to find the source of goes off farther down the block and reverberates its way toward us.

  I jolt in fear.

  Then freeze from the unknown.

  Then try to relax my muscles one by one, all while Holden stares at me with a look that’s equal parts annoyance and arrogance. You scared now? his eyes ask.

  Torn between showing my unease, obeying him, and holding my ground, I blurt out, “It’s a cello.”

  He stops and shakes his head. “Oh, so now you want to talk. Got it.”

  I hit the key fob so my liftgate opens as the two of us wage a battle of wills. I was having a good day—great, in fact—and now he’s here like a dark cloud on a sunny day.

  “Nope. I’m good. Thanks.” I go to pick up my cello case and trip over my own feet.

  “Give me the goddamn thing, will you,” he mutters and before I can gain my balance, he yanks it from my hand, strides the rest of the distance to my car, and places the cello roughly in the back. A siren wails close by, and Holden gives it a glance before looking back at me with raised eyebrows as if to say, See? “There you go. Now you can get out of here.” He points to the road to reinforce his words.

  With a clenched jaw, I open my driver’s side door but turn to face him. “This thing here.” I point from him to me and then back. “It’s called a working relationship. When we’re not at work, I’m just another person walking down the street who you have no say over. Got it?”

  His eyes blaze. “Got it. And when we’re in the office, you’re another employee walking down the hallway who I couldn’t give a shit about. Got it?”

  I hate you.

  As if he can read my mind, he smirks. “But that could be different, Sunshine.”

  “Stop calling me that.”

  “Your irritation with me says you’ve been considering my proposal.”

  “Nope. Not once.” It’s all I’ve thought about. “I’m not interested in your smoke and mirrors. Look here, Rowan, while I screw you handily over there.” I roll my eyes.

  “And yet the offer intrigues you.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “You’ve walked down the hall several times, stood outside my door, but haven’t come in. It does. The question is, what’s holding you back, Rowan?”

  “You.”

  “And for good reason.” He looks over my shoulder as someone passes by on the street.

  One minute he’s telling me to work with him and the next he’s agreeing he’s the reason I shouldn’t. “I don’t underst—”

  “A cello. And the wrong side of town. Not that I care, but I’ve got enough blood on my hands, and I’d rather not add yours to it.”

  What the hell does that mean?

  Get in your car and leave, Rowan.

  But it’s not that easy. My curiosity wins.

  “Then don’t add it. Go back to wherever your car is and leave me to mine.”

  “Ah yes, to you and your cello because classical music is such a formidable means of protection in these parts.”

  “Where I go it is,” I say. Shit.

  He nods. Lips pursed. Eyes searching. “And where do you go?”

  I hesitate. “The Sanctuary.”

  He gives a subtle nod and his eyes narrow. “The Sanctuary? As in that Sanctuary?” He points to the building down the block, and I nod.

  “Should I be worried about you?”

  “No, I—what do you mean? I don’t go there for me. It’s for others. I play for the women who live there. And—how do you know about the Sanctuary?”

  “I know Fairmont,” he says with a resolute tone that says, No more questions. He narrows his eyes. “What do you mean you play for them?”

  “The cello. I play it.”

  “The Westmore Women’s League pretends to give back. How touching.”

  “You’re an asshole.”

  He lifts a lone brow and smirks. “Again. Nothing new.”

  “And you’re wrong. My volunteering has nothing to do with that god-awful organization.” I grimace at the thought. “It’s called music therapy. Something for the women to get lost in for a bit. To feel without judgment. To … I don’t know.” Why do I feel stupid talking about this with him like it’s some misdeed?

  “So you come here, play some music, and then post your good deed all over your socials so everyone can see what a good human you are. Rich woman. Poor neighborhood. Don’t look now, but your god complex is showing.”

  “For the record, you don’t have to work at it—the me not liking you part. That just comes naturally.”

  His chuckle is low and even. “There are a lot of things that keep me up at night. Whether I’m liked or not isn’t one of them.”

  “Great. Always such a pleasure, Knight.” For a man who wants me out of here, he’s sure chatty.

  “Hmpf.” He nods but I can’t read his expression. “So she’s a model, a businesswoman, a musician, and charitable with her time. Quite the superficial combo.”

  “Music is … look, I want to be here,” I snap. Why do I feel the need to explain myself? “My intentions are genuine. Not that you have any experience with being that.”

  “You’re going to have to hit me harder than that if you’re trying to leave a mark.” He smirks.

  I’m so fed up with people—men—discounting me that I lash back. “What about you? What about you can I pick apart and question and criticize?”

  He holds his arms out. “Be my guest.”

  “On second thought, you’re not worth my time.”

  “You say that, but I’m all you can think about. You can admit it. I’m used to it.”

  “Hardly.”

  “And yet you’re still standing here.”

  “And yet you’re still standing here,” I mimic. “How does it feel knowing you were a person who was born to ruin others’ hopes and dreams?”

  “No, that part was taught to me.” Something flickers in the depths of his eyes—a cold, calculating chill—that I can’t read and hate that I actually want to.

  “Warning heeded.” I reach for the handle of the door to pull it closed but he puts his hand on it to stop me. “This? My being here? It’s for me. It’s to honor my gran. It’s not for social media clout or Westmore society consumption.”

  The muscle in his jaw flexes like he’s fighting the truth in my words. “We all have our reasons, don’t we?”

  It’s the look he gives me, that split second of hesitation before he closes my car door, that gives me pause.

  It’s the one that says he can’t quite figure me out.

  And the one I shoot him in return says I don’t want him to.

  THIRTEEN

  Holden

  “Ditch the exclusivity contract?” Rhett asks, his voice rising in pitch with each and every syllable. “You’re out of your fucking mind if you think Greatland will allow us to renege on our contract without repercussions, legal or otherwise.”

  “I’m sure Chad has some people who could help us get around those legal loopholes,” I say, causing Chad to sit up a little straighter as Rhett glares at him.

  Bet you didn’t know I knew that, now, did you?

  “But there’s no need to renege on anything. Greatland’s contract is about to expire. I see you’ve already had your lawyers draw up a new one to be signed. We’re going to hold off on that, explore other options and see what that nets us.”

  “We’re not going back on our word. End. Of. Story,” Rhett insists, his finger jabbing the table with each word for emphasis.

  “Our word isn’t binding since the contract will have expired by the time we’re set to make a decision. Besides, there’s something to be said about diversifying, Rhett. We can have more than one supplier for the same product. It’s called not putting all your eggs in one basket. I’m sure you’re familiar with the phrase.”

  “And there’s something to be said about being loyal to those who have been loyal to you over the years,” Rhett says.

  Ah. Yes. The good ol’ boys network. How could we forget the “I’ll scratch your back if you scratch mine” brigade? How about those boys helping to hide your financial fuckups in the process?

  Rowan’s been loyal to you, and you’ve screwed her over. How about you learn how it feels?

  With a measured nod, I take a slow look at each of the ten people seated at the conference room table. I wait for one of them to speak up and second Rhett’s opinion. Rowan’s head is down as she jots something on a piece of paper. Several others sit with their hands clasped on the table in front of them, clearly disassociating from having an opinion.

  I don’t like indifference. I don’t have to like someone’s stance, but take a fucking side, one way or the other.

  Then there’s Chad and his wavering expression as he looks from Rhett to Rowan and then back to me.

  Where does your loyalty fall, Chad?

  “Loyalty. Right. We wouldn’t want you to risk losing all of those kickbacks you’ve been getting from them, now, would we?” I say as I scribble a signature on a piece of paper Audrey slides in front of me. When I look up, Rhett has risen from his seat and stands across the room, glaring at me. “Please tell me that’s not what this is about. I’d like to think we make decisions based on fact and not getting unspoken things in return.”

  Rhett shakes his head ever so slightly, but his expression says it all. I’m right and I just called him on it in front of everyone. Curiosity fills his eyes, but I know he won’t voice the question he’s leveling me with in this room: How do you know that?

  You’ve made a deal with the devil, Rothschild. There’s no turning back now.

  The uncomfortable shuffling tells me a few others in this room get kickbacks as well.

  Rowan’s attention has been piqued. She knows her brother well enough to catch the nuance in his voice declaring that he’s not happy about something. In my periphery, I can see her studying her brother with confusion etched across her face.

  “Kickbacks? No,” Rhett says.

  Blowhard.

  “No? I don’t see lavish vacations and extra cash perks to the company CEO—you—stated anywhere in our contracts with Greatland. I mean … they are our aluminum supplier, not our travel agent, right?” I ask. It’s all conjecture at this point—no concrete proof yet—but my accountants are digging, and if it’s there like I’ve seen hints of it in my own data scraping, they’ll find it.

  That and Rhett’s sudden widening of his eyes are enough proof for me.

  Yep. Now everyone knows you’re on the take. What are you going to do about it, Rhett?

  “Fulfilling our agreement with Greatland is about staying loyal to a company who meets every demand that we make. Expedited schedule. Delay in schedule. Change in design,” he says, completely glossing over my accusation. “It’s about taking care of who caters to us when others won’t, and who hasn’t let us down in the decades we’ve been partnered together.”

  “But if you’ve never ventured outside of Greatland, then how do you know other contractors won’t surpass the expectations you’ve set … or become complacent with?”

  “They’re a solid supplier,” a man in the far corner says.

  “Joshua?” I ask. “From purchasing, right?”

  He nods, his fingers fidgeting endlessly with the pen in his hand. “Why fix what’s not broken?”

  And why pay for the product you’re taking out of here by the case every night and reselling?

  I meet his eyes and offer a tight smile. “You can pick up your final check in the HR department.”

  His eyes bulge as far open as his mouth falls. “Excuse me?”

  I lift my brows. “I don’t think I stuttered.” The murmurs and shifting around the room cease. I’ve got their attention. Perfect. “The door’s that way.”

  But I don’t lift my head to see his stunned expression. I don’t acknowledge the cursed protest on his lips. I don’t watch his sorry ass shuffle out of the room.

  “Would anybody else like to join Joshua?” I ask.

  “We’re not taking on new suppliers.” Rhett’s the first to speak as he rises from his seat and begins to pace the room. Agitated.

  My point has been made.

  “Big words from a man who is selling the keys to his castle,” I taunt.

  “Then maybe I yank those keys,” he threatens.

  I chuckle. It’s menacing and unforgiving and when I tilt my head, eyes pinning him still, his Adam’s apple bobs. “If that’s how you make deals—negotiate and then renege the minute things don’t go your way—no wonder this company is barely holding on.”

  “It’s not failing.”

  I lift a lone eyebrow, my smirk taunting. “Is this really the conversation you want to have? Right now? In front of everyone?”

  The muscle pulses in his jaw. How much do you like to play with fire?

  “Porter and I go way back,” he says of the owner of Greatland Aluminum. “His father goes way back with my father. And so on and so on. There’s history there. I don’t care who you are or where you come from, but TinSpirits is a family company. We pride ourselves on relationships. And we still will even after you sign on the dotted line.”

  “Way back.” I say the last two words out loud as I write them down and underline them forcefully for showmanship. The sound of my pen on the pad resonates around the room. “Got it. We’ll manage and run the company on the ‘way back’ premise. I mean, why change things, right?” There is no mistaking my sarcasm.

  “What’s your point, Knight?” he snaps at me.

  I lift my eyebrows and lean back in my chair as the rest of the room shifts in their seats. I hold Rhett’s glassy-eyed glare, knowing full well my slow-to-respond way infuriates him.

  I take even more time to let the silence eat at him.

  “Bird’s-eye view? Logistics are a nightmare. You’re losing money by paying higher taxes where your distribution center is. You’re ignoring green energy, which would be an investment up front but would cut costs in the long run. You’re disregarding untapped markets because you’re stuck in the past. Should I go on?”

  “When I win the election—”

  “Jesus Christ, Rothschild. Is the election going to guarantee their paychecks?” I ask, pointing to everyone around the table. “Clearly it will help you somehow, but no one here cares about you. Got it? Win or lose, we’re at the mercy of Greatland. They can screw us over and we wouldn’t have a leg to stand on.”

  “They won’t.”

  “But if they do, that loyalty you’ve fostered nets you nothing.”

  “So, big man, what’s your proposal? That we say ‘fuck loyalty’ and move from sub to sub every time one of them offers a cheaper price? Use them and abuse them until there are no more left because we’ve burned every bridge there is?”

  “Burning bridges isn’t my style.”

  “Then what is? Because I’m sure as hell trying to figure that out.” Rhett leans his ass against the windowsill and crosses his arms over his chest, clearly thinking he has the upper hand in this conversation.

  He’s played into my hands so easily.

  “It sure as fuck isn’t the ‘way back’ style.” I smile smugly, enjoying this little back and forth. “Your loyalty is blinding you. Greatland is controlling the cost. We have zero leverage for negotiations.”