“You’re standing here because you know you want what I’m offering. The new marketing plans. The ability to matter. All of it … but taking me up on my offer fucks up where your loyalty lies, now, doesn’t it?”

  “Why were you in Fairmont?” I ask, purposely shifting topics and voicing what I’ve wondered numerous times since last week.

  He wants answers from me. Well, I want answers from him.

  He pauses and stares at me, fingers steepled, muscle pulsing in his jaw like he’s contemplating how much to tell me. “I used to have family who lived there.”

  I don’t know what I expected him to say, but this wasn’t it. I never expected him to admit anything outside of business, so it takes me a second to find a response.

  “Used to?” I press for more information. The more I know about Holden, the more ammo I have to potentially use against him and even the playing field a bit. “So, what? You were just there on a casual stroll down memory lane?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Were you following me, Holden?”

  His dismissive snort is believable, but I have a feeling he’s capable of selling anything to anyone. There’s a half smirk on his lips. “I have better things to do than follow you.”

  “Just like I have better things to do than entertain the notion that you’re going to be majority owner of this place.”

  “The sooner you accept it, the easier it will be for you.”

  I have a feeling that when it comes to Holden Knight, nothing is easy. He gets off on this. The banter. The baiting. The battle.

  “You don’t own anything yet.”

  His looks at his watch and flashes a full-force grin at me. “Well, you’ve got forty-five-ish more days to try and stop me.”

  “Plenty of time,” I lie.

  “I welcome the challenge.” He lifts his hands. “The offer to work with me still stands though.”

  “Isn’t that what I’m doing already? Working with you?”

  “No. You’re trying to figure me out. You’re figuring how to undermine me at any turn. Hell, you just said it yourself that you’re trying to find a way to stop this deal from happening.”

  I smile. “At least we both know where the other stands.”

  “True, but you’ll see my way soon enough.”

  I snort.

  His face sobers. And just like that, the moment is lost. “Go home, Rowan. I have work to do.”

  “Oh, I’m dismissed, am I?”

  “You are,” he says, the playfulness from moments ago suddenly gone when he lowers his head and focuses on the screen of his laptop. “Oh, and don’t wear that top again.”

  “Excuse me?” I stop and look down at my fitted V-neck cashmere sweater.

  “It’s distracting.” He waves me away without looking up. “You make it hard to concentrate.”

  I stare at him with a disbelieving smile. Did he really just say that?

  I should be offended.

  I should be livid at being objectified.

  I should tell him to eat shit and die.

  But as I turn and walk down the hall, I grin, already thinking about the detour I need to make on the way home.

  A detour to the boutique where I bought this so I can buy one in every color available.

  The surefire way to get me to do something is to tell me not to.

  FIFTEEN

  Holden

  FIFTEEN YEARS AGO

  Clank. Click. Clank.

  “Hey, Simpson?”

  It still takes me a second to hear the name and respond to it. It’s weird. But I can still see the look on Mase’s face the first time he heard someone call me Holden Simpson. Pride. Joy. Belonging.

  The one moment made it all worthwhile, despite what a pain in the ass it’s been for me to hear it and respond to it.

  The funny part is how easily I was able to make the transition for others to call me it. No one questioned it. No one stopped me to look a little closer.

  In this community, people like me are invisible.

  Clank. Click. Clank.

  “Yo. Simpson. I’m talking to you.”

  Case in point.

  I look up from where I’m bussing a table. I already know the voices, already know the spoiled fucking punks who they belong to.

  Their daddies run this town. And their daddies before them did too.

  Clank. Click. Clank.

  I force the smile on my face and look over to where the three of them sit. Their smiles are smug and there’s an air about them—entitlement meets douchebag—that has me gritting my teeth.

  “Yeah. Can I help you?” I say, and then look back down to the dirty dishes I’m placing in my bin.

  “Ah, where are your manners?” the one—the Williams kid—asks. “Didn’t your daddy teach you to speak properly and meet someone’s eyes when they’re talking to you?”

  “Like anyone from that side of town has a daddy. Jesus, Williams. We all know that,” the Rothschild asshole says. He grips the silver lighter he carries constantly and jerks his hand so the top opens. Clank. He pulls his thumb down on the igniter. Click. Then snaps his wrist so the lid drops back down and extinguishes the flame. Clank.

  Clank. Click. Clank.

  It’s my alarm bell. The three sounds that tell me the assholes are on the prowl and looking for trouble. Trouble they often find but are never held responsible for.

  “Right, Simpson? Do you have a daddy?” Rothschild asks. Clank. Click. Clank.

  “Can I get you anything?” I repeat, meeting Williams’s eyes this time.

  “How about some weed? Or maybe something a little stronger?” the prick Porter asks. “No doubt your momma is on the corner selling that nasty pussy of hers for a hit.”

  My hands fist and jaw clenches.

  “Bring us her stash and we’ll make sure you get to keep your job,” Rothschild says. Clank. Click. Clank.

  You need this job, Holden.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see my boss walk by the banquet room—where the assholes have helped themselves to a table set for an event later—and assess the situation from afar. “Everything okay, boys?” he calls out.

  Their chuckles rumble around the room.

  “Yep,” Williams says and smirks at me. “We were just asking Simpson here why he was refusing to serve us.”

  You need this job.

  Clank. Click. Clank.

  “We know he needs this job so we were just telling him how he should be a little more responsive and respectful to the members here if he wants to keep it,” Rothschild says with a bat of his eyes like he’s completely innocent.

  My boss eyes me, his brows narrowed and chin sharp when he nods. “They’re right, Simpson. We’ve got a wait list a mile long of people waiting to work here. You’re replaceable.”

  Clank. Click. Clank.

  Bite your tongue. “Yes, sir,” I say and swallow over the bitterness and shame these fuckers are gloating in.

  “Good.” He walks away and the three assholes burst out laughing.

  “See how easy that was?” Porter says, rising from the table and purposefully knocking over the ashtray full of cigar ashes. “Oops. What a mess. Uh, Simpson, it doesn’t look like you’re doing your job very well.”

  “Another strike against you,” Williams says.

  Clank. Click. Clank.

  “It’s almost tee time,” a female voice says that has me looking over to the doorway. She’s tall with long legs and blond hair. She’s a walking wet dream is what she is. Too bad she’s—

  “Rowan,” Porter says and the four of them laugh at whatever inside joke I’m not catching. She mock curtsies. “Why’d you have to go and spoil our fun?”

  “Fun’s over,” Rhett says as he stands and makes a show of knocking over his iced tea. The brown liquid and ice cubes scatter over the white tablecloth and onto the floor. More laughter rings out. “Would you look at that. You’re so clumsy, Simpson. Better get on that.”

  My hands fist in the tablecloth covering the table I’m clearing. Too many emotions—fury, resentment, bitterness—rage through me. You. Need. This. Job.

  “Did I hear a ‘yes, sir’?” Williams asks. “I don’t think I did. Did you, Rhett?”

  Rhett Rothschild sets down his lighter as he grabs his clubs and hat. “Nope. Not even a ‘please’ or ‘thank you.’”

  “Trash doesn’t have manners,” Porter says, slapping Rhett on the back. “C’mon, Rowan.”

  “Yeah, Row,” Williams says as he hangs an arm around her shoulder and they all laugh again.

  “Let’s go whack our balls around,” Porter says.

  Laughter erupts around them as they head out the door. My tight shoulders begin to relax the tiniest of fractions.

  “What’s his first name anyway?” Porter asks as they walk away.

  “Simpson,” Williams says. “It’s Simpson, right?”

  “Yeah. Pretty sure, but who fucking cares. He’s the help.”

  I move toward the table where they were to pick up their mess.

  Rothschild’s lighter is where he left it on the table. I glance over my shoulder to the door before picking it up. It’s heavy in my hand. The silver of it is cool to the touch, and the design on its sides—a crest of some sort—is etched into the metal. I run my fingers over it, wondering what it means.

  Out of curiosity, I flip the lid open and click the dial so a flame sparks to life. I watch it burn for a few seconds.

  Then drop it the second I hear footsteps behind me.

  “You’d like to steal that, wouldn’t you?” Rhett asks at my back as he all but shoves me aside to grab his lighter. “Definitely worth way more than your mom gets on the street corner.” He takes a few steps backward, condescending smirk in full force. “Just admit it, Simpson. You’d give anything to be me. To be us. Sucks for you that’ll never happen.”

  Unclench your fists.

  Watch him walk away.

  You need this job.

  SIXTEEN

  Rowan

  “Tell me more about that incredibly sexy man who you’re working side by side with.”

  Caroline finally got around to asking. I knew there was a reason for her call other than “just because.” “Side by side?” I snort. “Hardly. And his looks? Haven’t noticed.”

  “You’re so full of shit you stink, Rothschild.”

  “Okay, fine. He’s handsome. I’ll give him that,” I say as I throw the ball for Winnie and she bounds after it. “But good looks don’t negate all the other reasons I have to dislike him.”

  “Still tense between you two?”

  “Still … everything,” I say, not exactly wanting to talk more about the man who owns more of my thoughts than I care to give him. “Confusing. Weird. Surreal.”

  “Ugh. I’m sorry. Should I accidentally trip him the next time I see him?” she teases.

  “You’ve seen him?”

  “Yep. He’s making his presence known around town.”

  “I thought he already had.”

  “Yeah, but it’s different now.”

  “Different how?”

  “He’s been at the club,” she says, referring to the Westmore Country Club. “At Duke’s Steakhouse. At the yacht club. He’s been seen all of the places where you go to be seen.”

  “Good for him.”

  “The question is why?”

  “Um … because he lives here now and needs to build the relationships my dad and Rhett have to keep the business afloat when he’s majority owner.”

  “When? You’ve resigned yourself to that?”

  “No.” Winnie jumps after an insect and falls on her back. “Well … it’s complicated.”

  “I’m sure it is,” she says.

  “You have no idea,” I groan.

  “Wait. You’re really not interested in him in the least?”

  “No,” I lie. “He’s … arrogant. An asshole. Has a sharp tongue and snarky wit. He thinks he knows everything and lets you know that he does.”

  “So he’s exactly your type, then?” she deadpans.

  I draw in a heated breath. “Funny.”

  She chuckles. “So that means you won’t object when I tell you you’re busy, not this Friday but the next.”

  “Caroline,” I warn, to which she laughs in response.

  “Just remember you love me.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I set you up on a date with a friend of a friend. Someone has to look out for your stagnant sex life.”

  “I’m not going.”

  “Yes, you are.” Her laugh is deep and rich. “Oh, will you look at that? It’s time for me to go.”

  “Carol—”

  “Bye, Row.”

  The call ends, my protest falling on deaf ears. “Seriously?” I mutter when I know she is. And even worse, I know if I try to dodge the date, she’ll send the poor guy to my house on a mission to find me.

  I groan and Winnie looks my way. “I know,” I say to her. “I know.”

  With a sigh I lean my head back and take in the view as I silently curse Caroline and her never-ending need to set me up.

  The sun is setting slowly in the warm summer evening. The glass fence that borders the rear part of my backyard blocks the ocean breeze somewhat but allows for killer views of the white sand and blue water of the Atlantic.

  Some old classics play from my speaker inside. And the six new short-sleeved sweaters hanging in my closet upstairs are making this glass of wine go down even smoother.

  What a day.

  Hell, what a fucking few weeks.

  Processing what’s happening to the company is one thing. Accepting it is a whole other thing I don’t think I’m quite ready for.

  And then to top it off, I finally ripped the Band-Aid off today. I had a mini meltdown when I picked up a stack of papers from my home office and a picture of me and Gran slipped out. I stared at it through blurred tears for way too long and took it as a sign to finally open the inheritance letter from the estate attorney.

  The one that opening means I have to face the fact that she’s not coming back.

  That she’s really gone.

  Hence my third—or is it fourth glass of wine? A long phone call with a good friend. And time spent on the porch swing in my backyard, which was Gran’s favorite place to just sit and be when she visited.

  I close my eyes, drop my head back, and let the ocean breeze tickle the loose strands of my hair against my cheeks. It’s the most relaxed I’ve been in some time—no doubt the wine is helping with that.

  Memories fire and then float back. Our long conversations. The promises I made her. The sheer and utter devastation of losing the only person who ever truly loved and appreciated the woman I was and the Rothschild norms I bucked.

  I miss her. Plain and simple. I love my parents because … they are my parents and, despite their shortcomings, are still decent people.

  I love Rhett as in, he’s my brother and I can talk ill of him as much as I want but my hackles go up when someone else does. At least that’s how I’ve always felt, but recent events have me questioning any defense of him at all.

  But my gran, she was my biggest cheerleader, the one I schemed with, and the only person I ever sought approval from.

  That’s why her death has hit me so hard. It was like I’d lost the real-life angel and devil on my shoulder, encouraging me to do all the things I wasn’t supposed to do and praising my determination to do them. I thought I was prepared for her passing. I told myself all the lies one often does—she lived a good life, she’s in a better place, it was her time—but they felt like cheap justifications.

  It’s been a few weeks now and I’m still struggling to gain my footing in a world where she’s no longer present. And when I finally felt myself lifting my head above the waterline of grief, I decided I’d open the envelope from Mr. Williams.

  Rowan,

  Well, if you’re getting this, I finally kicked the bucket. Hopefully the bucket was sparkly with the kind of glitter that falls everywhere and sticks to your skin so you can’t get it off you. Annoying in the best kind of way. And hopefully said bucket was filled with my favorite gin—the one my grandfather first made—and that Godiva chocolate that I love. You know how I love to make a statement.

  Please, don’t be sad. I lived a wonderful life. One where I wouldn’t change much of anything other than spending more time with the few I loved.

  Know that I believe in you. That I trust you’ll keep your promise to me. That you’ll use your brilliant mind and ingenuity to find a way to keep the company thriving and in Rothschild hands. Stand your ground, kiddo. Fight dirty like your brother would if need be. It should be you who’s running it. You have the spark it needs, the tenacity it deserves, and the creativity to look at it through a different lens than Rhett does.

  It’s his because he was born a male. I love him, but he doesn’t have what it takes to make the company endure. He’s not you. And because you promised me you’ll keep our legacy going for me, I’ve left you a little something to help with that.

  But first, never forget that I’m proud of you. For being everything I ever wanted to be and then some. For your kind heart that you hide from so many others. For going against the grain that was set in stone without women like you in mind.

  I’ve left each of you different inheritances. Rhett … well, Rhett no doubt will be unhappy with his, but hasn’t he always been given everything? Don’t worry, I’ll be watching his tantrum over it while drinking that gin.

  You on the other hand will be receiving a vast amount more. More about that in a bit along with some instructions on the parameters of claiming that inheritance. It is your prerogative if you want to share what you’re getting with Rhett.

  I suggest you don’t until it’s securely in your hands.

  You know I grew up in a strict household, in a time where women were supposed to sit quietly, support their husbands, and leave the business to the men. I was before my time in wanting more than that out of life. I bucked against convention but lost in so many respects.

  The world is so very different now, Row. Women in the workplace are more accepted. Women wanting more than to be a society lady, even more so. I know you can break the glass ceiling in this damn town, and that is why I’m going to leave you with some wisdom to live by.