Most Eligible Bastard: an enemies-to-lovers romantic comedy Read online

  “Is this part of good cop? Is she there or something?”

  “Let him keep digging,” I say. I'm thinking about the way she talked about being hated. Bullied. Was that connected to the well? Did somebody put her in a well? Or worse? Is she so frightened of somebody that she had to change her name to get away from them? “Go for it. Find out everything about her.”

  There’s a silence on the line. My about-face feels off to him. More than that, he doesn't like that I’m not telling him my thoughts. There was a time when I’d tell him everything.

  “Okay,” he says finally. “And I made ressies at El Capitan for six tomorrow.”

  “What?”

  “Dude,” Brett says. “Scanlund fundraiser? The Jacabowskis?”

  I close my eyes.

  Real life had to intrude at some point.

  Mike Scanlund is a city council politician we’re backing for assorted reasons. Black tie fundraiser. We’re taking the Jacabowski sisters, who are high up in that campaign. The two of them and Brett and I frequently tag team on each other’s issues at fundraisers.

  “Can I sit there or are you going to hog the whole thing?”

  I look up, and there she is.

  “I’m going to hog the whole thing,” I say.

  She puts her hands on her hips, and before I can stop myself, I’m surging up and pulling her into my lap. She screams and laughs and loops her arm around my neck, and the way we fit, it’s like she’s been sitting on my lap forever, as if our bodies know just how to mold into each other.

  I close my eyes, enjoying her. Wishing I could stay here and forget about Brett and all his bullshit. There has to be some explanation. I should just tell her what I know and ask her.

  But what if…

  “That front desk,” she says. “Once the pieces are together? And with the burnishing? Right?”

  “We rocked it,” I say, trying push out the shred of doubt burning at the back of my mind. I trust her. But trustworthy people get in bad situations. They get in over their heads.

  “What?” she asks.

  “Nothing,” I say. “But you know, this place would be so much better if it had better shared spaces.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This is the only viable couch,” I say.

  “Yeah, well…” She frowns over at the junky couch across from us. The two ratty chairs.

  I tease her about it being so fucking Road Warrior and she hits me and I catch her wrists. I want to never let her go.

  “Not just a nicer lounge area, but it needs larger and more functional collaboration spaces. The way we all had to crowd into Latrisha’s area? No. You could double the workspace if you expanded to the upper level. There could be cots, sleeping rental by the hour, Japanese-hotel style. Hire a manager to oversee the tools and double as a barrista and referee, and the stuff you’d sell would pay their hourly and you’d have somebody quasi-managing.” I make suggestions about how they could get creative with events and partnerships, to figure out the right scale to make it sustain itself as a nonprofit. Anything to get my thoughts off the hell of that doubt.

  She seems more amazed with every ensuing idea. It makes me feel prouder than all the year’s groundbreakings combined. “That’s brilliant,” she says.

  “I know.”

  She snorts.

  I tuck a stray hair behind her ear. She’s not a threat.

  “Seriously,” she says, “I don’t know how you see it. It just comes together in your mind.”

  “It’s not magic.” I put my lips to her ear. “Have you seen the other couch?”

  “Shut it.” She laughs.

  I let my lips hover there a split second too long.

  She gets a serious look in her darkly fringed eyes. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Shit.” She slides her hand over my forearm, to where I was burned at the forge end of the space. “You should put something on this.”

  I put my hand over hers. I don’t care about the burn; it’s the spark of our chemistry that’s torching me. Everything is so fresh and real with her, with her glasses half down her nose and her devil-may-care hair and pink monkey-face T-shirt. She’s beautiful to me like this. So different than anyone I ever date. Unguarded. Natural.

  She gets a text. “Hold on.” She shifts in my lap and taps out an answer.

  My fingers press into her upper arm, her left hip. Memorizing the feel of her.

  Her chest rises and falls, nipples pressing through worn fabric. A T-shirt and jeans is practical for this place, but it feels more right for her than the librarian shit. So why the reserved outfits? She makes her money in an Etsy store, or she did up until last month. She can wear anything she wants.

  It’s not like she’s transformed completely, of course. She still wears her brown glasses. And the ponytail I so badly want to undo is still there.

  I slide my hand over the glossy hair.

  She tucks away her phone and gives me a fun, vixeny look and that little half smile that I want to kiss right off her face. And I do.

  She sighs. “I don’t want to return to the real world.”

  Exactly. The current between us feels ancient, like a soul-deep déjà vu.

  “But Carly’ll be done with rehearsal soon.”

  A couple of guys I didn’t meet walk by and she nods at them. I find myself pressing my hands over her thighs, letting them know she’s mine.

  She twists and looks at me. “What did you just do?”

  “What?”

  “Did you go caveman just now with the glare at those guys and the handsy thing?”

  “Maybe.”

  She laughs. “You can’t do that!”

  “What can’t I do?”

  She narrows her eyes. “Behave.”

  I lean into her ear, whisper, “Or what?”

  She narrows her eyes. “I dunno. Maybe I’ll have all the Cock Worldwide cranes repainted with the face of Smuckers instead of that logo. How would you like that?”

  Something in me goes still. Fuck. She could do that. One phone call and she could.

  Locke’s most valuable asset is stability. A change like that would literally threaten thousands of people who depend on me. And she could do it. She has all the power.

  One phone call.

  Thousands of people. My responsibility.

  The ID is mob-level good. This is five-alarm fucked.

  I feel queasy.

  She’s searching my eyes. We’ve been laughing at the exact same things all month. If I weren’t me, I’d think the crane thing was funny, too.

  She tries a smile. “A cartoon picture of Smuckers’s round little marshmallow head? Maybe not, huh?”

  Do I really know her? Really?

  I give her my breezy smile, the one that always fools the cameras, and I reach for my phone. I’m moving away from her.

  “Kidding,” she says. “Really.”

  I’m scrolling through my phone, like I might find a feel-less-fucked-up app there. They need to make an app like that.

  “Come on, you think I’d do that?”

  “I’m kind of a freak about that logo.”

  “Wait. You think I’d do that?”

  A silence. I’ve let her closer to me than any woman ever. The fake dog whisperer who inherited my birthright.

  Have I been reckless?

  In my gut I trust her. Automatic. But my head is ringing with what Brett said. Our own PI doubts her. I don’t know her real name.

  Thousands of people depend on my leadership.

  They deserve better from me.

  “Oh, my god. You seriously think I’d do that?”

  “I don’t know, that’s all.”

  Her mouth falls open. Stunned. Hurt. “How can you not know? Like I’m an enemy of the company suddenly? Like I'm outside…” She goes pale. “Oh, my god.” Her phone’s ringing, but her gaze is on me. “Because, of course, you still wonder if I’m a scammer.”

  “It’s not like I’m st
anding here wondering…”

  “I told you things would be right. I swore to you. I meant it. Oh, my god—I’m so stupid.” She pulls out her phone and answers. I can tell it’s her sister from her tone. “I’m coming.”

  For once I don’t know what to do. “Let me give you a ride, at least. Let’s talk.”

  “I’ve had enough of your talk.” She’s texting.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Calling a Lyft,” she snaps. “There’s one two minutes away.” She puts away her phone and heads to the other side of the place where Latrisha is.

  “Vicky.” I go along. “I’ll give you a ride.”

  “Not happening.”

  Latrisha is there. Glaring at me. They exchange glances that probably contain girl communication about what a jackass I am.

  Vicky grabs her purse, spins around, shoves past me, and walks toward the red exit sign.

  I follow.

  She turns at the door, looks me in the eye. “I’m asking you to not follow.”

  The way she asks, it’s important to her. I fold my arms, teeth grinding. There are things I need to say, but I don’t know what.

  She pushes open the door and heads out into the night.

  She doesn’t want me following, but there’s no fucking way I’m not watching from the door, not when she’s wandering around that gloomy sidewalk. She clutches her purse, forlorn under a streetlight.

  I'm Henry Locke. People depend on me. I protect my people.

  No matter what the cost.

  A black car rolls onto the lot. She slips in and they drive off.

  My heart curls into a cinder.

  Dizzy, I wander out to my truck and start unloading the last pieces—a concrete block that weighs a ton and some massive wood slabs. I bring them in, one by one, to Latrisha’s workstation.

  I can’t shake the memory of her wounded expression.

  What have I done?

  Latrisha eyes me as I muscle an unwieldy piece of debris into the corner. I say, “Why are the coolest looking hunks of rebar-wrapped concrete always the heaviest?”

  “Somebody would help you with it.”

  “I want to do it.” I get another load, and then another. I go back to her and peel off my gloves. She has paperwork for me to sign.

  “I met her,” she says when we’re done, folding her copy.

  “Who?”

  “Bernadette. Your mother. She was mean about my hair.”

  I look toward the red-lighted exit sign, thinking about going for a night run later. Anything to run off this fucked-up energy. “She had a hard time being nice.”

  “That’s what you call it? Is that how she always was to people?”

  “To people. Yeah.” Not the dogs, though. Never the dogs.

  “She was like that to Vicky. A complete bitch about her clothes.”

  “That’s what you get when you sign up for Team Bernadette,” I say.

  “You think she signed up for Team Bernadette? Dude, your mom stalked her. She pursued her, manipulated her. Vicky did everything she could to avoid that woman, but she wheedled into her life and Vicky took pity on her and she made sure she was safe and all of that. And now here you are, fucking with her, too. Lay off.”

  I pause. “My mom pursued Vicky?”

  “Your mother literally harassed her, demanding she talk to Smuckers after the fair.”

  I frown. “What fair?”

  “The fair?” Latrisha continues. “Where she volunteered to fill in for the pet whisperer? Do you not even know this story? That’s how they met. Vicky was there selling those bow ties, and the person who was being pet whisperer or whatever didn’t show up. They had some booth or something. So Vicky volunteered to do it. They put this ridiculous outfit on her. And your mother comes along and Vicky’s like, Smuckers enjoys hearing you sing, and your mother was convinced she had dog whisperer powers from then on.”

  Cold steals over my skin. “That’s how it all started?”

  “I can’t believe you don’t know. Did you care to even ask? Or were you too busy listening to Coldplay and shopping for tartan plaid fucking scarves.”

  “What are you talking about?” My mind reels. Dog whisperer booth. Were these the details Vicky had tried to give me? The ones I refused to listen to? “Singing,” I say.

  “Doesn't everyone sing in front of their pet? That’s what Vicky said. And they’d run into each other by accident after that, and your mom would be all, You have to tell me what Smuckers is thinking! Offering her money and stuff. And Vicky would insist she wasn’t a pet whisperer, insist there’s no such thing. Your mom thought Vicky was withholding her psychic gift from her. Out of spite or something.”

  I nod. “Of course she would.” Bernadette thought the whole world existed to spite her.

  “Vicky and Carly would run into your mom a lot after that, mostly on this bench they’d pass every day going to Carly’s school. They wondered if she was stalking them. Your mom would hit Vicky up for readings but she’d refuse. And then this one day your mother was all dizzy and faint. It was hot out…” Latrisha relates a story about Mom having a dizzy spell. Mom needing help up to her apartment. Feeling queasy.

  Needless to say, I’m the one feeling queasy now. None of this sounds like a con.

  It sounds like Vicky, though.

  Latrisha tells me about how Vicky saw the dry water bowl, how it made her worry. Of course Vicky would notice something like that and worry.

  Fuck.

  Latrisha tells me about the moldy bread out on the counter next to the butter. Was it all deliberate, Bernadette playing helpless to pull Vicky into her orbit? Probably.

  Latrisha tells me about Vicky refusing money, so Bernadette hired Carly to walk the dog, as an end run around Vicky’s objections. Classic Bernadette—if she can’t pick off the strong animal in the herd, she goes for the weak one.

  She goes on about how Vicky started playing dog whisperer when she thought it would help my mom. I walked in on her saying some pretty ridiculous stuff to her in that hospital room, but maybe it’s what my mother needed to hear. How would I know? I hadn’t spoken with her in years.

  They all believed Bernadette was alone in the world. Bernadette would have encouraged that belief. She lived for drama.

  My heart bangs out of my chest. Vicky told me she was a pet whisperer accidentally and I hadn’t believed her. Who ends up as an accidental pet whisperer?

  Vicky does.

  Because she cares about people. Because she’s a woman making her way alone in the world—without help, without protection—and she’d have empathy for another woman like that.

  If anybody got scammed, it was Vicky.

  She told me she’d make things right in the elevator. I heard the truth in her words.

  And ignored it.

  I text her nearly a dozen times. When she doesn’t answer, I stop by her building. I pay somebody to let me in and make my way up six flights of stairs to her door. I’ve never been here, but I have her address from company records. I knock.

  All I hear is a parrot squawking.

  This is an apartment-sitting gig—she mentioned it once before. She made it sound nice. It’s not. Judging from the building layout, those two are living in four hundred square feet at the most.

  A real grifter would have figured out how to milk the company by now, or at least get credit on the promise of it. A real grifter would be living it up. A penthouse with a view. Meal services and maids. The mob? They would’ve made a move by now.

  But more than that, I know her. I fucking know her and I didn’t listen to my heart.

  Vicky and I had a relationship that ran deeper and more intimate than a lot of people I do big money deals with and I couldn’t keep an open mind for her.

  And it killed her.

  I know. Because I know her.

  I knock again. No answer.

  “Vicky, are you in there? I messed up,” I say. “I’m sorry.” I knock again. I talk into the crack betwe
en the door and the frame.

  It becomes pretty clear she’s not home right around the time a neighbor threatens to call the police.

  I stumble out of there wondering—miserably—what the hell have I done?

  Twenty-One

  Henry

  The champagne is flowing, but I’m hitting the scotch.

  Unfortunately, no amount of drinking will kill enough brain cells to make me forget what an asshole I was.

  There’s a jazz trio on the other end of the lavishly decorated ballroom and Jana Jacabowski is trying to pull me away from the bar toward the dance floor.

  “Not in the dancing mood,” I say, setting my glass down for the man to refill.

  Because all I can think about is the hurt on Vicky’s face.

  She never asked to play pet whisperer for my mother. She certainly never asked for that will to be changed. She thought she was getting money for taking Smuckers to some overpriced celebrity vet.

  And I wouldn’t trust her.

  Of all the women I’ve been with, she’s the only one who doesn’t seem to care about the Locke fortune, the only one who bothered to look behind my name and wealth.

  And what do I do? Treat her like a grifter.

  My texts stopped delivering to her. Blocked. My calls go to voice mail, and I doubt she’s been listening to those.

  I stopped by the makers co-op. She wasn’t there. I probably seemed desperate. I’m not embarrassed. I’ll keep trying. I won’t give up.

  Jana Jacabowski waits. We had an arrangement to be seen here together and talk up each other’s causes. She and her sister have been good allies for us.

  Brett casts a warning look at me. “Brett’ll dance,” I say.

  Brett puts on his most charming smile for her. What am I doing? Another dick move.

  I snap the fuck out of it. The four of us have a deal. This is about the business. I down the scotch and take her out to the floor, moving on autopilot, dancing, chatting, spinning Jana around. She’s a force for good in the city, a woman I respect. A dip for the cameras. She screams and laughs. Another spin.

  I let Vicky down big-time. It doesn’t mean I have to go on permanent asshole mode with people who need me.

  Brett and Maddie Jacabowski spin by. I smile. If Vicky were here, she’d see right through that smile.