Read the opening chapters of Yes, Mr. King
CHAPTER 1
CARA
Humiliated.
If I had to distill the cyclone of emotions rampaging through my body to one word for the sanity of any biographer following my sorry cracker-flat ass around, that’s the only word that does it justice.
Maybe horny’s a close second.
And absolutely furious that the man I gave fifteen years of my life to dropped me like a piece of trash. One moment, I was planning a quick weekend away to celebrate our wedding anniversary and his long-long-long awaited promotion to the board of his company, the next I woke to a manila envelope with “Sign Me” sitting on the kitchen island.
We dated for two years, were married for thirteen, and that was how he chose to end things. The coward couldn’t even tell me in person that he wanted a divorce.
No “we need to talk.”
No “let’s go to couple’s counseling.”
Just divorce papers and an empty apartment. Oh, and of course a note saying that he expected me to move out of the apartment by the time he returned from his “business trip” the next week.
I couldn’t even screech into the void of his voicemail; bastard had changed the damned number.
I got a perfectly polite call from our—strike that, his—attorney reminding me of the terms of our prenup, though. No alimony. No child support, of course, because “we’d never been able to make kids happen.” And only a reimbursement check for the twelve thousand dollars I’d had in savings when we originally married. The twelve thousand I’d used to help fund his first boutique talent agency, where I’d worked as his secretary for free for years, turning a blind eye to the grossest shit requests of his gross-as-shit athlete clients, so he could gallivant around boozing and schmoozing and raising his reputation until the big agencies like Star-King came calling.
So what am I left with? Twelve grand to start an entire life from scratch in New York City in this economy. I can’t even afford rent without roommates.
I’m so fucking stupid.
“Hey! Don’t call my best friend stupid! I’ll kick your ass!”
That’s Ivy, my best friend since college. The one who narrowly avoided the same fate I did by dumping her loser college boyfriend after graduation and heading to Europe for a couple of years to become a pastry chef instead.
“You were young. You loved him,” she says as she helps carry my boxes to her sixth-floor walk-up. “Give yourself a break, babe. You didn’t know he was a piece of shit then. A lot of women make the same mistake.”
“You didn’t,” I remind her.
“Yeah, well, I got my own problems in that department.”
Her most recent boyfriend left her too. For a city councilwoman.
Maybe it’s contagious. Some airborne manbaby disease.
Mateo didn’t up and vanish in the middle of the night. And he didn’t kick Ivy out of the rent-controlled two-bedroom they managed to snag in Brooklyn years ago.
Oh, but he tried. Douche tried to convince her building manager he and his new squeeze were a “better fit for the building’s vibe” and should be allowed to take the lease over. Didn’t realize Ivy “tips” her with leftover pastries from her shop down the street. The locks were changed on this apartment by the time Mateo came home that night.
When we reach her apartment with the last of my things, we practically fall into the roasty toasty warmth of her place. Our place, for now.
“Seriously, I cannot thank you enough for letting me stay,” I tell her, tossing the last box onto the bed in the second bedroom. “I promise it’s only for a little while.”
Ivy winces gently. “I know. It might have to be.”
“What do you mean?”
Ivy has a look on her face I know all too well; the one that means she’s trying not to gush about exciting news she has for the sake of my feelings. I love that she cares. I hate that she feels she has to tone herself down for me. I also hate that I’m terrified of what she’s going to say; I don’t really have anywhere else to go.
Ivy sighs. “Let’s open a bottle of wine and talk.”
CHAPTER 2
ETHAN
There’s no reason to go home. It’s 10:38 p.m. on a Thursday night. I have parties to go to and events I should attend for my clients. Instead, I’m sitting at the desk in my office overlooking Manhattan. In the dark. In silence. Like a fucking ghoul.
My mind is empty of everything except an emotion I don’t like—one I haven’t felt in years. Aimless rage. Feels like I’m wearing a wetsuit under my skin, right along the muscle. Every movement I make, I feel the tightness. The spring-loaded need to beat the shit out of somebody. Him.
The twerp who pulled the proverbial rug out from under me. Twice.
Troy Singer.
Pissant brown-noser.
I’ve been sitting here trying to think of ways to ruin Troy’s life.
I’m talking ruin. Total destruction. Scorched earth. The sort of thing that has him change his name and move to a different country.
No, I can’t sit still for this. The tightness is in my neck now. My masseuse’ll have a field day tomorrow when I show up looking like a walking knot.
I loosen and discard my tie—the tie she bought for me—as I make my way from my office into the private gym I had put in the adjoining room. Ten seconds and I’m naked; I toss my suit to the side and slide on a pair of Calvin Klein shorts. Another ten seconds and I have the treadmill at an incline and I’m sprinting up the mountain like a machine. It doesn’t take long for the sweat to come, purging some of the rage from my body. Not enough.
If Troy had “only” elevated himself to equal my standing in the company, I could almost be proud of the little shit. I’m a forty percent owner of the Star-King Talent Agency. Somehow, that shit for brains, Troy, persuaded my co-owner Vincent Star to sell his forty percent. I don’t know if Troy blackmailed him or hypnotized him, but whatever he did Vince won’t tell me. Won’t even talk to me about it. He just retired on the spot and gave everything he’d worked for to a random Executive Manager in the Athletics Division. I mean, I don’t think I’d get it on a good day, but that was a damned shit day if I’d ever had one.
But that’s not all the little leech did, is it.
No, Troy went for the jugular. He made it personal.
It’s about this time I realize I’m still wearing my wedding ring. A simple black band Samantha picked out for me when we went to Harry Winston to have the diamond engagement ring that I bought for her resized. Not the band, the diamond itself. I guess three carats wasn’t enough to buy “I love you for real,” only “I love you for right now.”
That’s Manhattan city value for you.
The sight of that band on my left ring finger fuels my rage again, like bellows to a flame. I take it off and hurl it into the corner, listening as it pings off the mirror and rolls away to who gives a fuck where. I hope I never see the fucking thing again, in this life or any other.
Although, I’m almost tempted to go fetch it. Shove it down that smarmy dickhead’s throat.
For taking her, he deserves nothing less than death by a thousand cuts. I just don’t know what those cuts should be. Yet. Sure, getting him fired is part of it, but it’s not nearly personal enough. I want to make it hurt. I want to make him suffer. There’s something I’m not remembering; some part of him loitering at the edge of my mind, taunting me.
But mark my words, once I figure it out, he’s dead. Not his body—not yet—but everything else. I’ll reduce all he is and ever will be to the bit of city grime I get polished off my shoes every morning. Then, when Samantha comes crawling back swearing it was all a big mistake, I’ll make her lick it off.
CHAPTER 3
CARA
“Are you kidding? Congratulations! I’m so happy for you!”
“Really? You’re not mad?”
“How could I be mad that you’re moving to Paris? That’s been your dream since I met you.”
I wrap Ivy in the hug she truly deserves. Who cares that I feel like shit warmed up? This isn’t about me.
“I’m terrified,” she admits, as we separate and sit back with our overfilled glasses of pinot grigio. “It all happened so quickly.”
“I’m dying to know,” I urge her on. I honestly want to forget about my own problems.
“Well, remember that handsome intense guy who came into my shop a few months ago?”
“Vaguely. Harry, right?”
“Hugo. The French guy who—”
A thought strikes me. “Wait! Don’t start until Lulu gets here. She’ll kill us if she’s the second to hear about it.”
“Girl, true,” Ivy says, adding gently, “But, maybe let’s talk about the part that concerns you?”
My back stiffens as I take another sip. “Okay. Rip the band aid off.”
“So, I want to keep this apartment. I’ve already talked to Patty about you subletting it with my name still on the lease so it’s still rent-controlled. Basically, you’re paying me, I’m paying her.”
My eyes brighten. “Oh my God! That would be amazing! You’re amazing that you would let me do that.”
“Yeah, but babe, even rent-controlled, it’s pricey.”
My shoulders sink. Right. I can’t afford anything anymore. I exhale like she punched me, or really like I just punched myself with reality.
“I was thinking,” she continues. “I’ll be here for the next six months, getting ready for my move. I can cover the rent until then, but maybe you could find a job that pays enough for you to stay here on your own? Otherwise, I’ll have to find you a roommate or seven. I hope that doesn’t make me sound like a bitch.”
“That’s totally reasonable, Ivy,” I tell her. “I’ll find a way to get the money.”
“You can,” she says. “Fuck Troy. His money isn’t his money. You were the only reason his first firm survived at all. Take him to court and live like the queen you are.”
“It’s more complicated than that,” is all I have the strength to say. Because it’s fucking embarrassing to admit I let him convince me it was “romantic” to sign a prenup that protected him without consideration for myself at all.
“Well, then…take those skills and own this city.”
Before I can say something self-deprecating, or bitter, the doorbell rings and Ivy rushes away to answer it.
“Hey girlie!”
I don’t hear anything for a long second. Long enough I swivel on the kitchen stool to see who’s outside. Then I hear a sniffle.
“Mrs. Russo was mean to me again.” Lulu’s whimper is the loudest quiet sound in the world, like the mew of a kitten or an ambulance siren, I swear. The fact that she’s about five-foot-nothing, weighs as much as a fallen leaf, and dresses like a museum intern only makes you want to run to her aid more.
I’m out of my seat the second Ivy tugs Lulu into a tight hug. I fling my arms around them both, ignoring the spike of chill that hugs Lu’s coat, and together, we crush the sadness out of Lulu until she laughs.
“Sweet baby, it’s all right,” Ivy says.
“Yeah, you’re okay, we’ve got you,” I echo.
“Thanks. You two are the best.” Pushing her thick glasses up her nose, she laughs softly. Too softly; it’s still bothering her.
“Come in and talk about it,” Ivy says, burying her own happy news again for someone else. “You want pizza or Chinese?”
“Can we order from Theodora?” Lulu pleads.
“Of course we can, baby.” Ivy guides her to a kitchen stool and pours her a glass of wine. Bless her again, she turns to me and whispers, “I’ll pay, don’t worry.”
“Ivy, I can’t ask you to do that,” I say.
“It’s your Freedom Day,” Ivy counters. “We are celebrating your escape from your narcissistic parasite…as soon as we cheer Lulu up.”
Cheering Lulu up takes all of dinner. She works as a private art advisor for the Russos—one of the most well connected and arts-minded Italian families in the city—sourcing American artwork for investment and to decorate their various properties around the world. They headhunted her for her incredible eye straight out of art school, but you wouldn’t know it by the way Mrs. Russo treats her on a daily basis.
“She told me I have a week to get my hands on a Malbec or she’ll fire me,” she laments over a forkful of branzino.
“That bitch threatens to fire you every other week,” Ivy says. “It’s like she gets off on it.”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Lulu says. “I mean, Malbec is a ghost in the art world. He’s never done a show in person, never done an interview that wasn’t mailed in by his PR firm. There’s not even a picture of him. This might really be the end.”
“Have you tried calling Malbec’s rep?” I ask. “With your reputation through the Russo family, a manager would definitely try to take you out for drinks, and you could ask them to pass along a letter for you. Or I could call them and try and get the information? I do know the agency world.”
Her hazel eyes—so big and puppy-doggish behind those glasses she doesn’t actually need—suddenly widen with guilt. “I was hoping you would offer. He’s repped by Star-King.”
Of course he is.
CHAPTER 4
ETHAN
I finally made it home around three in the morning, after a couple hours at the punching bag working out all the poison in me. The toxic anger wasn’t gone for long, but it was dormant long enough to sleep until six when my regular alarm woke me.
The real problem hits as I step into the office exactly at nine. It’s a busy place—we have six hundred agents working for us across all branches of arts and media, here and in our London and Hong Kong branches. Yet half the agents are shirking my gaze as I take my usual circuit through the bullpen to my offices in the far corner.
I realize why when I see Troy.
I almost stumble when I spot him and his stupid smug smile in the conference room talking on his cell phone. Not because he’s smiling, although he is way too pleased with himself, but because of who’s seated right beside him, delicate hand perched on his thigh where he sits on the corner of the conference table. Samantha is wearing a red dress so tight it’d be illegal in some countries, her golden hair done up in a way that makes her look like she belongs on the cover of Vogue.
Honestly, I thought when I saw her again, I’d be in a better headspace. Or at least have a better poker face ready.
But the pain cuts through me like a chainsaw. Just rips right through my soul. She sees my mouth drop open. So does he. I force my mask back in place and keep walking, but out of the corner of my eye her hand edges higher on his thigh, practically to his crotch.
My mind can’t process it.
I fixate on the look on her face—the smile there. It’s at my expense. She wants me to see her playing to him, pleasing him. In my fucking company headquarters.
The glass offices here are built with SmartGlass—with a flick of a switch, it goes from transparent to opaque for privacy. Troy would know that. Even if he doesn’t, Sam and I fucked enough in my office that she knows for sure. Well, we fucked the once, but she knows.
Which means they left it clear on purpose so I would see them together.
It’s only been a week. One fucking week and she’s already in here touching him like that. Teasing him in front of me.
She’s lucky I don’t want to go to prison like my brother, otherwise her new boytoy would already be dead.
But just because I have enough restraint to make it back to my office before letting the shakes get to me, it doesn’t mean my mind isn’t spiraling to dark places. I find myself wondering how many times I’d have to hurl a 200-pound man at the building’s window before it breaks and he plummets to his death far below like the deadweight he is.
Insanity. It’s insanity to do this to a person you claimed to love.
And he’s married. Or he was. I’ve met his wife. She was always his better half at every social event he went to. Hell, she dislodged the foot he put in his mouth more times than I can count. Does she know he’s in here with my girl?
Fuck, am I obligated to break it to her? None of the other peons here would; they think sticking your dick in pretty people is a perk of the job.
But we’ve all met Troy’s wife—Cara. Out of his league doesn’t do her justice. Hand to God, the first time I saw her with him I thought he’d hired her to be his date. It’s not uncommon in our circles.
I jam my thumb into the button on my phone that summons Rick, my assistant. Well, assistant for the next two days until his internship ends and he goes back to college. Maybe his balls’ll drop while he’s there.
“Yes, sir?” he squeaks.
“Get me Cara Singer’s information. Discreetly, all right?” Off his nod, I add, “And get me a copy of the board bylaws.”
If Troy is cheating on his wife, there might be a morality clause I can use to get him bounced from the company. It was on the shortlist of ways to royally fuck up his life, but after that little peep show in the conference room, it’s priority numero uno.
Rick reenters my office about twenty minutes later, when I’ve cooled my jets long enough to fire off a few emails to legal and make a plan to call the best private investigator I know to dig up every last speck of dirt on my new bosom buddy co-owner.
“M-Mr. King?”
“Rick, I’ve told you repeatedly to call me Ethan.”
“Sure. E-Ethan.” From his mouth, it sounds like a dolphin squeal. “You said you wanted to talk with Mrs. Singer?”
“Right. You found her number?”
“She’s actually on line one for you.”
That’s a surprise.
I wait for Rick to shut the door and hit the button, putting her on speaker. “Hi, Mrs. Singer, is that you?”
I hear something on the other end of the line. It sounds either like a rusty chair squeak or a sob. Then a voice I remember—low and melodic—fills my office. “Hi, Mr. King. Please, call me Cara.”
“Of course. It’s good to hear from you, Cara.”
“Is it?”
Her voice rings with sadness. A sadness she’s desperately trying to hide. She must know then? But she’s not crying. Maybe it’s something else.
Either way, I realize as we sit there for a long beat in silence that this isn’t the sort of thing you discuss over the phone.
“Well, to be honest, I was about to call you about something, but I think it’s best we discuss it in person,” I tell her. “It’s important.”
“Oh, of course,” she says. “I…”
She’s quiet long enough for me to wonder if she ended the call. “You still there?”
“Yes, uh. I don’t want to come to the office,” she says, her voice almost pleading. She definitely knows. “Could we meet somewhere else please?”
“Absolutely. I was going to work the rest of the day from home. Meet me there, one o’clock? I can have my assistant send you the address.”
“Yes, that would be fine. Thank you.”
“Great. I’ll see you then.”
“Okay.”
It’s a perfectly civil conversation, one I think has finished. Until I realize she hasn’t hung up the phone yet.
I hear a shallow, quick rhythm of breath. Like she’s listening. Like she can’t put down the phone. It’s a rhythm I realize almost matches mine, except mine is fueled by anger. Hers sounds hurt. Or maybe I’m just imagining it…
Something takes hold of me. I’ve been empty for days, basically a robot husk of myself running on whiskey and seething anger. But the quality of her voice seems to summon the singular drop of compassion of which I’m still capable.
Words crawl out of my throat fighting for their life. “Keep your chin up, okay? We’ll get through this.”
She sighs; it comes through the phone as loud as a gust of hurricane wind, almost blowing out my speakers. There’s just enough relief in the sound, though, it’s like a balm for my own soul.
Then it’s gone again as she hangs up the phone.
CHAPTER 5
CARA
Keep your chin up.
I can’t get Mr. King’s pity out of my head as I walk toward the address his assistant gave me. Troy told the people he works with that he left me. Told his boss! I don’t know why that seems more final than the divorce papers, but it does. Telling other people always makes it official. It feels like someone in combat boots stomped on my heart.
Troy worships the ground Mr. King walks on, and the fact that Mr. King pities me? My god, what did my husband say about me? It couldn’t have been good, but the cruelest parts of my brain can only assume it’s the worst. Did he tell them that we hadn’t had sex in nearly a year when he left? No doubt he failed to mention the part where it wasn’t my fault…but my soul cringes wondering if he told them how often I begged him for sex.
It’s just more humiliation. I’ve been left to agonize over how much of our relationship is now locker room fodder for a bunch of agents who brag and gossip more than most thirteen-year-old girls.
Keep your chin up.
It rings through my head like a schoolyard taunt.
I feel so hollow I could vomit. I pause at the corner outside the building’s door to take a breath. Then another. Mr. King lives in the penthouse, as you’d expect of any billionaire who runs the city’s top talent agency empire, which means I can’t go in there and puke on his marble floor. I’d walk right off the balcony and hope I could fly, I swear.
Glancing down at myself, I’m embarrassed by my choice of outfit—an ugly “on sale parka” over a simple black Prada dress that falls to just above my knee. I stumbled upon it at an estate sale for less than a hundred bucks nearly five years ago and I’ve been upcycling it ever since. It’s beautiful and form-fitting, but it’s definitely starting to show its age and overuse. And the deterioration of my relationship.
Troy always promised me that when he made it onto the board of Star-King that he’d let me upgrade my look, my style, as a gift for all the times I had to pinch pennies throughout our marriage to help his business grow. He said he’d help me catch up to the other spouses. Help me be the “top shelf wife” that agents always aspired to have.
In the meantime, I’d made do, getting things on sale. I’d taught myself an easy glamour routine for big events. I’d even made friends with the corner bodega owner so I could study fashion magazines without having to buy them. Then I’d go home and practice the tips between client calls so that I could surprise Troy with a new haircut or look fashion forward at his next event.
Not that he ever seemed to notice.
Or if he did, it was always with criticism.
The year French bobs came into style—the year I noticed a ton of the clients’ wives and girlfriends had them—I’d surprised him with one, shearing my dark wavy hair off halfway between my chin and shoulders for a big event.
His only response had been, “If you’d asked me before doing it, I could have told you it doesn’t fit your face. Saved you the embarrassment of having to walk around all those glamorous people looking like that. Now, you’re going to embarrass me too.”
I’d been so ashamed, I’d pinned and pinned and flattened my hair until it looked like I had a pixie cut.
Compliments flew at me left and right that night, but all he’d said afterward was, “They’re just being nice. You look like a man.”
They’re just being nice haunted me after that. Sucked so much of the joy out of the events, I only went if he intentionally asked me to join him.
The same anxiety squeezes my heart again as I enter Mr. King’s building off Central Park, not least of all because I have to walk through a 5-story Nordstroms before I even reach the residential lobby to the tower above. To add insult to injury, it’s a Nordstroms I could never afford.
I don’t even give a shit about designer clothes, really, but…
Top shelf wife. They’re just being nice. Keep your chin up.
The lobby of Mr. King’s building is cavernous and otherwise empty, save for the security guard and the receptionist, who doesn’t even deign to acknowledge my existence as I cross the space toward her.
It’s too grandiose a place for the casual meeting I had in mind, but that’s my fault. When we’d talked on the phone, I hadn’t had a chance to tell Mr. King I wanted to talk with him about Lulu’s artist problem before he insisted we meet, which means he’s asked me here for something else. Probably to tell me all the terrible things my husband has been saying about me in the office. Or maybe just to warn me away from ever causing a scene and damaging their company’s reputation.
I could’ve saved him the lecture. All I want is to get the info Lu needs and then retreat to Ivy’s apartment, put on some pajamas, order food I can’t afford, and cry watching anything but romantic comedies until I fall asleep. You know, self-care.
“Can I help you?” The snooty girl at reception asks.
“Um, yes. Cara Miramontes for Ethan King.”
It’s barely out of my mouth when a deep voice booms across the empty lobby, “Miramontes? Given up your married name already?”
Mr. King emerges from the elevator with the swagger of a man who knows his worth, hands buried in his custom-tailored slacks that hug his tremendous thighs like saran wrap. If he wore a suit jacket today, he’s not wearing it now. No tie either. Even his white button-down is partially open to reveal his upper chest, sleeves rolled to his elbows.
My steps actually stutter at the sight of him. Just once, but it’s enough I’m sure he noticed.
I’ve seen him at events, so I knew he was a tall man—six-four on a slouching day—and he took good care of his body. But seeing him now is like meeting him for the first time all over again. I’ve never seen him like this, dark hair partially disheveled, with the veins in his muscled arms on full display, little ridges peeking out around his neck to suggest even more muscles are hidden along his back.
I force myself through my misstep, ignoring the flush I can feel rising to my cheeks as a soft crooked grin snakes up one side of his face.
Jesus, I forgot how handsome he was too.
Down, girl.
“Thank you for meeting me here,” he says.
Mr. King offers me his hand. It doesn’t just dwarf mine; mine literally disappears from view as his fingers swallow it. And it’s so warm, it feels like a hug, which is the most tragic thought I’ve had all week. It’s embarrassing how badly I want to lean into that touch. How I can feel a physical ache in my stomach when he finally pulls his hand away. Pathetic.
“It’s been a tough few days,” he adds.
“You can say that again,” I mumble before I can help myself.
“Come on, let me get you a drink.”
It’s one p.m. on a Friday. Not exactly the weirdest time for a drink, but it makes it seem like I’ll be staying a while. The thought of an entire afternoon of pity makes me anxious; and I get a little…unpredictable…when I drink.
I scurry after him to the elevator. “Oh, I-I don’t want to interrupt your workday.”
“Please do,” he surprises me. “I think we could both use the distraction. Especially given what we have to discuss.”
What we have to discuss? Now he’s lost me. Unless he really did bring me here to make sure I won’t try to besmirch the name of his best employee. I-I know the rules are different when you join the board of a company like this, but my hackles rise wondering if Troy warned him I might be hysterical or something.
“Am I in trouble?” I ask, half-joking, trying to gauge his headspace.
Mr. King’s green eyes dart to mine as the elevator doors seal us in. In a serious tone that does weird things to my stomach, he replies, “No, but I thought we could cause a little.”
CHAPTER 6
ETHAN
I have no idea why I said that to her. I meant “causing trouble” in terms of pure petty revenge, but she doesn’t know that yet. The way it came out sounded way more sensual than I intended.
I can’t tell how much Cara knows, that’s the problem.
She’s not crying; her makeup is light and natural on her olive skin, her dark chocolate eyes don’t look red from lack of sleep, and her thick hair is in an effortlessly elegant down style. I’m almost persuaded she’s doing okay.
If I knew how much she knew about her husband’s actions I’d know which direction to steer the conversation. I’d expected her to pepper me with questions the second the elevator doors closed, but she didn’t, which only confuses me more about the details she may or may not know.
Or maybe my unintentional innuendo left her speechless.
I need to get my shit together, if not for myself then for her. I feel like Samantha tore the heart out of my chest and ate it, and I was only with her two and a half years; I can only imagine what it’s like for Cara. Mrs. Singer…Ms. Miramontes.
After her call, I had the rest of the morning to plan what I wanted to say to her when we met, but it all hinges on how up to date she is. Whether she wants the same things I do. Whether she’s going to play ball and give me what I want.
Until I know, I need to be a monolith. Stone-faced and logical.
I force myself into business mode as I step out of the elevator.
“Follow me, Ms. Miramontes,” I say, heading straight for the stairs that lead to my preferred office space. The one with a full view of Central Park and the reason I blew a quarter of a billion dollars on this apartment in the first place.
I’m halfway up the stairs when I realize she isn’t behind me.
“Cara?”
She’s staring out at the view, standing so still in the living room below, I almost miss her, until my voice startles her. Her wide eyes meet mine from below, accompanied by a blush so red I can see it from here.
With a quickness that surprises me, she foists the heavy coat off her body and leaves it behind.
“Sorry,” she says, hustling to follow.
I reach the office well before she does, giving me time to pour us both a scotch and sit down in one of the two chairs overlooking the park before she appears in the doorway and stops cold. Her dark gaze catches on the view again, but it’s not in wonder this time. She’s angry.
Not at me, I don’t think.
“A drink, Mrs. Singer?” I hold up her glass as a peace offering. Maybe as a carrot on a stick to get her to join me.
It works. She elegantly strides forward and swipes the drink from my hand, downing the two-thousand-dollar pour of scotch in half a second.
Maybe it’s the act itself or just that I wasn’t expecting it, but something about it is shockingly sexy.
The time it takes for her to swallow—to watch that little lump bounce in her long, graceful throat—is all the time it takes my lizard brain to switch on parts of myself that have been dormant since Samantha walked out on me. Well, since before that, if we’re being honest.
A little dribble of golden liquor rushes down Cara’s chin and I have the carnal urge to lap it off. Then, when she raises her hand to wipe the liquid away, I have another urge to suck the scotch off each of her wet, dainty fingers.
I’m a fucking degenerate.
Her eyes barely land on me before catching sight of the bottle on the end table.
“May I, Mr. King?” she asks.
Usually, I tell everyone to call me Ethan—Mr. King was my father, after all—but I suddenly can’t bring myself to do it. She says it with such bite and a rasp so deep I can feel it scratching at the back of my eardrums, and between my legs.
That, plus the way she drinks, and her everything else…
“Honestly, I’m so turned on right now, if you asked me to pour it on you and lick it off, I’d do it.”
What. the. fuck is wrong with me?
Her burnt caramel eyes go wide as her mouth opens in a little o and my cock revs to life like someone’s reanimated it from the dead. The damned thing snakes halfway down my thigh.
I move a pillow over to hide it as I say, “Forgive me. I’m not in my right mind… Please, help yourself.”
She seems to take that as a challenge. She grabs the whiskey bottle and pours nearly a full glass of it for herself, before she fills my glass too, plonks the bottle down on the end table, and drops into the chair across from me. There’s a sharp little grin on her face as she leans back, tucking her bare leg under the other to the side. She already looks comfortable, which I take as a good sign. At least she doesn’t seem to think I’m some pervert creep who lured her here under false pretenses.
With a bitter bite, she tells me, “Mr. King, I think we both know I’m not Mrs. Singer anymore.”
“You have my condolences. Troy did a despicable thing, and I’m here if you need anything, Cara. Now or in the future.”
“What I need,” she says, almost mocking, “is the last fifteen years of my life back.”
Fifteen years? I mean, I knew she’d been with him since he started at Star-King, but I had no idea about the rest. The fact that she isn’t in the office parking garage right now keying Troy’s car makes her a saint.
“Fuck,” escapes me before I can help it.
“Fuck indeed,” she says. “You want to know the worst part?”
“Hit me.”
“I didn’t even get to fight with him about it. I mean, I’m not the sort of person who likes to fight over nothing, but this isn’t nothing, right? This was our life together. The least he could have done was talk to me about it like a man so I could yell and cry and mourn the end of our relationship. I think he owed me that at least, right?”
“At least.”
“The fact that I woke up and he was just…gone. It makes it seem like he never cared at all, but if he never cared at all, then I’m a bigger idiot than I realize.”
“Are you saying he didn’t even talk to you about it?”
She shrugs like she can’t believe it either, taking another two-thousand-dollar gulp, and I swear the wrath begins to froth and roil inside me like a boiling sea.
“I don’t know if you’ve ever woken up to divorce papers, Mr. King, but it ruins your day.”
Her giggle is the saddest fucking thing I’ve ever heard, and I have no idea what to say. I thought I was mad before, but Samantha told me she was leaving. This is something else entirely, on another level I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy…and Cara Miramontes is not my enemy.
“Sorry,” she says, pulling me from my thoughts. “I shouldn’t be saying this to you. I know it’s not your problem.”
“It’s fine,” I tell her, even though it’s anything but.
“Part of why I came here today was to reassure you that I won’t cause any trouble for you or your company. I’m not planning on making a scene or anything.”
That never even crossed my mind. “Cara, you aren’t the one causing a scene, trust me. Your ex is a fucking loudmouth cowardly piece of shit. He’s the problem.”
My thoughts clutter with images of that shitstain sneaking out of her home in the dead of night, abandoning her to wonder what she did wrong. I can actually feel my adrenaline roaring to life inside me, my imagination swelling with dark promises I suddenly want to make to her. Skills I want to offer—
A tiny sound breaks my concentration, drawing my attention to her.
“Mr. King, whatever Troy’s said about me, I promise it’s not true.”
Her expressive gaze is so full of anger and hurt she’s almost on the verge of crying. As if she thinks he shared every sordid detail of their lives with me so we can wield that information against her like a battering ram.
No, it’s worse than that. The look on her face tells me Troy hurt her badly. She’s assuming the battering ram is already headed her way.
I hate the sight of it, her defeat. It doesn’t suit her, or the elegant, charismatic woman I met at all those parties. Her dark eyes should be sparkling with malice, not fear.
Instead, she sits forward and puts the glass down, folding her tiny hands in her lap. Her head dips a little as she leans forward, imploring me with her giant doe eyes. For a second, she looks like she’s about to beg me for something, which is a bad idea. A beautiful girl begging is my kryptonite—
My hand darts to her shoulder before I can stop it; it clamps down firmly, right in the divot above her collarbone. My thumb begins tracing a delicate arc across the soft skin of her neck. I’m suddenly five inches from her face with no idea how I got here.
“Hey, relax,” I tell her. “He hasn’t said anything about you, okay?”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I swear. “I won’t let him.”
I feel her body untense beneath my hand. Her pulse slows under my thumb. But she doesn’t pull back and neither do I. It’s like we went from zero to sixty in a second, but there’s no going back now.
I’d intended to act completely professionally with her—even with revenge on the table—but we blew way past small talk to the most intimate shit ever. I don’t remember the last time I talked to anybody about these kinds of things. And I don’t hate it. In fact, I think I need it.
But that tug of war makes me feel some kind of way I can’t explain.
I’m all over the place.
The unplanned connection with Cara feels like it’s the only thing keeping me together. Like the rest of the world has faded away and all that exists is her and whatever she needs to stop looking at me like that. It’s one or the other—she just needs to tell me her darkest desire so I can make it happen or she needs to tell me to stop touching her like this.
The universe doesn’t seem to be offering such black and white mercies, though.
Instead of sitting back, her tiny hand suddenly wraps around my forearm, for reassurance. The pads of her fingertips press into my skin, hooking me in place. One second my hand is on her neck, the next it’s cupping her soft cheek and my thumb is tracing a course across her apple cheekbone. And I’m staring into her eyes like a statue before Medusa.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“Calm down. Relax. Take a breath,” I demand in as steady, soothing a tone as I can muster.
“I’m sorry.”
Somewhere deep, deep inside me, muscles of restraint coil and tighten. I have to remind myself she’s an acquaintance, basically a stranger. A vulnerable stranger asking for kindness.
But I’m not kind. No one would say I’m kind. Not even Samantha, I don’t think. Powerful, sure. Ruthless, definitely. Especially in the boardroom. Emotions—other than anger and ecstasy—are a vulnerability I’ve never allowed myself to entertain. You can’t when you come from where I come from.
“Quit apologizing,” I command, but my voice comes out quiet, almost gentle.
She shakes her head, rubbing her cheek against my palm. “I feel so stupid. I’m stupid.”
A tear streaks across her skin, and my thumb is there instantly to erase it. White-hot anger flares in me as bright as the North Star.
“You are not stupid, why would you say such a thing?”
Instead of answering me, she lets another tear escape, this one heavier than the last. Might as well be a siren’s call for how suddenly it has my cock straining against my pants. If she so much as says she needs comfort, I’ll have her spread wide open for me before she can blink. Whatever it takes to wipe those tears out of existence.
“Look at me.” When she ignores me, I growl it at her, “Look at me, Cara.”
Her eyes dart to mine, unblinking. Little water droplets hang from individual eyelashes, shining in the afternoon sun.
“If you don’t stop crying, I’m going to have to fuck the sadness out of you, and you don’t want that.”
I say it to scare her a little. To knock some sense into her, since I apparently lost all of mine the second she walked in the door. But nothing quite prepares me for her response.
“I don’t?”
One reckless afternoon changes everything.
And what comes after is even more dangerous.
