The Singles (15 page)

I rubbed the back of my neck, brushing strands of blond hair from my nape. “You have a hard time taking
no
for an answer.” I stepped aside so he could come in. Nodding teasingly, he walked past me, his muscular arm brushing against my breasts. My nipples immediately hardened under the contact, and I turned my body away from him and hoped he didn’t notice. “I was going to call you back.”

“No you weren’t,” he tossed over his broad shoulder.

Slamming the door so hard the stained-glass rattled, I followed him into the family room, where he sprawled out on the white Belgian linen couch. Today, I would keep my distance from him. I couldn’t handle letting him screw with my body when my mind was already so overwhelmed. Resting my shoulder tiredly against the crown molding in the doorway, I watched him furtively, willing myself to stay strong.

“I told you, you sounded upset. I couldn’t sit across town thinking of you being here alone like that because then I’d get pissed off.” He loosened his tie, his expression softening. “Let me fix this, so we can go eat.”

“I’m fine,” I argued, my pulse speeding as I processed his words. It was similar to what he’d written on the envelope he sent four weeks ago—
I fix what I break.
The thing was, nothing that was broken was Oliver’s doing. It was all on his mother. “I’m
fine
,” I repeated. “But you should probably leave.”

He didn’t budge from his spot. “Let me guess, Margaret is installing new appliances and you’re waiting for a delivery guy?”

Apparently, he had no idea his ex-girlfriend had been invited to his mother’s house, and I waffled over telling him. After all, he wasn’t supposed to be here right now. Biting my lip in indecision, I eventually shook my head. “No, it’s—”

But then the doorbell rang a second time, and I shot Oliver a warning look. “You
really
might want to go,” I warned.

Starting toward me, he ran his hand through his hair, tousling the light brown strands. “Not until I have your guarantee that you’ll come have lunch with me.”

“You should probably leave because—” The sound of the door opening and heels clacking across the marble floor stopped me, and I twisted to see Oliver’s tall, leggy brunette ex making a beeline toward me.

“You must be Lizzie,” she began in a sticky-sweet voice. She started into the family room, excitement springing into her hazel eyes at the sight of Oliver with his tie undone. Looking like he’d just seen a ghost, his perfectly toned body froze. “Ollie? I saw your car, but I thought—”

In a day full of surprises and disappointments, I shouldn’t have felt
anything
when she raced across the room with her chin-length hair flying around her delicately boned face. She practically threw herself at him. Oliver
was
a serial dater—I’d known that since before we met. Still, my nausea returned full force watching Finley burrow into his arms. 

“I
missed
you while I was in Italy,” she breathed into the front of his crisp shirt, before he grabbed her shoulders and gently drew her away. “I had no idea you’d be here to meet me.”

“Fin—” he groaned, and I squeezed my eyes shut and turned away. I absolutely could not stand there and watch whatever was going to unfold between them. Grabbing my purse off the armchair beside the entryway, I rushed into the foyer, only to stop abruptly at the sight of the skinny, dark-haired teenage boy dragging in luggage.

Rolling in a couple of Louis Vuitton bags, a grin broke across the boy’s face as his eyes traveled up my body. He plucked his earbuds out his ears and tucked them in his back pocket. “I’m Mason, and—”

“And way too young,” an older male voice interjected jokingly, causing the kid to roll his dark blue eyes. Angling my body a little, I was grateful for the grand piano in the foyer, because I sagged against the side of it when I saw the man’s face.

I’d met him once before.

In his office.

His hair had been black then, and not the salt and pepper it was now, but I knew this man. I’d met him when I came to L.A. to meet my stepmother seven years ago.

The memory hit me like a ton of bricks, and this time I recalled
everything
—from his name, to the blue suit he’d been wearing, to the way he’d barely looked at me as he ripped my confidence to shreds.

"Your name is nowhere in your father's will, and Margaret has informed me that you and your mother have been aware of that since he passed away. You are more than welcome to contest the will, Ms. Emerson, but I'm going to warn you—you'll feel the crushing reality of all the legal fees before you can bat your pretty brown eyes. Now, Margaret is prepared to settle with you ... as long as you don't come back with your hand stretched out. You understand what I'm saying, don't you, sweetheart?"   

Staring up from the back of my hands, I’d nodded. “I understand.”

“Good girl,” he’d crooned, before calling his legal assistant into the room. “Now, about the settlement—”

“I don’t want it.”

He’d chuckled, a soft, condescending noise that made my temperature rise. “You’re just upset, Ms. Emerson. Of course you want to—”

“I. Don’t. Need. It.”

The memory washed away, and I smiled despite the heavy pounding in my head. I felt like I was going to be sick. Like I was going to throw up all over Margaret’s polished foyer floor.

“You must be Mr. Scott,” I forced out politely, taking a step forward with my hand stretched out. He took my fingers in his. “I’m Lizzie Connelly. I’ve left the key to the house for you on the mantle. Is there anything you need to make your stay more comfortable until Margaret returns?” I spoke mechanically, hardly realizing what I said.

Oh, God. Why didn’t I figure this out when Pen told me Finley’s name? Why couldn’t I remember this
then
?

His thumb stroked the back of my hand, and acid burned its way up my throat. I was terrified. Terrified and pissed off. What if he recognized me? What if he told Margaret exactly who I was?

What would happen if I hit this man right now?

One teeny-tiny punch to the throat?

“Lizzie, this is Finley Scott.” I turned at the sound of Oliver’s voice. He stood in the doorway, looking beautifully agitated, with his ex standing a few feet away. Her arms were crossed over her chest as she worked her small teeth over her bottom lip furiously. Staring at me apologetically, Oliver gestured to the teen and then to the attorney. His eyes darkened when they dropped to our linked hands. “That’s her brother, Mason, and Michael, her father. They’re longtime friends of ... my family.”

“It’s great to meet you all.” Returning my attention back to Michael, I searched his eyes for some sign of recognition, but there was absolutely none. I pulled my hand from his grip, clenching my fingers by my side. “Margaret has said so many amazing things about you,” I lied.

“You as well, Ms. Connelly. And I think we have everything we need here. Margaret is always such an accommodating hostess.”

The laugh I released grated the tiny fraction of self-control I had left. I pulled my purse in front of my body. Digging inside, I found one of my business cards and handed it to him, making certain not to touch him again. “If you need anything at all while she’s away, please don’t hesitate to call me.”

Unable to breathe, I practically ran to my Mini Cooper, refusing to stop even when I heard Oliver call my name.

*

A
s I left my father’s home, my muscles so taut it was difficult to move, I should have been glad Michael hadn’t noticed me. I should have thanked the heavens that I’d made it out of that house unscathed, with a phone full of documents and a stack of important paperwork in my purse.

But when I pulled over a few minutes after I exited the community’s gate, dry heaving, the only thought in my mind was that I’d been so inconsequential that there
hadn’t
been the slightest recognition.

––––––––

T
wo nights later, I was still reeling from the mindfuck of finding out the identity of Finley Scott’s father, but I put on a carefully practiced smile as I scanned my brown eyes around the glassed in ballroom of the Heritage. And it really was something to look at—the event planner had nailed it. With the lush, dark décor, I felt like I’d walked right into a Poe-esque fantasy when I arrived an hour and a half ago.

Despite it being the perfect setting for my favorite holiday, I’d rather been spending the eve of my twenty-fourth birthday at home, pouring over the documents I’d obtained from Margaret’s house. Plus, I needed to figure out a way to get the rest of the file back without her noticing. While the chances of her realizing it was missing anytime soon were slim, and I had taken extra precautions to make sure she wouldn’t find out I’d gone through her belongings, I was already freaking out about returning it.

Attempting to push those worries aside—at least for the night—I glanced at Stella, who was adjusting the mask of her Catwoman costume. “The turnout for this thing is phenomenal,” I said. Aside from the handful of people from work and their plus ones, there were at least an additional two hundred people present.

Even though it was a company event, not everyone from work had been
lucky
enough to snag an invite. My job as Margaret’s assistant had not only cemented my invitation, it had also made showing up a necessity.

“It was five thousand a plate for anyone not on the Emerson & Taylor guest list, right?” I asked.

“Yes ma’am.
And
I read in the company newsletter from last month that Margaret’s matching the donations this year. ”

Wow.
It was the first I heard of Margaret’s contribution, and the forced expression I’d been wearing through dinner softened. No matter how ironic the charitable cause was—after all, I’d basically been a foster kid when my stepmother brushed me off—I was thrilled when I thought of how many kids this night would help.

Locking her headpiece in place with a couple hairpins, Stella gave me a disgusted look. “Maybe I
should
have bought the Halle Berry Catwoman; I think the vinyl cat hood might have gone better.” She peered over the table and regarded my flowing turquoise and gold gown with a playful lift of her brows. “And you, Miss I-Made-This-Myself—you make the rest of us look bad!”

A flush crept across my skin at her praise. “I’m just hoping it doesn’t fall apart into a bunch of little pieces.”

I had been so wrapped up in snooping for the documents in Margaret’s home office, Oliver in general, and then meeting the Scotts’—getting a costume had slipped my mind.

Luckily, Pen was there for me, like always.

When I’d dragged my ass into my apartment two nights earlier, she reminded me about the party, and we’d raced to Mood Fabrics before they closed. As we browsed the material, I had no idea what I planned to do, but the moment Pen eyed the pale aqua chiffon and lamented, “Too bad it’s just one color. You could’ve gone as the blonde from
Game of Thrones
,” my decision was made.

I’d solved the one-color problem with gold fabric paint and a sponge. Thanks to a hardcore fan with an Etsy shop and overnight shipping, I scored the rest of my accessories, including a dragon figurine that was giving me as much trouble as Stella’s cat mask.

Checking the deep V-neckline to make sure the fabric tape was still doing its job over my braless chest, I admitted, “It was sort of a last-minute project.”

She pulled in her bottom lip slightly. “Then you make us look worse.” But she was laughing as she inclined her head to the front of the room.  “Give it a year. I bet you a hundred the Red Queen over there’ll have your ass working in design. ”

I stared at Margaret, who was making the rounds from table to table, conversing with her guests and the more prestigious Emerson & Taylor employees—directors, managers, and executives.

“Hmm, I doubt she’ll promote me.” I saw Dora and her husband—Black Widow and Captain America, which I had to admit, worked perfectly for them—return to our table carrying champagne flutes. Even though “Disturbia” was pulsing through the ballroom, making it nearly impossible for anyone else to hear me confide in Stella, I dropped my voice to a whisper. “If she did, who’d hunt down a pair of ruby red Valentino stilettos five hours before an event?”

She shook her head, causing her mask to fall again. “
That’s
where you were when I stopped by your office this afternoon?”

“I found them at Saks in Costa Mesa and then she sent me back because the sizing wasn’t right. She decided to wear her brocade Louboutins instead.”

Finally giving up on her disguise, she pulled it off and tossed it on the table between her place card and the centerpiece—a Manzanita tree adorned with dangling blackbirds and Victorian cameos. 

“I’ve gotta drink to that. I’m going to the bar since the servers aren’t straying this far back.” Combing her dark-painted nails through her thick hair, she pointed to my black martini. “Do you need another?”

“I think I’m okay for now.”

“You’ll probably regret that later when you’re being harassed for a dance,” she warned before slinking off, her tail swishing behind her.

“Hey, Lizzie?” At the sound of Dora calling my name, I whipped my head in her direction and squinted through the dim lighting at the redhead. She moved into Stella’s seat to get closer to me, resting her elbows on the table. “I know this probably isn’t the time, but I found a reminder yesterday about getting you a company credit card. I’ll be out of the building tomorrow, but stop by my office next week and we can do the paperwork?”

Damn
. Up until now, I’d pushed all thoughts of that credit card to the back of my mind and had been using Margaret’s personal card for all of her business expenses. Being careful to keep my face neutral, I drew back from Dora. “I’ll stop by before I go upstairs Monday morning,” I promised, hoping it would slip her mind by then.

She looked over her shoulder to see her husband in deep conversation with a woman dressed as a rock star at the next table, before returning her attention to me. “Your boyfriend couldn’t make it?”