“It’s about time you learned your place.”
Although I'm well aware whom the voice belongs to, I stop loading dishes into the commercial-sized dishwasher to confront my unwanted visitor. Clara is standing in the doorway that separates the dining room from the kitchen. Her long legs are crossed in front of her slim body, and her regularly worn bitch façade isn’t put off by the early hour. I’m not surprised. The devil doesn’t rest.
“I made the mess; the least I could do is clear it away.”
I realize we're with company when Clara saunters further inside. She and her two impeccably dressed friends’ heels click on the tiled floor, their steps as brisk as their hyena-like laughter. “If that were true, Cormack would have put you out with the trash weeks ago.”
Her friends laugh as if she's funny. I’m glad they can find pleasure in her bitchiness. It's probably the only benefit they get being friends with someone as cold-hearted as Clara. They circle me like a pack of sharks, assuming they’ll have me running scared since it's three against one. They’re wrong. I left high school years ago, so any participation in childish pack-mentalities ended just as long ago.
I return to stacking the dishwasher, doing my best to ignore them. The entire situation is quite comical when I think about it. When I first pursued Cormack, I thought the only crazy bitches I would be handling would be his ex-girlfriends. I had no clue most of the disdain would come from his sister.
From the corner of my eye, I spot Clara’s lips furling. Something is coming; I just don’t know her well enough to determine exactly what. She taps her polished nails on the kitchen counter, a baker’s version of someone scraping their nails down a chalkboard.
“It was right here, wasn’t it, Stephanie?” Clara slings her eyes to a waif-thin woman on her left. She's blonde, drop-dead gorgeous, and wearing enough diamonds to make my eyes hurt.
Stephanie nods, sending trestles of wavy locks in front of her bright green eyes.
“Oh god—” Clara’s second minion, an equally beautiful brunette, throws her hand over her shrieking mouth as her eyes lock with mine. “I hope you sterilized the counter before cooking. You really shouldn’t eat off the same surface your boyfriend has fucked on.”
I'm about to call her out as a liar, but a drop of hesitation stops me. As my stomach twists, in-depth conversations Cormack and I had last month strike me. He admitted numerous times that he has never been in a serious relationship, but that doesn’t mean Clara’s claim is untrue.
I hate the thought of Cormack with anyone but me—it makes me sick with jealousy—but I’m not so naïve to believe he has been celibate since his charges. Cormack is an incredibly handsome man; I knew from the moment I laid my eyes on him bouts of jealousy would be inescapable. Does it make it any easier to stomach Clara’s underhanded jab at our relationship? No, it doesn’t, but I’m not going to let his past continuously shape his future. Cormack may have slept with Stephanie—it could have very well occurred in the kitchen I’ve been working in the past six hours—but he's with me now, and that's all that matters.
When I say that to Clara, she scoffs like I'm insane. “You have nothing to offer him. He needs a woman with style and grace.” Her slit gaze drags down my body. “You have neither of those things. You’ll never be what he needs, but instead of acknowledging that like a proud, independent woman would, you continue to play house, thinking you can win him over without money. Well, I have news for you, sweetheart, your act is up. Why do you think he’s been avoiding you since he arrived here? Your humble look at me, I’m a baker routine is cute in Ravenshoe, but here, it’s just plain pathetic. He’s embarrassed to be seen with you—plain and simple. ”
With a flick of her hair, she leaves the kitchen as dramatically as she entered it. Her unapologetic friends follow closely behind her.
An hour later, I’m moseying down the hallway Cormack’s room is located in. I tried to brush off Clara’s snarky comment as well as I have the last three she fired at me, but this one is a little reluctant to budge. She planted a seed of doubt in my mind, and Cormack’s absence the past several hours watered it.
Is he embarrassed of me?
My arrival wasn’t well-received yesterday, but I thought Cormack was a man who saw the value underneath high-priced dresses and fault-hiding jewels. Maybe I'm wrong? Cormack's contact has been scarce, to say the least. It's nearly 10 AM, yet I haven't seen hide nor hair of him since yesterday afternoon.
I stop rubbing at a kink in my neck when someone calls my name a few seconds later. Although I'm hoping it's Cormack, I know it isn’t. My body announces his presence long before I spot him, so I know it isn’t him.
A dark shadow three paces down stops my steps as quickly as my heart. “Oh, hey, Isaac. Everything okay?” The rims around his unique-colored eyes are as dark as mine, his complexion just as pale.
When he glances at Isabelle lying in the middle of a monstrous-sized bed, my mouth gapes. "She's still asleep? Jesus. What's it been? Fourteen hours?"
“A little over eighteen, but who’s counting?” Isaac has the same smooth grumble of Cormack, but his is a little deeper.
Hoping to ease the tension pumping out of him in invisible waves, I jest, “You, by the sound of it.”
My effort has the effect I'm aiming for when Isaac laughs. I don’t know him very well, but his chuckles still sound foreign to my ears.
After his laughter dies down, he asks, “Would you mind keeping an eye on Isabelle for me? I have a very important. . . call I need to make.”
The way he sneers "call" piques my suspicion, but his genuine worry over leaving Izzy alone has me nodding. I'm exhausted, but I don't see me sleeping anytime soon. The knot in my stomach ensures this.
“Thank you. I won’t be long. Please don’t leave her side. I don’t want her to wake up alone.” I’m startled when Isaac presses his lips to the corner of my mouth before he darts down the hall as if a swarm of bees is chasing him.
After shaking off my confusion about vanishing men with a quick shimmy of my shoulders, I enter Izzy’s room, close the door behind me, then hightail it to the bathroom. With my freshly prepared waffles being a hit amongst Cormack’s guests since 7 AM, I haven’t had a chance to use the restroom.
I could have made a killing this morning. One gentleman in a hideous Hawaiian print suit tried to tip me $100 for my waffles. That's more than I cleared in income the weeks before my bakery resurrected from its slump. The gentleman was shocked I wouldn’t accept his money. He couldn’t understand why I’d go to so much effort not to make “coin.”
When I told him I don't bake just for the money, our conversation ended. That's not unusual. People with dollar signs in their eyes rarely understand the joy others get from seeing people enjoy the fruits of their labor.
After finishing my business, I wash my hands, then exit the bathroom. Relief consumes me when I'm met with Izzy’s wide eyes floating around her room. I really need my best friend right now.
“Sleeping Beauty finally wakes.” I inwardly sigh when my voice presents as playful and chipper. I'm feeling anything but.
With a grunt, Izzy throws her arm over her eyes. I secure a bottle of Tylenol and an unopened bottle of water off the bedside table, plunk onto her mattress, then thrust them into her face. “Here, take these; they will help with your head.”
I accidentally mixed Xanax with champagne at my cousin's wedding three years ago. I'll never make that mistake twice.
After guzzling down half a bottle of water with three pills, Izzy lifts her chocolate brown eyes to mine. “Are you sure it was champagne in that bottle? My head is telling me a different story.”
“Yes, it was only champagne.” I pause when she makes a face like she's going to be sick. Once she has things under control, I add on, “But if you had mentioned you took Xanax, I would have limited the number of glasses I allowed you to consume.”
Her eyes widen. “Ohhh.”
"Yeah, oh. That's the best blackout concoction I know of." Hating that her horrified expression matches the sludge at the bottom of my stomach, I say. “But oh. . .my. . .god, girl, you should’ve seen Isaac. He was all frantic and possessive when you wouldn’t wake up. He wouldn’t let anyone go near you, let alone touch you. It was h-o-t HOT. He only settled down when Cormack discovered the bottle of Xanax in your purse, and I explained we were drinking champagne before we left.”
I let out a little sigh. Isaac’s reaction was unexpected, but fun to witness. I’ve known from the day I saw them sitting across from each other in my bakery that they were destined to be together. Isaac’s response to Izzy’s collapse backed up my claims.
The worried expression on Izzy’s face grows before she stammers out, “Cormack went through my purse?” Her eyes flick between mine as her throat works hard to swallow.
“Yeah,” I respond, unsure what has caused her shocked response. She hasn’t heard the worst of it yet.
Isaac was so panicked when she wouldn’t wake up, he demanded Cormack search her purse for clues to her groggy state. That's when Cormack stumbled onto her open packet of Xanax. . . and another unexpected surprise. Izzy had a massive strip of condoms in her purse. I’m not talking the regular three most woman keep stashed away. I’m talking a good dozen or more.
“Harlow. . .?” Izzy’s low tone demands further information without another word spilling from her lips. She looks worried and justly so. Isaac nearly had a coronary. Actually, come to think of it, that was the exact moment Cormack’s change in composure occurred as well.
When Izzy continues glaring, begging for me to hurry, I rip off the Band-Aid in quick succession. “They also found your strip of condoms.”
“I don’t have condoms in my. . .” Her pupils fill her corneas when she spots the truth in my eyes. “They’re an old stash. I haven’t used them in months. I packed them when I went on vacation. They were an emergency stash. Everyone has an emergency stash. Just in case. . . in case—”
"You need to have sex in a bathroom thirty thousand feet in the air?" I interrupt, my brows waggling. Every second I spend with Izzy eases the turmoil in my gut. It's always like this when we're together—carefree and fun. That’s why she's my soul sister.
I smile at Izzy’s frozen state. Isaac and Izzy met at an airport, but instead of exchanging numbers like an average, everyday couple, they organized a raunchy hookup while thirty thousand feet in the air. If Izzy’s womb wasn't indisposed with ovary-twisting dwarfs, I'm reasonably sure they would have hooked up then and there.
The wider Izzy’s pupils become, the harder it is for me to hold in my laughter. Usually, she's on to my wit like white on rice. Clearly, Isaac’s attention isn’t just wreaking havoc with her libido.
Incapable of holding back my giggles a moment longer, and preferring to fall than collapse, I flop onto the bed dramatically. It takes several tedious minutes for my manic laughter to die down. Second only to cake, laughter makes everything better.
Once I have my sanity bordering lunacy, Izzy asks, “What was Isaac’s reaction to the condoms?” She tries to act disinterested in my reply. Her acting skills are shit.
Mine on the other hand. . .
I clutch her hands in mine, building the suspense as well as James Foley does in every movie he directs. The veins in her neck flutter when I stare her straight in the eyes. "He growled. Not a dainty little pussycat roar. He full on growled a sexy-as-sin growl. Then he scooped you into his arms, and that's where you stayed until he laid you down on this bed. He only left thirty minutes ago because he had some business to attend to. He made me promise I wouldn't leave your side until he returned."
Izzy pants as the color in her cheeks returns. If I didn’t know she was only twenty-five, I’d swear she was having a hot flash. After fanning her heated cheeks with her hand, her eyes scan the room. “What time is it?”
When I fail to see a clock, I rise from the bed and pace toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. Izzy lets out a hearty gasp when I grip the burgundy and gold pleated curtains and throw them open. I wince, my tired eyes also unappreciative of the blinding midmorning sun.
“I slept all afternoon and night?” Izzy gasps in a long drawl.
“Yep!” The “p” pops from my mouth.
It’s been a very long and lonely eighteen hours without her by my side, fending off fire-breathing dragons in Prada dresses.
“Please don’t leave me alone with them for that long again,” I murmur before I can stop myself.
Izzy giggles at my comment, until she realizes I'm serious. Usually, I’m too busy to let negativity affect me, but with a lazy weekend comes an abundance of time. It's a lot harder to ignore the naysayers when you’re surrounded by them. Then a lagging sleep schedule just makes matters worse. I haven't slept a wink in nearly twenty-four hours. I'm beyond tired, and somewhat irrational.
I can see a million questions streaming through Izzy’s forthright eyes, but not a word squeaks from her lips. She wants to be here for me, but knows I’m not a fan of personal Q&As. Well, not ones that center around me.
Hoping that a burden shared is a burden halved, I say, "Cormack and I have been on a couple of dates." It's more than a couple, but with my emotions dangerously teetering, I downplay his seriousness in my life.
Izzy huffs, revealing she heard the dishonesty in my tone as readily as I did. “I figured that part out when you rammed your tongue down his throat yesterday.”
The snark in her tone forces a grin onto my lips. That playful, happy Harlow of yesterday seems like an entirely different person today. I hope I can find her again soon, as this Harlow sucks.
“He’s great; I really like him, but I didn’t realize he was. . . this.” I wave my hand to the door protecting Izzy from the pompous, pretentious people outside of it. “First, a stretch limousine, then a private jet, and now. . .”
I stop talking, hating that I'm letting a bitch like Clara dump Cormack in with a group of people he doesn't belong with. If he was here with me, I'm confident I wouldn't be having these stupid thoughts, but after spending the night alone, her snark is affecting me more than it should. I love Cormack, but if this weekend is a prelude to our future, I need to have a serious think. I don’t want to affect his livelihood, but I don’t want to be hidden either.
When Izzy patiently waits for me to finish, I downplay my worry. This weekend isn’t just about Cormack and me, so I can’t saddle her with my unimportant issues. Instead, I attempt to shift the direction of our conversation. “Calling this residence a mansion would be an unjustified response. I’ve already gotten lost three times this morning.”
She laughs, assuming I'm being funny. I’m not. My long expedition last night wasn’t the only one I’ve had the past eighteen hours.
“You won’t be laughing when you get lost and no one finds you for days.”
Izzy shrugs, missing the heaviness of our conversation. It isn’t her fault. If you’re forever goofing around, you can’t expect people to suddenly take you seriously.
I realize my assumptions are way off the mark when Izzy says, “I don’t understand the problem, Harlow. If you like him, and he likes you, why does it matter if he is rich?”
“He isn’t just rich, Izzy.” He’s perfect. He’s my other half. He fucks pretty blondes on the marble counters of his fancy-schmancy kitchen, but since none of those things are appropriate for me to say, I settle on the seed of doubt Clara placed in my head. “He’s filthy rich, never needs to work a day in his life rich, and I own a bakery with books that spend more time in the red than in the black.”
There, I said it. I’m not good enough for Cormack. That should keep Clara quiet for at least twenty seconds.
"I don't belong here."
Although my words echo Clara’s attitude more than my own, I’m beginning to wonder if they're true. I hate that society gets to pick who gets partnered with whom. It shouldn't be their choice. If I make Cormack happy, why can’t he be with me? A high society woman with a dazzling smile and fake boobs like Stephanie isn’t the right girl for him. I am. I’ve known this from the day he brought beautiful chaos into my life.
“Harlow. . .” Izzy lowers her chin to seek my fleeting gaze. When she gets it, she says, “I saw you with Cormack yesterday, before the limo and the private jet. You really like him, so don’t judge him on his wealth. Judge him on the man he is, that same man you greeted with jubilation yesterday.”
“I do really like him.” I love him, but is it that simple?
Forever optimistic, Izzy says, “Then that's all that matters. Ignore everything else. ; it doesn’t matter. It's just static noise in the background. If you like someone, throw everything else aside and worry about it later.”
I cover a sob with a cough. Her words mimic ones my dad always said. They were mature, straight to the point, but honest. Unlike Clara, she’s not looking at me as a baker and Cormack as a billionaire; she only sees “us.”
My lips tug high when part of Cormack’s plea to cherish me yesterday filters through my mind. “Because you’re not a this, Harlow. We’re not a this. We’re an us.”
Us.
He sees me, not my lack of title or business smarts. Just me. God—why didn’t I see this sooner?
As my daddy always said, “Society will judge you anyway, so do whatever you want to do.” That's precisely what I'm going to do from now on, and I hope Izzy will too.
With a lighter heart and clearer mind, I thrust out my hand in offering to Izzy. She eyes me curiously before accepting it.
“Hi pot; I’m kettle. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I say, calling Izzy out for her double standards. She likes Isaac, but instead of throwing everything else aside as she suggested to me, she continually denies her feelings.
If I had any doubt on our sisterhood, I don’t anymore. Izzy dives across the bed puts any misgivings to rest. The air in my lungs leaves in a brutal grunt when she attacks my ribs with her torturous hands. I’m equally mortified and ecstatic. I hate being tickled, but I’ve never seen this side of Izzy before. Perhaps the advice she gave resonated for her as well, and she now feels as free from the burden as I do?
The ear-shrieking giggles ripping from my mouth transfer to Izzy’s when I return her childish assault. She wails and kicks when I dig my fingers into her stomach and her ribs. Her laughter is hearty and belly-crunching. Such a beautiful thing to hear after the tumultuous few hours I’ve had.
Our juvenile party for two only ends when the entrance door of Izzy’s room opens with a creak. The pulse in Izzy’s neck thrums when Isaac strolls into the room like he owns the place. The excited curl of her lips matches the expression that crosses my face every time my body senses Cormack’s closeness. That has been a minimum of five times a day the past month.
No wonder I'm struggling. Last night was our first night apart in weeks. Even when I was grumpy from cramps clearing out my uterus with blunt spoons, Cormack stayed by my side. He fed me chocolate cake and kept me well-stocked on pain medication. My god, am I an idiot? How could I have ever considered Clara’s claims? Most men hibernate during the dreaded red week. Cormack didn't. He faced the issue head-on. Seeing the way he cared for me when I wanted to kill every man ever born is one of the reasons I fell for him so fast.
Jesus—I need to make this right.
Since Izzy is so wrapped up in mentally undressing Isaac, I save my farewell for another time. I slip out of her room without notice, my focus on one man and one man only.
When I reach the end of the hall, I stop to gather my bearings. My compass goes askew when the hairs on my nape prickle. I take in an excited breath, trusting my body’s instincts. Cormack is close. I can feel it.
I'm about to push off my feet when the most glorious visual captures my attention. Cormack is rounding the corner. The suit he was wearing yesterday moves fluidly with his body as he strides down the hall looking like he's in a hurry. He also looks tired.
I can tell the exact moment he feels my inconspicuous gawp. His steps stop as his chest swells.
As his hand falls from the back of his neck, his eyes rocket to mine. “Harlow. . .” He sounds utterly relieved, like he can’t believe I'm standing before him.
"Hi," I greet, my enthusiastic welcome more of a moan than a word.
I’m running for him before I even register my legs are moving. His steps are as fast as mine. Our bodies crash with brutality halfway down the hall. Limbs go in all directions, tongues sweep, and the knot in my stomach fully unravels. I knew the instant I was wrapped up in his embrace all the negativity would leave.
“I missed you so much,” I murmur against his mouth, not the least bit ashamed. I'm acting on impulses, but I can trust them. They’ve never once steered me wrong.
As his tongue spears my mouth, Cormack guides my legs around his hips. He savors my mouth in wild, untamed licks as his hips rocket forward. We're going for it like teenagers, but the vigor in the air keeps my worry at bay. Maybe if Clara sees our connection firsthand, she won't be so quick to judge?
After kissing me senseless, Cormack reluctantly withdraws from my embrace. The painting he has pinned me to is as askew as his tie, and the vibrant strokes of the prolific painting are as red as his lips. My god, he's a handsome man. Wild, untamed, yet refined at the same time. I love the man he is around me. He seems free. Boundless. Mine.
“Where were you? I’ve been searching for you for hours.” A stranger would misconstrue his tone as angry. I’m not a stranger. He’s straight-up panicked.
“I was in the kitchen.”
He smiles a boyish grin that makes me extra giddy. “The kitchen?” Although he's technically asking a question, he continues talking as if he didn’t. “Why didn’t I start my search there?”
I shrug, acting coy. My demure composure doesn’t even last two seconds. The brush of Cormack’s fingers down my cheeks switches the heat on my cheeks from bashful to needy. He smiles against my lips when I reacquaint them with his.
“I’ve gone without your mouth on mine for over twelve hours—that's a record for us, one I never want to break.”
“Sounds like a brilliant plan to me.” A glint in his eyes sends pleasurable shockwaves through my body. “Besides, I’ve got plenty of other things to fulfill.”
“Things like Stephanie?” I’m not proud of myself that I’ve let jealousy get the better of me, but my words whipped off my tongue before I could stop them.
“Stephanie?” Cormack looks genuinely confused.
I nod. “A pretty blonde with dazzling green eyes.” I wait for recognition to dawn on him. It never comes. “She’s a friend of Clara’s. . . and supposedly yours.” His brows are pinched, his face deadpanned. “You’ve had dinner with her previously.” I don’t know why I’m continuing to prompt him. He’s clearly confused.
His bewilderment grows tenfold when I snarl, “I don’t know if she was dinner or dessert, but you fucked her in the service kitchen of Mummo Koti.”
“I beg your pardon?” Now he’s following my interrogation, and he isn’t happy. “There is only one person I’ve fucked in a kitchen.” His tone dips at the expletive. “She wasn’t blonde, and she was neither dinner or dessert. She was breakfast.” If I hadn’t already suspected whom he's referring to, he adds on, “And she has five seconds to tell me who initiated these lies.”
“Lies?”
“Yes, Harlow. Lies,” Cormack replies without pause.
I almost sigh in relief. His eyes are locked with mine, and they're the most honest they’ve been. He doesn’t even know who Stephanie is, much less got freaky with her. God—this makes me equally mad and thankful. I'm grateful for Cormack’s honesty, but I’m angry I believed a single word Clara spoke. I’m also mad at myself. I’m not a judgmental person, yet I just let the leader of the pack make me one.
Not anymore. I'm done.
“If I tell you who it was, will you consider some suggestions on ways you can handle it?”
Cormack doesn’t look overly impressed that I'm using this as a negotiation tool, but he still nods. He’s so desperate to find out who is undermining our relationship, he will sacrifice anything to find out.
“Okay. . .”
The hungry grumble of his stomach stops my confession midsentence and makes me laugh. “How about we fill your tummy first, then we’ll work on a plan of attack?”
Spotting his denial from a mile out, I quickly add on, “I made Bundt cakes. If you’re not quick, you may miss out.”
After whining in a way that shouldn’t be sexy but totally is, he carries me through the halls I walked only forty-five minutes ago. The tension in his shoulders loosens with every stride he takes. It isn’t thoughts of his favorite treat weakening his resolve. It's the little butterfly kisses I’m awarding his lips.