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I hadevery intention of coming straight home when Cade dropped me off earlier. I even got in my damn car. But then the phone rang, and I knew I had to answer it. Connor wouldn’t have called unless it was something important. So, like a moth to the flame, I answered, and now, nearly six hours later, I’m finally home.
Our star wide receiver could find trouble in a church.
And usually does.
Once that fire was contained, Max brought Becks, Len, and me into his office to discuss the details of the acquisition. Our lawyers have looked everything over and given us the go-ahead to move forward. It appears we’re going to be closing this deal next month.
I should be thrilled.
This is my chance to do what I’ve always wanted.
I’ll be running the organization.
So why, as I sit in front of my television, eating ice cream and binging Schitt’s Creek on Netflix for the millionth time, do I just want to cry? Stupid freaking hormones. At least that’s what I’m blaming it on. Because admitting it’s fear would make it real. Admitting I’m scared my end goal is finally within my reach if I stretch my fingers in front of myself but it might not be what’s best for me right now is too awful to consider.
It scares me. And I don’t scare easily.
I’m Scarlet Kingston, and I refuse to believe there isn’t a way I can have it all.
I’m stronger, smarter, and tougher than this.
I’m also a klutz who nearly drops my tablespoon full of rocky road on my cream carpet when my doorbell rings. My siblings are generally the only people who have drop-in privileges with my doormen. So unless I specifically tell Bob not to let someone up, like I did last week with Hudson—not that it worked—they can sign in and come right up without being screened first. But I wasn’t expecting any of them tonight.
I plant my spoon in the carton of ice cream then pull on my white, fuzzy sweater to cover my silk nightgown. No need to give Max a show when he’s probably here to hammer out more details on the Revolution acquisition. Typical Max. I’m not sure how many times, since Dad died and Max had to fill his shoes, he’s shown up at my door, briefcase in hand, needing to talk something through that just couldn’t wait.
He’s a type A workaholic.
Not necessarily by nature but by need.
He’s carrying a heavy weight on his shoulders.
But when I open the door, it’s not Max.
Cade stands at the threshold. He’s dressed in the same shirt from earlier, but now he has on basketball shorts instead of his athletic pants. Can calves be sexy? Because this man’s calves are definitely sexy. Sculpted and defined.
“You gonna let me in, duchess?” If the nickname wasn’t enough to make my insides clench, like they do every time he says it, the way he’s eyeing up my body right now certainly does. I cross my arms to cover my chest and hold my sweater in place.Then stepping aside, I motion for him to come in. “How did you get up here?”
“Let’s just say Bob is a fan.”
I may have to have a talk with my doorman. “Well, by all means, if Bob’s a fan, you should come right in, Saint.”
“Where’s your kitchen?” He holds up the bag he’s carrying, and I lead him to the kitchen. “Rylie made you blood pressure friendly soup, some fresh bread, and she threw in a few cookies.” He places the bag on my white marble counter and turns to me. “She said these are all okay for you to have.” Once the cartons are out of the bag, his eyes burn their way up my body again before finally landing on my face. The same damn twinkle in his forest-green eyes that used to be my undoing years ago sparkles back at me.
I’ve been with my fair share of men.
Friends. Lovers.
Never relationships. Not since Cade.
And I don’t know if that can technically be classified as a relationship.
I’ve spent my twenties in mutually beneficial agreements.
Men friends who were looking for the same thing I was.
Who had lofty aspirations.
They didn’t have time for a relationship that would hold them back.
