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Chapter One
McKenzie
Failure. I’m an utter failure. A year ago my life was fine, perfect in fact, or as perfect as life could be. Then it all went to hell in what I can only describe as a total meltdown. I quit a job I loved to start a new adventure, walked away from my comfortable life, and thought I’d finally find peace and happiness... but I failed.
I’m only twenty-seven, but I should know what I’m doing by now. I should be so much further in life. Instead I’m locking the doors to a business I believed in, a business that was supposed to help me and others. I’m not a weak woman — I never cry — but right now, if I allowed myself, I’d fall over, drowning in tears.
“No!” I say aloud. I need to get myself out of this damn pity party I’m in. “You’re McKenzie Beaumont, and you don’t take crap from anyone.” My pep talk does the trick. My shoulders come back, and I realize that this door might be closing, but I’m still standing, and I’m walking away from a business I built myself, not being pushed out. I’m a better person for what I’ve done. I’ve helped others.
Some might say the business I attempted was immoral, that it enslaved women and catered to terrible men. I disagree with them. I ran an escort service after volunteering for years at a women’s shelter where I saw so many young women lost in a world that didn’t care about them.
I started the business to save them, to allow them to take back control of their lives. I didn’t count on how much it would affect me, on how few people wanted to be saved. I couldn’t take the lost women anymore. The business made money, but it was taking my soul.
My desire to rebuild myself has consumed me for years after what my first love did to me. It’s hard to shake the trauma from a time in my life I still can’t think about. I can’t go there, can’t think of those awful days when I wasn’t able to look myself in the mirror without fear.
No one sees the scared woman inside me. To the rest of the world I seem cool, calm, and collected, untouched by everything around. In reality I’ve been to hell and back. The most important part of this is I’m surviving this ride I’ve been on for fifteen years. This next step is only the beginning of my new life.
“It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, McKenzie. What’s your next adventure?”
I turn to look at the real estate agent who helped me sell the building. She’s a nice woman in her early thirties who’s never had a hard day in her life. But then again, how do I actually know this? Just because the woman wears a pale blue suit with a small silver barrette in her hair, doesn’t mean she’s as nice, happy, or innocent as she appears. She could have a drawer — or a toybox — full of whips and chains in her apartment, and her fantasy could be of tying men up like dogs and making them bark.
Everyone has secrets. It’s only a matter of time before others discover them.
“With the profit from this sale, I’ll be able to complete setting up the accounting firm I’ve wanted to open for the past few years,” I reply.
Shirley laughs. “Accounting, huh? I wouldn’t take you for the type to sit behind a desk and pour over numbers all day.” I’m only slightly offended by her statement. I had an office job and it worked for years. I’ve learned that everything works out the way it’s supposed to in the end.
“It might sound boring, but I love the stability of it,” I tell her.
“Well, I think you’re far too beautiful to hide in a windowless room,” the agent says with another laugh.
“Ah, but looks can be deceiving,” I tell her with a wink. “And trust me, I’ll have plenty of windows. I like the freedom of opening them and feeling a breeze, even in this rainy area.” I hand the woman the keys and turn to lead us both to the parking area behind the building.
“Yes, looks aren’t always what they appear,” Shirley says. That laugh again. It’s delicate, but oddly pointed. I may be right about Shirley. She might not be so innocent after all.
We make it to our cars, shake hands, and part ways. As I drive off, I know that I won’t have contact with her again. I’m not a girl-bonding kind of gal. As a matter of fact, the only woman I’ve become close to since I was a teenager is Jewell.
It took me a while, but I consider Jewell a friend. I smile at the thought, but my lips quickly turn down into a frown. When I first met Jewell nearly two years ago, I saw the pain in her eyes. I wanted to help her, but wasn’t sure how. In the end, it worked out beautifully and she’s thriving now, with no more shadows beneath her eyes. She’s married to a wonderful man and is three months pregnant. I’ve never seen her happier.
Not only do I normally avoid girl-bonding, I’ve never been a baby type of gal either. I don’t want to hold them, have never felt my biological clock ticking, and have never wanted a white picket fence, kids, pets... the whole American Dream. Some say this makes me abnormal. I choose to believe it makes me focused on whatreallymatters.
But I can’t deny I’m excited at the thought of meeting Jewell and Blake’s first child. He or she is surely going to be as beautiful as the two of them. I even shopped with Jewell for baby clothes last week.
That’s when we ran into Byron Astor. This memory sends a shudder through me as I pull up to a red light. I hit my brake a little too hard, locking my seatbelt against me, unable to move for a terrifying moment.
“Byron Astor,” I growl.
That man has constantly run through my brain over the past year — hell, he took up shop there — ever since the night he showed up at my door, accused me of ruining his brother’s life, kissed me senseless, then disappeared as quickly as he’d come in.
I was furious when that whole disastrous night began, and even lifted my phone to call the police. When he started kissing me, my first impulse was to claw his eyes out. However, after a few seconds, I melted against him like a pathetic female. When he pulled back, a cocky look in his eyes — the arrogant bastard — my claws came out again. But before I could strike, he disappeared, making me wonder if any of it really happened. I began second guessing myself, but no more of that.
I didn’t see Byron again for nearly a year... until last week, and the look in his eyes when our gazes collided sent strange sensations up and down my spine. Absurd. Why is this man even a blip on my radar, let alone at the controls of what I feel? And what are these feelings?
I’m not a fool. I’m very aware that most people enjoy sex. Some of my acquaintances tell me they don’t always have to fake orgasms. But my only sexual experiences have been... horrific. I shudder thinking about it.
Why am I thinking of Byron Astor and sex in the same sentence? His kiss heating my blood doesn’t mean a thing. I’ve been around overconfident men for years, and they do nothing for me. Byron Astor makes no difference in my life, and he never will. Though I’m a friend of the intolerable man’s sister-in-law, I’ll only run into him on rare occasions. Certainly not at my new business, which will open its doors very soon.
He won’t know where these offices are, and a man of his status will have no need for an accountant like me; he’ll hire someone to be in his offices like I was for years. With luck I’ll never see him again. So what if I’m attracted to the man? It will pass. Attraction is unavoidable. A male preying mantis is attracted to a female even knowing he’ll literally get his head bitten off if he isn’t fast enough to get away. Attraction is a part of life. I think I’ll forgive myself for my weakness.
