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And I thought he was good looking when I entered the elevator and a gentleman when he held the door open for me.
But who was I kidding? The man, even though he was basically twice my age, was gorgeous. He maintained himself well enough to look very, very pleasing in the eyes. He had dark, striking eyes, and his hair was a wave mess of jet-black.
His mere appearance was enough to add to my nervousness because I had arrived twenty minutes late for my interview with the boss.
To say that it was a struggle living by myself in Florida was an understatement. It had been an excruciating two months filled with tears and desperate phone calls to Heidi, our housekeeper, about how to cook meals or pay the bills.
Florida was an entirely different world than Calabasas. Not only was Florida humid at this time of year, but it was also a tragedy to commute, especially when I didn’t have a car or know which road to take. But I was learning.
Because I didn’t have a choice but to leave home, thanks to Daddy. And even if it was months ago, I could still vividly remember why I was here to begin with.
Reagan – 20 years old
Daddy was screaming again, and I flinched at his loud, authoritative voice that vibrated from the living room to the kitchen island where I had laid my books to study.
I knew I should have gone home for Spring Break. My apartment in New York would’ve offered more solitude than this house.
“I swear to God, Ryan!” he yelled on the phone. I didn’t know what was happening because I didn’t get involved with the family business. I grew up with my mom always saying I could do whatever I wanted, and running a real estate company wasn’t my plan.
“You’re going to fucking jail, and I’m not going to help you this time.”
The words jail and Ryan in one sentence got me on my feet, and I pushed back the stool to get up and walk toward the living room.
Our home in Calabasas exuded luxury, but my late mother had always made sure that it still felt homey with family portraits on the wall and cozy reading nooks. Grand chandeliers made of glass hung from lofty ceilings, casting a warm, inviting glow over marble floors and intricate moldings, plush furnishings, and exquisite artwork which adorned the spacious rooms.
My brother and I were close growing up. He was my protector and the man of the house when my father was too busy working. We had a fifteen-year age gap between us, making him more of a guardian, really. But when he went to college, we hadn’t spent much time together like before, and it was something I really struggled with.
When my mother died four years ago, our family started to fall apart. My father drowned his sorrows with alcohol and cigarettes. I’d hide from him in closets and dark cabinets when he came home drunk. My therapist pointed out that this was the root of why I wasn’t too fond of close spaces.
“What’s the matter, Daddy?” I asked. On a good day, Ricardo St. James was the typical workaholic father. But losing the love of his life had turned him into someone I could barely recognize.
He hung up the phone, and I could see the fury all over his face thanks to whatever my brother had done. They stopped seeing eye to eye when Mommy passed, but Daddy tolerated him because he was to become the next CEO of the family business.
“Your brother is what happened,” he accused, loosening his tie around his neck before throwing himself on the couch and massaging the bridge of his nose. “His friend filed a lawsuit against him. He embezzled over a million dollars from their business.”
“Which friend?”
“Matthew Parker.”
I didn’t know anything about Matthew Parker except for the fact that Ryan met him during college and they immediately clicked because they both loved doing business. I met him once when he visited, but I was too young to care, and we never really talked. I didn’t know what a guy like him would say to a young girl like me.
During my brother’s second year in college, they started a bourbon business called Parker St. James. The company had boomed even though they were new to the market.
“Is he going to be okay?” I asked. The thought of my brother in prison didn’t sit well with me. It was one thing that he was away all the time. Jail was a completely different story.
“Your brother is a big boy, Reagan,” Daddy pointed. “He can take care of himself. But he’s not getting a dime from me this time.”
“But he’s going—”
“It’ll teach him a lesson. I’m sick of him trying to ruin what I built for so many years.” Daddy got up from the couch and went to the bar cart to pour himself a drink. I mentally decided to hide in my room for the rest of the day and try to call Ryan. “If I were you, Reagan, I’d start thinking about taking over the business. It seems like your brother isn’t so fit for the job anymore.”
***
Reagan - 25 Years Old
“Reagan Nöelle,” Daddy called from the kitchen, his words slurring. I had just gotten home from shopping with my friends at The Commons and carried multiple bags of designer shoes and clothes with me.
Shit. I didn’t know that Daddy would be home this early.
