Holt, Her Ruthless Billionaire: 50 Loving States-Connecticut (Ruthless Tycoons Book 1) Page 22

  As we rinse off after, I wonder how long it will take before Sylvie understands this, too.

  I reluctantly part ways with her after we finish with our second soap and rinse off of the morning. I need to change.

  I put on the dark blue suit I chose for the meeting. But just as I am about to attach the set of silver cufflinks I inherited from Grandpa Hank, I freeze. A melody floats out of the open bathroom door and into the bedroom.

  It’s not the first song I have heard this morning. Sylvie has been playing tracks by some R&B singer I never heard of since we left the shower.

  But this song is different. The underlying melody…it reminds me of our summer in New Haven. Dreamy and lovely… before things fell apart.

  Moments later, I’m at the open bathroom door, cufflinks in hand. I listen to the song and watch Sylvie work some product through her unbraided hair. Totally entranced.

  “What was that song?” I ask when the playlist switches to a more upbeat number.

  Sylvie visibly startles, but eventually says, “’Jahraymecofasola.’ It’s a song by Jill Scott.”

  “Jill Scott,” I repeat. A new-to-me singer, but her voice reminds me of Sylvie’s. Soft, melodic, and unbelievably kind.

  “I like it,” I say. It’s three words, but to me it’s as if I’ve confessed a whole paragraph. I forgive you. We can get past what happened that summer. Fall in love with me again, because I never fell out of love with you, even when I most wanted to.

  Aloud I say, “Come with me.”

  Sylvie tilts her head. “Come with you where?”

  “To my fundraiser. You said I treated you like dirt while I treated that ballet dancer like gold. So, come with me tonight. Let me treat you like gold.”

  Her expression softens with a yes, but then like the most predictable thing ever, it waivers with all the reasons why she should say no.

  We’ll work on that this time around, I decide. Her self-esteem and her fear—of me and of herself.

  But for now, I’ll have to force the issue like the Old Holt would rather than the version 3.0 I am trying so hard to become for her.

  “Okay. Allie will take care of the arrangements. I don’t know if I can come back here before the event begins since Little Rock is in the opposite direction of the botanical gardens. But I’ll try. Otherwise, I can meet you there.”

  I don’t wait for an answer. Instead, I quickly head out the door, pretending I can’t hear her protest that “maybe this is not such a good idea,” and “I don’t have anything to wear.”

  The song follows me in the elevator down to the ground floor. And then to our headquarters in Calsonville, which used to be called something else forty years ago, before Grandpa made them change their name as part of our headquarters building deal. It plays in the back of my mind while Allie walks me through my morning briefing (thankfully, there are no Wes incidents even though we left him with someone other than Sylvie).

  By the time I finish a slew of handshake pre-board meetings, I’ve become used to the melody. And it continues to loop like a calm reminder of the love I once had and will have again as I make my way to the second to last board meeting of the year. Oddly, I don’t feel nervous when I walk into the crowded boardroom. I give my speech about what I’ve done for the company in the past two years, and what I plan to do in the next two. It’s well received. Even if my father looks annoyed when the rest of the board members clap.

  But for once, I don’t care that my father’s main setting seems to be disapproval when it comes to me. I handshake my way out of the room, that song still playing in my head, and I curse the one-on-one meetings I packed into the end of the day because all I really want is to get back to Sylvie.

  I rush through the meetings, speaking with each board member individually. I may want to be the CEO of Cal-Mart. But I need Sylvie.

  However, just as I am about to go to my last meeting of the day, Della pops her head into my office with an apologetic, “Hi, Holt. Just want make sure you have a hard copy of the speech you’re supposed to give at the botanical garden tonight.”

  “Shit, I completely forgot about that,” I say, accepting the multi-page document she waves at me.

  “Have you given any more thought to taking that local news anchor, Pamela Acton, as your plus one?” Della asks. “I sent her bio over a few days ago, and she’s really excited to meet you and available tonight.”

  “I already have a date,” I mumble, flipping through the speech. The very long speech.

  “Oh, you do?” Della says, surprise evident in her tone. “Anyone I know?”

  “No, it’s not,” I answer shortly. “Do I have to be off-book for this?”

  Della seems surprised by my question, but then resets, smoothing her long red hair as she says, “This is the fundraiser we invited all the local Cal-Mart employees to. The purpose is to brand you as a CEO who truly cares about the people who work for you. So yes, it would be ideal if your talking points seem like they come from the heart.”

  In other words, I have to a memorize another 45-minute speech or risk looking like an asshole. I glance at my watch and sigh before texting Sylvie, “Stuck in office. Will meet you there.”

  I ignore her reply which starts with “Maybe I shouldn’t…”

  Not today, little rabbit, not today, I think as I change the speech with a red pen.

  But when I reach the final paragraph, instead of rewriting the last line so it reads, “Will you please join me in giving the Botanical Gardens a big round of applause?” I write, “Will you marry me?”

  And that’s when the idea hits me. I rush through our now empty offices, hoping Della hasn’t already left to oversee the event set up.

  But I stop short in the hallway outside her open door. She’s talking to someone.

  “… he said he already has a date.”

  “Who with? Tell me it ain’t that black nanny of his…” a gruff voice replies. A gruff voice I instantly recognize as belonging to my father.

  “I don’t know. I asked but he didn’t say,” Della replies.

  “Well, can you find out, darlin’?” my father asks, his boss voice dropping into the flirtatious tone he uses with the women he’s dating.

  Della giggles, “I’ll try again.”

  The next thing I hear are the sounds of a very workplace inappropriate makeout session. I linger in the hall, trying to process what I just heard. It appears my father hasn’t given up meddling in my life like he used to back in New Haven—

  That’s when a much bigger realization hits. I remember the flash of Sylvie’s eyes as she says, “I am not taking any more Calson money.” Not “money from you” but “Calson money.” I thought she’d just been talking about her salary, but now…

  The story of how Sylvie and I fell apart that long-ago summer suddenly begins to rewrite itself in my mind.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  SYLVIE

  I’m dressed in a long silver cocktail dress—one of the five Allie sent over for me to choose from for tonight’s event. But I’m still in Holt’s master bedroom, waiting for him to respond to my text about the fundraiser. Just in case there’s a slim chance I can get out of compounding my guilt with yet another thoughtful date night. Not to mention, what if Jack Calson is there?

  Which is why when my phone vibrates and lights up with a 501 number, I press the accept button in a flash.

  “Hello?” I say, sitting on the bed with the phone.

  “I hear your name made it on the VIP list for Holt Calson’s Botanical Gardens fundraiser tonight. Now, that’s a piece of news!”

  It’s that reporter, Kyle Drinnen. I haven’t heard from him since he tried to get me to spill the beans about Holt three months ago. But I recognize his voice immediately.

  And I’m even more adamant this time when I say, “Look. I’m still not interested in talking to you.”

  “That is a shame, Ms. Pinnock, because I sure am getting more and more interested in talking to you as I get further i
nto this juicy story. When I first decided to dig into Calson Jr. and Sr., I thought it would be a straightforward business story. But you, Ms. Pinnock, keep throwing in twist after twist. First, Calson Jr. brings you back to the States from Jamaica. Now, three months later, you’re his plus one at tonight’s big event. Sounds like he really wants everyone to know you two are an item.”

  Yes, it does, I think with a guilty wince. But still, I give Kyle another firm, “No comment.”

  “Okay, no comment about Holt. But can we talk about you? Is it true you two crazy kids shacked up ten years ago? Just a few months before your move to Jamaica, huh?”

  My heart chills, but I say nothing.

  Kyle’s voice shifts into a not-so-neighborly tone as he says, “This story is happening, Ms. Pinnock. Whether my editor or the Calsons like it or not. And if you don’t want your reputation to go down in flames with the rest of them, I suggest you start talking to me.”

  I decide to do the exact opposite and push the red telephone symbol, hanging up on him without another word.

  But getting rid of that man’s voice isn’t nearly enough to slow down my thunderous heartbeat. Oh, mercy…the reporter knows about Holt’s summer with me. That means he may know everything else, including—

  The phone buzzes again, interrupting my panicked thoughts. Holt’s name pops up on my caller ID.

  “Holt,” I answer, my voice still shaky from my call with the reporter.

  “Sylvie, did my father get to you ten years ago? Is he the reason you left me like you did?” Holt demands, his voice stiff with anger.

  I choke. Of all the things I expected Holt to say, this definitely was not one of them.

  But I can’t answer, I remind myself.

  “You’re not answering,” he says. “That means Dad not only got to you, he made you sign an NDA. That son of a bitch!”

  Again, I say nothing. Jack Calson’s words about what he would do to my mother still ring in my ears. And even if I weren’t so concerned about my mother’s livelihood, I would owe him money if I told Holt the truth. I’d have to pay him back the six figures we spent long ago on hospital bills and funeral expenses for my father. Money I definitely cannot afford to pay back.

  “So it’s true. Otherwise you would say something…anything. Fuck, Sylvie.”

  I can hear the rage vibrating in Holt’s voice and I brace myself for what I think is going to come next. But Holt surprises me yet again.

  “I can’t believe it took me this long to figure it out! And that I didn’t trust you enough to connect the dots. Fuck me. Babe, I am so sorry. I am so very sorry.”

  I blink, unable to believe he is blaming himself instead of me. “This isn’t your fault,” I insist. “It’s not.”

  “Are you kidding me? Of course, this is my fault. I always knew he would never let us be together. That’s why I wanted to marry you so quickly…before he found out. But then I overdosed. I’m the one who fucked up and let him get to you. And you couldn’t say a thing. Oh, babe. You never did any of those things he said. You didn’t abandon me. In fact, you called for help, didn’t you? And Javon—that bastard was on his payroll. His first call was probably to my prick of a dad. I knew I was making the right call when I decided to fire him and hire a new bodyguard with my own money.”

  Javon actually contacted the paramedics, and then Holt’s dad. But Holt is close enough to the truth that I feel like crying.

  “And when you pushed me away, it was because you knew how I was. That if I thought there was any chance you would still want to be with me…”

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, and never before have two words felt so inadequate for the feelings I am having.

  “No, do not apologize. Don’t you ever apologize to me for what that bastard did. Just…Sylvie, please marry me.”

  I blink, not understanding. “You don’t know what you’re saying,” I tell him like I did the first two times he proposed to me.

  But this time he is sober and he insists, “I want you to marry me. I want you to be the mother Wes deserves. And I will hunt down Barron’s father and make him sign a consent form so I can adopt him, too, free and clear.”

  So many alarm bells go off in my head, I can barely focus. “Holt, we can’t do that!” I tell him. “We can’t simply marry and become an instafamily.”

  “Why the hell not?” he demands. “We’ve wasted enough time as it is. And I never stopped loving you. Are you saying you don’t feel the same?”

  I try to say just that but I can’t lie. Not anymore. Not about that. “No, I do love you, but—”

  “But nothing, Sylvie! Look, my car is here. I need to head to the event. I’ll see you there, and we can announce our engagement then. Don’t rabbit out on me this time. The stakes are too high.”

  “No, Holt…I can’t! We can’t—Holt, wait!”

  But the phone disconnects, leaving me with nothing but dead air.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  HOLT

  “What do you mean she refuses to come?” I demand when Yahto approaches me at the Calson Botanical Gardens event a full twenty minutes after Sylvie was due to arrive.

  “I do not know,” my guard answers with a helpless shake of his large head. “She is dressed and looking very nice as we are walking in. I think it is all decided. But suddenly she is stopping on the little red bridge and saying I must come and get you and tell you she needs to talk before she comes the rest of the way in.”

  I look around the event which is full of executives in suits, affluent locals in cocktail attire, and quite a few Cal-Mart employees in less expensive clothing they obviously bought from our store. It’s a nice mix and a lot less boring than many of the seven-plus figure parties I’m usually invited to when I’m in Arkansas. I even notice another interracial couple. A guy in a motorcycle jacket and tie with a much smaller and very pretty black woman.

  Of course, my father is also here, glaring at me because I have not only been avoiding him, but I also refused to accept the attractive news anchor he attempted to foist on me via Della for tonight’s event. But if he thinks he’s mad now, wait until I give my welcome speech. If I give my welcome speech. It’s been delayed so long, people are beginning to leave.

  That’s why I finally give in to Sylvie’s request. “Fine,” I say, heading in the direction of the Japanese Garden.

  Once I’ve moved past the boundaries of the main event, I can see Sylvie waiting for me in the distance. She looks like a painting, standing beneath a huge fall moon in a shimmering dress and velvet wrap. And she takes my breath away. Still.

  Which makes me even more determined to quell her protests about becoming my wife. But just as I’m closing the distance between us, a weasely looking man in a cheap suit runs toward me.

  “Mr. Calson! Mr. Calson!”

  “Hey!” Yahto says, stepping between us before the smaller man can reach me.

  “Mr. Calson, I’m Kyle Drinnen from the Arkansas Sun,” the man says, straining to see me past Yahto’s hulking body. “I’m the one who filed that story your people sent us about the Ixtapa trip with your son. The Sun sent me here when your PR person, Della, called to ask for coverage of tonight’s event.”

  I stop, Della’s constant reminders to stay on brand—especially with the press—stirring in the back of my head. “Listen, you can have five minutes, but after my speech.”

  “That’s fair, sure. But let me ask you one question. Just one.”

  I mentally roll my eyes, impatient but figuring this is the best way to make the guy go away. “Okay. Ask your question,” I tell him.

  Yahto steps away, but continues to glare down at the little man.

  However, seeming not to care, the reporter takes his time adjusting his rumpled suit before saying, “This big speech you’re about to make? Does it have anything to do with the half-black love child you’ve kept hidden for ten years?”

  Chapter Forty

  SYLVIE

  I have to tell him about Barron. I don’
t know how…but I’ve got to do it.

  As I stand on the bridge, watching the koi fish swim beneath the garden’s fairy lights, I envy them. Their only care is food, and visitors to the gardens happily push quarters into a machine at the end of the bridge to get handfuls of pellets for the fish to gobble up. Their lives are simple. They don’t have secrets. Or an ex-boyfriend who wants to marry them because he has no idea about those secrets…

  Holt might have been a druggie and a drunk, but he had one redeeming quality. I never had to worry about turning into my sister because he always used a condom. It is like it has been built into his muscle memory somehow. Even when he was high. Even when he drunk. I never had to remind him. He wrapped up every single time.

  Until the night he didn’t.

  I thought he would be asleep when I came back to our bedroom after cleaning up the mess from our disastrous “wedding announcement.” He was face down on the bed as was his habit whenever he passed out. But when I changed out of my stained sundress and climbed tiredly into the bed next to him, Holt suddenly animated as if my presence alone was like a vial of smelling salts to his senses.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, pulling me into his arms and kissing my neck. Calson’s don’t apologize. Unless they’re wasted, I’d discovered over the summer. And it was only a little past eight, but he reeked of alcohol.

  “You need help,” I said quietly. “I love you. But Luca is right. You need more help than I can give you.”

  He snorted, laughing like I’d made a joke. Then mumbled, “No, babe, all I need is you. I don’t need help or food or air, just you…”

  He kissed me so slow and sweet that I forgot about the alcohol on his breath and the broken dishes and my stained dress…and…and everything else.

  Afterward, I would ask myself why I stayed so long. Why I didn’t call Prin or fight harder to move back home with my parents where I belonged. The answer would always come not in words, but in a memory of how he kissed me when he was high. Soul kisses, so deep and slow I often didn’t realize we were having sex until an orgasm began to build inside me. As so often happened when we made love while he was high or drunk (or both), the orgasm slow burned inside us both until it would explode like a beach bonfire with too many sticks.