Accidental Tryst (Charleston #1)(2)

There's a beep prompt for the conference pin, and I enter it and take a breath.

The call with the bank drags on for almost two hours while they go through our balance sheets line by line. After finally hearing the beep that they've disconnected, MacMillen stays on the conference line. "That went well. I think we're a go."

I exhale in relief, knowing I've spent years building to a point where I could sell. "I'm headed to the funeral. So I hope you don't mind if we talk while I walk?" I glance at my watch. Shit. I’m going to be late to the funeral too.

"No problem. Listen, I forgot it was today, I should have rescheduled the bank. I'm sorry. Will you make it?"

I stalk down the concourse toward the exit and baggage claim. "I think so." I squint at the people milling about at the bottom of the escalator and spot a uniformed girl in a knee length skirt and baggy suit jacket leaning against a pillar. She's scrolling through a phone with one hand and half-heartedly holding a scrawled sign that reads Montgomery with the other. Her mousy hair is scraped back into a ponytail so tight, it looks painful. Dressing up for work doesn't seem natural to her.

"Look, I just want to say something to you, Tryst," Mac says in my ear, his age and weariness echoing through his tone. "I know what you're walking away from by ignoring Carson's offer."

"I know you do." I stand in front of the girl. A teenager. Jesus, can't people employ grown-ups these days?

She looks up. Her eyes register me, and her pale skin turns puce. "Sorry," she mumbles. "Are you—?"

I point at my name she holds and nod, jerking my head toward the exit, hoping we can get going. I motion I only have my roller bag.

"I wouldn't blame you," Mac says as I stride out the airport terminal into the muggy Lowcountry air and follow the girl to the limousine waiting area. I hope she's old enough to drive. The phone beeps with an incoming call, I look down but don't recognize the New York number. "I've taught you to look out for yourself, after all," MacMillen continues as I put the phone back to my ear. "That's a lot of money. Money going directly to you. You haven't fought this long and this hard to walk away from what you're worth. And you are worth it. Every penny, and more. I wouldn't blame you," he repeats.

I slide into the back of a dark Escalade, the air-conditioning cuts on, and I take a deep breath. "Yeah," I say. "But I'd blame me." I stick a finger in the knot of my tie, yank it loose and undo the top button of my shirt. I cover the phone briefly as I tell the driver to take me to the church instead of the hotel. "And today, of all days," I continue on my call, "I don't need to beat myself up any more. You're a mentor but also a father figure to me. The only other person who might have been even close is lying cold and about to be buried. This company represents everything I had to overcome. I've built it stone by stone, and there's only one person I'd trust enough to do what needs to be done. That's you."

The phone beeps again. Same number. I frown, but Mac is talking.

"I'm proud of you, son. Not sure how that family of yours produced you, but I'm glad they did."

"Thanks, Mac," I say sincerely, slightly embarrassed by his pride and faith in me. "I'll talk to you soon."

"Okay. And good luck today. Remember, you succeeded in spite of them. You don't need anything from them. And you don't owe them a damned thing."

"Thank you. Later." I clear the roughness from my voice and end the call.

A voicemail beeps through. Make that two.

I look down, remembering the apps all being rearranged, then I notice the perfect screen. No crack.

My stomach sinks. Shit.

I go to the voicemail page and see the caller list, and it truly sinks in that this is not my phone.

David

David

David

David

David

Followed by two voicemails from the number in New York. I tap the first one to listen.





2





Emmy





I'll grind his fucking nuts," the deep voice next to me growled.

I flinched despite the noise of the busy airport terminal and surreptitiously glanced sideways to the figure sitting next to me at the workstation on his phone.

Who spoke like that to people? And loudly, in public, where everyone could overhear? And his cologne . . . I sniffed, we were close enough after all . . . nice, spicy. It made me think of old leather and rough-hewn wood. The antithesis to his sharp, tailored suit. But there was far too much of the scent. My nose tickled.

His free hand, closest to me, poked out of a dark suit jacket and crisp white cuff and was curled in a fist. A stainless steel watch was barely visible. The skin was tanned and lightly sprinkled with dark hair. My stomach did a little jig. A very little jig. It was a purely Pavlovian response. See potentially sexy forearms, have physical reaction.

Probably a vain, stuck up, custom fancy suit-wearing, heavy cologne-wearing, Wall Street douche-wagon. With a small penis.

"Yeah. Tell him to shove his offer up his-" His head jerked toward me, and I looked up into sharp gray eyes set in tanned skin. "His arse," he finished, eyes pinning mine.

Ah, so he was British. They always were a bit uncouth.

My mouth dried out.