“Dean?”
She blushed. “I mean Mr. Cole. I deliver his packages for him when he’s not around. He gave me a key.”
My mouth dried and I blinked. “This is Dean Cole’s apartment?” I confirmed, feeling dumb. Not only about the question. About everything.
The girl nodded, her smile still wide. “Sure is.” She sauntered past me and just before the door closed in my face, she said, “Again, Happy Holidays, Miss LeBlanc. Hope you have a good one.”
But it was too late. It was already a horrible Christmas. The worst I’d ever had.
I was about to take the stairs back down to the apartment. There was no way I was waiting around for the elevator, and I didn’t want to get in with the receptionist because I feared I’d cry in front of her. I felt pathetic enough without adding the cry-in-front-of-a-stranger humiliation into this mess.
My steps toward the door leading to the stairway stopped when I heard my phone singing in my back pocket. I fished it out, my heart slamming against my chest, wanting out, out, out.
I begged for it to be him. Begged for him to have an explanation. Begged for all of this to be a mistake. He couldn’t have been so vicious. There was no way.
Staring at the screen for a second, disappointment gripped every ounce of me when I saw Rosie’s name, before the feeling was replaced with shame.
Vicious was a no one. Rosie was my family.
“Merry Christmas!” Rosie, Mama, and Daddy greeted in unison when I pressed the phone to my ear. I smiled despite the pressure in my nose. I was crying, but I didn’t want them to hear.
“Hey y’all! I miss you so much! Merry Christmas!”
“Millie!” Mama shouted in the background. “Please tell me your sister is not dating a biker named Rat!”
I did my best to sound like I was laughing, even though the emptiness spreading in my gut was numbing every emotion in me, even the pain.
“Rosie,” I scolded. “Stop messing with Mama’s feelings.”
We talked for about ten minutes, me still standing on the edge of the stairway, before Rosie took the phone to her room and dropped her voice to a whisper.
“Millie,” she said, “I thought you should know something about Vicious.”
It seemed like my heart stopped beating when she said his name. Hope and dread filled me in equal measure.
“Yeah?”
“Baron Senior died.”
I dropped my phone to the floor, my mouth falling open.
Jo.
The will.
His father.
Everything clicked like a gun hammer, and the invisible weapon was pointed at my temple. It was show time for Vicious.
But was I about to become his prop?
“FUCKING FINALLY,” I SAID, FLINGING the door to Trent’s red Range Rover open before climbing in. It was a nice rental, considering he was only here for the holidays from Chicago. I tossed my Ray Ban Wayfarers aside and shot him a look.
“Fucking finally? I got here twenty minutes before you landed.” Trent threw his vehicle into drive.
He looked like crap. Well, by Trent standards anyway. The fucker was easy on the eyes. With mocha skin, a rugby-player build, and other shitty qualities that made women cream their panties, he was probably the best-looking guy among the four partners of FHH. Only now he had red-rimmed eyes, a three-day stubble, and he needed a haircut. Yesterday.
“I was actually referring to my father dropping dead,” I said, twisting to the backseat and retrieving my black leather Armani messenger bag.
I was also referring to the fact that I’d gone through travel hell. Everything went to shit the minute I got the phone call about my dad’s death. I was in such a hurry to catch a flight, I forgot my charger. My phone died and there were no available flights to San Diego or LA for hours upon hours. Finally, by the time I landed, I’d been able to buy another charger and called Trent to pick me up.
I pulled my phone out and checked for calls and messages from Eli Cole. There weren’t any. Just two missed calls from Emilia. She could wait. First, I needed to know when we were going to read the will. No point in contacting her until I knew how soon she needed to fly her ass to Todos Santos. It was crucial she be here on stand-by, ready to spring my trap on Jo. The raging erection I had every time I thought about Emilia had nothing to do with it.
“Can you focus for one fucking minute on anything other than your goddamn inheritance?” Trent said.
He was still pissy about knocking up that stripper chick. I rolled my eyes. “Right. How is Valenciana?” Valenciana was the stripper. And, sadly, that wasn’t her stage name.
“She’s okay, we’ve decided to…that’s not what I meant! What I meant is, you should be sad about your dad passing away.”
We were heading into a traffic jam out of San Diego and toward Todos Santos. I wondered if Jo was going to be home and if so, if it was too early to kick her out.
“Trust me when I say he earned my hatred fair and square.”
“This seems a little out of nowhere. You never spoke one bad word about him before.”
I fought another eye roll. “What am I, a fucking fifteen-year-old girl? Which reminds me, where is that fucker, Dean?”
“At his parents, of course. It’s Christmas Eve, and if I were you, I wouldn’t be surprised if he dropped by to say hello. And fuck you very much for hiring his ex-girlfriend. Now what the hell is that all about, Vic?”
“I needed a PA,” I gritted out. It had been ten years. They were together for a semester and a half. It drove me crazy that Dean made it out to be what it clearly wasn’t.
“She was his first and last serious girlfriend,” Trent accused.
“And she was mine,” I said flatly, shoving a blunt between my lips and lighting it in his car.
The windows were rolled up—it was winter, after all—and zero fucks were given on my part. It was Trent’s fault for butting into my business.
Trent tapped the steering wheel. “Goddamn you. Give me a hit.” I passed him the blunt.
He inhaled before returning it to me. “You keep saying she was yours”—smoke poured from his mouth—“but did you ever tell her that? All you did was talk shit about the girl and bully her every time she came near you.”
“Excuse me, but have you grown a vagina since you found out about becoming a father? What is this crazy talk about feelings?” I exhaled smoke from my nostrils. “When’s Jaime landing?”
She blushed. “I mean Mr. Cole. I deliver his packages for him when he’s not around. He gave me a key.”
My mouth dried and I blinked. “This is Dean Cole’s apartment?” I confirmed, feeling dumb. Not only about the question. About everything.
The girl nodded, her smile still wide. “Sure is.” She sauntered past me and just before the door closed in my face, she said, “Again, Happy Holidays, Miss LeBlanc. Hope you have a good one.”
But it was too late. It was already a horrible Christmas. The worst I’d ever had.
I was about to take the stairs back down to the apartment. There was no way I was waiting around for the elevator, and I didn’t want to get in with the receptionist because I feared I’d cry in front of her. I felt pathetic enough without adding the cry-in-front-of-a-stranger humiliation into this mess.
My steps toward the door leading to the stairway stopped when I heard my phone singing in my back pocket. I fished it out, my heart slamming against my chest, wanting out, out, out.
I begged for it to be him. Begged for him to have an explanation. Begged for all of this to be a mistake. He couldn’t have been so vicious. There was no way.
Staring at the screen for a second, disappointment gripped every ounce of me when I saw Rosie’s name, before the feeling was replaced with shame.
Vicious was a no one. Rosie was my family.
“Merry Christmas!” Rosie, Mama, and Daddy greeted in unison when I pressed the phone to my ear. I smiled despite the pressure in my nose. I was crying, but I didn’t want them to hear.
“Hey y’all! I miss you so much! Merry Christmas!”
“Millie!” Mama shouted in the background. “Please tell me your sister is not dating a biker named Rat!”
I did my best to sound like I was laughing, even though the emptiness spreading in my gut was numbing every emotion in me, even the pain.
“Rosie,” I scolded. “Stop messing with Mama’s feelings.”
We talked for about ten minutes, me still standing on the edge of the stairway, before Rosie took the phone to her room and dropped her voice to a whisper.
“Millie,” she said, “I thought you should know something about Vicious.”
It seemed like my heart stopped beating when she said his name. Hope and dread filled me in equal measure.
“Yeah?”
“Baron Senior died.”
I dropped my phone to the floor, my mouth falling open.
Jo.
The will.
His father.
Everything clicked like a gun hammer, and the invisible weapon was pointed at my temple. It was show time for Vicious.
But was I about to become his prop?
“FUCKING FINALLY,” I SAID, FLINGING the door to Trent’s red Range Rover open before climbing in. It was a nice rental, considering he was only here for the holidays from Chicago. I tossed my Ray Ban Wayfarers aside and shot him a look.
“Fucking finally? I got here twenty minutes before you landed.” Trent threw his vehicle into drive.
He looked like crap. Well, by Trent standards anyway. The fucker was easy on the eyes. With mocha skin, a rugby-player build, and other shitty qualities that made women cream their panties, he was probably the best-looking guy among the four partners of FHH. Only now he had red-rimmed eyes, a three-day stubble, and he needed a haircut. Yesterday.
“I was actually referring to my father dropping dead,” I said, twisting to the backseat and retrieving my black leather Armani messenger bag.
I was also referring to the fact that I’d gone through travel hell. Everything went to shit the minute I got the phone call about my dad’s death. I was in such a hurry to catch a flight, I forgot my charger. My phone died and there were no available flights to San Diego or LA for hours upon hours. Finally, by the time I landed, I’d been able to buy another charger and called Trent to pick me up.
I pulled my phone out and checked for calls and messages from Eli Cole. There weren’t any. Just two missed calls from Emilia. She could wait. First, I needed to know when we were going to read the will. No point in contacting her until I knew how soon she needed to fly her ass to Todos Santos. It was crucial she be here on stand-by, ready to spring my trap on Jo. The raging erection I had every time I thought about Emilia had nothing to do with it.
“Can you focus for one fucking minute on anything other than your goddamn inheritance?” Trent said.
He was still pissy about knocking up that stripper chick. I rolled my eyes. “Right. How is Valenciana?” Valenciana was the stripper. And, sadly, that wasn’t her stage name.
“She’s okay, we’ve decided to…that’s not what I meant! What I meant is, you should be sad about your dad passing away.”
We were heading into a traffic jam out of San Diego and toward Todos Santos. I wondered if Jo was going to be home and if so, if it was too early to kick her out.
“Trust me when I say he earned my hatred fair and square.”
“This seems a little out of nowhere. You never spoke one bad word about him before.”
I fought another eye roll. “What am I, a fucking fifteen-year-old girl? Which reminds me, where is that fucker, Dean?”
“At his parents, of course. It’s Christmas Eve, and if I were you, I wouldn’t be surprised if he dropped by to say hello. And fuck you very much for hiring his ex-girlfriend. Now what the hell is that all about, Vic?”
“I needed a PA,” I gritted out. It had been ten years. They were together for a semester and a half. It drove me crazy that Dean made it out to be what it clearly wasn’t.
“She was his first and last serious girlfriend,” Trent accused.
“And she was mine,” I said flatly, shoving a blunt between my lips and lighting it in his car.
The windows were rolled up—it was winter, after all—and zero fucks were given on my part. It was Trent’s fault for butting into my business.
Trent tapped the steering wheel. “Goddamn you. Give me a hit.” I passed him the blunt.
He inhaled before returning it to me. “You keep saying she was yours”—smoke poured from his mouth—“but did you ever tell her that? All you did was talk shit about the girl and bully her every time she came near you.”
“Excuse me, but have you grown a vagina since you found out about becoming a father? What is this crazy talk about feelings?” I exhaled smoke from my nostrils. “When’s Jaime landing?”
