Read Full Disclosure (Homefront: The Sheridans Book 2) Online
Authors: Kate Aster
Full Disclosure (Homefront: The Sheridans Book 2)
Full Disclosure
By Kate Aster
© 2015, Kate Aster
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, and events are products of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously and are not to be interpreted as real. Any similarity to real
events, locales, or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not
intended by the author.
Cover design: The Killion Group, Inc.
- RYAN -
“Aren’t you going to congratulate me?”
As her lipstick-clad lips move, my eyes
track from the new, three-carat rock on her ring finger to the cool, blue eyes
I once found so appealing. There’s a hint of laughter in her expression, as
though she’s savoring that she’s taken me by surprise this Monday morning.
“I’ll congratulate
him
after the
divorce,” I say, unable to resist.
Adriana cocks her head coyly, with an
expression remarkably similar to the one she used when she told me she was
leaving me a few years ago. “Always ready with the sense of humor, Ryan.”
I purposefully glance down at my watch.
“And you’re interrupting my work day to tell me this, why, exactly?”
“I thought you’d want to know. You and I
do share a daughter, Ryan.”
My smile is offered in challenge as I
narrow my eyes on her. “I’m glad that I won’t have to remind you of that when I
do a background check on the man you’re marrying. I won’t have Hannah living
with him part-time if I turn up anything but a spotless reputation.”
Her shoulders rise and fall in a
melodramatic sigh. “Oh, please, Ryan. He’s squeaky clean. An orthodontist from
a very well-heeled family I know through the country club. You don’t always
need to be so extreme in things. You Sheridans were always such hardliners
about everything. Besides, she won’t be spending much time with him, anyway.”
“You have Hannah on the weekdays. That’s
enough time to—”
“I don’t want her on the weekdays
anymore, Ryan,” she interrupts, her icy words giving me pause.
I raise my eyebrows. “So you want her on
the weekends instead?”
“No.” Threading her fingers together, she
rests her hands on her lap. “No, I don’t want her on weekends either.”
Leaning back, I heave an aggravated
breath. What new game is Adriana playing this time to try to bilk more of the
Sheridan money? She’s always been bitter that she walked away from our brief marriage
with less than she’d hoped, truly believing she deserved half of the housing
development empire my father and grandfather built—a company I run now as
CEO of JLS Heartland.
But the divorce courts were less than
amenable to her demands after I discovered she’d been cheating on me for a
year. Since then, she’s used our daughter as some kind of bargaining chip so
that she could continue living in the lifestyle to which she was accustomed.
“I need a fresh start with my new husband,
Ryan.”
“A fresh start,” I deadpan.
“
Yes
, God dammit.” Her once-cold
eyes now flash with heat. “Hannah’s not exactly an easy child to deal with. I’m
tired of the teacher meetings and doctor visits and interruptions every time
she has the tiniest problem at school. The au pair I hired can barely speak
English so can’t seem to help her with her homework, and I’m somehow expected
to sit with her for hours to finish the work she should have gotten done during
the school day. I can’t get any of my own work done.”
My blood simmers. “Adriana, you don’t
have a job.” She’s been loathe to find employment since the child support
payments I send her are more than enough to cover her house in a gated
community and the expenses that come with upgrading her BMW to the latest model
every year.
Tossing her hands up in the air, she
blurts, “Of course I don’t. Being Hannah’s mother is a full-time job.”
For any other mother, I might agree. But
for Adriana… not so much.
I lean back in my chair, finally seeing
where this is headed. “Ahh. A full-time job that you need a paid vacation from,
I’m betting. Let me guess. Four weeks in Tahiti for you and your new husband on
the Sheridan tab?”
“You just don’t get it, Ryan, do you? I.
Don’t. Want. Her.” Her expression hostile, she bites out each word with
resentment. “Colton and I—”
“Colton?”
“Yes. Colton. My fiancé. We want to have
children together.”
I can’t help the laugh that escapes me
from the sheer absurdity of it. “You don’t want the child you have, so you want
to give her up and have a new one?”
“I can hardly handle a newborn with all
the drama Hannah is always throwing my way.”
“That’s not drama, Adriana. That’s parenthood.
You think you’re going to pop out a child that’s more perfect than my Hannah?” The
simmer in my veins turns to a rolling boil. Adriana has no clue that we hit the
lottery when we had a child as wonderful as our daughter.
“She’s got ADHD, Ryan.”
“
So the hell what?
Half the kids
in her class have ADHD. There are a lot of kids who have problems a hell of a
lot worse than Hannah. She’s a great kid—a healthy, resilient kid—who
struggles in school a little.”
“A lot, Ryan. She struggles a lot. You
don’t know half of what I deal with.”
“Oh, no. Did the school call and
interrupt your yoga class again?”
She narrows her eyes on me, and I know I
hit the nail on the head. “I’m done, Ryan. You take her. You see what it’s like
being the full-time parent for a change, see how well you handle it. Maybe you
won’t be so quick to judge me.”
My brow furrows as I lean forward in my
chair, the weight of what she’s saying finally sinking in. “You want me to take
Hannah,” I repeat cautiously, and hold my breath for her reply.
“Yes,” she practically hisses.
Doubt still weighs on my shoulders. “He
must be a hell of a find if you’re willing to give up child support for him.”
She narrows her eyes on me. “Your puny
payments can’t give me half of what I want in life.”
And what she wants has nothing to do with
my child’s happiness, I realize yet again, feeling the pressure of anger
building in my chest.
“Sole legal and physical custody.” I say
the words with gravity.
“Exactly.” She straightens up in the
chair. “See how well you and your beloved JLS Heartland survive after your
precious work schedule is interrupted by schools and doctors and temper
tantrums.”
I raise my eyebrows, tempted to point out
that after being married to her for three years, I’m immune to temper tantrums.
But I don’t dare say a word. Instead, I’m already drafting in my head the
iron-clad agreement that I’ll have my lawyer write up today.
Adriana has just handed me what I’ve
always wanted—what I’ve always regretted I hadn’t fought harder for in
court a few years ago.
And if she had any idea how happy she
just made me, she’d reverse her decision and keep Hannah just to spite me.
1
Five months
later
~ KIM ~
The steam from my coffee singes the tip
of my nose as I raise my traveling mug to my lips and stare out into the haze.
It’s warm for early October, and a thick fog has settled over the parking lot
of Orchard Acres Elementary School.
I managed to snag a pretty good spot in
the carpool line this morning on the steep slope that leads to the school’s
back entrance where the kids are let out of their cars by the teachers. I can’t
see a thing in front of me on account of the fog, but every time a phone lights
up with a new text message in one of the cars ahead of me, the light cuts
through the murkiness. I think I count about twelve phones. Twelve phones means
twelve cars, which means I’ll be out of this line in time to meet my friends
for a quick coffee this morning.
My own phone lights up and lets out a
ringtone—it’s the Imperial March from Star Wars. I know it pretty much
announces to the world that I’m a sci-fi geek, but I don’t care. I’ve lost
enough of my identity sitting in this carpool line along with all the other
moms in our nonspecific SUVs, minivans, and hatchbacks. So I cling to what
makes me unique, even if my friends tell me I’m a complete nerd.
“You got a text, Mom,” Connor announces,
glancing up from the comics I gave him from yesterday’s Sunday paper. He likes
to pretend he’s reading them, but at four years old, he really can only make
out some of the words. I love the sound of him giggling endlessly over the
pictures.
“Thanks, honey,” I respond, spotting the
top half of his face in my rear-view mirror as he peers over the paper.
Glancing at my phone, I see Bridget’s
text. “R U in line?” she’s written.
“Yep. By the flagpole,” I tap in and hit
send. I think I see Bridget’s phone light up at the base of the steep slope.
“Beat you,” she replies. “I’m second in
line.”
“Yeah, I think I saw your phone light up.
Well done.” I see an illuminated phone in the distance, now waving at me.
“Has Natalie cornered you yet for
clean-up committee?”
I can’t help the smile that inches up my
face as I type, “Nope.” Natalie is our PTO president and at this time of year
she’s trying to get everyone to volunteer to help with the Orchard Acres Elementary
School Fall Fundraiser. Last year was Connor’s first year here, and I didn’t
last five seconds around Natalie before she beat me into submission, putting me
on three different committees, one of which was responsible for cleaning up the
gym after the event.
I’m determined to avoid that this year. I
don’t see the logic in paying $50 for a ticket to a fundraiser if I have to
clean up afterward.
Everyone hates Natalie Brimswall at this
time of year, but it’s a job none of us are signing up for either. So every
year, she runs for PTO president unchallenged. And in October, we cower in our
cars and scurry away from her sight in the halls.
It’s pathetic, I know. But the woman is
ruthless.
“Good for you. She snagged me in
yesterday’s carpool line. I’m stuck on clean-up committee,” Bridget texts back,
adding a frowning emoticon, the one with the tears. “Think she’s getting
desperate, so watch out.”
I nod to myself and look at the clock on
my dash. I’m vulnerable now, trapped in the line, unable to flee if I see
Natalie’s face appear through the fog. This is when she’s most likely to
strike, tapping on the windows of cars and guilting us into volunteering.
I’ve got just two minutes till the
teachers emerge from the back of the school and signal the start of the carpool
line. Two minutes of being a sitting duck out here. I glance around me, but
can’t see her through the fog. She’s out there someone, though. I can feel it.
I’m already on the silent auction
committee,
I practice.
I don’t have time for any more committees this year, Natalie
. And it’s the
God’s truth. Just a month ago, I started a new job at JLS Heartland, the big
housing development company based here in Newton’s Creek and the area’s
sought-after employer. I have benefits that include…
drum roll, please
… medical
and dental insurance for Connor and me, and a 401K match plan that might just
allow me to retire when I hit 65 (or 75 if Connor doesn’t manage to get a
college scholarship).
I applied for my job ages ago, but it
wasn’t until my friend Allie started dating Logan Sheridan, the brother of JLS
Heartland’s CEO, that my résumé magically got moved up to the top of the pile
in their Human Resources department. I know this for a fact, because now that
desk is mine. I work in HR, fielding calls from people like me and filing away résumés
we might never get a chance to use.
It’s an entry-level job, and as boring as
watching paint dry. But it’s the best job I’ve had in my 24 years of life.
Now is not the time for me to burden
myself with more responsibilities here at the school. Besides, I’m already on
the silent auction committee, I remind myself again.
I’m already doing my part.
I’m already doing my part
, I repeat in my head, staring at the
string of glowing brake lights in front of me and willing the line to start
moving.
The Imperial March sounds again and
I look at my phone, still in my hand.
“Heads up. RIGHT NOW!!!” the text from
Bridget commands.
My eyes roll upward knowing that Natalie Brimswall
is headed in my direction. I glance beyond my windshield, summoning my resolve.
No. No, Natalie, I have a new job that
requires too much time. No, I’m already on a committee. No, I did three committees
last year and I can only do one this year. No, No—
Ohhhh.
An image reveals itself through the fog
as it approaches, and I swear I hear the angels sing. If my life was a movie,
this scene would be in slow motion. He looks like a fantasy, a Highlander stalking
through the mist of the Scottish landscape, eyes piercing, focused, as he aims
to claim his mate.
Except that he’s wearing jeans and not a
kilt. Ass-hugging jeans just tight enough that I can see the bulge of his quads
as he takes each step closer to my car. A snug Henley showcases a set of
shoulders and thick arms that are more apropos in an MMA cage, poised for a
fight, rather than arousing every mom in the carpool line. My eyes feast on his
body, and my hormones buzz in my veins despite the four-year-old strapped into
his car seat behind me.
I’m only human.
And apparently, I’m not the only mom
whose world has been rocked by the sight of him, because at least eight cell
phones light up at once, slicing through the fog in front of me.
My eyes dart toward him again, eager to
soak in the sight of him before he disappears into the mist. Single, harried
moms like me don’t get out much. Except for Allie’s boyfriend, Logan, who in no
uncertain terms is hotter than hell, I don’t get the chance to ogle a man like
I am now.
I’m 24. It’s what I’m supposed to do at
my age, right?
My eyes journey downward. His jeans hang
low on his hips, with the Henley haphazardly tucked into the front. He stops a
moment and reaches his hand out toward the fog behind him. I see his beefy
forearms as he does and it makes the neglected parts of me shiver in awareness.
He stands there a moment until another image emerges from the fog—a girl,
maybe about six or seven at my guess. She darts him a look and says something
to him, which I’d bet my last dollar is something like, “Dad, I’m too old to
hold your hand.” But she takes it anyway.
They are only steps from my car when I’m
finally able to catch a good, long look at his eyes.
Holy shit.
My heart stops for at least a beat or
two. I’m almost certain it does. And my reaction has nothing to do with the
fact that his eyes are as blue as sapphires, the kind of eyes that can tear a
soul in two as they bring a girl to her knees.
My phone lights up again with a text from
Bridget. “See him? Who the hell is the hottie?” she’s asking.
I crack a smile. Bridget is happily
married, but she’s definitely not dead. And a girl would
have
to be dead
to not notice this guy. I glance back at his face to be certain. He looks
different with a couple days worth of stubble on his jawline and in a shirt that
makes him look like a bad-ass sex god.
But those eyes. There’s no mistaking
them. I picture him clean-shaven in a suit and confirm my suspicion.
I ignore Bridget’s question for the
moment because I’m sure if I told her that the “hottie” she speaks of is also a
billionaire, word would fly fast enough through the carpool line to cause at
least three fender benders. Best to let that news spread after the kids are safely
let out for school.
My phone sounds again. I don’t glance at
it because the carpool line is finally moving ahead of me. Putting my car in
drive, I take a last glance at Ryan Sheridan as he escorts the little girl down
the walkway toward the front entrance of the school.
As he exits my view, I feel my heart rate
normalize.
“The line’s moving,” Connor says.
“Sure is, honey.” I try to make my voice
sound normal, and not like Mommy is trying to claw her way out of a really
tawdry sex fantasy involving her boss. “Got your backpack?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I packed a cream cheese and jelly
sandwich for you today, okay?” Our school has a nut-free policy, so peanut
butter has disappeared from our cabinets.
“Aw, that’s gross. All the jelly oozes
out and gets on my fingers.”
“Well, that’s what’s for lunch,” I say with
a sigh. I love how he shares his one-star reviews of my lunch choices
after
I’ve already packed his lunchbox. “And that’s what napkins are for. Please eat the
sandwich this time. I don’t want you just eating the cheese puffs.”
“Okay. Can I unbuckle now?”
“Nope. Still a couple cars ahead of us,
champ.”
I ease my way through the line until Mrs.
Schumacher opens the back door of our car. I swear her cheeks look a little
more flushed than normal, and I’m betting she was just as affected by the
presence of Ryan Sheridan as I was. “Morning, Mrs. Schumacher,” I greet her. “I’ll
pick you up at aftercare at 5:30, honey.” My son nods in response and I blow him
a kiss.
Firing me an exuberant smile over his
shoulder, he climbs out of the car and my heart nearly bursts, like always. I
don’t know when I’ll reach that point in motherhood when my kid’s smile doesn’t
completely undo me. I’ll probably never be at that point. My kid is my world.
Mrs. Schumacher wishes me a good day as
she slams my door.
I like starting my day off like this. I
like watching my son in my rear-view mirror as I pull away, his excited gait
showing that he’s still at that age when he loves school. I’m going to enjoy him
at this age, because I know from experience, it won’t last forever.
I turn at the basketball hoop and slowly
make my way back up the hill toward the main road. The fog still hasn’t lifted,
and I figure it’s a good thing. If Natalie tries to flag me down and nail me
for some more fundraiser duties, I can just keep driving and act like I don’t see
her through the haze.
I’m barely going two miles an hour when I
spot Ryan Sheridan again, standing next to a convertible Jag that, while
gorgeous, doesn’t hold a candle to its owner. The little girl is gone now. He
must have walked her into the building.
But he’s not alone.
Natalie Brimswall is with him.
Oh, shit.
I see the look on her face—the look
she gets when she’s identified fresh blood. And since he’s hotter than a bacon-wrapped
Carolina Reaper, she’s probably imagining him on every committee just so she
can hang around him and soak up his pheromones.
Who could blame her?
My car creeps closer, and I get a better
look. He’s unreadable, with the same stoic expression that he has on the
portrait that hangs in the main lobby of JLS Heartland, right alongside one of
his father, and one of his grandfather. I see his mouth open, likely poised to
excuse himself from her ambush, but then her expression changes.
Oh, God, no!
Not the guilt face. I remember it so
well. It’s what did me in last year. She’s about to unleash her “For the good
of the children” speech. It’s 99.9% effective.
I should just drive on. He doesn’t see me
here. He wouldn’t even recognize me if he did. I really like my job at JLS, and
I don’t want to mess it up by looking the wrong way at the boss man. Maybe he
wants
to be on a committee or two. Maybe he
wants
to serve up pigs-in-a-blanket
in the buffet line or show up at the event an hour early to blow up balloons
and fold paper napkins around plastic utensils. Maybe he wants to wipe sticky
sauces off of the fold-out tables and fill up the dumpster with trash for two
hours after the event.