Unbreak My Heart (35 page)

Our bodies were damp with sweat from the friction of hot skin on hot skin. We were breathing hard, kissing messily, pushing to reach that pinnacle where the intensity became throbbing, pulsing release.

Sierra hit that peak first. She didn’t scream, but it was damn close.

I watched her as she came. Seeing her get off did it for me every fucking time. Especially when her spasming sex clenched around my cock as I rocked against her to prolong her orgasm. I didn’t have a fucking prayer of not coming like a damn geyser.

I didn’t stay lost in the post-orgasm white noise for long. Sierra slapped my ass hard and said, “I love you, but you’re heavy, we’re sticky, and I’m hungry.”

I pressed a lingering kiss to her mouth before I eased out of her and pushed back onto my knees. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I tried to catch my breath and my balance.

It didn’t surprise me that Sierra already knew how to work
I love you
into casual conversation. Would it stop feeling so important if
I love you
became a toss-away phrase?

Right now it seemed monumental because I’d never said that to anyone before. Not even in jest.

Where was the line between being stingy with saying the words so they didn’t lose impact and overusing them?

Overthinking this much?

Sierra straddled my lap. “No brooding allowed or I will tickle you. Because I know all of your ticklish spots now, West.”

I laughed. “You do?”

She ran her fingers down the front of my throat as if she wanted to feel my joy. “You laugh so much more than you used to. You smile more too.”

“I have a lot more things to be happy about in my life now, Sierra.”

“That makes me happy.” She outlined my lips with the tip of her tongue. “But I still think I oughta prove I know where all your ticklish spots are.”

A
fter lunch on
Monday afternoon I bit the bullet and started a pros and cons list of taking the PCE job, because I would see Phyllis at the weekly meeting the following night, when Nikki knocked.

“You have a drop-in guest. No, it’s not Sergeant West.”

The man loved his military title. I did too. “He or she?”

“She. Her name is Mrs. Nash. That’s all the info she’d give me.”

“Send her back, please.”

I’d cleaned my hands with antibacterial gel and downed four aspirin, suspecting I’d have a screaming headache by the end of the day.

A woman who looked to be in her seventies entered my office.

I said, “Come in and have a seat.” She perched on the front edge of the chair, reminding me of how regally Mia’s grandmother positioned herself in
The Princess Diaries
. “I feel like we’ve met.”

“We have. At your mother’s luncheon. I’m Mrs. Nash.”

“Well, Mrs. Nash, what can I do for you?”

“You can listen, for starters.” She kept her hands folded in her lap, but her eyes nearly shot flames from beneath her glasses. “I overheard your conversation at the end of the luncheon. And I have to say, it angered me. Very much. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that you are every bit as snobby and judgmental as you accused the luncheon attendees of being.”

I bristled and my polite veneer started chipping off. “What exactly did I say that was so offensive?”

Her mouth tightened. “You all but said that a country club was the last place you’d ever look for the type of women you needed as business mentors. Then you went on to point out that most of the women considered marrying well their greatest accomplishment. And these pearl clutchers had nothing useful to offer young women your age. That we were dinosaurs holding onto a one-dimensional and superficial way of life. But if you ever needed advice on the proper way to pour tea, or tableware arrangement, or a list of caterers, florists and dog walkers, you’d keep the group in mind.”

Stupid whiskey. I didn’t recall saying…all of that. Yet I couldn’t defend myself because it did sound like something I’d say.

“Given that you’re so proud of the time you spend volunteering at Phoenix Collegiate Entrepreneurs, I expected better.”

How had she heard of PCE? “What is it you want from me, Mrs. Nash? An apology?”

She sniffed. “It wouldn’t be sincere. The point of me coming here is to educate you.”

I hadn’t been expecting that. “You’re going to educate me.”

“Yes. You call yourself a feminist but do you truly know what that means? And I’m not looking for a definition in the historical context. You’re proud to be a feminist, Ms. McKay. It’ll surprise you to hear that I’m a proud feminist too.”

She’d piqued my interest. “I’m listening.”

“Your generation is so determined to slap labels on everything. To declare ‘this’ is definitively wrong and ‘that’ is absolutely right. You all claim to be so open-minded, but the mind is only open to those women who are exactly like you. Anyone who isn’t on the same path is…antiqued.”

“Are you talking in generalities? Or specifically about the work I’ve done at PCE?”

“Both. But as far as PCE specifically? Would you ask me to volunteer as a mentor?”

I didn’t quite mask my reaction fast enough.

She shook her finger at me. “I couldn’t possibly offer any useable skills because I’m helpless myself, right? As ‘just’ the wife of the CEO of a multi-million-dollar brokerage I have no skills to offer. I’m only in his shadow. I lunch at the club. I futz around in my garden. I walk my poodles. I have an old-fashioned poured and waiting for my husband when he arrives at the house cleaned by my staff. Is that an accurate assessment of what you imagine my life to be?”

“So tell me I’m wrong.”

“You’re wrong. Not entirely, I’ll admit. I do futz around in my garden and walk my dog. I also organized a food drive for the no kill animal shelter. I secured funding—over a luncheon—for a transitional home for women leaving prison. I sponsored a botany class for underprivileged children.” She paused. “That was what I accomplished last week.”

Holy crap.

“But what we—women like me who volunteer—do isn’t seen on the same level as what you do because I don’t earn a paycheck. We’re not
workers
. We don’t belong to the workforce.”

I suspected any argument I offered would be countered with a better one.

Oh Sierra, you rattled the wrong cage this time.

“Giving back isn’t just accomplished by writing a check. Out of our husband’s checking account, of course, because we’re not savvy enough to handle our own finances.” She cocked her head. “I’m the interim treasurer for a charitable organization that provides scholarships to women in need. I am proud of the fact that I can write checks for tens of thousands of dollars each month—money we earned. While working our tails off. Yet…my tax return shows zero income. So is that my worth?”

My mouth had gone dry. Probably from my face flaming hot out of embarrassment.

“This has been an argument among women for several generations—what constitutes real work and value. It’s not us against you, or you against us. All women should get to choose whatever path in life makes them happy and fulfilled. If that’s donning a power suit or a police uniform and leaving their home, then they should be compensated on the same level as men doing that same job in the workplace. Women in the workplace don’t have the right to look down on women who choose to stay home with their children or who choose to volunteer their time rather than charge for it.”

I cleared my throat. “Would you care for coffee? Or water? I’ll need something to wash down all the crow I’m about to eat.”

She laughed and I was completely charmed. “Got my point across, did I?”

“And then some. Look…I’m sorry for the snap judgments and assumptions I made and erroneously pontificated about on Saturday. Your indignation is justified. And while I’m embarrassed, I’m also grateful that you had the guts to call me to task. Please. Accept my sincerest apologies for offending you.”

She blinked at me. “You are not reacting at all as I expected.”

“I’m nothing like my mother,” I said sharply.

“You don’t have to tell me that, dear.”

“Sorry. That—she—is a touchy subject with me.”

“I imagine. I’ll phrase this as…delicately as I can. But are Ellen’s tendencies part of the reason you were so adamantly against anyone who might have surface similarities?”

I laughed. “God no. My opinion was based on ignorance and assumptions. No one can shoulder the blame for that except me.”

“Ms. McKay. I am delighted to hear that. No excuses, no qualifications. Just the admission that you messed up. I appreciate the apology.”

Would she leave now? I hoped not, because I wanted to pick that shrewd brain.

“I knew your grandmother Daniels.” Mrs. Nash studied me.

“You did?”

“Yes, actually I served on several boards with Grace for many years.”

“I knew she volunteered a lot.” I paused. “And I’ll phrase
this
as delicately as I can…but I gathered that her volunteerism stemmed from her unhappy marriage.”

“You’re not wrong. But neither did Grace fit the mold of the bored socialite.”

“Is your friendship with my grandmother why you decided to come here today?”

“Partially. I wouldn’t have pulled the ‘your grandmother would be so ashamed’ card. I might’ve used her name to remind you that the things you were prejudiced against were in your own family history.” She smiled. “I’m so very glad it didn’t come to that.”

“Me too. Do you have time to get into this a little deeper with me?” I held up my hand. “Not to argue. But I’d love to hear more about the executive side of your volunteerism.”

“I’d like that.”

I buzzed Nikki and asked her to bring in coffee. Then I directed Mrs. Nash to the seating area—a less formal environment to continue our discussion.

We spent the next hour talking. Or rather, she talked; I listened and took pages of notes. She seemed very interested in PCE’s philosophy of providing capital to women starting home-based businesses. She seemed shocked when I inadvertently let it slip that that concept had come from me.

As she rose to leave, I tossed out, “If you’re free tomorrow night, I’d love to take you to the PCE mixer.”

“I’ll make time. But I do need to know if it’d be clichéd if I wore pearls?”

I laughed. That was proof there’s a little smartass in all of us.

But after Mrs.
Nash left, I felt completely unmoored.

So much of what I thought I’d known had been flipped on its fucking head.

I looked out the window in my office to the world beyond the glass, almost as if I was seeing it for the first time.

The recriminations came immediately. What the hell did I know about anything? God. I was a baby in the world of business. Why had I believed I was qualified to run an organization like PCE? Moreover, why had Phyllis asked me?

Because she knows you’ll work yourself into the ground to make it successful. For other applicants it’d just be a job. For you…it’s so much more.

Would I be better served to focus on my role at DPM? Stop listening to excuses about why things never changed and become proactive?

Even if that meant losing long-time employees?

Yes. If I fucked it up, at least I tried to fix it—which was more than anyone else around here had attempted.

I heard the office door open and close, then the tiniest whisper of footsteps across the carpet. Only one person in my life existed in stealth mode.

Strong arms circled me completely. He pulled me against his chest as if he wanted to pull me inside him.

Yes, please.

Boone’s mouth journeyed down the side of my throat until he found
his
spot on my neck. Every time his warm lips landed there, I felt like he marked me, reminded me that I was wholly his.

He murmured, “I missed you.”

At one time I would’ve pointed out it’d been less than eight hours since we’d seen each other; he couldn’t possibly have had time to miss me. But this was what I gave to him. Someone who missed him too. “Back atcha, babe. What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to surprise you with a nooner. I planned to yank your skirt up and fuck you over your desk.” He sank his teeth into the side of my throat and I squirmed. “But I got a late start so I’m filing that idea for another day.”