Page 21 of Heated Takeover

I knew this. I knew it the day I met both of them in front of the Skyviews Observation Ferris Wheel five years ago. Reese was everything I expected the firstborn daughter of a millionaire CEO to be exactly how she is: blonde, loud, superficial, fake. Natalie was the opposite. Natalie caught my attention.

Natalie haunts my dreams.

As I stand outside the giant waterfront mansion, One Hibiscus, waiting for someone to answer the front door, I wonder if Reese’s house is bigger than Jim Blythe’s? I wouldn’t put it past her.

Behind the door, I hear chattering; it sounds like a high-maintenance woman before she plasters on the brightest, fakest smile. The door finally opens and there is that smile I expected, shining at a billion watts, enough to burn my retinas and sour my stomach a little.

I can’t stand fake women.

“Marcus! You made it!” she says. As if I were more likely to drive off the MacArthur Causeway bridge than show up on time for the dinner she invited me to. I went begrudgingly; I hate networking.

“Of course he made it, darling,” her husband Garrett says. He walks toward the giant door and grasps it over Reese’s head. I am not impressed with their home. It’s exactly the kind of mansion I expected them to have, but that’s the point. It’s so predictable. I have ten times as much money as these people, so why they think I am going to be impressed is beyond me. Why we have to hold a dinner that could have been an email is also puzzling. I can only hope there is alcohol waiting for me inside.

This dinner was Garrett’s idea. Actually, it was probably Reese’s idea. She doesn’t work for the family business; if I had to guess, she doesn’t work at all. She might not work there, but she likes to poke her head into all the business, using words like here and M.E. and we take pride in. Honestly, I don’t know why anyone tolerates her. I’m also not sure how Garrett obtained a job with the company either. He’s an airhead with a senior operations title and far too much authority over production vendors and event budgets. Despite my desire to release him from his job, I know better than to disrupt the inner workings of the company when it comes to the founder’s family.

“Marcus, so good to have you, boss,” Garrett holds out a hand, and I take it this time. Regardless of whether I want to be here, these kinds of dinners aren’t uncommon. They are usually at a neutral location, like a steakhouse in a private room, not the home of the founder’s daughter. I’m sure Reese threw this little soiree together and assume Natalie helped, so I couldn’t decline the invitation.

“Of course,” I nod once and break the shake after one firm pump, then shove my hand in my pocket.

“Come in, come in,” Reese insists, and then her expression slides clean off her overdone face. Garrett’s eyes dart behind me as well, and I look over my shoulder to see what they’re staring at.

A black car pulls up, and the back door opens, and Natalie steps out. She’s wearing a fitted dress that stops mid-thigh, revealing no cleavage. It is arguably unflattering, and yet I think Natalie could wear a potato sack and I’d find her attractive. The color is confusing, falling somewhere between mustard yellow and olive green. I can practically feel how much Reese hates it.

“What in the gas station hot dog condiment color is that dress?” Garrett snorts, and Reese huffs, and they walk inside, leaving me at the open door as Natalie makes her way up the steps.

My lips curl up at the corners ever so slightly.

“I know, I know, I’m late,” she says as black satin heels with oversized bows clack on the sidewalk.

Her entire look is interesting, but in a good way. It looks like a mix of Audrey Hepburn and Ariana Grande. Her long, dark hair is in a high, straight ponytail. I am accustomed to a more classic, tailored look, but there’s an odd class about her. There always has been. Plus, I love how much it irritates Reese.

“You’re not late,” I tell her. “This isn’t my party, my circus or my monkeys, though.”

Natalie reaches me on the steps, and the air around me fills with the scent of something citrusy and fresh. She sighs and says, “Nope. It’s my circus. And these are unfortunately my monkeys, so brace yourself.”

“You make it sound like I should be scared,” I say in a low tone as I follow her through the door.

“I would be if I were you,” she sasses over her shoulder. It takes everything in me not to put my hand on the small of her back, grab her by the hand, or press her against the wall and kiss her.

The foyer opens into a large living area with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the ocean and a patio. Giant palm leaf shaped fans spin overhead. The paint on the walls is the palest shade of blue-gray, and everything else from floor to ceiling is stark white. When I see a toddler who doesn’t have her land legs yet hobbling into the room, I am surprised. All white is a brave color choice. I don’t have kids of my own, but I do have common sense, and kids and white furnishings don’t mix well.

“Oh Jesus,” Reese whines, her voice rattling through the room in a pitch high enough to break glass, “Garrett! Who let the baby out!?”

“It’s a kid, not a dog,” I mutter under my breath, but Natalie catches it.

“Oh, I know,” she muses. “I’m not convinced my sister knows that Teagan is her human child and not a Goldfish munching Pomeranian. Then again, she spends more time with the live-in nanny than she does with Reese and Garrett.”

“Peyton!” Reese yells, and a girl rushes into the room. “Why is Teagan scampering about?” Her words match those of a loving mother, but her tone, face, and tight smile are threatening the nanny enough to light her on fire.

“Sorry, ma’am, it won’t happen again,” she says, scooping the child up, causing her to shriek. They hurry off to another room.

“Not if you want to get paid, it won’t,” she grimaces with wide eyes. She turns to Garrett and drops the fake smile. “I need a drink. I need wine. I need–”

Natalie clears her throat to get their attention, and Reese plasters the smile back on. Her face must be fucking exhausted, I think.

“Oh my goodness, how rude of me! Marcus, you must be thirsty. Let me get you a drink,” she says.

“That sounds great,” I say stiffly. I hate this dynamic. Playing the guest.