The Complete Arrogant Series (54 page)

BECKHAM

“I warned you about redheads.”
Xavier Fox sips artisan beer from a frost-covered mug, his eyes glued to the
sports reel flashing on a TV above my head.

I’ve just filled him in on my
last twenty-four hours, or at least the condensed version because we’re men and
we stick to the facts.

“You did,” I say.

“And you didn’t listen.” He takes
another sip.

“You’re not right about
everything.”

His eyes meet mine. He smirks. “I
was right about the penthouse I sold you.”

“And you never let me live that
down.”

“It’s not everyday you sell a ten
million dollar penthouse and watch it nearly double in price over the next
three years.” He slams his fist against the table, cheering at the TV along
with a handful of men at the table over.

I never got into sports, and it
might be because I never saw a TV screen until I was almost sixteen or an
actual football until I was seventeen. Regardless, I grew into a man who
preferred to get his hands dirty in ways that satisfied on carnal levels.

“You got lucky,” I say.

“It’s called knowing the market
and striking while the iron’s hot.” Xavier is as cocky as I am. Can’t imagine
having a mild-mannered schmuck for a best friend. “I can’t help it if I’m
fucking amazing at my job.”

“Didn’t Magnolia tell you about
that neighborhood? And the Green Quarter Revitalization Project?”

His face pinches. I shouldn’t
have brought up Magnolia Grantham.

“Why’d you have to mention her?
We were having a nice time, drinking our beers…”

“You need to get over her.” I
slip an extra cardboard coaster between my fingers, flipping it and examining the
gaudy beer logos on each side. “It’s been, what, a few months now?”

“I
am
over her.” He attempts to say it with conviction but falls flat
on his ass.

“There are plenty of other women.
Women who’d kill for a night with you.”

“You act like I’m sitting at home
every night just ‘cause I’m not at the bars with you looking for my next lay.”

He acts like I’m a drug addict. I
wouldn’t say women are my addiction. I wouldn’t even say sex is my addiction.
Hobby maybe. Addiction?
Absolutely not.
Hobbies are
fun, done purely for enjoyment. Addictions imply a lack of control.

“When
was
the last time you got laid?” I ask.

“I don’t keep track.”

“Right.” I call bullshit.

His gaze snaps to the TV, his
fist clenching in the air for a second before he returns his attention to his
beer.

“Don’t ignore my question.” I sit
up straight. “You’re too wrapped up in Magnolia. You need to get her out of
your system.”

Xavier juts his lips out, nodding
side to side. He agrees, but he won’t say it. I’ve been there before. Saying it
the first time is fucking terrifying. Saying it out loud makes it real. Making
it real forces you to act, make a decision, and move on.

Watching a man like Xavier
sit
there like a deflated balloon is too depressing for me
to deal with, especially on a Friday night. I need to see to it personally that
this man gets some ass tonight.

“Come with me to Pellegrino’s.”
It’s always been a lucky spot of mine.
Three blocks from
here.
The girls that frequent that bar would be all over someone like
Xavier. Dark hair, clean cut, and well-dressed, permeating with success and
overpriced cologne.

“You want me to get laid that
bad, huh?”

“We either go there or I’m
finding someone to hang out with who doesn’t depress the fuck out of me.”

“You brought her up.”

I swallow the last of my drink
and rise, pulling my jacket over my shoulders before slapping some cash on the
table. Xavier finishes his beer, hesitates,
then
follows suit.

“Did you meet that crazy redhead
at Pellegrino’s?” he asks when we hit the pavement.

“I did.” I smirk. “But in my
defense, I’d never seen her there before. She’s not a regular.”

Xavier needed a nice,
big-breasted blonde to keep him warm tonight. Magnolia, his ex-business partner
and former flame, was a leggy brunette with a southern accent. Something new
and adventurous tonight would make him a new man. The last thing I need is
him
plowing some cheap knockoff of the girl who broke his
heart.

***

Xavier slips out of the bar, his
hand on the small of the back of some petite blonde with a pixie haircut and a
short dress the color of sunshine. She couldn’t be any more different from
Magnolia.

I’m proud. My work is done.

I slip the bartender my credit
card and take care of the tab.

“Going home alone?” he asks,
returning with my receipt and a pen. Eric knows me well.

I’m all about being a shameless,
modern day man-whore, but I don’t do two nights in a row. My self-respect runs
a little deeper than that. And furthermore, I’m still spent from my sleepless
evening with Odessa.

“Been a long day.” I rise from the
barstool and replace my wallet. “I’ll see you next week.”

Eric sends me off with a salute
and a nod, and I spend the bulk of my ten-minute walk home appreciating the
crisp fall air and ignoring how lonely this time of year always feels.

I don’t permit myself to feel
lonely, and if that unwelcome sensation happens to creep into the corners of my
mind, I don’t let it stay long.

I’ve been in Xavier’s place
before, and I’ll never go back there again.

The man who took my brother and
me in at fifteen once told me to do everything with eyes wide open and to never
compromise my beliefs to make someone else happy. The one instance in my life
when I refuted Leo Fickbaum’s golden rules, I paid the price and then some.

“You’re
too arrogant for your own good, you know that?” Uncle Leo said to me the day my
twenty-one year old self packed my belongings into the back of a Mustang and
drove from Utah to New York. “But you’re going to be the King of New York by
the time it’s all said and done.”

“That’s
the plan, Uncle Leo.”

“Remember
the Golden Rules,” he called out as I left a trail of gravel dust down his
country road.

The first thing I did the second
I arrived was
change
my last name from Townsend to
King, because I needed a fresh start and the name was only fitting.

The second thing I did was fall
in love with a hotel heiress by the name of Sophie Glass.

ODESSA

“Odessa, what’s that on your
finger?” Beckham’s question kick starts my attention on this particularly foggy
Monday morning.

My thumb and middle stop
mindlessly spinning the diamond ring currently adorning my left ring finger.

Shit
.

I put it on this morning, after
spending a lovely Friday night with Jeremiah and a relaxing, tear-free weekend
with myself. I’d only meant to wear it for a second, see how it felt. If it
still fit. I was alone. No one was supposed to see. I was going to take it off
the second I walked out the door, but my phone rang and by the time I finished
chatting with my mother I must have forgotten it was still on my finger.

My mother was frantic, upset
about the wedding being in limbo and how she was going to tell my father. His
tired, failing heart is set on walking me down the aisle in six months and
giving me away to the only man he’s ever deemed worthy.

“Tell me you’re not fucking
engaged
.” Beckham’s heavy words match
the storm brewing in his eyes.

“I’m not engaged.”

“You wear a diamond engagement
ring for fun?”

“No.” I laugh, only because his
accusation is comical. I’ve known girls who do that, and I am absolutely nothing
like them. I tap my notebook with the tip of my pen. “Back to the website…”

His steady palm lifts. “No. Not
until you tell me why you’re wearing an engagement ring.”

“My personal life has absolutely
nothing to do with this consultancy, and to be frank, it’s none of your
business.”

“Were you engaged when you slept
with me last Thursday?” He has that wild glint in his eyes, the one I first
noticed the second I flipped him off on his pretentious private elevator.

I can only hope he’s not about to
do anything crazy.

“Nope.” I pull out a word cloud I
made last Friday consisting of a bunch of energy conservation buzzwords I
harvested from various Internet articles. “We need to incorporate these words
into the write-ups on your new website. Some of these could even be interactive
headings and–”

“Odessa.” His mouth forms a
straight line as he sits up, cocking a disappointing look at me. “Don’t ignore
my question.”

“Your question was ignored
because it’s not relevant to what we’re doing here.” I clear my throat. “Which
is polishing your brand so we can focus on your first PR issue, which your
brother filled me in on this morning.”

“You’ve already spoken to Dane
this morning?”

“He emailed me over the weekend.
Why didn’t you mention the issue with Charity Falls last week when we first sat
down?”

“I figured we’d get to it.”

“Charity Falls
hates
your corporation and your plans to
build a wind farm that obstructs their picturesque little community. That is a
huge issue to fix, Beckham.” I sigh, grateful to take his focus off my ring for
a moment.

“Bet their tunes will change when
their little energy bills are slashed in half.”

“But they don’t see it that way,”
I say. “To them it’s an eyesore.”

“It’s not my fault they’re stuck
in the past. Wind farms are popping up all over the country, improving lives.
Creating jobs and saving the environment is more important to me than whether
or not the entire one-thousand-and-seven inhabitants of Charity Falls hates
me.”

“Please tell me that statement of
yours isn’t on record anywhere.” I lift my brows.

“You think I’m that big of an
idiot?”

“I think you’re missing a filter.
And a sensitivity chip.” I may as well ad insult to injury.

“Now I’m tactless?”

“Sometimes.” I lean back in the
guest chair. “This is why you have me for the next three weeks. You’ll work
closely with me. Pay close attention to how I handle this situation because
this won’t be the last time you have to convince some little chocolate-box town
to welcome your energy initiatives with open arms.”

“So what now?”

“I’ll see if they have a
newspaper. We can set up an interview. Maybe we can plan a town hall meeting?”

“If I have to go to Vermont,
you’re coming with me.”

“If it’s in the next three weeks,
then yes.” I brush my hair over my shoulder and lean in. “My goal is to ensure
that even without me sock-puppeting you, you’ll be able to carefully select the
right combination of words to ensure you don’t come across as a pompous
windbag.”

“You’d be hard pressed to find
someone who remotely considers me a
pompous
windbag
, Odessa.”

“Really?” My nose wrinkles.

“Present company excluded.
Obviously.”

I snicker.
Three
more weeks.
No. Two weeks and four business days.

“You still need to tell me why
you’re wearing that ring.” His eyes linger on my glittering rock.

I twist it until the glimmering
rock is inside my fist and then clench my hand.

“I don’t sleep with taken women.
You told me you were single at the bar.” His expression narrows.

“I
am
single.” I draw in a sharp breath. “I
was
engaged. He told me a couple weeks ago he needed some space.
The engagement is called off. He moved out. I’m not sure what’s going to
happen, but I was
not
engaged when I
went home with you.”

“You love him?”

I’m not sure why he cares. My
face pinches. “Of course I love him.”

“No, you don’t.”

We should be discussing this
website, not my love life.

“Yes.” My words sharpen against
my tongue. “I
do
love him. And please
don’t suggest otherwise. You and I are hardly more than strangers.”

“Right. I don’t know you. But I
do know that a woman in love doesn’t run out and sleep with the first guy she
meets at a random bar.”

“Should I be doodling hearts?
Skipping? Humming love songs?”

“You look miserable,” he says.

“So do you.” It’s not true. He
looks perfectly content with his single-in-the-city lifestyle. “I love
Jeremiah, it’s just difficult not knowing what’s going to happen with our
relationship. I just want an answer, and he’s not ready to give me one.”

“Why would you waste your time
with someone who doesn’t know if he wants to be with you?” Beckham’s eyes
squint. “Makes no sense, especially for someone like you.”

“Someone like me?”

“You don’t take shit from anyone,
but you’re going to take it from some asshole because he got down on his knee
and gave you a ring?”

The last thing I expected when I
came to work this morning was to have to defend my commitment to making things
work with Jeremiah.

“We’ve been together since
college. I can’t imagine spending my future with anyone else.” I speak about
Jeremiah with a tone void of emotion because I refuse to get worked up about
this here, in front of Beckham. “His circumstances have recently changed, and
he’s re-evaluating his life goals.”

“Let me guess, he’s coming into
his career, got a taste of success, isn’t sure he’ll have the time to commit to
your relationship now, and it’s not fair to you.” Beckham leans back, threading
his fingers behind his head with a proud smirk across his lips.

My jaw hangs, rendering me
speechless.

“He fed you that line of
bullshit, did he?” Beckham’s smirk fades.

When Jeremiah said those words
Friday night they made perfect sense. His touch was tender, right along with
his delivery.

I want to believe it was
authentic.

“Odessa. Come. On.” Beckham leans
forward. “I fucking invented that line. Please tell me you didn’t fall for it.
He’s stringing you along until he finds something more exciting. Guarantee you
he’s got something in the works and he’s keeping you on ice in case it falls
through.”

My bottom lip trembles, the hint
of a tingle zipping across it as my eyes burn. I’ve stayed strong, and I’m not
about to lose my cool in front of him of all people.

I drag in a cool breath and force
it away, summoning every ounce of strength I have. I refuse to appear weak in
front of Beckham. For all I know, he’s still hung up on me, and he’s looking
for an ‘in.’ Can’t think of a more perfect opportunity than a broken hearted
girl fresh off a called-off engagement.

“Believe me, my eyes are wide
open. I’m not naïve,” I say, fighting the burn in my throat. “But when you love
someone, you fight for them. You believe in them. You trust them to do the
right thing with your heart.”

“Bullshit.”

“Excuse me?”

“You have it all wrong.”

“I have
what
all wrong?”

“Everything.” He rises, adjusting
the knot of his tie after tugging on his collar. His jester expression
dissipates, and he takes weighted steps toward his window. “Don’t live in a
bubble, Odessa. All those people out there...” He slips his hands into his pockets,
peering out his window toward his expansive view of the city. “Those people
don’t give a fuck about you or me or anyone.
Everyone’s in it
for themselves.
The sooner you accept that and the sooner you do the
same, the happier you’ll be.”

The room feels darker, heavier.

Last Friday when I Googled
Beckham, I didn’t find much beyond some old online gossip articles about his
engagement with a hotel heiress named Sophie Glass.
Nothing
but rumors and speculation about the details surrounding their cancelled
wedding.
I’d meant to sift through the photos but Devin called before I
had a chance and later I scolded myself for wasting my curiosity digging into
Beckham’s ancient history.

For a moment, I wonder if he’s
thinking about her.

I rise, gathering my folders,
papers, notebook, and tablet. I need to go back to my desk and get some real
work done. “I’m going to see if I can get Charity Falls on the phone. Line up
that interview.”

He says nothing. I leave.