Sun streamed into the bookshop/coffeehouse in Brighton, and the heat of the sun on my face and the delicious coffee in my hand and the fact that I wasn’t at work meant I was feeling pretty great.

That was until my grandfather started airing his concerns, again, about Caine and how it was a supremely bad idea for me to be working for him.

This was our place. The coffeehouse/bookshop, I mean. It was this quiet little place I found when my friend Viv was renting an apartment in Brighton and I suggested it as the place Grandpa and I could meet without worrying about running into anyone who’d know him and let leak that he was meeting a pretty young thing in secret. If that happened, his family, aka his wife (the grandmother I’d never met), and his grandson, Matthew, and his wife, Celia (my half brother, and my sister-in-law, whom I’d also never met), would ask questions and then they’d find out that Grandpa was in touch with the black sheep of the family’s illegitimate daughter and all hell would break loose. Or at least that was the way he made it sound.

Honestly his family sounded high maintenance, and having lived with my father for nine years, I knew that my assessment was probably right.

I didn’t really want to meet them.

I sighed and relaxed back into my seat. “Grandpa, the job is not that bad, I promise. It could be worse. Caine made it out like it was going to be hell on earth. But here I am, enjoying some free time with my grandfather.”

Grandpa smiled a smile that didn’t quite reach his lovely light gray eyes. They were the same eyes as my dad’s. Everything about my father was like Grandpa. They were both classically handsome and distinguished-looking. They were also very tall and broad-shouldered. They were the kind of men you paid attention to when they walked into a room. Once you started to get to know my father, that sense of power around him slowly dissipated. But not with Grandpa. I had a feeling you did not want to get on my grandpa’s bad side. He was like the Clint Eastwood of high society—no matter how old he got, you still wouldn’t want to mess with him.

“I know you, sweetheart.” He studied me carefully. “You’re looking for something out of this, and I’m worried you’re not going to find it.”

“Maybe.” I shrugged and then surprised myself by admitting, “I’m in awe of him.”

“Of Caine?”

“Yes. He didn’t let it destroy him. The tragedy he endured made him determined. Now he has more success and wealth and power than the man who helped take everything from him. He never used his private pain. No one knows about it; he just tried to put it behind him and make his life better. It’s not his fault if he’s going after all the wrong things. Still, it’s the attitude behind his actions that I respect. I’m in awe. He overcame a lot.”

In full, what Caine overcame was family drama, betrayal, death, and suicide. From what I’d pieced together from my father and Grandpa, Caine was thirteen, living in South Boston with his mom, who was a saleswoman for a store in Beacon Hill, and his dad, who was a construction worker. His mom—her name was Grace—met my dad when he came in to purchase a present for his then wife. From the way he told it, Grace was a bored young mother who felt like her life was passing her by. It was easy to seduce her with his culture and money and charm. They began an affair and he got her into a wild scene. She got hooked on cocaine and one night in some crappy hotel room she overdosed while he was in the shower. Instead of helping Grace, my father panicked and got the hell out of there. Grace died. My father used his money and influence to cover things up and make sure the Holland name wasn’t dragged into a scandal and that he wasn’t charged for drug possession or, worse, involuntary manslaughter.

Caine’s dad, Eric, wouldn’t let it go, though, and my father had to tell him the truth about his affair with Eric’s wife and his part in her death. He looked around the crappy apartment father and son were living in and offered Eric a lot of money to just let the whole thing go. Eric took the money. And three months after Grace OD’d, Eric donated all the blood money to charity and a few days later walked into his neighbor’s house, a man who happened to be a cop, and took that cop’s gun, put it in his own mouth, and pulled the trigger.

Caine was put in the system. A boys’ home first and a couple of placements after that.

My father, the weak bastard, was disowned by my grandpa when he discovered the chain of events, and his first wife divorced him once he was without means. That year instead of coming for his annual visit to see me and fuck over my mom, he lied and said he couldn’t live without us anymore. He then mooched off my mom for years until his nervous breakdown when I was twenty-one.

I didn’t know what he was doing now that Mom was gone. The last I saw him was at her funeral, and when he tried to talk to me it took everything within me not to spit in his face.

Maybe if he’d been the hero I always thought he was when I was a kid, maybe if he’d stepped up to become a man, a provider, a decent father, I would have been able to forgive him. But he was a liar, and a lazy one at that, and he had my mom so tied up in knots she couldn’t see who he really was. I lost her because of him.

So no.

I would never forgive him.

“Lexie.” My grandpa pulled me out of my dark thoughts. “I don’t want you falling for Caine Carraway. It’s too dangerous to you. You’ll get hurt. And if he hurts you”—his voice lowered to a warning rumble—“I’ll have to kill him.”

I leaned forward and patted my grandfather’s hand in reassurance. “I’m not there to fall for him. I’m just trying to be there for him somehow. I get him—even if he doesn’t realize it, I really do get him. I would like to be his friend if he’ll have me. But … it would be nice for him to fall for someone. Say the woman he’s currently dating—Phoebe Billingham.”

Grandpa looked surprised. “Grant’s daughter?”

I nodded.

“He could definitely do worse. That might be a good match.”

“That’s what I’m thinking.” Liar, liar, liar. I frowned at my jealous subconscious. “But he’s not very romantic around her. I’m trying to nudge him in the right direction.”

“You don’t nudge a man like Carraway anywhere,” Grandpa warned.

My phone suddenly started vibrating on the table. I leaned forward to have a look at caller ID and frowned.

It was Caine.

On a Saturday.

“Oh man,” I whined, and picked up the phone. “Mr. Carraway?”

“I need you to come into the office with lunch. We’re nearing the end on the deal with Moorhouse Securities Company, so we’re working overtime. I’ve got a lot of hungry people in here. We’ll need—”

“Cai—Mr. Carraway, it’s Saturday.”

His sardonic tones rumbled down the line, “Observant.” He then went on to rattle off a list of sandwiches and drinks.

“But …” I stared forlornly at my coffee. “It’s Saturday.”

“Ass in the office, Alexa.” He hung up.

I looked glumly over at my grandpa, who had his “I told you so” face on. “So maybe he is trying to kill me,” I grumbled as I got up to leave.

The last few weeks had involved much of the same responsibilities and overwhelming schedule as my first week at Carraway Financial Holdings. Caine was intent on ruining my social life.

It might have been worth it if I’d seen any more hints of the person he hid behind his professional demeanor. But with the exception of discovering he was a Red Sox fan and an EMC-level season ticket holder, and that Henry was his closest friend from college (and I didn’t know if that even counted for much when it came to Caine), and that he liked sixties/seventies rock like Led Zeppelin and the Grateful Dead, I’d learned little else. I only knew about his musical inclinations because he left his iPod on his desk when he came into the office directly from the gym. There was a shower room off his office, and while he was in there I snuck a peek at his music selections.

I was surprised to say the least.

I had to admit I liked that he could surprise me.

I was musing over that when I was supposed to be choosing the wallpaper for the larger guest bedroom in his summerhouse. I was jolted out of those musings when he called me. I hit SPEAKERPHONE. “Yes, Mr. Carraway.”

“Get in here.”

I bit my tongue so I wouldn’t make a snarky comment about his lack of manners and I strode into his office. “How may I help?”

Caine was perched on his desk, arms crossed over his chest, long legs stretched out, ankles crossed too. He appeared contemplative.

A few seconds ticked by.

Finally he sighed. “I need you to go to Tiffany on Copley Place. Purchase a necklace on my credit card—make it simple, elegant, and make sure there’s a diamond in it. And then I need you to personally deliver it to Phoebe Billingham. You will inform her that I’ve enjoyed my time with her and that I wish her all the best in the future.”

A weird rush of relief and disappointment came over me. I shrugged off the relief and went with the disappointment because it was much less complicated. “But … what happened?” I cried out, throwing my hands up in exasperation. “She’s perfect.”

Caine stared at me like I’d grown two heads. “It’s none of your business what happened. Just do it.”

I was outraged. Actually outraged. I struggled to berate him as politely as possible. “Shouldn’t this be something you do yourself?”

He stood up abruptly and it took everything within me to keep my chin jutted out in defiance at his sudden change in demeanor. His expression was hard, his words clipped. “If I do it myself, that suggests to her more than I’d like to suggest. This way she gets the message loud and clear and it will, furthermore, make her feel better that she’s shot of me, a guy who didn’t even bother to break things off with her himself.”

“You’re just …,” I sputtered.

“I’m just?” he taunted, almost goading me to do something to mess up my job.

I held out my hand, palm up, in answer. “Card.”

Satisfied, Caine pulled out his wallet.

Almost an hour and a half later, I stood in the doorway of Phoebe Billingham’s office, a doorway I wished was closed for privacy, considering that her office abutted an open-plan office shared by many.

Phoebe was of average height, but nothing else was average about her. She had gorgeous, huge brown eyes, creamy, pale skin, full lips, and a cute button nose. She was also slender in a way that if she’d been taller she could have been a model. Clothes just molded perfectly to her body. Aside from how gorgeous she was, she was clearly a smart woman, and when I first made myself known to her she’d been all friendly smiles and happy to meet me.

Now those brown eyes were filled with angry tears as she glared down at the necklace. I wanted to die. I wanted the floor to swallow me and just suffocate me so I could escape this situation.

Phoebe closed the Tiffany box and looked up at me. Something I didn’t like crept into her hurt gaze as she raked those eyes down my body and back up to my face. She sneered. “Oh, I understand this situation perfectly,” she said, her voice carrying behind me into the open-plan office.

There was a hush in the air as the people nearest us heard the bitter anger in those words.

“Do me a favor.” She thrust the necklace at me. “Tell your boss not to send a whore to do a man’s job.”

There was utter silence behind me. My cheeks burned with indignation at the insult.

It took everything within me to hold off my humiliation and cling to my compassion. Stiffly I took the box from her and marched out of there with my head held high despite the undesirable attention focused on me.

Forty minutes later I stormed through the building and straight into Caine’s office without knocking.

I stumbled to a stop at the sight of him and Ms. Fenton sitting across from each other at the sofas by the window. Caine was not happy at my interruption. He heaved a sigh of exasperation. “Linda, go back to your office. I’ll be there in a second to continue our discussion.”

Ms. Fenton frowned at my lack of etiquette as she passed, but I could give a crap.

I’d had forty minutes to stew in my rage.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Caine snapped, standing up and striding over to me to do his intimidating “I’m bigger and taller and scarier than you” thing.

But I was too mad to be intimidated.

I threw the jewelry box with the necklace in it at him, and he blinked in surprise before somehow managing to catch the damn thing. “Don’t you ever make me do that again.”

He tensed, suddenly alert. “What happened?”

“Well, the entire office of the Harvard University Press now thinks I’m a whore.”

Caine’s jaw clenched and his face clouded over instantly. “What?”

I shook my head at the fact that for a smart man he could be pretty stupid. “What did you think would happen when you sent me, a woman, to dump your girlfriend? Phoebe told me to tell you—and I might add how very junior high this all is—not to send a whore to do a man’s job.”

His dark eyes blazed. “She called you a whore?”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

Caine marched to his desk and picked up his phone. A few seconds later he growled into it, “I got the message you gave Alexa … Yeah, well, your method of delivery was shittier than mine.” If it was possible he looked even angrier at whatever she had to say. “For that you can kiss good-bye that dream position of yours on the art institute’s board of directors … Oh, I can and I will.” He hung up and threw his phone on the desk with irritation.

I stood there, unsure what to do or how to react to the fact that he was pissed on my behalf.

Caine lifted his brooding gaze to me, but he started at my feet and slowly worked his way up my body so that by the time he hit my eyes I felt like I was going to come out of my skin. “I didn’t think,” he murmured.

What? Was he just now realizing I was a woman who, if I may say so myself, was attractive? So I wasn’t a knockout like Phoebe Billingham, but I was still a good-looking female employee he sent over to dump her.

Not good.

“It won’t happen again.”

Okay, that was as close to an apology as I was going to get out of him. And it was more than I’d expected.

I nodded and we held each other’s stare until I started to feel like all the air was going out of the room.

I wrenched my eyes from his and immediately felt like I could breathe again. “Would you like coffee?” I asked, my way of saying I accepted his nonapology.

“Yes.” He lowered himself into his office chair, no longer meeting my eyes. “And send Linda back in.”