Helen

At a quarter to eight, I turn off my car in front of a waterfront mansion in Key Biscayne. Of course, he would have the biggest, fanciest home in all of Key Biscayne. My beat-up car is out of place next to the luxury home. I look in my rearview mirror, and the black sedan that was parked next to my car on Sunday morning, and followed me all day yesterday and again this morning, stops behind me.

I step out of my car, and so does the driver of the sedan. He’s a big, hulking muscle guy with a black suit that looks as if it’s going to rip at the neck and biceps. I grew up with money. I know what personal security looks like, and it looks like this guy.

I roll my eyes and try to ignore him as he stands by his car, his hands locked in front of him like a sentry. He’s not even pretending to blend in.

I haven’t been up this early in a very long time. In fact, I’m usually getting ready for bed at eight in the morning. I hope I don’t look as tired as I feel. Stifling a yawn, I ring the doorbell. I’m wearing one of my “other life” outfits. An off-white Donna Karan pantsuit, with a crisp blue shirt and my pearls. There are a lot of things I’ve had to sell, but my pearls, I haven’t had the heart to let those go. I think my mother would turn in her grave if I sold them. My pearls and the Limoges. Those are the only things I kept. The outfit, I was able to find at Goodwill yesterday.

A beautiful blonde in her thirties, dressed much like I am, opens the door. “Good morning, Ms. Blackwood, please come in.” Ms. Blackwood. Jesus. I should correct her.

“Uh—”

“Mr. Archer is on a teleconference, but he advised me that you’d be arriving soon. I’m Monique Adler; I’m going to be showing you around.” She’s talking a mile a minute and has a Bluetooth in one ear and phone in her hand.

“Oh, okay,” I say, a bit flustered as she steps aside to let me in.

Damn. The place is palatial.

I suppose most women would swoon at the marble floors, the huge chandeliers dripping crystals from the fifteen-foot vaulted ceiling, the original paintings hanging on the walls, the monstrous and completely useless fireplace in the corner. Except, my childhood home had even more grandeur than this one.

Sometimes I wonder whether it’s better to have had it all and then lost it or to not have had anything in the first place. Knowing and living life’s luxuries and then having it all ripped away was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to endure. I know it makes me seem like a spoiled socialite, but the fact is, I truly wasn’t prepared for it.

I was prepared for college. For galas. For heading a charity. For marrying a wealthy politician or doctor and being charged with managing the household or a nonprofit. I was not prepared for Laundromats and rent. For asshole exes who have drinking problems and anger issues. For minimum-wage jobs, and certainly not for Goodwill clothes. Yet, I managed.

I survived.

I landed a good job, bought a nice home in a good part of town, made genuine friends like Gina and some of the people from work, and judging by the tips I generally received, people seem to like me. Life has been good the last couple of years and I had been feeling content, which is something that I thought would never happen. Not without all the material things I’d lost.

And then, bam! This damn mansion reminds me of all that I’ve lost within five minutes of standing inside it.

And all I can still lose if I don’t get rid of Luke.

“Have a look around—I’ll be right back,” Monique says, pointing to her earpiece. Her voice fades as she marches out of the room.

I stroll around the large room and run my fingers over the shiny black lacquer of the grand piano, then keep moving until I’m at a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the bay on one side and on the opposite side, a racquetball court.

A crew of employees are working on the overgrown hedges, while another group is scrubbing a huge gazebo that has what looks like a full kitchen, next to an enormous swimming pool.

“Sorry about that,” Monique says, startling me. I turn to see her looking down at her phone as she proceeds to tells me who I’ll be supervising on the grounds and when they come to work. For a brief moment I don’t even realize she’s talking to me, but then she quickly glances up, acknowledging my presence, before looking down again. “All of this information is in the server.” She points to a laptop on a small desk in the corner. “I’m with IT now, setting you up with email and access to Mr. Archer’s calendar.”

“Okay,” I say, but it comes out sounding more like a question. She looks up at me again and then blows out a long breath, her bangs flying up.

“I’m sorry.” She puts her phone down. “I’m not Mr. Archer’s PA. I’m just helping out, but I have my own needy man back in Seattle driving me crazy too.” She eyes her phone, which keeps dinging with incoming texts.

“Your husband?”

She throws her head back and laughs in earnest. “No! Bradley. I’m Brad’s PA. That’s Mr. Archer’s business partner. I’m sort of on loan, and the two of them are driving me batty!” She takes two steps forward and surprises me when she puts her hands on my shoulders. “Please. Do not quit.”

I laugh. “I just started.”

“I know. But when he starts barking orders and expecting you to read his mind you’ll want to quit. But don’t. I can’t handle two needy men in my life. One is enough,” she whines playfully, and I instantly like her.

“Well, I don’t know if I can handle orders being barked at me.” That’s not actually true. I was a bartender, after all. But she doesn’t need to know that.

“You can. Just set the tone starting from today. You stay professional and let him know you can handle things. But, also make sure he knows you won’t put up with a man-tantrum. So long as you don’t mess up, he’ll deal with a little bit of attitude if need be. That’s my tip . . . for the day, at least.” She looks down at her phone again and begins to type quickly. “One sec,” she says to me.

While she’s busy typing I continue to look around the enormous room, admiring its beautiful architecture, the dazzling chandeliers that look as if they’ve just been polished, the charming banisters that lead up to a second floor . . .

I don’t belong here.

I don’t belong working at a nude bar either.

I don’t know where I belong.

The melancholic feeling of being lost hits me hard. It’s been years since I’ve felt this way.

A strong hand on my shoulder startles me, and I jump and turn. “Alex!”

“I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“I—I uh . . .” I clear my throat. He doesn’t need to know what I’m feeling. We aren’t friends anymore. “You hired a bodyguard for me.”

“Personal security.”

“You didn’t need to do that. He stood out like a sore thumb.”

“That’s the point. It sends a message.”

“A message?”

“Yes. It says, ‘Stay away.’ Your neighborhood is unsafe. You have an ex.”

“It’s temporary, and the bruise had nothing to do with the neighborhood I live in,” I point out, mad at myself for being defensive. It is unsafe; he isn’t wrong. I adjust my attitude. I will not let him get to me. I have a job to do. I smile. Or at least, I pretend to smile. “You have such a lovely home, Alex. Is this the house you used to talk about? Your grandparents’ house?”

A strange look passes across his face. “You remember that?”

“Of course.”

“Yes. This was their summer home. But they stopped coming down here years before they passed away. It’s been sitting here abandoned. I had forgotten how much I liked it here when I was young.”

He’s wearing an impeccable black suit, but his tie isn’t tied yet, and the top of his collar is open, exposing a small splay of black hair. It’s hard to ignore the fact that he’s gorgeous. His nose, which I remembered as slightly crooked, looks more askew now that his face has taken on that masculine sharp edge that only happens with age. His face is cleanly shaven, and his hair is combed with a side part. He is the picture of wealth and power and it’s hard to keep looking at him. I see the betrayal even if I can’t deny that I’m still attracted to him. It should make him look ugly to me, but it doesn’t. I need to turn away before he notices I’m staring.

“You seem to do that often.” I press one of the ivory keys on the piano. The sound echoes through the house, eerily.

“What?”

“Abandon things you like.”

His nose flares. “I was busy picking up the pieces your father left in his wake. I’m sorry that you weren’t the priority.”

I look away. It hurts too much to look at him. To have this conversation.

“Where’s Monique?” He changes the subject as he begins to knot his tie. I keep saying I’m not going to talk about the past, yet I keep throwing little jabs his way. I need to stop doing that.

“She had a call to tend to.”

“Bradley needed her, I’m sure.” When my brows furrow, he adds, “She’ll show you around when she’s done.”

“Okay.” I turn back to the windows, and there’s a deafening silence between us. He has something to say, I can tell. But he doesn’t say a word, even though I feel him standing behind me, his mind turning.

“What exactly am I expected to do for all this money you are paying me?”

His breath tickles the little hairs on my neck as he responds. God, why is he so close? “Make decisions I don’t want to make. Be available when I need you.”

That statement, which is so suggestive, hangs in the air, thickly. I don’t want him to know the effect he has on me, so I just stay still. Finally, he moves and stands beside me, watching the staff working outside. I turn my head and study him. How can you both hate someone and find him so attractive?

“You need me to make sure your laundry is done, clothes ironed, food cooked, topiaries topiaried?”

He rolls his eyes, and I think I see the edges of his lips move upward slightly before he shakes his head. It’s as if using the extra muscles it takes to smile is too much of an effort. He’s always been that way. I used to live for the moments I made him smile and . . . God, if he laughed, my day was made. But now, I can’t care less. I’m here to work, not to make Alexander Archer smile that heartbreakingly beautiful smile I haven’t seen in over twelve years.

“Not quite. Follow me.” He leads me out the back door to the side of the house where construction’s being done. “This is an old house, and the roof sustained a lot of damage during Hurricane Irma. There was so much water damage, it was just easier to tear down this wing and have it redone than try and repair it.”

Easier, but not cheaper.

“I’m not always here during the day and I need someone to make sure everything is in order and the construction is moving along.”

“I don’t know anything about construction, Alex. Shouldn’t you hire a project manager or something?”

“I don’t like strangers in my home,” he explains, and I don’t add that I am a stranger. After a twelve-year estrangement, we aren’t exactly friends. In fact, I don’t even like him. But I do know that he doesn’t like strangers and can be awkward and antisocial. This arrangement sort of makes sense, or at least I am justifying it that way in order to go through with this without feeling like a pity project. “You represent me. You know how to check a schedule and make sure work is getting done. If someone isn’t doing what I’m paying them to do, fire them, get me a new team. Just handle it. I don’t have time for it. If the room looks better with carpet instead of marble, get it. I don’t care. Marshall Griffin is the GC in charge of the project and came highly recommended, but I’ve never worked with him before. He doesn’t know my taste. You’ll work together with him.”

I move a large plastic sheet out of the way and step inside, still feeling unsettled. It’s a large room with drywall still missing and plastic covering the floor. Alex steps around me and stands dead center in the room and gazes up toward the ceiling. I follow his eyes and slowly look up. “Oh, wow,” I whisper.

The center has a large glass dome. “A sunroom,” I say out loud, marveling at all the natural light I somehow missed a moment ago.

“This will be the home office.” He tips his chin in the other direction. “Come.”

My mind is still on the beautiful glass dome with mosaic tiles. It looks like part of an old Spanish cottage. But I guess I’m being beckoned, and I follow him through the doorless entryway. I assumed that this was just a one-room renovation. I was wrong.

“This is the bathroom. Or it will be.” He motions to one side of a hallway that is still under construction. “And these are two bedrooms, with a Jack and Jill bathroom.”

“Is this the same layout as before?”

“More or less.”

It drives me crazy how abrupt and nonconversational he is.

“And that leads to the rest of the house?” I ask, pointing to another plastic curtain separating the construction.

“Yes. Once I finish my work in Miami, I’ll redo the main house. Modernize it.”

Redo? Modernize? “And sell it,” I add.

“Maybe. I never come down here.”

I look around, sad. It’s such a gorgeous old house.

“What?” he asks, giving me a look.

“Not my business,” I start but as he begins to walk away, I add, “it’s just . . . the house is perfect. Why modernize it?”

“It’s old. It’s falling apart.”

“So? Can’t you just fix it?”

“Didn’t you just say it’s none of your business?” he counters with a smirk, and I know he’s teasing me.

“Okay, fine. I’ll butt out,” I say as I continue to look around. “But, if I can add just one more thing . . .”

He crosses his arms over his chest and again . . . that smirk. Oh God, is that his dimple? I’d missed that dimple.

I clear my throat. “There’s nothing wrong with rounded edges, arches, or indoor atriums. Everything doesn’t have to be clean lines and hard edges. Stucco, domed ceilings . . . it’s charming. This house is charming; it’s not meant to be modern. Which I don’t like, by the way. That clean, sterile modern look, blah!” I make a squishy face to show my dislike. “But, again, it’s not my business.”

He doesn’t reply. He just looks at me for a long moment and then bowls over in laughter. It’s contagious, because I start laughing too.

“You still ramble when you’re nervous,” he huffs out between chuckles.

“I’m not nervous.”

“Okay, well, good news: I don’t care about the aesthetics of the house too much. I mean, don’t go crazy, but you have carte blanche in most decisions. It’s one of the reasons I hired you. There are a lot of decisions that need to be made and I don’t want to be bothered with making them. The bones, though, I want top of the line. Plumbing, wiring, those things. But the outside, all yours. You lived next door to me for a long time. You know how I like things and what I expect.”

“Because I lived next door to you, that’s why I know how you like things?” I cross my arms and glare at him. I do know him. I know Alexander Archer, but not because I lived next door to him.

I see his jaw tick as if he’s fighting the words. “Your taste and my taste are the same. So, I trust you.” Still not admitting we had a connection that went beyond being neighbors. Then he adds, “For this. To make decisions on my house, I trust you.”

What’s left unsaid pains me. It’s like a knife straight to my heart. He doesn’t trust me. But I don’t say anything and I school my reaction.

“I’ve changed, Alex. I’m not the Helen I used to be.”

He lets out a breath and softens his facial features and for the first time, I see my old Alex. “Well, I want that Helen’s take on making decisions. That Helen had good taste. I don’t know this Helen, but I assume you’ve not changed so much that I’m going to come home to polka dot walls and shag rugs.”

I smile. That’s true. My budget has certainly changed, but my taste has not.

I’m excited about this, all of a sudden. But I try to hide my smile. “So, anything else I need to know?”

“Tomorrow night I need you to accompany me to a charity event.”

“Uh . . . okay.”

“Monique will give you access to local contacts so you can purchase an evening gown.”

“I’m fine. I have clothes, Alex.”

“I’m the guest of honor. I need you to look . . . expensive.”

And just like that, the moment is gone and he’s a callous asshole again. “Fine.”

“I have to go.” He eyes me for a moment. “Monique will go over my schedule with you. You need to get a handle on things today. You’re on your own tomorrow.”

Before I have a chance to ask anything else, he’s already walking out and I’m left standing in the middle of an empty room, completely confused about the moment we shared. It reminded me of my youth. But I know he still hates me, and it seems that it’s not something he will ever get over. He might let his guard down for a moment, but then it comes right back up.

I don’t care, though. I’m here to do a job, not to get Alex to laugh.

After work, I risk driving by my house, hoping that Luke’s not there. On the way, I call my nosy neighbor, Mr. Becker, who confirms that Luke left last night and his motorcycle hasn’t been in the driveway all day. When I arrive, I wave at Mr. Becker and quickly jump out of my car, my heart thundering in my chest, and open the door. He’s not there. Thank God.

I take a garbage bag and fill it with as much clothing as I can, including the one formal dress I own. Before I leave, I see that my flat screen is missing from the wall, the sink is full of unwashed dishes, the garbage can is full to the rim, and the floor is littered with empty beer cans and cigarette butts. My fingers itch to pick them up, but I know I don’t have time. So, I run back to my car and back to the motel.

At least I have clothes now. I couldn’t continue buying things at Goodwill or rewearing the same pantsuit.

As I’m unpacking in the room, I receive a text from Luke: “You shoulda stuck around longer, Sweets. Next time I’ll make sure I’m home.”

I type a dozen replies, most of them of the “fuck you, get out of my house” variety. In the end, I don’t send a response. Instead, I count and recount the money I have saved in order to get the attorney to speed things up.

Alex

“You hired Helen Blackwood?” Bradley asks me with an annoying little chuckle. “It’s official. You’ve lost your damn mind. The heat in Miami has made you completely crazy.”

“That’s why I didn’t tell you before,” I mutter as I glare at his smug face on my computer screen.

“And you hired her for what, exactly?”

“I don’t know!” I burst out as I rub the back of my neck. “To help with the remodel of the house?” The way I say it doesn’t even convince me.

“So, she’s a construction worker? Architect? Engineer?”

My head throbs. He knows she’s none of those things. “I needed her out of that club and I just made something up on the spot, okay? I remembered that I needed an assistant and I made a quick decision.”

“You should have just written a check. Guilt can be easily assuaged with money.”

“She wouldn’t have accepted it.” I know this with absolute certainty.

“I thought you hated her.”

“I do! I did. It’s complicated. I think I may have been wrong.”

“Why don’t you just ask her? Have a conversation.”

I’ve thought about that. But what if I don’t get the answer I want? What if she did know about what her father was doing? What if . . .

I don’t want to know, I think.

“Don’t we have a meeting now?” I say, changing the subject.

He chuckles, knowing that the subject is now closed, and we get into business as usual.

After a three-hour Skype session with the new executive board of a company we acquired in Japan last week, my head is pounding. “Normally a call where you talk numbers with other number nerds leaves you with a nice, fat smile on your face,” Bradley says, now that it’s just the two of us on the line again. “Well, maybe not a smile, but definitely not a scowl.” 

I glance around the small office I pilfered at PharmEc. Until the transition is complete, I’m stuck in this hideous space with horribly used gray laminate furniture. There are so many things I’m thinking about, and numbers isn’t one of them. “What else is on the schedule?”

“PharmEc, but before that, have you checked your email? HR gave Helen the all-clear during our meeting.”

“Good.”

“Did you look at the application?”

“No. Why?”

“She didn’t write Blackwood in her application and I’m looking at the copy of her license.”

I sit up abruptly. “I don’t understand.”

As Bradley continues, I search for the email that I forwarded to HR.

“Her name’s Helen James.”

I scroll through the application and see it with my own eyes. James. Helen James. And then the little box under marital status checked as married.

“What the fuck? That has to be a mistake. Tell me it’s a mistake. Did you look into this?” I rub my palm over my face as I glare at her application.

“I’ll just say one thing . . .”

“One thing? You couldn’t just say one thing if your life depended on it. What are all the things, Bradley?”

“No. Just one.”

I roll my eyes and stop scrolling through the background check in order to listen to whatever this “one” thing is that Bradley’s going to say.

“I’ve known you for a long time, Alex. And not once in all these years have you told me anything important.”

“Everything I tell you in important,” I bark. “We’re running a multibillion-dollar enterprise.”

“I mean, important to you. Personal. You never say anything personal. You sit at your office fucking around with spreadsheets and reports. Today, for the first time ever, you were completely distracted. I only know about the Blackwoods because I was there when shit went down, but you keep everything locked up tight. This is the most riled up I’ve ever seen you. Since she walked back into your life, you’ve been a mess.”

“That’s not true.”

“Really? If she was just an employee, why would you care this much if she’s married or not?”

I push my chair back and stand up. “You’re right,” I say, abruptly. “I’m going to fire her and go back to Seattle.”

“No!” he yelps loudly. “You’re not listening. Stop and listen for a minute. This is good. You riled up, unsure. You’re human. You’re not a robot. What I’m trying to say, man . . . this is good.”

“Good? You just said I’m a mess. I don’t even know what I’m doing,” I admit. “This isn’t good.”

“It is. It may be hard at first, but whatever it is, it’s good. Whether you figure out she was the evil bitch you thought her to be or another victim in her father’s scheme . . . you feeling something, anything, is a good thing.”

I let that sink in for a moment, but I don’t like it. Not at all. I let out a deep breath and open a manila file on the desk. “All right, let’s talk about PharmEc.”

“Alex—”

“One thing, you were going to say one thing. You said it. Now, PharmEc,” I say with enough finality that he knows the conversation is over.

Hours later when I’m done with the conference, I load up Helen’s background check again.

She’s Helen James. She owns a house. A modest home, one she paid for in cash, but something someone working at a nightclub wouldn’t own. Her credit is terrible. She has two priors, both for petty theft and both over ten years ago. She’s been married to a Luke James for five years. Luke, the man who hit her.

Why is she living in a shitty motel if she has a home? And where is this Luke person? Are they in on some sort of con together to get me to give them money? I’m more confused now than ever.

I shut the lights off, grab my briefcase, and head home, trying to avoid the looks from all of my new employees at PharmEc, who seem to be terrified that I’m going to fire them all. I’m not, though. I purchased the company because of their technology, and the team Glen has is extremely skilled. I make a mental note that I need to schedule a meeting and explain my intentions. I like things a certain way and what I don’t like is sharing space with strangers, which is why I feel so uncomfortable at this small office that belonged to someone else at some point. That’s why I’m in a foul mood by the time I get home.

It’s got nothing to do with Helen being married.

I want to shower and scrub the day off until my skin is raw. I storm inside my house, which still doesn’t feel like my home, and almost collide with Marshall and Helen, who are laughing at something.

“Oh, hey, Alex.” Helen greets me and clears her throat. “You’re back so soon.” She sounds disappointed.

“Mr. Archer.” Marshall extends a hand, which I reluctantly take.

“I pay you two to work, not stand around flirting and laughing.” With that, I turn around, stomp up the stairs, and slam the door to my bedroom.