3
Juliet
“Etty, coming out of that bathroom is like walking through a jungle. We’ve got to move those plants.” Miller James’ effeminate voice traveled from the back hallway to the front of our small office where I stood across from an intense man. A handsome, intense man. Light hair that looked purposely messed, bright eyes behind glasses that did nothing to detract from their piercing effect, and a stature that said bodyguard, let me protect you. He was attractive in a multitude of ways, except that his line of questioning made me nervous.
“Well, well, who do we have here?” Miller asked as he cleared the hallway and stopped short inside the main office. Miller, smartly dressed in his pink oxford, bright blue skinny pants and a bow tie, was the type to smell a good-looking man a mile away, and while he’d been trying to set me up for over a year, he knew the reasons why I declined dates.
“Branson Marx.” The man introduced himself, and Miller stepped forward to shake hands with him, only he glanced at me over his shoulder, wiggling an eyebrow. With that look, I knew what he was thinking.
Strong handshake. This meant a plethora of euphemisms for Miller, but my mind refused to go there. My heart raced as I continued processing our own introduction.
“Are you Juliet Monte, formerly Montmore?” The name startled me, as I’d worked hard to take on a new identity. Months on an island, pretending I was someone I was not, caused me to change my name and take on a different persona. I hadn’t answered Branson’s question, as Miller’s proclamation of my plants blocking the bathroom interrupted us.
“Miller, Mr. Marx was explaining that he works in the charity division of Calliope Industries. They are holding their annual Humans for Humanity contest and we’ve been selected as one of the finalists for their generous donation.” My brows rose as I stared at Miller, warning him to behave and not start flirting with the heavyweight before him. Miller’s innuendos had no shame and flew from his lips whenever an attractive man was present, straight or not.
“Oh,” Miller smiled, stepping behind my standing desk. “I don’t recall filling out an application for that one.”
The Mouse Trap was our small, non-profit organization. Our goal was to help women in underprivileged communities make jewelry from natural materials as a means to earn money. We also provided materials for basic education in reading and mathematics. We’d been overwhelmed with our online store demands and needed more funding to provide us with additional supplies. Miller was my partner and helped with grant writing and donation solicitation.
“Your organization has been awarded an all-expense paid trip to Redemption Resort in St. Croix.” Miller’s mouth popped open. The audible noise echoed through our office.
“In the Virgin Islands?” Miller clarified. I scowled.
“That seems a bit excessive for a not-for-profit competition. The money could certainly be put to better use than flying people to the Caribbean for a vacation,” I said. I chose to ignore the location. I hadn’t been in the Virgin Islands in almost two years. I never dreamed I’d be returning to the area.
Miller kicked me under the desk as he stood next to me. I winced.
“There are three organizations invited as finalists. Our directors believe your hard work to help others deserves a reward. The trip is for you—“
“And a guest,” Miller interjected. Branson looked from Miller to me and back. This prompted Miller to step closer to me and place his hand on the small of my back. What the hell?
“I’m sorry. I didn’t have in my notes that you had a fiancé.” Branson’s eyes glanced at my left hand. “Or a…”
“A friend,” Miller assisted with the answer, jiggling my shoulder. “A good friend.”
“That’s right,” I added. “Miller and I work together.” I nodded for emphasis. Miller was my equal in many ways but the concept of The Mouse Trap had been all mine. He came on board after all the drama with Lillian Varga, my former mentor.
“Well, I’ll let the organizers know there needs to be an additional airline ticket, resort room, and inclusive wristband,” Branson offered.
“Oh, Etty and I can share a room. We don’t mind.” Miller tugged me against him, and I turned to glare at him. I didn’t understand what he was playing at.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Branson said, his voice lowering in frustration. “So, Etty. Is that a nickname?”
“Yes,” Miller offered too easily. “Isn’t it cute like her?”
Branson looked from me to Miller. His head tilted in question. Miller called me Etty, and I often introduced myself as such in order to keep my anonymity. The name came from a drunken night of him pretending to be Romeo and over emphasizing the ending of my name—Julie-etty. There were no romantic intentions between Miller and me, though. He was safe for me which was originally a huge reason why we became friends.
“It’s short for Juliet,” Miller stated, and I cringed. There was something about the man before me that made me hesitate. I didn’t want him to know my real name.
“Juliet Montmore?” he asked again, raising a teasing brow, and I said, “No,” as Miller said, “Yes.”
It was my turn to nudge Miller in the ribs and he released me, stepping over to his own standing desk near mine.
“I’m sorry. For our records, we’ll need confirmation of your legal name.”
I sighed. “Fine. Juliet Montmore is my name. Juliet Monte is my doctoral name, but I don’t really use the degree. Etty is my nickname. It’s silly and not appropriate.” I eyed Miller.
“Terrific,” Branson said a little too enthusiastically. “I’ll get all the particulars to our organizer.” He reached into his bag and handed me an envelope. Inside was a plane ticket and room reservation. “You’ll receive the itinerary and inclusive wristband when you arrive. Proper identification required, of course.”
“Of course,” I said, smiling falsely.
Branson excused himself after congratulating us and exited our small hole-in-the-wall, boutique office.
“What was that all about?” I snapped, turning on Miller the second the door closed.
“That man wanted to eat you alive. I had goosebumps just watching him salivate over you. A little competition thrown in and he wanted to devour you.”
“He did not,” I squeaked. “Besides, what makes you think you’d be competition compared to him?” I smiled with the tease and Miller’s hand came to his chest as if he was affronted.
“Gasp,” he chuckled. “Her humor returns.” His attention returned to his laptop.
“I don’t think we should accept this,” I said, stepping over to Miller’s desk. He looked up at the concern in my voice but his eyes opened wide.
“Are you crazy? You deserve a break after all you’ve been through. Plus, the donation is for a million dollars.”
My head shot back at the amount. We could use every penny of that money.
“Something feels off about this. Who hosts the event again?”
“Calliope Industry.” The clicking of Miller’s keyboard signaled his immediate internet search. “Newer corporation. Fortune 500 in its first year. Owner was voted one-to-watch in the past year.” Miller slid his laptop so I could see the image of the man behind the generosity. In a dark business suit with a chiseled face and a silver banded wrist watch, the image of a powerful man graced the screen. His green eyes intense. His jaw set. His glare on me. He was unrecognizable and yet every bit the same.
“No,” I whispered. Wrapped around his wrist, butted against the watch, was a green band made of leaves.
“He’s delicious.”
I couldn’t speak.
“What a long-ass name, though. Terrence Jackson Corbin IV. Says his nickname is Tack. He looks like a prick, but Jesus that name makes him sound important.”
I swallowed hard at the thought. He was important. Once. To me.