More Than Need You (More Than Words 2)

Rob’s face says he could give a shit about the motivational speech. I’m not a fan of the guy’s attitude, but if my brother wants him here, I’ll try.

“I’m not going to cause trouble,” I swear. “You’re my brother’s marketing guy, right? You do a hell of a job. Don’t leave because of me.”

“I’m against this.” He ignores me and tsks at Maxon. “Griff fucked you over once. What’s to stop him from doing it again?”

Ouch. That’s a hard blow…but not an unfair one. “I’ve learned since then.”

“We’ve talked, and I believe him,” Maxon insists. “He’s family. He’s staying if he wants to.”

I tend to rate pretty high on the macho scale, but I have to admit that my brother’s words give me a warm fuzzy. “Thanks, man.”

He nods in acknowledgement without looking my way. “Are you in, Rob? Or packing up your desk and pouting your way out the door?”

The other man hems and haws, shaking his head as if he’s trying to reconcile himself to something he really doesn’t want. “Son of a bitch… Do we need to go over the presentation before the call?”

“That’s next on our agenda,” my brother assures as he gestures to the other chair in his office, glancing at the clock on the wall. “Have you talked to Britta this morning? She’s not usually late.”

Rob shakes his head. “No.”

I frown Maxon’s way. Britta is always punctual. Worry nips at my gut.

“She’ll be here,” my brother insists. His phone dings two seconds later, and he plucks the device from his pocket. “She says she just dropped Jamie off at daycare and she has to swing by to see Mr. Kale, then she’ll be here.”

“Who?” Rob asks.

“Makaio’s father?” I raise a brow at Maxon.

“I guess so.” He sounds as confused as I am.

“Why would she see him on the morning you have the biggest presentation of your career?”

“Our career. I can’t think of a reason.” Now he sounds as troubled as I am.

I rake a hand through my hair. “Shit.”

“It’s probably nothing. Let’s start rehearsing the presentation. We’ll figure out what she’s up to later.”

You can bet on that.

After a quick run-through, we hammer out a few issues. I give input based on my conversation with the Stowe heirs yesterday, and Maxon looks grateful for the insight. We’re done prepping about forty-five minutes before show time.

Which leaves me to stare at the clock.

I have a good feeling about this pitch. The Stowes will be thrilled. We’ll get the listing, sell this mansion that once belonged to the Vermont syrup-maker’s widow, and Maxon and I will start doing great things together again.

I’m hoping the future looks even half as bright for Britta and me.

As I pace in worry at how slowly the hands are moving on the clock, I see Rob head to the restroom. Maxon takes a phone call from what sounds like another client. I leave his office and pace the main area, hovering around what’s obviously Britta’s desk. It must be. Rob’s is cluttered with empty soda cans and Snickers wrappers with a few empty bags of Cheetos. Britta is too meticulous for her workspace to resemble a dumpster. And when I peek at the surface, I hit the jackpot. She has framed pictures of all sizes of Jamie. My heart stops. It’s like a visual history of his young life.

The first pic that catches my eye is of Jamie asleep and swaddled in a gauzy blue blanket like a papoose in a wicker basket with sprigs of greenery all around. He looks weeks old at most. I see a picture of him on his first birthday, grinning at a chocolate cake covered in frosting soccer balls, half of which is smeared across his face. There’s a photo of him and Maxon at the beach, and another of him and Britta in a go-cart. I spot a still of him and Makaio at the library, solemnly reading a book together. At that, I grit my teeth.

On the cubicle’s left wall, she’s tacked up more recent pictures—Jamie waving good-bye as he walks into daycare, him playing beside another boy with some Lincoln Logs, my son running across the backyard at Britta’s house with a big grin. He’s cute, yeah. But the glimpses of everything I’ve missed and can never experience for myself wrench at my goddamn heart.

A glance toward the far side of her keyboard reveals another photo, this one obviously taken in the hospital when he was born. Britta sitting up in bed looking pale and exhausted but more beautiful than I’ve ever seen as she glances down at infant Jamie with naked love all over her face, one arm supporting his little body, the other stroking his downy head.

I would give anything to have been there the day my son made his way into the world so I could hold him, protect him. Tell him I love him. I wish I’d been there to give Britta the same devotion, that she’d been wearing my ring, that we’d gone home as a family. I’m shocked to feel tears sting my eyes.

Then I hear the creak of the door behind me and whirl around.

Britta.

She’s wearing a black pencil skirt that hugs her body and a tuxedo-style blouse, white with black cuffs and collar. The black-and-white peep-toe heels complete the look. She’s accented with red—purse, belt, lips.

The urge to fuck her is blinding and instant. Her chilly expression as she approaches me vows we won’t be having sex soon. If she has anything to say about it, not until hell has frozen over for good.

Carrying a stack of magazines, she proceeds to her desk.

“Good morning,” I say.

She nods stiffly and tosses down both her purse and the magazines.

They are all bridal publications. Dresses and flowers, smiling beauties and lace, updos and bows. Every edition seems focused on summer weddings. My heart stops. My sister, Harlow, has taken over a year to plan hers. I thought I’d have more time.

“When’s the wedding?” I ask.

“We haven’t set a date. Could you excuse me? You’re standing in front of my chair.”

I take one step to the side. “I was just looking at your pictures of Jamie.”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” she says as she sits at her desk and proceeds to ignore me, tucking away her purse, spreading out her magazines, and turning on her computer. Then she tunes me out.

She’s definitely withdrawn this morning. Dark circles under her eyes tell me she hasn’t slept much. That makes two of us. Despite the fuck-off vibe she’s giving me, I catch Britta sending me a sidelong stare when she thinks I’m not looking.

“Too bad, angel,” I murmur the endearment I once called her for her ears alone. “I made myself clear last night. I know you heard me.”

With a press of her sin-inspiring lips, she turns to me. “Can you please think of someone besides yourself this once? Consider your son, the upheaval you’ll create in his life. He’s too young to understand. He’s too impressionable to—”

“I didn’t demand that he call me Daddy right now. I said I’d like the opportunity to be a part of his life, whatever you and I can work out like rational adults.” I settle closer, brace my forearm across the back of her chair, and bend close to her ear, trying to ignore the sultry jasmine scent that wafts up and stiffens my cock. “I think the bigger problem is you. Jamie doesn’t know a reason to hate me. But you do.”

That finally has her gaze darting up to mine as she rolls her chair sideways, a good foot away from me. Our eyes meet. Zing. I know she feels it, too. There’s no way she doesn’t.

Britta’s face closes up as she jerks her gaze back to her scarred wooden desk. Does she think that will somehow make me go away?

“You don’t affect me one way or the other. I’m protecting my son because I know you too well to believe you’ll stay for long. Then I’ll be left to pick up the pieces—again—when you decide to