The Bride (The Boss 3)

“Either way, when I get home you’d better be ready for some incredibly filthy—” a knock on the door jarred me. “Lo

ok, darling, I must go, but I’ll call you before I go to sleep tonight.”

“I’m holding you to that,” she warned me. “Both the call and the filthy sex.”

Phones were fucking useless when all you wanted to do was grab your woman and kiss her senseless. “I love you, Sophie.”

“I love you, too.” There was a brief pause, and I held my breath until she added, “Sir,” with the sexiest giggle.

The knock came again just as I ended the call. “Yes, Valerie, for god’s sake come in.”

“I’m sorry, am I inconveniencing the man who just ran out on an explanation of a foreign rights deal that’s going to make us millions?” Valerie unbuttoned her jacket as she sat in the chair across the desk from mine. “You know, it occurs to me that you aren’t really here.”

“I’m here.” I gestured around me. “I am fully aware that I am not at home.”

“You know what I mean.” Her forehead creased in annoyance. “I’m surprised you didn’t drag her along on this trip. You might have gotten more done if you weren’t busy pining away like a puppy for his master.”

“She didn’t want to come. Too much traveling lately.” I didn’t want to talk about Sophie with Valerie. It made me vaguely uncomfortable, as though I were betraying Sophie in some way. Though I found it a bit tiresome that the two were so hostile toward one another, I came down on Sophie’s side every time. It would have been wrong of me not to.

But it was difficult to stay annoyed when Valerie reminded me so strongly of our daughter. The way Valerie tilted her head to one side, eyes narrowed, was an almost exact copy of Emma’s own expression of incredulity.

“Neil… there wasn’t any reason I couldn’t have handled this rights deal on my own. And even if I couldn’t have, Jonathan could have done. If he’s to take over operations here while you’re handling the New York office and I’m finishing the restructure of Porteras, Shouldn’t we have left this job to him?”

“Don’t be absurd.” Leaving Jonathan in charge would have been akin to leaving a baby with a loaded gun. “He’s only been with us for—”

“Twelve years. He has worked here for twelve years. And he worked for your father for six.” The way she rolled her eyes reminded me of Emma, as well. How could two women be so alike, and yet so different? And why did they both seem to find me hopelessly stupid?

Valerie paused, as if to regroup. “You were fine with leaving Jonathan in charge when you were sick.”

“That was when I was sick. I’m well now.”

“Well” being a relative term. I still tired easily, and the nightmares of my time in protective isolation certainly didn’t help me rest.

Valerie shook her head. “You’re obsessed with control, Neil. You’re living in New York and, what, commuting to London now? Is that how it’s going to be for the next twenty years?”

“Do you really think I could wait and retire at seventy?” An extra five years, think of what I could do with that…

Valerie’s mouth opened, poised to deliver another withering remark, but she refrained. “Fine. Let’s go back and listen to that very boring man, if you’re not too busy making the world spin ‘round.”

“Is the worst of it over? Is it safe to go back in?”

“Unfortunately, no. But you have to go back, anyway.” She stood and gestured toward the door. “Shall we? Or do I move our meeting in here?”

“God no.” I stood and straightened my tie reflexively. “This office is my bunker. I can’t compromise it.”

“And when you’re working from the New York office full time, shall we erect a memorial on your desk, or just seal the doors the way they do when a pope dies?” Valerie stopped short and turned to me. “Oh, I was thinking of dinner out tonight, at that Ethiopian place we liked. Seven-thirty all right?”

“No, I have plans tonight.” Plans I didn’t need to share with her. There was too much shaky history there.

The rest of the workday was interminable. Caught between missing Sophie and anticipating the potential of an evening with Emir, my attentiveness to all other concerns was minimal, at best.

Not for the first time, I wondered if returning to the office after cancer was even possible. I’d gotten so used to not working, and easing back in had become more difficult than previously imagined. Though I’d never really stopped working. As much as I may have protested when Sophie admonished me for my mid-chemotherapy work habits, I’d still been desperate to oversee the company. But now I’d had a taste of life at home, where the television was always on, but my trousers rarely were. Free time, which I’d never had much regard for in the past, now seemed incredibly precious.

Perhaps it was because I’d been faced with the very real possibility of death that I was now recognizing the value of my life. Sitting in a conference room on a Saturday, when I could’ve spent a rare day off with Sophie, seemed a tragic waste of my time.

Coming home to an empty house at the end of the night only reinforced the point. I put my bag down by the door and glanced up the stairs, a practiced reflex; Sophie and I had spent nearly a year in our London residence, and it seemed strange to be here alone.

I wouldn’t be, for long. I only had an hour and a half before Emir would arrive. Only a few members of the household staff were still on duty, and they were in the kitchen. Without a soul in the living areas of the house, the feeling of emptiness was exacerbated.