Fuel the Fire (Calloway Sisters 3)

I always lean towards Lily, my closest sister.

But Connor trusts Ryke. He tells me all the time that Ryke is more suited to take care of handfuls of children. Lo can’t handle eight kids, if we have that many. Ryke could.

I recall Connor’s confidence in Ryke. I hone in on the fact that he’d be willing to leave Jane with him forever if we died.

Okay, Ryke. I’m trusting you with my daughter. No lists this time. I desperately try not to think about him throwing her in the air like a football.

“Don’t be a hero,” I say, my tone icy. “If you think something is wrong, just call me.”

“You’re on speed dial, Rose.”

I nod once, and my heels finally unglue from the rug. It takes an incredible amount of force to slowly walk away and out the door.

* * *

I should have stayed home.

The singular thought crosses my mind when the Chief Quality and Product Integrity Officer of Hale Co. decides to ramble about branding for Calloway Couture Babies instead of focusing on his particular field of interest.

Being with Jane is less of a headache and a million times more pleasant than this.

“The board of executives are going to make the final call on what to name the brand,” James reminds me for the tenth time. “You should let go of this so we can move forward. We’re working on a timeline.”

“I’m aware of the timeline.” CCB will be in stores this summer, and until then, I need to sort through labels, advertising, merchandising, and appeasing the person with the most sway: the head of this company.

Loren Hale.

I’d rather focus solely on designs, but I love the control Loren has granted me. He designated me the head of the baby clothes division. This isn’t just a fashion line. It’s a subsidiary company of a huge corporation, something I’ve never been entirely a part of.

I spent years in college struggling to sell my designs to big corporations like H&M, succeeding only a fraction of the time, and ultimately letting the dream fall to the wayside. The stress and uncertainty was driving me insane and it didn’t hold the same value it once did.

Now that I finally have the opportunity to see my clothes permanently in department stores, I won’t compromise all of my artistic beliefs.

James continues talking, and I hold up a hand, stopping him mid-sentence.

“I’ve heard everything you’re telling me from the Chief Marketing Officer.” Albeit, on the phone while he’s away on vacation. “So if the next words aren’t an original idea or thought, I’m going to cut off your tongue.”

The ash-blond man, twice my age, goes silent. He pushes his thin, silver-rimmed glasses further up his nose.

I drum my nails on my desk. “I like you, James.”

“Could have fooled me, Mrs. Cobalt.” He lets out an unsure, uncomfortable laugh.

My expression never softens. “You’re in my office, sitting in one of my chairs.” I motion to where his ass resides, five-feet from my mahogany desk. “But if you keep coming in here just to reiterate that the company wants to put HC on the tags and not CCB, you’re not going to make it past my doorway.”

I hate being the bitch boss. It’s a cliché that I most naturally fit into. My cold personality aside, I struggle to handle my employees and these businessmen any other way. They all look at me as a twenty-six-year-old girl, seated here from nepotism and notoriety. I can’t trounce the judgment without time and a track record, showing I deserve this position because I’m intelligent, hardworking, and damn good at creating clothes—even miniature-sized ones for little monsters.

He shifts uneasily in his chair. Good. A small twinge of guilt flares, foreign and very, very unwelcome.

“Anything else?” I ask, clutching my pen like a knife, my fingertips whitening. I feel like an Amazonian Warrior, ready to assail an enemy at first glance. The only problem: poor James is not my enemy. He’s on my team, but it doesn’t feel that way.

“Nothing as of right now,” James mutters before standing. I watch him dash to the door, ready to leave my office. I bet the first thing he’ll do is gossip about me. How nasty of a bitch I am. How my husband probably isn’t satisfying me at home.

That was yesterday’s comments I overheard in the breakroom, right beside the microwave and Fizzle vending machine.

Today’s gossip will be more colorful, I’m sure.

When James leaves, I spot a feminine body outside, fist raised. She lowers it and procures a congenial smile, red hair splayed over her shoulder. Hannah is the only female I interact with on a daily basis, and it’s usually perfunctory comments or the frequent, Loren Hale would like to see you in his office.

I’m trying to grow used to Loren having an assistant, one with long, treadmill-toned legs and breasts that bounce as she walks. If I didn’t know my brother-in-law’s level of devotion to Lily and his type of girl—twiggy with minimal curves—I might be a tad worried for my sister.

James slides past Hannah, not attempting to hide the quick glance at her breasts. I grip the pen harder, imagining stabbing the point into his neck. Not that I’d actually do it.

If Hannah notices his loitering gaze, she doesn’t let on. She rests her hipbone on the door frame, dressed in a cute green blouse and high-waisted pin-skirt. Her pumps are too short for my personal taste though.

“Loren Hale would like to see you in his office,” she tells me.

I don’t restrain a dramatic eye roll. “For the millionth time, he can just call me instead of wasting your time.”

“I’m his assistant. It’s my job,” she says with a forced smile. We rarely talk, but I’ve never been the approachable type. The few friends I had in prep school most likely flocked to me for status. Or maybe they stuck around because they could rely on me: the responsible, loyal friend. I’d pick up a forgotten textbook from Sebastian’s locker at midnight, calling a custodian to let me in, and spend another ten minutes delivering it to his house. Just so he could cram for a test.

I was that friend.

When I graduated, most vanished, off to Harvard, Georgetown, University of Pennsylvania, and Yale. I chose Princeton.

I had multiple friends in college, but after my family was thrust into the media, they either wanted nothing to do with my deplorable, fame-hungry family, or they started calling me daily like we painted each other’s toenails every night.

I had to choose between being alone or having fake friends.

So I chose my sisters.

And Connor, I suppose.

In the public, there are girls who love me—the ones who ravage gossip magazines, finding me an inspiration. I wish these girls surrounded me. The women here, the ones in corporate America, view fame as vanity, as a disgusting flaw in our country.

Hannah regards me this way right now. With quiet curiosity and contempt.

It’s a shame. We’re both outnumbered by men—shouldn’t we band together now? After years, I still struggle with people’s perceptions of me. Sometimes, I do really wish I could change them, but then again, I wouldn’t even

know where to begin.

I follow Hannah down the hall, walking by her side. “So what’s your dream position at this company?” I ask, making small talk at least. Maybe we can be friends. It’s a gross, emotional thought. One I want to whisk away. I’ve tried making friends. It never works. They either come to me by fate or I remain friendless.

I have twenty-six years of experience in the matter.

She gives me a side-eye. You should have left this up to Fate, Rose. “I have a great salary-paying job. I don’t want to be anywhere else.” We stop at Loren’s office door, the walls all glass with a grand view of Philadelphia.

“I didn’t mean that as an insult. There’s no shame in being a secretary.” I stand my ground firmly, even if my skin has begun to shrivel.

Her eyes blink with more heat. “I’m an executive assistant,” she lashes. “And not everyone can sleep their way to the top.”

My back bristles. I don’t know why I hate fighting with women more than men. If there’s an equally distasteful girl, throwing venom my way, I should attack just the same as I would a guy. Equality for all, right?

I hesitate, but not long enough to go unnoticed. “You can’t talk to me like that,” I snap, so much for being friends.

Her shoulders pull back and she elongates her neck, about an inch taller than me. “I don’t work for you.”

I’m half-shocked that she just uttered those words. The other half of me ices over.

“I was asking if you had any dreams, which I see the only one you have is to be fired after two weeks of work.” Out of the corner of my vision, I see Loren standing from behind his desk, his suit-and-tie wardrobe not as jarring as the corporate atmosphere he’s placed in. Thank God he kept his personal style intact: skinny black tie, black button-down, black slacks.

Translation: He’s still Loren Hale.

Loren’s concern gathers as he watches me square off with his secre—assistant. I try to rewire this word in my brain.

I add, “And I don’t know what makes you think I fucked my way here—”

She actually cuts me off, “How about your sex tapes. They’re what made you famous, right? Everyone knows you only landed this job because you have fans. Otherwise Hale Co. would’ve chosen another, more qualified designer.”