The Tycoon

“Hello, Veronica.”

Oh, his voice.

All these years and his voice still sent shockwaves through me. My knees buckled, but I forced myself to stand. I forced myself to stay when the impulse to run was screaming in my head.

I forced myself to be calm, when all I wanted to do was throw this pie in his face.

“Clayton,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

2

VERONICA

“Please,” he said. “Sit down.”

I did. Not because he said so, but because it was my damn booth. I wasn’t going to run away from my own damn booth. I took my time, though, setting down my pie. Shifting my computer and paperwork to the side. I felt like I looked calm. Cool.

Indifferent.

Inside I was a war zone.

My poker face was as good as his now. Perhaps better. And when I finally looked at him, I was stone cold, baby.

Fuck you, I thought and refused to catalogue the changes in his face. I had a sense of his being honed down, somehow. Sharper. Everything extraneous taken away. But then I forced myself to stop noticing anything.

I watched his eyes drift over my body, taking in the high ponytail, my new bright-red glasses and my flowy black shirt, which hid all my cheese sins.

His rude-boy lip quirked, just a little, a grin he couldn’t control, and then he said, “You look good, Veronica.”

All my shock exploded into rage. My hands shook with it.

You’re going to come here and mock me? Fuck. You.

“What are you doing here?”

“Your father has died.”

I blinked and blinked again, waiting for the news to settle around me. In me. But, weirdly, all I could think was that that was why Sabrina was calling me.

My father was dead.

“A heart attack,” he continued. “It was sudden. But he hasn’t been well for a while.”

Should I feel shocked? I didn’t. I didn’t even feel grief. I felt nothing.

I’d come to terms with my relationship with my father years ago, and his buying me a husband had been the final nail in the coffin. But I imagined, for a second, how my sisters would be feeling. Sabrina and Bea with all their daddy issues. This was going to hurt them.

“I’m sorry,” he said. His hand lifted like he might…what? Touch me?

Was he insane?

I shot him a don’t even think about it glare and his hand settled back down on the table.

“Hey, Ronnie.” Melody put down my food in front of me. The cheese soup and the grilled cheese sandwich. My side of the table was a cluttered mess—my lunch, my work. Denise’s son had left a toy car.

His side was empty. There was only him, his crossed hands. The navy suit. The glimpse of white sleeve. Looking at his wrist sent something cold and awful through me. I was done with my shame. I’d packed it up, put it away, but looking at him I could feel the way it lingered.

Its cold, awful fingers around my heart. And stomach.

“Can I get you a cup of coffee?” Melody asked Clayton.

“He’s not staying long,” I answered, and Melody’s smile, before she walked off, was razor sharp.

The idea of eating my food in front of him was utterly repugnant. So I pushed my plate and soup to the side for a second.

“Is there anything else you need to tell me? Or did you track me down to Austin just to give me the good news?” I asked. I was trying not to be sarcastic. Not to reveal anything. But I was failing.

“The funeral is in three days at the ranch. Followed by the will reading.”

I widened my eyes. “I don’t…care about the will. I want nothing of his.”

“I can understand that. But should you change your mind…” He opened up his suit jacket and pulled out an envelope. He set it down on the table and slid it over to me. Resolutely, I didn’t touch it.

“The foundation,” he said, “will be discussed.”

“He kept it going?” I asked. “I thought for sure my father would close that down after I was gone.”

“The company kept it going.”

Damn it. Damn him.

But I still left the envelope on the table. I could read it when he was gone.

He smiled and I was reminded of how he used to admire my stubbornness.

He smiled and I was reminded of how he tasted. And how I could never get enough of him.

My cheeks got hot and I looked down at the little toy car left behind by Denise’s son. A little red sports car.

It wasn’t real, I had to remind myself. That smile was a show. A trick.

“You’ve made a good business for yourself,” he said.

“You’re making that assumption from my satellite office in Patsy’s Pies?”

“Your real office is upstairs,” he said. “Her Safety Net Accounting and Investments.”

“How do you know that?”

Was he in touch with Sabrina? Seemed doubtful.

“Do you honestly think I wouldn’t have kept track of you?” he asked, leaning forward, so close I could smell him over the butter and cheese of my lunch. I leaned back, but it wasn’t far enough. “You were my fiancée, Veronica.”