Contents
Title Page
Chapter One: Isabel
Chapter Two: Thorn
Chapter Three: Isabel
Chapter Four: Thorn
Chapter Five: Isabel
Chapter Six: Thorn
Chapter Seven: Isabel
Chapter Eight: Thorn
Chapter Nine: Isabel
Chapter Ten: Isabel
Chapter Eleven: Thorn
Chapter Twelve: Thorn
Chapter Thirteen: Isabel
Chapter Fourteen: Thorn
Chapter Fifteen: Thorn
Chapter Sixteen: Thorn
Chapter Seventeen: Isabel
Chapter Eighteen: Thorn
Chapter Nineteen: Thorn
Chapter Twenty: Isabel
Chapter Twenty-One: Thorn
Chapter Twenty-Two: Isabel
Chapter Twenty-Three: Thorn
Chapter Twenty-Four: Isabel
Chapter Twenty-Five: Thorn
Chapter Twenty-Six: Thorn
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Isabel
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Thorn
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Isabel
Chapter Thirty: Isabel
Chapter Thirty-One: Thorn
Epilogue: Isabel
Coming Soon: RoomMate
About the Author
Chapter One: Isabel
There are some days that are destined to change your life. Ones when you’re old and grey, you’ll look back on as the day when everything became different—the day when your ship finally came in. If you’re a Type A extreme planner like me, you’re lucky enough to know when and where fate is going to smile on you. Therefore, you’re able to prepare for the enormity of the moment. You’ve thought out every scenario and have a plan of action for each and every possibility to ensure you make the most of your day.
The day of my own personal life changer had arrived. Everything I’d been working for professionally converged on this moment. The years spent slaving over textbooks and writing countless essays while getting my undergrad and MBA, the sixteen-hour work days after landing my job, the weekends spent in the office away from family and friends—it all came down to this promotion, the day I, at just twenty-nine, would be elevated to a vice president in investment banking at the Callahan Corporation.
Sorry, I had to add that part. It probably sounds pretentious, or like I’m bragging. Trust me, I hate when people do that—like, it’s a serious pet peeve. It’s just I’ve been through a hell of a lot to get where I am. I was the first member of my family to graduate college, let alone get a graduate degree. As a kid who grew up on free lunches and thrift store clothes, the odds were stacked against me from the start. A lot was made harder simply because I possessed a vagina.
I’ll be forever grateful to the women before me who shattered the corporate glass ceiling. The thing is, even in 2018, the shards from that glass can still cut you. Women have to work harder to get where they are, and for someone like me who didn’t come from a prestigious family with connections, I had to do even more.
Back home in my small, backwoods town of Dawsonville, Georgia, my family wasn’t part of society. If you want a small glimpse into my childhood, watch Sweet Home Alabama. While my father didn’t do the Civil War reenactments, I did grow up in a double-wide trailer, and my mom did shove me into every imaginable pageant to pad my scholarship fund to get me the hell out of town. She wanted me to have all the opportunities in life she hadn’t. It’s why when I was eight, she went to battle with the administration at my elementary school to allow me to skip a grade. Little girls who lived in trailers weren’t always the first ones on the list for special testing and advancement. I was grateful I’d inherited her intelligence and tenacity, along with her auburn hair and blue eyes. The junk-in-the-trunk booty she’d graced me with wasn’t exactly on my preferred trait list, but such was life.
Thinking of my mom caused a wave of homesickness to wash over me. She was a thousand miles and what seemed like a lifetime away. When I was just twenty years old, I’d traded the Peach State for the Big Apple. After transferring to Columbia, I’d finished my undergrad before entering the accelerated MBA program. While my dad had harbored hopes I might come back to Georgia and find work in Atlanta, I’d taken a job with the company where I’d interned: the Callahan Corporation. I made it home for Sunday dinner at least once a month, even though my parents and sister teasingly called me a Yankee.
Speaking of work, I eyed my phone. It was five minutes until my alarm went off. In spite of my scheduled wake-up time not having come yet, I’d already been awake for an hour. Staring up at the ceiling, I’d gone over in my mind exactly what I planned to say when the job was formally offered to me, my own version of an Academy Award acceptance speech. I wanted to appear humble, yet at the same time highlight the reasons I’d been chosen. Remember how I said I hate bragging? Anyway, I’d even gone so far as to practice it in front of the mirror the previous night to analyze not just my word choices but also my facial expressions.
It’s probably right about now you’re thinking I’m a wee bit of a perfectionist. The phrase “control freak” might be flashing like neon in your mind, and trust me, I get it. In fact, I embrace my perfectionist side. Without that essential yet equally annoying quality, I wouldn’t be where I am today.
With a pep in my step I didn’t usually possess in the mornings, I threw back the covers and hopped out of bed. My dog, Dani, popped one eye open and gave me a disapproving look for disturbing her sleep. Once I got into the bathroom, I flipped on my iHome. Instead of an upbeat pop tune or a hardcore rap beat filling the room, it was the latest stock market updates from Bloomberg Radio. Perfectionist, remember? I liked to get a feel for the markets first thing.
After showering, I took extra time on my hair and makeup. Most days, I went for a look that was natural but still utilized all the tools in my arsenal, including eyeliner, mascara, and lipstick. Since I was knocking on thirty’s door, I couldn’t quite get away with what I had in my early twenties.
Once I was satisfied with my makeup, I tied my long hair into a trendy twist at the base of my neck. I snickered at the thought that I could pull off a sexy librarian look. Of course, I’d tossed my glasses years ago after getting Lasik.
Now that I was finished in the bathroom, I headed back into my bedroom to get dressed. I slipped into a cream-colored silk shirt and a navy pinstripe skirt that hit just at my knee, and then I slid on my matching suit jacket. As I straightened the lapels, I nodded at my reflection in the mirror.
I threw a glance at Dani over my shoulder. “Whatcha think, girl? Does Mommy look like a vice president?” Dani’s response came in the form of a yawn. “I’ll take that as a yes,” I replied as I walked over to the bed. “You have fun today at doggy daycare.”
Yes, I’m not ashamed to admit I send my dog to daycare. It was the only way a dog as large as Dani could stay sane in the city and not devour my furniture. Thankfully for me and for Dani, they had pick-up and drop-off service.
When I opened my bedroom door, a wave of confetti blasted me in the face. “Happy Promotion Day!” my roommate and best friend, Mila, cried out enthusiastically. Her dog, Drogo, barked in congratulations, which instantly got Dani going. Drogo and Dani were littermates Mila and I had adopted through the rescue where we volunteered—well, it was more like Mila did the hands-on work while I helped out financially. While my job came with many blessings, the one curse was that it didn’t leave me a lot of free time.
“Pft,” I muttered as I was momentarily blinded by the multicolored bomb that coated my eyelashes and mouth. As soon as I could see and breathe again, I grinned at Mila. “Oh my God, you are too much.”
“But you love me anyway,” she countered.
“Mo
re than you could ever know,” I replied before reaching out to hug her. After squeezing her tight, I pulled away to eye her curiously. “What in the world are you doing up this early?”
As the chief makeup artist at the Palace Theater on Broadway, Mila’s late nights meant she was always still snoozing when I left for work. From the outside, most people would wonder how an investment banker and a makeup artist were best friends. I’d met Mila when I first came to New York to attend Columbia. While we had attended different schools in the daytime, we’d waited tables in the same restaurant at night.
Though we didn’t share similar professions, our hearts were on the same wavelength. We had both traded small-town life for the big city. We both had a soft spot for animals, and we both enjoyed the same movies and television. Two years before when I’d finally felt financially stable enough to buy a decent apartment in the Financial District, Mila had been going through a nasty divorce and needed a place to live. Once she moved in, she never moved out, even though it was a longer commute for her over to Times Square.
With her brown eyes sparkling, Mila replied, “I knew today was a big day, so I decided to get up early.”
“Aw, you really are too much, and I thank you.” After spinning around, I asked, “How do I look?”
“Like Corporate Barbie.”
I snorted. “Seriously?”
Mila nodded. “Totally. Slap you in a box and little girls everywhere would be inspired to be all they can be.”
“Isn’t that the Army’s slogan?”
She waved her hand dismissively. “Whatever. It still works.”
“Do I really look that much different than I usually do?”
Eyeing me thoughtfully, Mila replied, “I think it’s the severity of the twist that sets everything off. You’re more of a ponytail girl.”
“If I’d known you were up, I would have asked you to do it.”
“Yeah, but then I would have given you some kind of ethereal flair with some side braiding like Daenerys Targaryen.”
One thing Mila and I had in common was our adoration for Game of Thrones. Although our schedules never worked out to watch it together, we always met for lunch on Mondays to chat about the show.
I drew in a deep breath while debating whether to wipe my already sweaty palms on my skirt. “I will be channeling my inner Daenerys today for sure.”
Placing her hands on my shoulders, Mila smiled. “You’ve got this in the bag, girl. No need to unleash the dragons.”
With a laugh, I replied, “Okay, I’ll remember that.”
“Want me to meet you for a celebratory lunch today?”
“I would love that.”
“I’ll make sure I’m ready to roll by noon.”
“Sounds good. I’ll text you when I’m about to leave.”
“Mad Dog so we can toast with our favorite margaritas?”
Tapping my chin thoughtfully, I replied, “You think a vice president can get away with one margarita on her lunch break?”
“Hell yeah she can,” Mila replied with a grin.
I returned her smile. “Then Mad Dog and Beans it is.”
Mila dropped her hands from my shoulders. “Now go get ’em, tiger!”
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied with a salute.
“As you head off to take the corporate world by storm, I’m going back to bed.”
I grinned as I pulled on my coat. “I don’t blame you. Thanks for getting up for me.”
She yawned. “It was nothing.”
After throwing the strap of my leather laptop bag across my shoulder, I picked up my keys and purse. “See you later.” Craning my neck, I called, “Bye, Dani!” This time she woofed in acknowledgement.
With a quick wave to Mila, I headed out the door. I’d chose to live in the Financial District so I could be close to work, and I couldn’t have been happier with my decision. Being just four blocks from the office really came in handy with my crazy late-night working hours.
“Good morning, Lloyd,” I said to the elderly doorman who had become a friend over the last two years.
“Good morning, Sass,” he replied with his usual smile. He’d given me the nickname shortly after I moved in, a subtle nod to my “Southern sassiness”, as he called it. “Today is the day, huh?”
“Excuse me?”
He winked. “Mila was telling me about your promotion when she came out earlier to get coffee.”
Leave it to Mila to pre-spill the beans to Lloyd. “Well, I haven’t officially gotten the promotion yet, but it looks very promising.”
“I’m sure you’ve got it in the bag.”
“Thanks, Lloyd. I appreciate that.”
“You’ll have to tell me all about it tomorrow.”
“I promise.”
I then started hustling down the street. I can imagine what you’re thinking right about now—wasn’t I counting my chickens before they hatched by celebrating a job that wasn’t officially mine? Okay, so maybe you weren’t going for a chicken-specific analogy. That was a favorite of my mom’s, and considering I grew up with chickens littering the yard, it wasn’t too farfetched.
Anyway, here’s why I had reason to put the cart before the horse (another one of my mom’s analogies): one of the vice presidents had just retired, and while it usually took quite a few years to get promoted from associate to vice president, I had shown the most productivity and growth, so it was pretty much a given I would take the open position. For the last week, my boss had been preparing me to receive the news of a promotion.
As a creature of habit, I stopped for an overpriced latte at one of the food trucks outside the building. While I could have just waited five minutes and gotten a free coffee inside, I liked to hit the ground running once I stepped into my office.
Just as I rushed forward to head into the building, a wall of muscled flesh plowed into me. The momentum sent the cup of steaming hot espresso and steamed milk crashing against my chest, and the scorching liquid sloshed out, cascading over my blouse and seeping through the light fabric to burn my skin. “FUCK!” I screamed as the fiery trail singed my skin.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” a deep male voice boomed above me.
When I jerked my head up to glare at him, the raging inferno of second- or third-degree burns on my boobs were momentarily forgotten in light of the sheer perfection that met my eyes. An Armani-wearing Adonis stood before me, and with his towering height, bulging muscles, and chiseled features, he appeared to have just taken flight off Mt. Olympus—a true god among men.
He certainly was a sight for sore eyes. You didn’t get a lot of panty-melting investment bankers on my floor, and if you found an impossibly built hottie with a panty-dropping smile, he was often unfortunately interested in dropping briefs rather than panties—hence the age-old adage about all the good ones being gay.
The reprieve from my pain was short-lived. When I came back to reality, huffing and puffing in agony, the Adonis said, “I didn’t even see you.”
“While I might be slightly vertically challenged, how in the hell could you possibly miss me?” I demanded, fanning my stinging chest.
“My head was somewhere else.”
“Like up your ass?”
He had the gall to chuckle. “Yeah, pretty much.”
With the pain subsiding slightly, I surveyed the aesthetic damage to my blouse. Brown, blotchy stains streaked down my top, causing me to groan. “Shit, I’m a wreck.”
“Here, let me help.” He reached for the crisp white handkerchief in his suit pocket, but instead of handing it to me for cleanup duty, he proceeded to reach out and run his hands all over my chest. While my traitorous nipples had the audacity to harden at the attention, red flashed before my eyes, causing my right fist to ball at my side.
The next thing I knew I was executing an epic right hook to his gorgeous face. As my knuckle connected with his nose, the dream of my perfect day was shattered.
Chapter Two: Thorn
My breath came in
rushed pants as my feet pounded along the pavement. The brutally cold February air burned my lungs, making it hard to take a deep breath. It was quite a difference from the desert heat I’d grown accustomed to during the last year of my deployment, not to mention the urban scenery currently surrounding me. As I sprinted down the pre-dawn Manhattan sidewalks, the city that allegedly never slept slowly came alive.
After my alarm had woken me at six, I’d lumbered out of bed. Although I’d been stateside for three weeks, my body still clung to Afghanistan time, which was eight hours ahead of New York.
I hoped like hell that I could shake my wonky sleep patterns soon. Flicking the light on in the closet, I bypassed my comfort clothes, AKA my cammies. Instead, I donned my Under Armour winterized running gear. While I could’ve been racking up my miles on the treadmill in my home gym, I preferred being outside. It was another throwback to my time in the Army, and it made me feel a little less displaced. If I were honest, it was more of a necessity than a preference. The more daylight hours I spent inside, the more restless I became.
An ache reverberated through my chest, but this time it wasn’t from the elements. Rather, it was from the pain of losing the thing that defined me. From the time I was a kid, there was nothing else in the world I wanted to be other than a solider. I’d mastered a salute before I was out of diapers, and I’d relished watching war movies and playing Call of Duty. While some kids were scared straight by the threat of military school, I couldn’t wait to enroll at West Point. More than anything, I wanted to follow in my father’s footsteps.
But now, all of that was over.