An Offer from Mr. Wrong, page 3
“And?”
Bobbie strained her tea of the loose leaves and took a deep satisfying sip. “And what, Pops?” she asked with a little smack of her lips.
“Are you dating? All work and no play, kiddo,” he advised her.
“Not even thinking about that for ten more months, Pops. Maybe more,” she reminded him.
He sighed. “You’re giving Henny too much power.”
An image of her husband in bed with another woman flashed.
Bobbie flinched and pressed her eyes shut as she gripped the cup tighter. Pain radiated across her chest. Actual heartbreak. After their bitter divorce was finalized two months ago, she promised herself a full year—or more—before dating again.
To heal.
To recover.
To grow.
To learn the lesson.
“The last thing I need is to take my emotional baggage into a new relationship,” she said, hearing the softness in her voice caused by sadness.
“But, Bobbie—”
“Please, Daddy,” she stressed, reverting to her childhood name for him.
“I love you, baby girl.”
She opened her eyes and was comforted by the sun’s rays beaming onto the loft and its furnishings. A tear raced down her cheek and she hung her head causing her hair to fall forward and frame her face. “I know,” she admitted.
“Hey! Hey! Hey!” Bobby said enthusiastic and loud as ever. “Go back to doing that thing like Tina Turner in ‘What’s Love Got to Do with It.’”
That caused her to chuckle. Her father would call meditation anything but what it was. “Meditation,” she informed him for the hundredth time.
He grunted. “Right. That.”
“Got to go, Pops,” she said, moving out of the kitchen and over to the living room space decorated in rose gold and cream with bronze accents.
“I’ll call you later tonight,” he said before ending the call.
Bobbie freed her wild mane and dropped down onto one of the four love seats positioned in a square around the low-slung coffee table topped with copper pennies under tinted glass. The idea of love and marriage used to be so simple before that day she followed her husband to that hotel. Her father balked at the year she promised herself, but as pain gripped her chest she wondered if even that would be enough to heal her heart before opening it to love once again.
* * *
Lincoln had a long stretch atop the king-size bed of his suite at the town house before rising to sit on the side of the bed naked. Still wiping sleep from his eyes as he yawned, he rose and made his way across the wooden floors of the wide bedroom to the en suite to relieve himself. His morning erection led the way. He took a few minutes to brush his teeth and wash his face before going back into the suite decorated in shades of gray, from charcoal to smoke.
He grabbed his phone from the nightstand as he reclaimed his seat atop the gray coverlet and crisp white cotton sheets on the bed. With an audible breath, he opened his online banking app. Between his business and personal accounts there had been six figures. With the transfer from Phillip Cress the amount had swelled to eight figures. He was far from destitute with his beachside home, a couple of cars, stocks and ownership of his thriving restaurant, but there was a wide gap between comfortable to massive abundance.
Lincoln hadn’t wanted the money. Phillip Senior insisted he took it.
The thing he wanted most was the truth and that was free.
Was this massive windfall from his father about assisting the son he never knew about or to appease his guilt for never stepping up for the child he ignored?
Who is the liar?
The mother who raised him or the father he never knew?
It’s time. No need to avoid it any longer.
Lincoln reached to grab his black pajama bottoms from where he had laid them atop the folded blanket across the foot of the bed—in case of an emergency overnight to quickly cover his nudity. After snatching them on and adjusting the elastic waist to fit below his abs, he grabbed his phone and walked over to open the gray suede curtains. The entire rear wall of the Cress townhome was glass and he looked out at emerald leaves of the towering tree in the backyard. In the distance, the sun glistened brightly above the city landscape.
It was seven thirty in the morning in New York, making it twelve thirty in the afternoon in England.
He FaceTimed his mother. As she answered, Lincoln steeled himself because with Poppy anything was possible. Her face filled the screen. She was a pretty silver-haired woman with hints of blond from her youth. Her long false lashes and red lipstick were in place as always.
Very similar to Nicolette.
Phillip Senior has a type.
“Ay! Well look who finally remembered his old mum, mates,” Poppy said, turning the phone around to show her bevy of friends at the Pheasant & Pints Pub.
Lincoln frowned as they all began to greet him with raucous energy and lifts of their pints of beer. He had no doubt his mother was covering a round or two for all there. He would of course pay the bill upon its arrival to him.
“He’s in a bad mood as ever, love,” someone in the crowd shouted with a thick Cornish accent, bringing on laughs.
Releasing a heavy breath that only hinted at his frustration, Lincoln ended the FaceTime and then called her back via a phone instead.
“Okay, okay, Linc. Get your knickers out a twist, son,” Poppy said as soon as she answered.
“And take me off Speaker,” he ordered calmly.
She sighed.
Suddenly the background noise lessened.
“You’ve been wearing out my battery with calls and texts so I assumed you wanted to talk to me, not have a group chat,” he said, again feeling more like the parent in their relationship.
“How’s the wanker?”
Lincoln massaged his brow with a shake of his head at her insult of Phillip being a contemptible person. “Proclaiming he never knew you were pregnant,” he said as he shifted his eyes down to the beautifully arched framework of bamboo leaves that covered the full thirty-two-foot length of the wall of his bedroom.
“Bloody twit,” she snapped.
“Mum,” Lincoln admonished her for calling his father silly.
“Don’t you be a proper muppet,” she warned.
“I’m no one’s fool.”
Poppy snorted in derision.
“Mum,” Lincoln said again.
The line went quiet.
He worked his shoulders to relieve them of the building tension.
“Say you believe me, Linc,” she said, her voice weepy and barely a whisper.
And there it is. Right on cue. The Poppy stunt.
Since he was a kid, whenever she broke a promise or did something that embarrassed him in public, she would give him a teary look, quivering lips and soft voice filled with “woe is me.”
“What exactly happened between you two?” he asked, pressing on beyond her maneuver to distract him. “Outside of calling him everything from dishonest to the left teste of a circus clown, you have never explained what went down.”
“Say you believe me, Linc,” she repeated.
Lincoln whirled and tossed his phone in complete exasperation. Thankfully it landed on the middle of the bed.
Poppy Bridges was an eternal child. Even in her sixties.
She was the reason he found little humor in things and was so serious. Fun and frivolity had never been his choice. He was hell-bent not to be like his mother. He loved her—adored and spoiled her—but her carefree way of life was maddening to him and the order he preferred.
“Say you believe me, Linc,” she repeated, her voice barely above a hoarse whisper.
He eyed the bed. It seemed her voice came from beneath the covers. It would be comical if he was ever up for a laugh. Lincoln threw up both hands. “Goodbye, Mum,” he said, crossing the room to snatch up the phone and end the call.
She instantly called back.
He turned off the ringer and tossed it back onto the bed with a hard flick of his wrist. “Bloody hell,” he snapped as he jumped in place ten times and shook his hands before rotating his neck. If he was home, he would have had a swift run on the beach. Instead, he dropped to the gray area rug for push-ups with his fists pressed to the floor.
He lost count but began to feel strain in the muscles of his arms. He kept going. The exercise was his relief—especially for his biggest headache. His mom.
Knock-knock.
Pausing with his arms straightened, he looked over at the pale gray wooden door.
He rose with ease and grabbed the top of the pajamas: not quite sure the door wouldn’t burst open with the entire household—housekeeper and chef included. As he crossed the room, he eased the garment over his sweat-soaked arms and chest. He waited until he was fully buttoned up before opening the door.
“Good morning, Phillip Senior,” Lincoln said eyeing his father, a tall and solid dark-skinned man with broad features, already fully dressed in a custom-made three-piece suit with a stylish silk paisley tie.
Just like a proper British gentleman.
Like him, Phillip was from St. Ives. He’d made quite a success of his life after leaving it at eighteen to attend culinary school in Paris. His successes were well-known back home and many were proud and boastful of him—except Poppy. Even with her constant scorn, secretly he also had been proud of the man.
Am I a muppet?
“Did I wake you?” Phillip asked with his British accent still prominent. He stepped inside the bedroom site. “The family’s already downstairs for breakfast. Chef prepared brioche French toast and homemade chicken sausage. If that’s not to your liking you can request whatever you like.”
Lincoln fought not to frown at the expectation for all meals to be eaten together. It was so formal. So different from his solitary lifestyle. Most days he ate at the restaurant. Even growing up he had eaten alone while his mother worked. He couldn’t imagine still living with his mother. Except for Cole and Gabe, his half brothers lived in the town house including Phillip Junior, his wife and five-year-old daughter. And here he was now living amongst them as well.
It’s only for two weeks and then I’m going home.
“Sure, I’ll be right down,” Lincoln said.
Phillip Senior gave him a stiff smile. The air between them was still so awkward. They weren’t much more than the strangers they were a few days ago. And in that short time, Lincoln had observed him as a stern man with a formidable presence.
Much like himself.
His father nodded as he turned to open the door. He paused in the entry. “I haven’t asked about Poppy,” he said with his eyes cast on the floor of the family den located in the center of the fourth floor flanked by three suites on one side and the elevator, wrought iron stairs and pantry on the other—identical to the fifth floor.
Lincoln wondered just what Phillip was thinking of the young woman he hadn’t seen since they were eighteen. “She’s well,” he said, protecting her and his childhood with her.
Like always.
Phillip nodded solemnly with his mouth turned downward. “Perhaps she and I should talk,” he said.
“Bloody twit.”
As his mother’s insult replayed in his head, Lincoln only said, “Perhaps.”
Phillip Senior gave him one last sharp nod and closed the door as he left.
Shaking his head at the hell the man was contemplating provoking, Lincoln removed his pajamas and made his way to the bathroom for a quick shower.
Twenty minutes later he emerged from the suite in a dark blue linen blazer with a matching polo shirt and crisp denims with handmade shoes in caramel with denim blue trim. He checked his watch as he passed the light gray velvet sectionals and crossed the silk Persian carpet in shades of gray and steel blue to reach the stairs. His sous chef, Zander, was ordered to call him daily in between the lunch and dinner service for an update on SHORES.
Good. There’s time.
He took the three flights of stairs, quickly landing in the living room and then making the right to eventually pass the kitchen on his left and the elevator on his right before entering the dining room at the rear of the house. The backyard was framed by the glass wall behind the long dining room table topped with charcoal leather and surrounded by armless suede chairs that were occupied.
“Good morning,” he greeted everyone as he moved around the table.
Raquel, the wife of Phillip Junior, and their daughter, Collette, were already rising from their seats. “Hello, Lincoln. It’s time to get this little one to day school,” she said, before bending to press kisses to her husband’s mouth as the five-year-old ran around the entire table and bestowed kisses to the cheeks of her grandparents at the opposing ends of the table, her uncles Sean and Lucas, and her father.
She ran over to Lincoln with a huge smile and bright eyes that couldn’t be dimmed by the pink frame of her spectacles. “Mon grand-père dit que tu es mon nouvel oncle,” she said in fluent French.
“In English,” Nicolette said, her own French accent very pronounced.
“My grandfather says you are my new uncle,” Collette interpreted.
Lincoln cast the regal woman in her sixties a brief look before looking down at his adorable niece again. “Je parle un peu Français. Et oui, je suppose que je suis votre Oncle Lincoln,” he said, explaining that he did speak a little French and that he was indeed her uncle.
Colli’s smile broadened before she flung her arms open wide and then clamped them around his legs in a tight hug.
Lincoln stiffened in surprise until she released him.
“Au revoir, Oncle Lincoln,” she said excitedly before taking off at a run.
Everyone around the table chuckled as Lincoln cleared his throat and claimed the seat Raquel vacated to Nicolette’s right, leaving a space between himself and Phillip Junior. His half brother looked less than pleased at his daughter’s declaration.
I’m sick of him.
A short and plump man in a red chef’s coat walked over to him. “What would you like for breakfast?” he asked.
Lincoln barely looked at the printed menu atop his place setting. “Just coffee. My first meal is usually lunch,” he explained. “But thank you.”
“Yes, thank you, Chef Carlisle,” Nicolette said with a formal smile.
Lincoln was still trying to figure everyone out, but from the few times he had been in the presence of the culinary queen he felt there was more to her than what she chose to show. It made it difficult to trust her.
“Lincoln, the family eats together as often as we can,” she said, with a smile that barely reached her eyes.
Lincoln took a sip of the brew. It was delicious. A custom blend. Strong and nutty.
“We missed you at dinner,” Nicolette added.
“I had dinner out,” he offered, feeling as if he was being reprimanded and not liking it.
“Alone?” she asked.
He locked eyes with her blue ones—they assessed him. Perhaps she didn’t trust him either.
“Nicolette,” Phillip Senior interjected firmly.
She smiled before wiping the corners of her mouth with her linen napkin.
Phillip Senior set his utensils down on his plate. “Lincoln, I don’t know if you’re familiar with Cress, INC.—”
“I am,” Lincoln admitted.
“Of course, he is,” Phillip Junior muttered.
Really sick of him.
Sean and Lucas shared a look before shooting Phillip Junior a hard stare.
Maybe I’m not the only one.
“Each of my sons holds an executive position at the company. Gabe heads up the restaurant division and runs his restaurant. Phillip Junior oversees The Cress Family Foundation. Sean supervises the syndicated cooking shows. Cole oversees digital marketing and global branding via our online magazines and websites. And our youngest, Lucas, is head of the cookware line,” he explained. “Lincoln, we wanted to talk to you about a position at Cress, INC.”
“What!” Phillip Junior exclaimed as he snatched his napkin off his lap and slammed it atop his plate.
“Man, chill out and get over it, Phil,” Sean snapped, his voice filled with his irritation.
“It’s enough, man. For real,” Lucas agreed, shoving his plate of fresh fruit away in frustration.
Phillip Junior jumped to his feet. “You’re going to sit here and say nothing while the five of us have been at each other’s throats for the CEO position when Dad retires and now, he’s just throwing another damn hat in the ring!” he exclaimed.
And enough is enough.
“You know, Phillip, I’m sorry the biggest thing you had going for you was being the heir apparent firstborn son—or at least thought you were,” Lincoln said with a coldness toward his half brother that had been stewing with every insult thrown his way by him.
“Go to hell!” Phillip roared.
Lincoln nodded with coolness. “Let’s see if I got it right,” he said. “Sean’s the star. Right?” he asked, jerking his thumb in the direction of the brother who favored Daniel Sunjata.
“True,” Sean agreed with a one-shoulder shrug unable to deny his appeal as the host of several shows and attendee of celebrity A-list parties on the regular.
“Gabriel’s the good one and Cole is the rebel so he could care less about it,” Lincoln continued. “And Lucas is the favorite. Did I get it right?”
Lucas, the youngest Cress son, dared to look bashful at the truth just spoken.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” Phillip Junior said.
“The eldest Cress brother,” Lincoln said with a simplicity that was mocking.
