Rebound: Chapter 17

Luisa is talking to me about the Kim deal, but I am once again finding it hard to concentrate due to a severe case of Amber Syndrome. My assistant glares at me and waves her hands in front of my face, snapping her fingers. “Earth to Elijah, come in,” she says in her usual assertive tone.

“I heard you.” I glare back at her.

Luisa has an incredibly bright business mind. She is smart, driven, and ambitious—but she really doesn’t know how to read a room. Or rather, she does; she just chooses to ignore what she reads. “What did I say, then?” she asks.

She stands in front of me with her hands on her hips, her dark hair swept up into a brutally tight bun as usual. She’s been with Jamestech for six years, working her way through the ranks, and has been my right-hand woman for the last eighteen months. She is a pain in my ass, and she gets away with talking to me in a way nobody else would. She gets away with it because her constant challenge makes me better. It’s like having one of my brothers around, only without the banter. She’s unafraid to speak her mind and keeps me on my toes. If she sees bullshit, she calls it. Which she’s doing right now.

“You said … something about Mr. Kim’s granddaughter being a Taylor Swift fan?”

She nods abruptly. “Almost. I said we should look into getting her tickets to her show, and possibly a meet and greet if it can be arranged. She’s twelve.”

“Taylor Swift is only twelve?”

“Dios mio. No, Ji-min is twelve. What the hell is wrong with you today?”

Wincing, I shake my head. She’s right, and one of the things I appreciate most about Luisa is her lack of butt-kissing.

“Everything is wrong with me today. I’m sorry, my head’s not in the game. Talk to Mason about the Taylor Swift thing. He probably plays volleyball with her on the weekends or something. It’s a good idea. Those little touches help swing a deal in the right direction.”

“I know. That’s why I suggested it. I saw on your schedule that Amber is coming in—is that the problem? It’s been a tough few days, and I know I don’t always pick up on that stuff. I’m, uh, sorry?” She looks almost confused as she says the word, like it’s completely alien to her lips.

I laugh at her discomfort but appreciate the sentiment. “Nothing to be sorry for, Luisa. And yeah, she’s due in any minute. I’m distracted, and I shouldn’t be. It’s good that you keep me on track, so don’t apologize for it.”

She nods, her big brown eyes on mine. “Okay. I’ll leave you to it. I have work to get on with anyway.”

Of course she does. The woman does nothing but work. Apart from Drake before he met Amelia and got a life, she’s the only person I know who puts in as many office hours as me. I at least have the benefit of being the CEO of Jamestech and my surname being in the title of the company—she does it because work is her whole world.

I was raised to work hard, but I’ve taken it to the extreme the last few years. The split has allowed me to see things with more clarity, and I recognize the mistakes that were made. As Amber and I pulled away from each other, seemingly separated by a rift too deep for either of us to cross, I sought solace in my work. As she’s implied, Jamestech was my mistress, and I could rarely resist her siren call.

Ironically, since we agreed to part, I’ve thought about Amber more times per minute than ever before. That might be because I’m missing her. It might also be because I’m banging her senseless on the side. Work might be seductive, but it can’t compete with my wife’s delicious pussy or the brain-shattering orgasms we give each other.

I look down and see a massive tent in my suit pants. Fuck. Even thinking about her gives me an erection, and now I’m stuck here. The phone on my desk rings, and I pick it up. “Amber’s in reception,” Mason says. “Shall we meet in the boardroom?”

“Uh … yeah, okay. Give me five minutes.”

“All right, but don’t leave me there alone with her for long. I might start being honest.”

He hangs up, and I try desperately to ignore the party going on in my pants. I adopt a tried-and-tested method and picture Dr. Braithwaite, the dentist we went to as kids. She looked about a hundred years old, had ironic and extreme halitosis, and when she leaned over you, all you could see was nostril hair. Not only did she keep our teeth in great shape, I’ve been using her as the mental equivalent of a cold shower ever since my dick grew up and got a mind of its own.

She works her magic yet again, and I make my way to the boardroom. Jamestech headquarters is in Midtown, a few blocks from Nathan and Drake’s law firm. Mason and I have a suite of offices on the top floor, along with Harper O’Brien and a couple other key personnel. I take the elevator down to the next level and inhale a deep breath before I go into the room.

Amber has been on my mind pretty much constantly since I took her to that private hotel last week, and I’ve seen her another three times since. I can’t stay the fuck away from her, but it’s our first night together that continues playing on my mind. She shared more with me that one night than she has in over a decade. I want her to be satisfied with her life, to be happy. I just don’t want it to involve a community center in Queens. She’s led a sheltered life, and while I’m not exactly from the ’hood either, I do at least know how to look after myself. Our mom insisted we all learn how to dance when we were kids, and my pop insisted we learn how to box—both have come in handy over the years.

All those worries need to go into a box while we meet with Mason. They won’t help. Neither will the whole hard-on thing that seems to happen every time I see her or think about her. I can’t shake the image of her on her knees, hands tied behind her back. The way she took my cock so well. I slam my hand against the wall of the corridor. Shit, I need to get control of my thoughts.

We’re here to discuss media strategy, I remind myself. The reaction to Mason’s press release about our split was predictably rabid. My phone has been blowing up for days with calls from people I actually know expressing genuine concern and journalists looking for comment. Both Amber and I have cultivated a lot of press relationships over our years together. For me, it’s part of my job leading one of the biggest tech companies in the world. For her, it’s on behalf of the various causes she fundraises for, but it was also part of her role as my wife—as Mrs. James, specifically. A role she, from a business standpoint, truly excelled at, regardless of our personal issues.

Neither of us is a stranger to the limelight, but this is different. This is deeply personal in a way that a business story or a photo of Amber cutting the ribbon at a new hospital wing is not.

We expected the announcement to attract attention, but not quite as much as it has. As head of corporate communications, Mason has been fielding calls too, and he thought it would be a good idea for us all to sit down together and discuss it. This is straightforward and necessary, and I need to deal with it. Standing outside thinking about my wife’s incredible pussy is not going to help matters.

As I drag myself together and prepare to go in, the frosty pitch to Amber’s voice from inside the boardroom reaches me and pulls me up short—like a swift kick to the balls. I haven’t heard that particular ice-cold tone since the day of Elodie’s wedding. That day, she used it to great effect, but since then? Not even once. Since then, she has cried and been angry and screamed my name as she’s come—but not once has she frozen me out. I don’t miss it at all. It’s like the ghost of everything that was wrong with our marriage has come back to haunt me.

I school my face into neutral and walk into the room. Mason’s secretary has already set us up with coffee and pastries, none of which appear to have been touched. Amber is dressed in a fitted black dress and a pair of knee-high boots with pointed heels that could kill a man. She’s also wearing that tasseled necklace she had on a couple of nights ago, and I narrow my eyes at her when I see it. She gives me a mischievous wink as Mason stands up to greet me. She knows exactly what she’s doing, the minx.

Mason’s face is red and his knuckles are white, and I can tell he’d really like to punch the shit out of something. “She’s refusing to cooperate, which is no fucking surprise at all.”

“I’m not refusing to cooperate,” Amber says, that patented ice of hers dripping from every word. “I’m simply refusing to do what you’ve asked of me, Mason. Mainly because it’s a stupid idea. Perhaps you could consult with a PR person who actually knows what they’re doing.”

His nostrils flare, and he whirls around to face her. Nathan has no patience at all for Amber either, but he’s the Ice Man. Mason is not. Mason is quick to laugh, quick to lose his temper, quick to forgive. Amber knows all of this, and she’s pushing his buttons—what I don’t know is why. Just for fun? I suppose that’s possible.

I place a calming hand on my younger brother’s shoulder. “Before we escalate to DEFCON 1, how about you tell me what it was you suggested?”

Nodding, he takes a seat and throws a quick glare at my wife, then pointedly ignores her. Her lips curve as she pours herself a coffee. Yeah. Definitely pressing his buttons.

“I think part of the reason this whole thing is getting way more attention than we expected is because people want to know more,” he says. “You’re both public figures in your own right. Elijah, because you’re the successful CEO of a multi-billion-dollar corporation, and Amber, because you look good in a cocktail dress and pretend you give a shit about good causes.”

I bite back a laugh. Mason is also very sharp and damn funny. Amber’s response is priceless—her head lifts and tilts very slightly to one side. She fixes him with those irresistible eyes, the very picture of classy Jackie O elegance, then abruptly gives him the finger. Even his mouth twitches at the corners.

“Will you two quit acting like kids?” I say, remembering that I haven’t eaten all day and grabbing a Danish.

“I will if she will.” Mason sticks his tongue out, and she responds in kind, but then she holds her hands up in a gesture of peace. “Look, I’m here, aren’t I? I’m not enjoying all this fuss either. My phone hasn’t stopped ringing, and I’ve had several journalists come knocking on the door. I was even caught by a paparazzi during my walk around the park this morning.”

“Christ, I hope you didn’t give them the finger too.” Mason follows my lead and picks up a croissant.

He’s joking, but I don’t think it’s funny at all. I’m fucking furious. “That’s not happening again. We need to get security in place. I’ll make some calls, get someone there by tonight. The cameras aren’t enough to deal with this.” I’m thinking she needs someone living there twenty-four seven. “You shouldn’t be in that house alone, with fuck knows who hanging around outside.”

We have a security company on retainer, but I’m not sure they’re good enough. Ideally, I’d have a Navy SEAL team outside the house. Or Nathan could talk to his clients the Ryans—they’re basically Irish Mafia, and they’d definitely keep her protected. Legal doesn’t mean shit to me when it comes to my wife. I hate being away from her anyway, but the thought of her alone and under siege makes my blood boil.

“Hold it right there, Sir Plans-a-lot,” she says, interrupting my train of thought. “None of that is necessary. For a start, it was nothing I haven’t dealt with before. They were polite enough, and nobody showed any signs of bundling me into the back of a van. Even the photographer was apologetic once he got his shot. Plus, and most importantly, I’m not staying there. I’ve decided to move out.”

When the hell did she decide that? She hasn’t mentioned it any of the times I’ve seen her, but Mason knows nothing about our affair, so I keep my voice steady as I say, “What do you mean, you’re moving out? When did you decide that?”

“I’ve been considering it since I got back from Charleston, to be honest. The house …” She shakes her head. “It’s too big for me on my own. I need somewhere new.”

Our eyes meet across the table, and I wish like hell that Mason wasn’t here. I wish like hell I could simply say, “Fuck it, I’ll move back in. Let me look after you.” But that’s not what she wants, and it’s not sensible. Seeing each other as pretend strangers in clandestine hotel rooms is one thing—resuming our life together is quite another.

“Why the fuck didn’t you say that to start with?” Mason snaps at Amber, then glances at me and explains. “I wanted you two to do an interview together at the house. Show a united front, stress the continuity, answer a few scripted questions. Basically overfeed the press and public enough niceness that they lose interest in you. Nothing is more boring than a conscious uncoupling.”

“I didn’t say it because you didn’t give me the chance,” she drawls. The slower she speaks, the more annoyed she is. “Plus, it was something I preferred to tell the organ grinder, not his media monkey.”

I shake my head and blow out a breath. These two. They’ve barely seen each other in years, and I almost forgot how much they make me want to bang their heads together. I slam my hands down on the table to stop their incessant bickering. “Amber, where are you thinking of moving to?” I ask, far more concerned about her next moves than what a gossip columnist has to say about us. “You’re free to choose any of the properties Jamestech owns—we have the apartments we use for visiting guests and staff. Or I could contact our realtor and see what’s available that would be suitable for you.”

“Suitable?” she repeats, a distinct and dangerous glint in her eyes. It’s another signature Amber move that I haven’t seen from her since we decided to divorce, and it makes me feel exactly the same as it always has—frustrated, misunderstood, and like a complete fucking idiot. “What do you mean by suitable, Elijah?”

“Suitable as in safe. As in somewhere you feel comfortable,” I say, keeping my voice even, knowing I’m on thin ice.

But no, screw that. The Amber from my hotel suite, the Amber from Greenwich, is gone and has been replaced by the coldhearted automaton who can destroy me with one word, one look. Replaced by the Amber who seems to enjoy inflicting pain on me. I understand why that Amber exists a lot better than I ever did, and I appreciate that she isn’t actually coldhearted at all—but I don’t want to go back to that life. I lived it for too damn long. “Jesus Christ, you know what? Live wherever the fuck you like.”

Mason’s head snaps up, his eyes wide. Amber herself simply nods and sets her coffee cup on the coaster in front of her with a click. She stands, smoothing down her dress with efficient, deliberate motions, and grabs her coat. “Right. Well. Thanks so much gentlemen. This was productive.” She spins and walks out of the room, her heels clicking on the floor, and it feels like they’re sinking into my heart with every step she takes away from me.

Mason meets my eyes. “Do not go after her,” he says firmly. “She’s not worth it.”

I glower at him. He was at least partially responsible for the way she behaved. She’s under no illusions about the way Mason feels about her, and she has always felt second best to my brothers. Upset, she retreated back into her frigid-bitch act. It’s an act, but it’s an act that still has the power to hurt me.

“Mason, I love you dearly—but fuck off.” I get to my feet so quickly I knock the chair over. The elevator doors close as I approach them, so I take the stairs, galloping down them two at a time. I emerge into the lobby as she leaves the building. A few members of the staff look confused when I dart past, racing to catch her before she can jump into a cab.

“Amber,” I shout. “Wait!” She freezes on the spot, and I’m relieved I don’t have to chase her this time. Her hands go to her face, and I swear under my breath. She’s fucking crying. Whether they’re angry tears or sad tears or a bit of both, I have no idea.

She whirls around, her whiskey-brown eyes flashing at me, that damn tasseled necklace swinging between her breasts. “What, Elijah? What do you want?”

“I want to talk to you. I want us to speak like human beings again. I want us to be Mr. and Mrs. Smith for a few damn minutes.”

“Really? And what exactly do you have in mind? Want to sneak down a dark alleyway and screw like animals? Maybe you could shove me up against a wall and fuck me from behind.”

“No, that’s not what I had in mind. But hey, if that’s what turns you on, baby, I’ll be happy to oblige.”

She is visibly furious. I’m not sure if she’s angry with me, with Mason, or with herself for showing weakness and crying. This damn woman and all her defenses. The real Amber hides behind so many walls, it’s almost impossible to reach her.

I sigh and close the distance between us. It’s after five, and office buildings are emptying around us. We’re committing a New York crime by blocking the sidewalk, but I couldn’t give less of a fuck. I stroke her tears away, swiping her cheeks clear of mascara. My touch seems to calm her.

“Panda eyes?” she asks quietly.

“Not anymore.” I want to take her in my arms and hold her. To kiss her and tell her I love her. Shit. I’d quite like to take her up on the alleyway idea too. None of it is feasible, though, not in public. She pulls herself together and steps away from me.

“I’m sorry I turned into a prize bitch back there,” she says, biting her plump lower lip. “It’s being around Mason. Being in your office. It’s … I don’t know. My head got all messed up. I didn’t mean to tell you like that, about moving out.”

“That’s okay. I get it. We’re both under pressure. But are you sure, Amber? About the house? It’s yours—you know that, don’t you? For as long as you want it. Forever.”

“That’s the thing, Elijah—I don’t want it. Not anymore. When’s the last happy memory you have of that place? It’s not exactly filled with them.”

I shake my head because she’s right. I’d have to go back a long time to find one. “No, it’s not. And I can see what you mean. Just promise me that you won’t, you know …”

“Move to Queens?” Her lips twitch.

“Yeah. That. Or if you do move to Queens, at least tell me. I’m not trying to control you … but I also can’t just flip a switch and stop caring about you. You’re part of me, and you always will be.”

She nods and wipes her eyes as more tears appear. “I know. Thank you for that.” Her lips curve in a wobbly smile and she takes a small step back. “Look, I’m going to head out. I arranged to see Drake and Amelia for drinks after …” She motions at the Jamestech building. “I had an idea I might need to decompress,”

Her plans are a reminder of how separate our lives have been for so long. I haven’t been invited to drinks with her and Drake in as long as I can remember. And as much as I’d like to go with her now, she needs her space. Plus, truthfully, I need mine. She might have apologized, but I’m still shaken by how easily we both slipped back into our old personas. I love the hell out of her, but I won’t go back to living like that.

“Okay. Well, be careful. Call Sanjay if you need a ride. And call me if anyone bothers you around the house. I mean it.”

Her smile does nothing to hide the sadness in her eyes. “I will, I promise.” She steps up and kisses me briefly on the cheek. “Now you’d better get back to Mason. He needs you.” Her lip wobbles, and for a second I think she’s going to say something else, something profound. But she shakes her head and plasters on a smile I know from years of experience is fake. “No doubt he’s up there putting a price on my head.”

“Nah, Nathan tried that years ago,” I say, forcing a grin. “Nobody would take the job. Even John Wick was scared of you.”

She rolls her eyes and waves goodbye as it starts to rain. I stand in the drizzle, surrounded by office workers heading home for the night, and watch her go.

I glance behind me at the Jamestech building, the place where I spent the majority of the last ten years of my marriage. Mason needs me, she said. Does he need me more than she does? Deep-seated regret gnaws at the pit of my stomach. There must have been a time when she needed me more. And was I there for her when she did? I honestly don’t know.

A few minutes ago, when she swallowed whatever it was she was going to say … Habit kept me from pressuring her tell me, but I should have pushed. Would we be here now if I had pushed more? If I had forced her to confide in me all the times sorrow flashed in those incredible eyes of hers but her icy expression told me not to pry?

She turns the corner a block away, and it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to chase after her and ask.