Page 36 of Takeover

“Susan and Joan?” I ask.

“My housekeeper and chef.”

“Oh. Okay,” I say.

The man clipping Ethan’s hair looks up and smiles at me. When I walk away from the scene, I find a middle aged woman in the kitchen chopping vegetables on a cutting board.

“You must be Ms. Taylor,” she says. She arches her eyebrows before she looks at me up and down. She offers no smile, but she’s not rude either. “What would you like to eat, Ms. Taylor?” she asks.

“Um, I don’t usually eat this early. I’ll just have some coffee, if that’s okay.” She retrieves a mug and pours me a cup of coffee. She gestures to the island where she’s laid out cream and sugar.

Without taking a sip, I decide it’s time I get the hell out of this penthouse and bolt upstairs. Ethan is too distracted in his home salon to notice me, and I say a quick goodbye to Vincent, who looks adorable in his pre-school uniform. When I adjust his crooked tie, he wraps his arms around my legs, and I hug him tighter.

I ignore the aching feeling in my chest as I shove my clothes in my duffel bag. I have the Uber app pulled up and don’t see the towering figure in the hallway until I collide with him.

“Hey,” I say, “I’m going to head out.” I try to think of a witty statement, something telling him how happy I am I’ll never have to see him again, but I only end up clearing my suddenly dry throat.

“I’ll take you home after we have breakfast. Vincent is waiting for us downstairs.” He grabs my elbow, and before I can pull it away and tell him no, Vincent comes running up the stairs and grabs my hand.

He talks nonstop through breakfast. I smile at his enthusiasm while he talks to me about his best friend, who happens to live in the building. All too soon, Vincent hugs his daddy, and the nanny takes him back upstairs.

“You have to go to midtown. It doesn’t make sense for you to take me home. That’s the opposite direction.” It’s as if Ethan doesn’t hear. He grabs my elbow, pulls me into the elevator, and escorts me to the waiting Maybach.

The minute he takes his seat next to me, whatever was left of our little bubble bursts. He’s on his phone either talking or responding to emails the entire ride to my building. I’m surprised when he slides out after me and follows me upstairs.

“You didn’t have to see me inside,” I say once I open the door. It’s been about forty-eight hours since I’ve been home, but it feels more like months. I toss my bag across the room and hold the door open so he can leave. He steps inside, his presence and cologne filling the space. As soon as he closes the door, he grabs me by my waist, spins me around, and pins me against the door.

He surprises me when he savagely kisses me. Without breaking the kiss, he unbuttons and removes my coat and sweater, leaving me in nothing but a tank top. He pulls it down, and my breasts pop out. I’ve never been so happy to not be wearing a bra as I am when he tweaks a nipple between his fingers.

“One last time,” he says against my mouth. In seconds, I’ve managed to toe off my shoes and remove my jeans and panties. He lifts me off the ground with one hand and frees his cock from his pants with the other.

He holds me up against the door, and the instant he sinks into me, I sigh in contentment.

Like every other time we’ve been together, it doesn’t take long for us to find our release. I run a hand through my hair as I try to catch my breath. By the time he’s pulled himself together and is back to looking fabulous, I’m still walking around my apartment looking for my underwear.

The silence is interrupted by the ringing of his phone. After grabbing his coat, he grabs the phone, and without looking at who it is, puts it to his ear.

“Ethan Bradford.” And just like that, he’s back to being the cold businessman.

I soon realize that the call is not business related. “Yes. She’s my ex-wife.” He listens and I watch as his eyebrows get higher and higher with each second that passes. “Put her on the phone,” he commands. “Lindsay, what the fuck happened?” He grabs his coat, and without even a goodbye or any kind of acknowledgment, he opens my front door and walks out. Out of my apartment and out of my life.

Like a shameless slut, I finally find my underwear, but instead of putting them back on, I decide a hot shower is needed to purge this weekend and Ethan Bradford from my life.

23

“It’s about time you got here,” I say. This time, when I open the door, it’s to welcome my sister in. We hug before she strolls in carrying a big brown paper bag. I busy myself with removing the contents while Vickie takes off her coat and hat.

“I was going to buy us dinner, but I stopped off at home and the evil one packed this for us. Leftovers from yesterday since neither one of us were able to make it.”

Cheryl cooks an elaborate dinner every Sunday. The tradition started once she and my dad got engaged. It was during those Sundays in the kitchen that my siblings and I learned to cook. Now that we’re grown, she’s continued the tradition. Unfortunately, I texted yesterday telling her I was busy.

“Why didn’t you make it?” I ask my sister. “Oh my God! The food is still warm. Get some plates.”

“Laura and Phillip were in town. We spent the day in Soho. They didn’t drive back to Connecticut until last night,” she says.

Laura and Phil are Vickie’s best friends from college. They were high school sweethearts and married right after graduation.

We fill our plates and sit at my table. “Dish,” she says.

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