Page 185 of Boss of Me
Epilogue
gunner
The records arrived three weeks later.
Marlowe’s mother planned to give them to her as a wedding present. But I nixed that plan, telling her my baby had been deprived of her father’s record collection long enough. I was ready and willing to use Mafia-style strongarm tactics. But I didn’t have to; she handed over the key to the storage unit without a single peep.
I dispatched a plane to Pittsburgh to retrieve the long-lost records. As I carefully explained to my courier, Bowen Somerset’s music collection was more valuable than the Hope Diamond and all the crown jewels of Europe combined. It had to be handled with the utmost care.
Even after issuing my explicit instructions—with a veiled threat of violence—I was so anxious for the safe delivery of the records that I could barely focus on work that day. I was more keyed up than a first-time father pacing the maternity ward waiting room.
When the albums finally arrived, I had them carted to the library. There were hundreds of them, an eclectic variety of artists and genres: rock ‘n’ roll, pop and funk, jazz and blues, the greatest orchestras of all time. It was a treasure trove worthy of any museum collection.
When Marlowe came home from class that evening, I took her by the hand and led her to the library. She was laughing and teasing me about feeding her dinner before getting some action. But when she entered the room and saw the stacks of open boxes containing the vinyl records, her knees buckled beneath her, and she would have fallen if I hadn’t caught her and held her steady.
She looked back and forth between me and the records. Then she started crying, and damn if my heart didn’t melt all to hell. She kissed me with trembling lips and whispered, “Thank you so much.”
I could only nod, not trusting my voice.
She walked across the room and began sifting gently through the records, pulling them out and staring at the covers, holding particular ones close to her chest with a sweetly nostalgic smile.
I watched from the doorway, giving her the space and time she needed to get lost in her memories. Her quiet sorrow and vulnerability made me feel even more fiercely protective. I was ready to suit up in armor and slay fucking dragons for her. Whatever she needed, I was her man.
I knew nothing would pry her away from the records that evening, so I ordered pizza and ate with her on the library floor while listening to some of her father’s favorite songs on an old record player. When Tom Petty’s “Free Fallin’” started playing, she jumped up excitedly and grabbed my hand. We danced and laughed, throwing our heads back and belting out the chorus at the top of our lungs. By the time we were done, happy tears were rolling down her face, and I kissed them all away.
That weekend she painstakingly reorganized the records, and now her father’s cherished music collection has its own dedicated section in the library—her favorite room in the house.
With my birthday approaching, I was feeling pretty damn good about my life and the future. I knew I had much to be grateful for. Good health. Successful businesses. A net worth into the stratosphere. Supportive family and friends.
Most important of all, I had the love of a good woman. Not just any woman. The love of my life.
Maverick and I had always celebrated our birthday with a big blowout bash, and this year was no exception. But Marlowe had an early surprise in store for me. Using her work connections, she’d secretly rented out a concert hall. The night before my birthday, she arranged for Trace to drive me there after work.
When I arrived and found the concert hall empty, I honestly didn’t know what to think. I took a seat front and center, an intrigued audience of one. Seconds later the lights dimmed, the curtains parted and a spotlight shone on a gleaming grand piano on stage.
Then Marlowe came walking out in a shimmering ice-blue gown that made her look like a fairytale princess. She was an absolute vision, and she stole my damn breath.
She gave me a radiant smile and took a bow, then sat at the piano and began playing a song she’d written for me.
I sat there spellbound, thoroughly entranced, watching her graceful fingers float over the piano keys as if by magic. Her dark hair flowed down her back, shining in the spotlight as she poured her heart and soul into every exquisite note.
It was the single most beautiful song I had ever heard in my life.
On the way home, I made love to her in the backseat of the limo. I devoured her like it was our very first time, with such insatiable ferocity that she literally sobbed and begged formercy. She played the song again for me before we went to bed and the next day at my party.
Best. Birthday. Gift.Ever.
Oh, and the name of the song? “Boss of Me.” When she told me, I laughed loud and long and kissed her senseless.
Needless to say, life with my new fiancée has been phenomenal so far. Not that we haven’t hit any bumps in the road.
Shortly after our engagement, word got back to me that Harlan Pierce tried to have Marlowe blackballed from the local music industry. His unsuccessful smear campaign filled me with pure, seething rage. Rather than disembowel him—my first choice—I quietly set the ball in motion to acquire his company.
My first move was to buy controlling interest in Digitistic. Then I used backchannels to target certain board members who were dissatisfied with Harlan’s leadership. Every last one of them jumped ship to align with me.
Harlan, naturally, is in full-blown panic mode.
It didn’t have to be this way. I was willing to bury the hatchet once and for all. A man who has everything makes peace, not war. But Harlan just couldn’t leave well enough alone. He was hell-bent on keeping our feud alive, but he made a fatal error by coming after the woman I love.
