Bargaining with the Bride Read online

  She served as the head of research development, examining the data pulled from the head scientist a co-owner and his team of researchers. Working closely with the foundations of what made a relationship work. Sort of ironic, considering her own situation.

  She plopped onto her leather couch and dreamt of oblivion. But then she kicked her legs onto her bulky, worn coffee table, and found notes from her secretary staring back up at her.

  With a sigh, she sat up and took the letters in hand. Phone messages. The first, from her sister, Eliza, who needed advise on how to handle their mother. The second from her mother, asking again if it would be inappropriate to wear white to the wedding and when she would finally get to meet Lance.

  In response, she crumpled the messages into tiny balls and then tossed them at the can behind her desk. She'd deal with her family and the wedding, but for right now it was time to enjoy her freedom. She'd gotten rid of the noose around her neck. The anger and stress of the afternoon faded away and a kernel of joy hatched in her belly. She was free.

  And that solid five seconds of enjoyment was pretty awesome. But it wasn't enough to stave off the panic that was quickly setting in.

  She was relieved to be rid of Lance, definitely, even if the way things went down were a little less than flattering to her ego.

  Whatever. No point in getting mad again. That was all in the past.

  Still, the wedding loomed overhead, way too present to be shoved away as easily as Lance had been.

  She couldn't call it off. Her father had spent a fortune on it, not that it was even a drop in the bucket of his wealth. And her mother… She stared at the crinkled message, laying inches from the trashcan, and considered getting up to kick it. She couldn’t begin to fathom the emotional warfare her mother would wreak if the wedding was canceled.

  The damn thing was only a month away. People had made plans. Gifts had been sent. Hotel rooms had been booked. For all intents and purposes, it would be better to get married and then divorced. Then, at least, she could say she’d tried.

  But the idea of calling Lance…

  Her stomach twisted. No, Lance was entirely out of the question.

  What a miserable freaking day.

  Heaving a sigh, she lifted herself off the sofa and peeked her head out of the door to her office. Everyone was just about packed up for the day, making their goodbyes before they headed out to their cars and made their way home. Well, at least there would be no witnesses for her parade of misery.

  She turned on the little stereo that sat behind her desk and pumped the bubblegum eighties pop she listened to whenever she was depressed.

  "It's a nice day for a white wedding, indeed," she mumbled to herself in time with Billy Idol's crooning. Reaching into the bottom drawer of her desk, she pulled out one of the little bottles of vodka she'd kept hidden away for a special occasion.

  This might not qualify as special, but it was certainly an occasion.

  She poured herself a glass and settled into some work. Tomorrow, the next day—those could be nice days for white weddings. Tonight, she would lose herself in her spreadsheets and sort the rest out later.

  2

  Quarter after six. The debriefing had gone well yesterday, but there were still some loose ends to be tied up. Matchware was playing hardball with them, and if Garret Adams didn’t have solid data for them by the end of the month, he could kiss the merger—and the move to a high rise in the city—goodbye.

  The logistics he could deal with and his brother, Brooks, could certainly handle the schmoozing. But the innovative research…

  He sighed. There wasn't much time for planning a full-scale roll out of the new system, but maybe if he talked to Natalie and Rachael he’d be able to get some ideas.

  Garret rounded the block of cubicles, heading toward the largest door—his own. He read over the gold wording emblazoned on the frosted glass: “Co-owner and lead scientist: Garret Adams.” It felt like a pat on the back every time he caught sight of it.

  With a contented grin, he opened the door and then sat his briefcase on his desk. The best part about showing up so early was that nobody was expected to be in the office for another three hours. Plenty of time to send e-mails, manage new expense reports, and start the day off with a jolt of productivity.

  Maybe he could even solve the Matchware issue.

  All he had to do was get his first cup of Joe and get moving.

  He headed to the kitchen on the far left of the office, past the rows upon rows of cubicles that made up his own personal beehive. It was a perfect oasis, a ghost town, without all of his worker bees buzzing around him on their cell phones and laptops, trying to push their mission up to the next tier of production.

  In his head, he was already planning out how strong he wanted to make his first pot of coffee for the day, but a blip in the periphery of his mind alerted him to an error in his morning ritual.

  There was a sound, distant, but distinct, coming from behind him. A melody?

  Turning, he spotted a door standing ajar in the far corner of the office. He sighed and headed for Rachael’s domain, already knowing what he'd lay witness to when he assessed the damage she'd wrought the night before. He had to admit music would be a first, but he didn’t doubt Rachael would still probably lay sleeping on her desk, as usual, papers stuck to her face, a stapler clenched in her grip.

  Why she never slept on that couch of hers was beyond him, but at least she didn’t complain about the words that would almost certainly be printed across her cheek for the remainder of the day. Some of the secretaries started a bingo game guessing at what her skin would say from one day to the next.

  It wasn't exactly a kind thing to do, but at least he'd made a tidy sum the last time he'd, um, encouraged their escapades. For morale purposes, of course.

  By the time he leaned against her doorjamb, the Madonna tune on her radio was winding to an end. He prepared for his usual style of rousing her, clearing his throat before he said, "Good morning, Rachael."

  As always, Rachael jerked back in her chair, forms still clinging to her face so that she looked like a mass of blond curls held together by printer paper.

  Swatting the sheets away, she answered, "Oh, good morning Garret. Sorry about, um, all this. Won't happen again."

  He raised his eyebrows in response. Even if she meant it, they both knew it was a lie.

  "So, how late was it last night?" His gaze traveled over the dumping ground that was her office floor. He'd expected the usual debris—a smattering of paper clips, broken pencils, dried up markers, and wads upon wads of paper, balled up and cast aside for better ideas. What he found instead was a spray of magazines, all featuring women in large white cupcake dresses, and a veritable distillery of tiny vodka bottles, all completely empty.

  "I hadn't realized that you were doing market research for Svedka as well. You might advise them to get rid of that robotic woman on their commercials. To put it lightly, she creeps me out."

  Her dark brown eyes were still hazy with sleep and she rubbed each of them in turn as she took in the mess around her. He half smiled, but Rachael's cheeks started to redden as she spluttered, "Oh, well, it wasn't on company time and nobody was here so—"

  "No, no, you know I love when my executives drink alone in their office. It's very Mad Men of you," he chuckled, but for some reason, Rachael had grown immune to humor.

  "I'm really sorry," her voice was husky, on the verge of tears.

  He braced himself. Tears weren't really an area of expertise for him. The molecular structure of them, their biological function, sure. That was all well and good. But when they started pouring out of somebody? That was less than desirable. By far.

  "Hey, you know I don't care about that stuff. Everyone has to take the edge off sometimes." He took a deep breath and settled onto her couch, pushing aside a blanket that was thrown haphazardly across the sofa. A lumpy pillow sat discarded on the coffee table in front of him, and he picked it up and placed it in hi
s lap. "Rough night?" He asked, doing everything in his power to squash the deafening silence as she stared at him.

  "No, uh, not really."

  He gestured to the mass of bottles; "These must have done their job then, huh?"

  She expelled a hollow laugh. That was something, at least. Anything other than the maddening noiselessness.

  "So, you just like sleeping at your desk?" Every sentence felt like prodding a hibernating bear. Except instead of attacking him with her ferocity, she would explode into an ocean of tears. Somehow, he felt like he would have preferred the claws.

  "It helps my posture," she sniffled. Oh, no. His stomach flipped, recognizing the call of emotional cthulhu—female sniffling.

  "You know, you don't have to talk about it. Why don't I just help you straighten this place up, huh?" Raising from the sofa, he gathered the magazines from the floor and set them on the coffee table in a neat stack before scooping up a handful of tiny liquor bottles and dumping them into the trash. "Where did you even get these?"

  "I keep them in my desk for emergencies."

  "Bad meeting pick-me-ups?"

  "No, more, um, phone-call-from-my-mother, chat-with-my-fiancé situations." She hadn't bothered moving from the desk. Instead, she spun around in her office chair like a kid at a playground. Midway through her tilt-o-whirl, Garret finished collecting all the trash and settled himself back onto the sofa, and she stopped abruptly, her curls hiding her face momentarily as they were caught in the inertia.

  "See, all cleaned up. You're probably feeling better already. Let's get you some coffee and—" He started for the door, but the sound of her voice stopped him in his tracks.

  "Listen, Garret, I'm going to have to give you my two weeks." She sniffled again, but didn't give any more information.

  So much for getting his day off to a good start.

  "What? Why?" He turned to face her.

  It was the most ridiculous thing he could think of. Nobody worked harder than Rachael did—pulling in extra hours almost every day, coming in sick, working over the weekend. She was the most dedicated employee he could have ever hoped for, and now she was going to leave at the drop of a hat?

  She tapped a pen on her desk, and then exhaled as she kicked her small, bare feet up onto her work surface. "It doesn't really matter. The point is that I have to go. So, you know, I really wish you the best and…" She made a gasping sound, springing for a tissue and blotting at her cheeks before he could see the evidence of her break down.

  His mind was screaming at him to abort. Raise the draw bridges and get the hell out of dodge, but he couldn't leave her there alone, looking so sad and broken. And he especially couldn't bear to see her resignation. He settled back onto the couch and rested his elbows on his knees, flipping through charts in his mind of how exactly to tackle this particular scenario.

  For some reason, though, he could only think of elaborate, Cosby-Show-esque plans to get her to stay. Things like setting up fake businesses to show her how terrible it would be to work elsewhere, or making all of the secretaries not respond to her when she walked by so she could see what things would be like without her.

  And none of that seemed rational. Or sane.

  So he sprang into action plan B.

  "How about right now I'm not your boss. Right now I'm your friend, and I want to know what's going on. Also, as your boss, I need to know if you need to take the day to work things out before you do anything rash.” Then, rushing to correct himself, he added, “But, as I said, right now I'm not your boss." That probably could have gone smoother.

  "So, am I answering your question as my boss while you're not my boss? Or—" Her brows knit together, but at least the tears had stopped.

  "No, but it would be helpful to know."

  "Well, I'm definitely not going to be heading home today. So, uh, there's that?" The corner of her mouth pushed into her cheek, revealing a dimple he'd never noticed before.

  "Okay, now that's settled, why don't you tell me why you're leaving? Are you not happy here? I hear the boss is a real asshole, so, I can understand that."

  She smiled at him, and hope pricked at his senses. Maybe they could get this sorted out after all. "I really appreciate this but it's just—Well, it's a little personal." The last word was measured, and her cheeks flooded with color as she pronounced it.

  "I understand if you don't want to talk about it. I just want to make sure I'm doing everything I can to help you. I wouldn't want to lose you over something that could have been fixed if you'd only asked. So, financial stuff, that kind of thing, I'm willing to make the investment to keep you around."

  "It's not really like that." Her mouth hung open, like she was willing more words to come out, but nothing happened. She just sat there, surveying him, wondering how much to say.

  If there was anything business had taught him, it was that now was the time to play dead with the opposition. He remained cool and quiet, fanning out the bridal magazines on the coffee table, and then straightening them again. Waiting. She'd come around to telling him. They always did.

  "My fiancé and I had," she paused, "a bit of a falling out. That's all."

  Ah, so that was it. A case of cold feet. He'd been expecting it, but he didn't think it would be quite so drastic. The last time anyone in the office had gotten married they tended to be found crying in the bathroom, or, in one case, splayed out naked on his desk. That had been an awkward conference call.

  He'd be lying, though, if he didn't admit that he'd been expecting more from Rachael. She always had her shit together. It wasn't like her to fall apart. Then again, he'd never met her fiancé. And considering the fact that the wedding was next month and the office had only just found out she was engaged, he’d suspected there was something peculiar happening.

  "Cold feet?" He smiled in what he hoped was an understanding way.

  Apparently, it didn't play exactly as he'd hoped since she grimaced in response, "Not exactly."

  “There's no reason to leave your job because of a break-up. Are you sure you can't work it out?”

  That was when she laughed. A crazed, sleep-deprived laugh. "Working it out is not negotiable. And as far as leaving…" Her face fell. "I don’t want to. I like this job. But I have a younger sister who’s a little wayward and can really use my help. I think I should head home and be with her. I was only staying here to get married. You know, to take care of my husband." She sneered at the word.

  He settled back, playing on another business tactic. There would be more. Something to negotiate with. He just had to wait it out, then strike while the iron was hot.

  And just as he'd predicted, she released a deep sigh and began again, "And then I’ll be around my parents so they can remind me exactly how colossally I’ve messed up. I have nothing to show for the last miserable four years except a bunch of debt from Lance’s trumped-up medical bills. I can’t afford to keep my house on my own and I can’t leave my sister alone with them. Going home is my only option.”

  "I’m confused. Wouldn't your parents be happy you weren't getting married to someone you didn't want to be with?"

  "You would think so. But my parents…Well, let’s say they still think I’m the same person I was a very long time ago.” She got up from her chair and headed toward the door. "Listen, why don't we put some coffee on and I'll tell you about it over breakfast? If I'm going to spill my soul, I may as well have a bagel to comfort me."

  He followed her into the kitchen and before he had time to sit she was already measuring out coffee grounds and dumping water into the machine. She reached for two mugs from the overhead cupboard, sat them down on the counter, and then placed one hand on either side of the counter as if to steady herself.

  “You okay?” He asked. His jaw ticked and he focused intently on her. All of this—the drama, the drinking, the crying? It was so unlike her. Of all his employees, she had always been the one he’d counted on to keep it all together.

  “I’m fine. Just trying to fi
gure out how I could have been so stupid.” She offered a half-hearted laugh, and then abandoned the empty coffee mugs to sit across from him. “I know it was stupid, but every time I think about it, I don’t know how I could have done anything else…”

  “I’m going to need some help deciphering what you mean.”

  “I mean.” She blew a curl of hair away from her face and then started again. “Let me start from the beginning. Did you know my fiancé was sick?”

  “I think I’d heard something about that.” He answered, then sat back as she explained the entire sordid deal to him. The way he’d lied to her and used her. The way he’d sapped her entire bank account. By the time she’d finished telling her tale, Garret’s knuckles were a stark white from being clenched into fists.

  “Is he at your house now?” He asked, and Rachael’s eyebrows shot up.

  “What are you going to do? Fight him?” She asked, a laugh behind her question.

  Why that was something to laugh about, though, he sure as hell didn’t know. All he knew was that this guy was going to pay for what he’d done.

  “I’m going to do something. Why don’t you press charges?”

  “For what?”

  “Fraud. Something.”

  “I looked over his papers last night. By all accounts, he was sick when he’d first told me. I just couldn’t bring myself to leave a sick person. We’d already been together for two years. It was just…” She spread her hands out wide on the table between them and he fought back the strange urge to grasp her hand and comfort her.

  Instead, he stood to pour their coffee, saying over his shoulder, “Anyone in your position would have done the same thing. He took advantage of you. I’m sure your parents would understand if you told them that.”

  “I think you’re the one who doesn’t understand. People are coming to this wedding. Planes have been booked. Hotels have been called. Food has been ordered. At this point, getting divorced would be easier than calling this thing off. My parents will say it’s just another one of my colossal screw-ups. They call me Wreck-it Rachael, for god’s sake.” He placed a coffee cup in front of her and then she lifted it to her lips, blowing over the rim to cool the steaming liquid.