Caine was put in the system. A boys’ home first and a couple of placements after that.
My father, the weak bastard, was disowned by my grandpa when he discovered the chain of events, and his first wife divorced him once he was without means. That year instead of coming for his annual visit to see me and fuck over my mom, he lied and said he couldn’t live without us anymore. He then mooched off my mom for years until his nervous breakdown when I was twenty-one.
I didn’t know what he was doing now that Mom was gone. The last I saw him was at her funeral, and when he tried to talk to me it took everything within me not to spit in his face.
Maybe if he’d been the hero I always thought he was when I was a kid, maybe if he’d stepped up to become a man, a provider, a decent father, I would have been able to forgive him. But he was a liar, and a lazy one at that, and he had my mom so tied up in knots she couldn’t see who he really was. I lost her because of him.
So no.
I would never forgive him.
“Lexie.” My grandpa pulled me out of my dark thoughts. “I don’t want you falling for Caine Carraway. It’s too dangerous to you. You’ll get hurt. And if he hurts you”—his voice lowered to a warning rumble—“I’ll have to kill him.”
I leaned forward and patted my grandfather’s hand in reassurance. “I’m not there to fall for him. I’m just trying to be there for him somehow. I get him—even if he doesn’t realize it, I really do get him. I would like to be his friend if he’ll have me. But … it would be nice for him to fall for someone. Say the woman he’s currently dating—Phoebe Billingham.”
Grandpa looked surprised. “Grant’s daughter?”
I nodded.
“He could definitely do worse. That might be a good match.”
“That’s what I’m thinking.” Liar, liar, liar. I frowned at my jealous subconscious. “But he’s not very romantic around her. I’m trying to nudge him in the right direction.”
“You don’t nudge a man like Carraway anywhere,” Grandpa warned.
My phone suddenly started vibrating on the table. I leaned forward to have a look at caller ID and frowned.
It was Caine.
On a Saturday.
“Oh man,” I whined, and picked up the phone. “Mr. Carraway?”
“I need you to come into the office with lunch. We’re nearing the end on the deal with Moorhouse Securities Company, so we’re working overtime. I’ve got a lot of hungry people in here. We’ll need—”
“Cai—Mr. Carraway, it’s Saturday.”
His sardonic tones rumbled down the line, “Observant.” He then went on to rattle off a list of sandwiches and drinks.
“But …” I stared forlornly at my coffee. “It’s Saturday.”
“Ass in the office, Alexa.” He hung up.
I looked glumly over at my grandpa, who had his “I told you so” face on. “So maybe he is trying to kill me,” I grumbled as I got up to leave.
The last few weeks had involved much of the same responsibilities and overwhelming schedule as my first week at Carraway Financial Holdings. Caine was intent on ruining my social life.
It might have been worth it if I’d seen any more hints of the person he hid behind his professional demeanor. But with the exception of discovering he was a Red Sox fan and an EMC-level season ticket holder, and that Henry was his closest friend from college (and I didn’t know if that even counted for much when it came to Caine), and that he liked sixties/seventies rock like Led Zeppelin and the Grateful Dead, I’d learned little else. I only knew about his musical inclinations because he left his iPod on his desk when he came into the office directly from the gym. There was a shower room off his office, and while he was in there I snuck a peek at his music selections.
I was surprised to say the least.
I had to admit I liked that he could surprise me.
I was musing over that when I was supposed to be choosing the wallpaper for the larger guest bedroom in his summerhouse. I was jolted out of those musings when he called me. I hit SPEAKERPHONE. “Yes, Mr. Carraway.”
“Get in here.”
I bit my tongue so I wouldn’t make a snarky comment about his lack of manners and I strode into his office. “How may I help?”
Caine was perched on his desk, arms crossed over his chest, long legs stretched out, ankles crossed too. He appeared contemplative.
A few seconds ticked by.
Finally he sighed. “I need you to go to Tiffany on Copley Place. Purchase a necklace on my credit card—make it simple, elegant, and make sure there’s a diamond in it. And then I need you to personally deliver it to Phoebe Billingham. You will inform her that I’ve enjoyed my time with her and that I wish her all the best in the future.”
A weird rush of relief and disappointment came over me. I shrugged off the relief and went with the disappointment because it was much less complicated. “But … what happened?” I cried out, throwing my hands up in exasperation. “She’s perfect.”
Caine stared at me like I’d grown two heads. “It’s none of your business what happened. Just do it.”
I was outraged. Actually outraged. I struggled to berate him as politely as possible. “Shouldn’t this be something you do yourself?”
He stood up abruptly and it took everything within me to keep my chin jutted out in defiance at his sudden change in demeanor. His expression was hard, his words clipped. “If I do it myself, that suggests to her more than I’d like to suggest. This way she gets the message loud and clear and it will, furthermore, make her feel better that she’s shot of me, a guy who didn’t even bother to break things off with her himself.”
“You’re just …,” I sputtered.
“I’m just?” he taunted, almost goading me to do something to mess up my job.
I held out my hand, palm up, in answer. “Card.”
Satisfied, Caine pulled out his wallet.