The Last Plus One Page 3

“Get yourself off that treadmill right now, Cruz Griffin, before you find out just how decorative those scissors are.”

  He looked down. Oh, he guessed he shouldn’t hop back on with mummy-streamers of fabric hanging down his legs. It was just habit to hop on the ’mill and pound out some ideas. Everything was habit.

  How they worked together. Bickered together. Conquered the world.

  But now something was threatening that habit. And the sooner he figured out what it was, the sooner he could eradicate it.

  He’d told Maggie they’d table the discussion about the wedding, and he meant just that. He still had a few weeks to figure out how to get her to see things his way.

  She usually came around.

  But as for the other? He could buy a new car—twenty!—if his was totaled. But he’d never be able to replace Maggie if she left him.

  SD9, he was quick to add. If she left SD9.

  Chapter 2

  Her car. Her music. Those were the rules.

  But, of course, Cruz had a hard time playing by someone else’s rules.

  “Hey. Hands off. You owe me, mister.” They’d been in the rental all of five minutes, barely out of the lot.

  This was going to be a long drive.

  He ignored her direction—and her comment—and instead whined about it only being fair he got control of the radio since she wouldn’t let him drive. “I don’t know why we couldn’t charter a helicopter or something. Why fight traffic on I-95 from Boston up to Bar Harbor in the middle of the freaking summer?”

  Oh, so he’d finally found a map? Too bad he still didn’t have a clue.

  “Because,” she said as she clicked over the station to her setting again, “it’s my vacation, and I want to drive up.”

  Some vacation.

  It had made so much sense when she’d booked it this way. Maggie had thought the hours in the car would help her mentally prepare for the week to come. Stepping off a plane in Bangor and right into a rental wouldn’t have given her enough time. Plus, there’d been no way Mom nor Mrs. R wouldn’t have had a car sent to fetch her, and Maggie needed the backup of her own wheels so she could escape if things got too…tense.

  But now she’d never be able to escape. Because now six-feet-something of grumpy dude was going to be glued to her side for five blessed hours if they didn’t run into (more) construction—and, even more problematic, for the duration of Wedding Weekend.

  Oh, God, why hadn’t she just booked the puddle jumper?

  She guessed she should be happy he wasn’t gloating that he’d finally worn her down.

  There was only a brief moment of the gloat yesterday when she’d said fine, if you can get a ticket, join me—knowing full well he wouldn’t be able to. (She’d looked at the seat selections online and there was nary an empty seat—even in coach.) But lo and behold, he’d gloatingly informed her he’d had one booked for a month.

  The twerp.

  “Have you called your mom yet?”

  Maggie switched on the AC to keep alert—she’d been way zoning out, and that was a death sentence as they moved up through the never-ending construction zone folks in Boston laughably called a highway. While she was there, she switched the radio back to the satellite channel he’d selected earlier. Maybe if he thought he won, he’d shut up and let her have some time to think and not talk about moms and Maine at all.

  When he did, miraculously, keep quiet, she wished she could take it back because all her thoughts turned blue in the oppressive quiet of the car.

  He was right. Maggie should’ve called her mom this morning to give her some warning, but the last time they’d spoken, Mom had been at DEFCON 1 getting everything at the compound ready for the festivities. A whole week of planned social fun. Yippee.

  It was, perhaps, not all bad that Cruz had joined her. But they needed a story. Stat. They couldn’t just plus-one together all week without going in on a united front.

  Truth of it was, they couldn’t plus-one together, period.

  “You know,” she ventured when he clamshelled his laptop with a sigh, “it would be terrible for the image of the company if we are”—how could she say this diplomatically?—“romantically linked.”

  She waited for a scoff. A whatever sigh. Something. Anything from the passenger seat. But he said nothing.

  Okay, that was different.

  They’d spent about a million hours together. Alone. Usually, they spent the time spitballing or strategizing. Working in companionable silence. Rarely were they just…quiet.

  Rarely was Cruz ever this quiet. Or still.

  Uh-oh. Something was going on in that head of his.

  It reminded Maggie of that night they’d spent on her patio before she went to Denver last month. After they’d bundled a tipsy Iz over to the guest room, and Zoë and DeShaun had departed to relieve their sitter, they’d sat together for a while. His dogs snoozing at their feet. Cicada choirs in full volume. Just lounging about on her screen porch—saying nothing—until she’d been so frustrated and confused by the silence she wanted to scream.

  Trapped in a sporty little rental as they were, screaming was still out of the question.

  Maggie couldn’t believe he didn’t have an opinion about her statement—he was never without one. Especially if it contradicted hers. It was only rational they maintain their distance this week. He’d gotten his way and would have face time with her as the article came out and his pet project launched. Fine. Besides, they had other stuff to work on anyway, and she had to admit it would make things so much easier when she got back into the office next week.

  But he couldn’t be glued to her side the whole time—especially at wedding events. Those had to be solo-only or people would talk. Plus, he was bound to stumble upon someone if he wandered the compound. She had to make him understand.

  “As I was saying.” She cleared her throat. “It’s bad optics. I already get the smirks and oh really looks working with you, but being seen together at a society wedding might cement that talk. And I’ll be damned if this causes any ripples in SD9’s future.”

  He grunted then and opened his laptop. Typed several hundred words. Grunted again. Then said, “I’m glad you’re thinking about our future.” And went back to his laptop.

  Maggie couldn’t spare half a second to wonder what he’d meant by that statement because they were already coming up on Portland, and she had to make a split-second decision whether to stay on the interstate or pluck at any heartstring she might still have and take scenic Route One up the coast.

  The coast. Of Maine. Up to Virtue Cove and the Ramsey compound and oh crap she needed to pull over but there was nowhere to go so she just kept driving straight ahead.

  The Ramseys.

  Cruz didn’t know. When they’d first met, she hadn’t told him about her relationship with one of America’s most powerful families. There’d been no need. Nobody outside of the Cove itself knew.

  But once he’d started on his passion project to acquire the company that would eventually lead to a Department of Defense contract, she should have said something. Now it was too late. He’d never understand why she hadn’t mentioned it. And he could not—could N-O-T—get face time with Auggie this week or Cruz would harass him to no end about the potential.

  She took a deep breath, and that long-forgotten tang of salt and sun lodged somewhere around her heart. The sun shone off the water and made it appear like a thousand gems in a rich woman’s sapphire necklace. Why couldn’t it be cold and wet and rainy? Really terrible and horrifying weather so it would remind her why she’d wanted to leave in the first place? Instead, it was real the-way-life-should-be kind of weather.

  She could never do this at home. Drive with the top down. In June.

  Huh, funny how “home” was a relative and moving target. In Austin, by the time June rolled around, it was absolutely disgusting. Her AC went on in April—some years even March because she was spleeny. Maggie just couldn’t deal with the Texas heat.

&n
bsp; Meanwhile, Cruz seemed to thrive in the heat. Like one of those giant yucca plants that grew tall in the dunes, always stretching for the sun, miles of endless, mazelike roots beneath.

  Of course, he thrived anywhere. The wind blowing through his hair didn’t seem to faze him a bit. He just sat in the passenger side with his head tilted back, eyes closed, and a nascent smile on his face. One little dimple peeking out of the scruff on his left cheek.

  Oh, she’d made a mistake driving up this way. These shaded back roads of rocky, coastal Maine were hell on her memories. They were hell on her futures, as well. Alone, or with a plus one, this week was going to be terrible. It just was. There were no two ways about it. The only thing for it was simply to try to be at peace. Try to enjoy celebrating her friends’ marriage—and try to ignore everything else.

  Especially the man sitting next to her.

  “Okay, so why the need for a party line?”

  So much for ignoring him. She’d been a fool to take his silence as acquiescence. Ugh, he was maddening.

  “Look. I did not push you out of the airplane. And I’m not going to push you out of a moving vehicle”—tempting though it might be—“but so help me, I will push you off a cliff at the Cove if you mess this up for me.”

  “Mess what up, Maggie?” They were in hairy traffic approaching one of the tiny tourist spots favored by everyone on the Eastern Seaboard, apparently, so she couldn’t spare a glance over at his face to try and suss out just what he meant by that. His tone was…weird.

  “All I’m saying, Cruz, is the party line can’t be that you’re my plus one. It’s too late for that.”

  “But I thought…” He shut off the radio and she turned it back on. “You mean you didn’t…”

  “No, I didn’t have a date lined up. I was planning to go stag all along. Happy now?”

  “Not really,” he said and wrapped his hand around hers where it rested on the gearshift. Gave it a little squeeze. “It’s a good thing I’m here with you. Weddings alone super suck.”

  Getting supportive-Cruz instead of gloating-Cruz did funny things to her. Especially since his touch lingered.

  But funny insides turned quickly into frustrated ones. “That’s just it. That’s the point I’m trying to make: you are not my plus one. You’re my boss. My business partner— Seriously, don’t roll your eyes at me.”

  “I’m not—”

  “I can hear you rolling them. We’ve got a major acquisition deal working. That’s good. We can make that work for the corporate image.” And the plan magically fell into place. “We’ve got a deal working, so I invited you up to my home while I attend a family friend’s wedding and—”

  “It’s not all about image, Maggie.”

  Easy for him to say.

  She’d let that one pass; it was time to lay down the law—er, the rest of the plan.

  “If you happen to go to some of the pre-wedding festivities with me—of which there are legion—I won’t stop you. But you’re not going to the wedding. And you’re not invited to the reception. Get it?

  “If anyone asks, you’re here on business,” Maggie continued, wishing they’d had this conversation yesterday when she’d agreed he could come. She wasn’t at her best in motion. “You don’t talk to anyone—and I mean anyone—about business. You’re just my friend.”

  “No way. You can’t have it both ways. Either I’m here as your business partner or I’m here as your friend. That’s according to you.”

  Of course he’d find the flaw in her logic! “Okay, fine. Stay at my parents’ house all week. You know I wouldn’t refuse helping you through all the magazine hoopla, and I really don’t want to lose a week of work. But I’m attending everything wedding-related alone if you can’t agree to not talk shop with any other human being there—”

  “Fine. But why are you being so closed off about all of this?”

  She was so not getting into the Ramsey thing now. Especially when he’d agreed—kinda sorta—to stay at the house and not attend any Wedding Weekend nonsense.

  “All I’m asking for is you to promise, Cruz. Please?”

  She was practically vibrating on the seat across from him. Hands tense on the steering wheel. His calm, cool Maggie was spiraling out of control.

  “Why don’t we pull over?” His back was complaining about being cooped up in this tiny car for so long; plus, he bet she could use a cold splash of water on her face. Maybe some iced tea. Even a breath of stale-gas-station air. But she kept aiming the convertible down the highway. Which was just as well. Roads up north were strange, and who knew how far off route they’d have to go.

  He reached out to brush a wayward strand of hair from her face. It was going to get tangled in her sunglasses if she wasn’t careful. The shock of her flinching and swatting his hand away was a roundhouse kick to his gut.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing—I just…”

  He’d rarely seen her this lost for words, and he hated it. Hated that he’d grown so used to, so freaking dependent on, having a clear-thinking, composed Maggie by his side. A model of balance and peace to absorb and redirect his frenetic mind and body.

  “This is…not my favorite,” she said, finally.

  Cruz had no idea what “this” was. But yeah, it wasn’t his favorite either.

  His mind went back into overdrive, into mapping out all the causes and potential remedies, but he kept circling around to the idea he should probably leave if him being there was upsetting her so much. No matter how much he’d hate wading through the PR waters alone this week. No matter how much he was worried about Maggie.

  Eventually, they pulled over to a service area. She pressed a button, and, before he knew it, the roof was stretching back over their heads again and he had to blink his eyes against the sudden dimness. Maggie reached in the back seat for her purse and rooted through it until she pulled out a tiny brush. He winced as she practically attacked her long auburn hair, restoring it to order around her shoulders. She spritzed something on her face and neck, and hit her head back against the headrest.

  He’d give anything to be out of this car, but he didn’t dare leave to stretch his legs. In her current mood, he couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t absentmindedly drive off without him.

  Cruz twisted on the seat, ignoring the screaming protest of his lower back, and searched her profile for something. Anything. The smallest clue that would help him not only identify all her scattered pieces, but put them back together again.

  There was something she wasn’t telling him.

  “Are you sick? Unhappy?” Squeezing her eyes closed tight was her only response. It pulled at him. “What can I do to make it better?”

  “Not a thing.” Maggie looked over and smiled at him, but the lightness of her tone didn’t reach her eyes. She spent a few careful seconds touching up her makeup, a little pat of powder and a slick something shiny. Her full lips all but disappeared as she mashed them together.

  “Seriously, Maggie”—he worked to keep his tone gentle—“there has to be something I—”

  “There is. You can agree to not speak to another human being about any business matter this week.”

  He still wasn’t sure what her agenda was, but he’d agree to anything to make her relax. Which she did. Until a few miles later when they pulled off the little road they’d been on to an even littler one and then finally a road that looked a bit like a bike path. But it was a bike path lined with delivery trucks and people parking in non-spaces. Through the dust they kicked up, he saw a sign marked “service entrance” before a guy with a serious-looking clipboard cut them off, motioning for her to roll down the window.

  “Margaret Kennedy.” She gave the guy her name with no hint of a smile. No trace of warmth in her voice, either. Just syllables strung together, tight and terse. She was turning back into a Yankee before his very eyes.

  “Uh, where are we?” Cruz asked while the guy fiddled with his clipboard of endless pages. Guy should get
a tablet. It was too windy out here for paper.

  “Home.”

  It was a rich word; for him, one that was loaded with shades of love and comfort—of football in the front yard, of tamales and midnight mass on Christmas Eve. And other complications, of course. He’d never given much thought to where she’d grown up other than she’d said it was some tiny dot on a map in Maine; he’d just assumed it was the same—a loaded word.

  Now the way she said it, and the way they sat on a service entrance on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere, he expected to have to belly-crawl under a razor-wire fence through a pool of pernicious, flesh-eating monsters to arrive at a sad, institutional grey concrete slab building.

  Before he had to wonder at his mental gymnastics, the man barked something about an unauthorized passenger.

  Unauthorized?

  Without any discussion, Maggie held out her hand and Cruz dutifully twisted to retrieve his driver’s license. Clipboard looked at it, looked at Cruz, fished out a flashlight to examine the plastic more thoroughly.

  “Hijo de—”

  “Griffin.” Maggie hissed his last name. A signal she meant business. But he was still no closer to knowing just what the hell was happening when Clipboard, apparently satisfied he wasn’t a terrorist or illegal alien, flipped the ID back to Maggie and radioed their arrival ahead.

  She gave him—Clipboard, not Cruz—a tight smile and rolled up her window.

  “Not one word.”

  Maggie maneuvered the car with skill, though it seemed a miracle she could move her arms without them breaking she held them so tight. Through a veritable forest, she steered them through so many twists and turns in the road he had to crack his window for a little fresh air.

  But the air was not fresh. It was cool, bracing, yes, but it was full of brine. Unfamiliar, but unmistakable, to the boy from landlocked West Texas.

  Of course, he knew she’d grown up on the coast; they’d seen teasing glimpses of the water all the way up here. But he’d never really imagined what it was like. And why should he? It wasn’t like she talked about it all that much.