The Carrero Effect Trilogy

Chapter 8

I'm sitting across from Jake at Eleven Madison Park, a bustling popular restaurant and his current favorite, watching him mess with his cell while we wait for our food.

"Jake?" I interrupt gently.

"Emma?" he responds without looking up. He's deliberately being evasive.

"The Hunter merger?" My curiosity has been niggling at me all the way here, and I have been extremely patient. He sighs, puts his cell inside his jacket, and brings his steady green gaze back to me, his face unreadable.

"My father and Hunter are not what you would call the best of friends anymore," he mumbles quietly, sighing that he can't avoid this explanation any longer.

"Anymore?" I repeat flatly.

"Yes, Emma, anymore. They used to be as close as Daniel and I are." He leans back, sliding down into his chair a little, and shifts his feet to cage mine on either side under the table, our upper ankles connecting slightly. Jake is a toucher; he always has to have some contact. It no longer bothers me, but it was such a slow thing that I got used to it.

"What happened?" I watch his face carefully; he's good at giving nothing away, a great poker face.

"My father had an affair with Elsa Hunter." Daniel's mother and Hunter's wife.

Crap.

I wasn't expecting that.

Is that the basis of his bond with Daniel? Shared anger at their parents?

"It's not exactly common knowledge," he sighs and moves his water glass; he needs a point of focus. I can tell this is something he hates talking about. Jake only fidgets when he's very uncomfortable, and it's his biggest tell; he's watching the items he moves around as though for distraction.

"When?" I know I shouldn't pry, but Jake rarely denies me knowledge on any subject. Weirdly.

"When I was in my early twenties. My mother forgave him, but I didn't, not for a long time," he pauses, "I'm not sure I've forgiven him even now. He broke her heart." Jake's relationship with his mother is unparalleled. I can now see why he harbors so much anger towards his father and why Jake is a little apprehensive about genuine relationships.

"Is that why you pushed for this merger? To get back at him?" I nudge his ankle gently with mine so he'll look at me.

"Yes … no … we stand to do well with this, but I guess it's always been a factor," he shrugs and avoids my gaze, signaling that the money hasn't been the main reason. Jake's also a 'shrugger'; it has to be his most common mannerism, annoyingly so. It does, however, emphasize his shoulders and their sheer solid mass.

"How did you find out?" I try tearing my gaze from his upper body, still appreciative that he looks good in everything he wears.

"Carl Hunter caught them in bed together, in his own house." He's still focusing on his glass and turning it absentmindedly, clearly unhappy.

"So, that's why there's a weird atmosphere whenever your father's around?" I watch his every movement, a little empathetic to how young he looks when he does this.

Makes so much more sense now.

"I don't think I can ever forgive him for hurting my mom like that. She deserves better than him." I know Jake is close to his mother; he visits her often and has me send her flowers every month: a dozen colorful gerberas … her favorites.

A thoughtful son.

"She stayed with him, though? She could have left him if she wanted to," I point out, a little enamored with how deeply he feels for his mother's heartache.

Sensitive and loyal. Who would have guessed it?

"You try leaving a famous billionaire when he's been caught with his finger in someone else's pie, Bambina. She knew he'd cause chaos for her if she tried. It's one of the reasons I feel like I do about him. He's a fucking control freak, and all he cares about is his reputation." The flash of anger surprises me. Jake isn't one to lose his cool so easily or publicly. He shifts in his chair, takes a deep breath, and quells his outburst; his eyes are still stormy, but his awareness of the surroundings causes it to burn out quickly.

"He forced her to stay?" I understand now why he feels that way.

"In a way, I feel he did." He gazes across the restaurant, trying to find his inner calm in the sea of strange faces around us.

"And now?" I urge, coaxing him with no real input to give back.

"She's in her fifties; she's resigned herself to the fact she won't ever be able to find someone else, and I guess she still has feelings for him. She's trapped in a loveless marriage." He looks back at me, a small sarcastic smile brewing. The hurt is evident on his face, making me want to reach out and take his hand, but I hold back.

"A loveless marriage?" The thought is so sad, especially for someone as lovely as Sylvana Carrero.

"It's been loveless on his part for a long time, Emma. I think even before the affair, there were cracks in the facade. My father married her after a one-month romance." He finally stops looking around evasively; his eyes rest on my face.

"Do you think Elsa was the only affair?" I ask, wondering why he's telling me this now.

"Probably not, but it's the only one I found out about."

"It explains why you're always so off with him. Your parents seem fine when I've met them at events." It's true; a beautiful woman and her adoring husband are very well portrayed in person. How sad that the truth is so very different. I know all about hiding actual appearances; I am a master of deceit in my own right.

"A carefully played ruse, Emma. My father is all about appearances; my mother knows her place and how to play her part." Jake looks angry again, but his demeanor is still cool and controlled; he moves his glass for the tenth time in a show of discomfort.

"So, your behavior in your younger years? Rebelling was payback?" This has interested me for a while; his wild teen days and reform always seemed at odds with how he is now. He shrugs and drinks his wine, deep in thought.

"Some … I had other reasons too." He looks anywhere but at me, and I can tell he's hiding something, being evasive again.

"Such as?" I nudge again with a soft smile, not easily swayed.

"Italian blood." He smiles impishly, trying to pass off my question, but I see it doesn't reach his eyes. It's the first time I've ever seen him genuinely avoidant regarding our chats; usually, he's so open with me about everything. I push down the tremor of doubt, my gut telling me that maybe I'm overthinking it.

Our steaks arrive, and we sit silently while the waitress lays them on our table. He gives her one of his seductive smiles, and I watch her slump with desire.

Jesus, you're being so obvious. It's pathetic, woman!

I frown across at him, a visual telling off. He likes to invoke the reaction for amusement, the eternal playboy with a childish temperament. He wants the effect he has on women of all ages.

"She may have trouble finishing her shift now," I scold after she wanders away.

"Jealous?" He winks at me, but I glare at him coldly.

No! Maybe.

"Your un-flailing libido never fails to impress me," I retort sarcastically, ignoring how often it does annoy me.

"Least I have a sex life." He takes a mouthful of food, giving me that teasing eyebrow lift of his.

"Meaning?" I pick up my fork and clean it on my napkin before starting the salad, still watching him solemnly.

"Meaning, I've spent many intimate hours with you and have yet to see any sign of a date or fuck-buddy keeping you cheerful." He raises his eyebrows, then digs into his food again. No shame in what he just said. I swallow hard.

"I've more important things to do and no desire to date or find a fuck-buddy." I grimace at his term, completely unamused, throwing him a furrowed brow.

"Might put a smile on your face." He's grinning. I lift my chin towards him and throw on a fake smile as widely as I can muster. Forced, of course.

"There. See. No man needed," I point out as he laughs and shakes his head at me in amusement.

"How come you never seem to date anyone?" he asks. "I mean, you're not exactly unattractive. You could easily pull; I've seen the way men check you out. Are you holding out for me to hang up my playboy hat and settle down?" he chuckles. The thought makes me feel odd inside, but I remain impassive.

"I've more than enough testosterone to deal with as it is, having you glued to my hip daily, Carrero. And no, I never see you taking that hat off and being happy with only one woman to keep your interest." I'm trying to focus on my food as my cheeks warm up; I'm uncomfortable with this ever-probing fascination with my lack of a boyfriend. It makes me squirm in my seat.

"Emma?" He looks at me pointedly, seriousness coming through the boyish charm, "Even women have needs." Do they?

I think sourly. I'm pretty sure I've never needed to go there. I tried it when I was younger, with non-serious boyfriends and the pressure of other kids doing it. I wouldn't say I liked it much; it only left me feeling empty.

"You would know, of course, being one hundred percent hotblooded male," I laugh at him, raising a brow at the man who is as far from feminine as any guy can get.

"I go to bed with enough women to know it's not only men who crave sex. You cannot tell me you don't get the raging horn at all." He's a little too focused on me now and looking too invested in this.

"Jake, can we talk about something else? I don't think I want to talk about sex with my boss over lunch." An anxious knot has moved up into my stomach at this topic of conversation, making me uncomfortable, like I always am, when any discussion is turned on me and my life. Something he often does. He has no sense of boundaries.

"Do you need me to set you up? Are you secretly man-shy? Or maybe I should show you what a real man feels like," he winks at me, and I roll my eyes, suppressing a smile at his humor.

"Like I would ever trust your choice of men … or you! The Daniel Hunters of this world don't do a thing for me," I smile sweetly.

That's an understatement.

"So, what is your type of man?" he asks curiously, focusing on me instead of his food. I give him a dark look, indicating that we are done with this topic.

My type? Far, far, away from me.

"Okay, okay. Are you going home to visit your mom anytime soon?" he asks, pushing in a new direction instead, but I drop my fork, mood dying and temper punching me in the stomach.

For God's sake.

"This again?" I snap and shake my head at him, irritated, being too sharp with him in reaction.

"Don't roll your eyes and wave your hands at me!" He shoves my foot with his under the table, and I kick him back, a light, satisfied smirk crossing my mouth as he grimaces with a glare, relieving me of my temper a little.

"Why do you always bring her up?" I accuse, pissed that he does this … a lot.

"Because I find it weird that you never go home to see her, Emma. She's your mother, and Chicago is just two hours on a plane. It's hardly on the other side of the world. You know you can use the jet whenever you need it." He's frowning at me with all green eyes and stiff squared jaw, looking wounded at my anger, reverting to a child.

"I don't need to run home and see 'Mommy,' Jake. I'm a big girl with my own life," I scold. I hate that he always presses me about this at every opportunity.

"I go see my 'Mommy' every couple of weeks. She gave birth to me and raised me. I can't imagine going five years without one trip home. It's odd." He narrows his brows at me, and that green gaze penetrates mine.

"It's not like she hasn't come here to New York. I don't need go home." My food isn't satisfying me like it usually does, and I realize the conversation is souring the taste. I put down my napkin now I've lost my appetite.

"You grew up there; don't you miss it?" Jake is one of the most intrusive people I've ever known; he has a severe craving to pry into my life every day and is as subtle as a bull. He's still eating and trying to come across as non-intrusive, but I'm not fooled.

"No," I snap, finally letting the irritation show, losing my cool with him properly.

"Did you leave for a reason, and that's why you get so pissed about this?" he asks. My eyes flash up as though he's struck me, but I quickly look back down. I won't have this conversation; he needs to leave it alone and know when he's crossing the line again. I'm tired of this.

"Drop it," I say quietly, the rush of emotion running through me, dampening all my happiness on arriving here. It's not a good feeling.

"You never talk about you, Emma. You know everything about me," he almost pleads, but it falls on deaf ears.

"I never knew your father had an affair before now!" I snap a little more harshly this time, looking at him accusingly and hoping to push this away.

"But you do know now," he sulks, his green eyes narrowing under furrowed brows. A little boy scolded comes to mind, equally as stubborn as me.

Sometimes we bicker; it usually goes like this and usually for similar topics. I sigh heavily, annoyed at … well, everything. I feel guilty for making him like this and regret my harsh tone immensely. Jake makes me feel bad so easily.

"I'm sure there are things you haven't told me, Jake. Everyone is entitled to privacy." I remember the brief look earlier in our conversation and see it reflected in his eyes. Something is there, after all. Thankfully, it seems to cause him to back off, realizing he has secrets too.

"Fine, but it's just weird." He dips his eyes down to his plate, a definite sulk face on. I cannot help the tug of affection that softens my whole attitude.

Man-child returns.

"You are the king of weird; you attract massive amounts of weird, so you have some nerve," I chuckle, trying a friendlier tone to bring humor back into the conversation. I hate when we bicker and argue over pointless things, and as his frown smooths out to be replaced with a growing warmth, he knows what I'm hinting at.

"You're talking about that freaky Lisa?" he smiles slightly, mood dispersing. Such is our way.

Yes, he got my hint. There wasn't anything weirder than that.

"You didn't say 'no' to her weird fetishes; you asked your PA to research them," I remind him, narrowing my eyes accusingly, but I can't help the giggle that springs from my throat, mood lifted and irritation gone just like that, like always. He laughs too. We recover quickly and effortlessly.

"I didn't actually partake, Emma. I just didn't think she was being serious; I thought I was missing some joke." He smiles his natural, cute Jake smile, and it makes me smile too, glad that he is once again his normal, infuriatingly smug, and naughty self, our bickering over.

"You called me at four in the morning to ask me if diapers would turn me on," I reminisce while chuckling, remembering the shock that had run over me when that drunken question had rudely awakened me.

"I needed another female perspective, a normal female perspective. She scared the shit out of me." He cringes at the memory, which only makes me grin.

"How do you think I felt? I got a wake-up call from my drunk boss asking me about weird crap like adult babying fetishes and diapers," I remind him, raising my brow and fixing him with an accusatory look.

"You were very cool on the cell … efficient as ever and serious about the whole thing. It was the first time I figured you, and I would be best friends." He's laughing at the memory as my heart skips a beat at the 'best friend' comment and warms slightly. He has said something similar several times before. I guess the feeling is mutual. Before this promotion progressed, I never really thought about us being friends, but I think we are.

I remember that night well; I had tried to gauge his seriousness and even attempted a rational, factual conversation while skimming Google for answers. I was cringing the whole time and wondering what the hell he was on. I shake my head, grinning too.

"Only you could pull the freaky one in a nightclub full of normal women, Jake," I point out, relaxing.

"She ended up going home with Daniel, and he still doesn't mention it."

I burst out laughing, unguarded and heartfelt, making me feel better. Daniel still gives me the creeps, and the thought of him tied up in a baby's crib with some strange, diaper-wearing crazy makes me laugh. Jake is chuckling too.

He leans over, topping up my now empty wine glass; we're only halfway through our food, and I hadn't noticed how much I'd drunk already. I never drank much before Jake. His bad influence has turned me into a wine-with-food type of person. He always orders by the bottle wherever we go to eat.

I pick up my fork, starting to eat again now that my appetite has improved along with my temper. I'm feeling light and merry now and ravenous once more.

"I like you when you're like this," he nods at me, a happy expression, eyes almost twinkling.

"Like what?" I look up innocently. The steak is so tender I'm savoring every mouthful, appetite fully restored.

"More relaxed. PA persona is on hiatus. When you forget to play cool." It sobers me slightly; he has a way of making me forget myself when we are kicking back, and, much like now, it startles me. I don't particularly appreciate letting that mask drop; I don't like people seeing too deeply, especially not him.

"It's hard to focus when you ply me with alcohol," I return, a little too quickly, trying to reel in my calm facade, pushing the glass away from my plate.

That's enough wine.

"Maybe that's why I do it," he smiles softly, making me suddenly uncomfortable. I ram food into my mouth and stare across the restaurant looking for a diverting topic.

I gesture toward the far window with my fork, and he turns to look at what I'm pointing at; spotting the movie star, too, he looks back at me, shrugging.

"He's an asshole," Jake says dismissively. "I've met him. He's a bit of a diva, and, I mean, look at him; he's wearing a goddamn sparkling flower brooch. If that doesn't scream closet gay, then I don't know what does," he shrugs nonchalantly, but for some reason, this makes me laugh unexpectedly and causes me to choke on my half-chewed steak. I erupt into a coughing fit, grabbing my wine to dislodge the lump in my throat before I die.

"Jesus, Emma! Don't have a coronary over seeing some asshole Hollywood bigshot." He's laughing at me now, and I throw him a pained look. I gasp for air, thumping my chest to push my steak down and inhaling heavily.

"Fuck you," I manage weakly with a smile.

"Swearing at your boss is good grounds for dismissal … gross misconduct," he jokes and repeatedly tops up my glass with a wink, highlighting that I just drank it all without meaning.

"So, fire me," I throw back, slugging down my red wine and finally clearing the food still caught in my throat, half killing me, not caring about intake while choking.

"Can't fire my future wife!" He acts shocked and grasps his chest in mock horror before putting his fork down on his plate, also finished with his food. I ignore the wife comment, another frequent joke he makes.

"Dessert?" he gestures at me with a questioning brow. I shake my head; I've drunk too much wine, am feeling tipsy now, and need to get out of here. I need coffee.

"Back to the grind, Bella." He offers me his hand as I get up, tossing my napkin on the empty plate. I take his hand without hesitation and let him pull me with him, then immediately wonder when this stopped being weird when we started holding hands so casually.

How often have I let Jake touch me without repulsion coursing through me? Or questioning it?

I walk behind him, contemplating this fact, staring at our loosely joined fingers. It's become something as familiar as being around him now. Maybe it is just the nature of our relationship: platonic and safe. We are real friends.

The innuendos about sex, the best friend comments, and wife jokes are frequent, but I know it is all play. Jake is never anything but a complete gentleman, minus the manhandling, but even that is not so bad. I've never had a platonic relationship with men of any age, and now that I'm examining it, it makes me feel slightly strange.

***

The afternoon is chaotic. For the first time, I'm glad of my assistant Rosalie's lingering presence; I don't get a second to think.

Jake is in his office with just as much going on as me; I've walked in there a dozen times with files and notes, and he seems to be shedding clothes each time. He's sitting with his shirt pulled out, unbuttoned at the collar, and his sleeves rolled up. His usually styled hair is ruffled and messy, and his tie and jacket are strewn across his couch. His shoes are lying in the middle of the floor, a sure sign he's stressed.

I pick up his tie and jacket, hang them neatly on the hooks behind his door, and push his shoes under the edge of his desk with the toe of my stiletto. I move all the papers he's been through from the left side of his desk, pile them neatly into an open box file, and then lay out some contracts he needs to sign before sending them down to Legal. He smiles up at me briefly, leaning back so I can move the papers in front of him before signing them while propping his cell to his ear.

I move around in companionable silence, straightening and removing things from his workspace so he can take the new ones. Noting he's done with the Hunter briefs, I scoop them up. We have gelled this way for a while now, silently anticipating each other's movements and wordlessly working around one another.

It's something that just happened organically over the weeks.

"Emma?" he pauses on the cell, throwing me a soft look.

"Yes?"

"Organize a flight to Seattle for us tomorrow early as possible. We'll need hotel rooms for the next five days and a car." He moves his cell into his neck some more and keeps signing papers.

"Yes, Mr. Carrero." I always use his title when we're in front of company or he's on the phone.

Another trip!

I sigh. We haven't been back from London that long, and Jake was right: hotels no longer do it for me, even five-star suites. It's just another few days of jetlag and a week of grueling work with men in suits who look at me like I am worthless. We have taken so many trips already that it feels like second nature to me now. The novelty has well and truly worn off. Margo was right.

***

It's been two hours of watching him through the glass panels in the boardroom as I sit in a temporary office. So far, I've been there several times with files, coffee, and whatever else he asks of me. I'm not needed right now, so I'm waiting for the next command via text in the next room.

I'm as fed up as he looks. My laptop keeps my focus, but if this meeting runs over any longer, it will be a late night, and we have that flight to catch in the morning. I have an hour on the subway to get home to Sunnyside as it is after this, and I need to pack.

I watch him lift his cell from the table in front of him and start touching the screen with amusement; I wonder what he's up to. A second later, my cell buzzes, and I pick it up, seeing the email notification from Jake.

"Jake Carrero has sent you an iTunes gift."

Frowning, confused, I open it and find he has sent me a song: "Rescue Me" by The Raffetillies.

I stifle a giggle and shake my head, looking up through the glass and catching his quick eyebrow raise before turning his attention back to the meeting at hand. Biting my lip, I scroll iTunes for a suitable title and purchase a gift. I send it to him and wait to see if he will read it.

"Cry Baby" by Melanie Martinez.

I watch for his reaction and hold my breath while smirking as he pulls his cell over and slides the screen. After a couple of presses, he lets out a laugh and tries to cover it with a cough. I catch a couple of the stuffed shirts looking up disapprovingly, but they say nothing, and the meeting continues. Jake throws me a wink with a slight shake of his head, very amused.

Back at you, Carrero. Not so funny now, are you?

I smile to myself, satisfied with our little joke.

***

Finally, the men all shuffle out of the boardroom as

I stand dutifully by, politely saying farewells like a good little PA.

Thank God.

Jake emerges with a smile and immediately pulls me to one side.

"Effective form of communication - music." He grins at me, looking as gorgeous as he always does, if not a little tired, with dark shadows under his eyes.

"I can see this being abused by you. Now you've found something else that you think is clever and amusing," I smile with a slight groan at the twinkle in his eye, and I can already predict this will become frequent.

"Say it with song titles; they say music can speak volumes," he winks, resting his arm on the door jamb over my head so that he's leaning into me incredibly close, smelling a little too divine. Citrus and Jake … a perfect combo. I'm aware of the odd glances a couple of passing assistants throw our way, and I try to press myself back to make it look less intimate.

"Hmmm." I look down at the time and point out that we should head home, uncomfortable with his drawing attention. After all, we have a flight to Seattle tomorrow, and I don't want to fuel gossip.