Freedom (2 page)

My parents offer a nice home and decent employment, however I have to move on and have a real life of my own. With the exception of going away to Syracuse for college, I have never been separated from my parents or “the business” for very long. I don’t come from a mafia family in the way that the rest of America glorifies it in movies or television, but unfortunately, I am surrounded by the real deal. My family is embedded in the culture to an extent; we have suffered because of it. It is not entirely my father’s doing, either.

He had no idea that building a successful company would put us in this situation. I think he always believed that we would be set free, given the opportunity to stop paying off extortion fees to guys who came to visit him every month. That never happened, though, and the more money my father’s retail chain made, the more he paid and the more I got involved with the types of kids my parents wanted me to stay away from.

And then there was Robert. To put it mildly, he enchanted me. He was my first hard crush. I watched him grow up from a tough street fighter—the leader of the cool kids that all the young girls fawned over—to a smart, Princeton grad who polished his image as his father moved up in the ranks of
the
family
. Robert Marchetto was a few years ahead of me and too handsome and popular to be in my circle. He was out of my league… until one day when he wasn’t.

I was working in my father’s office on summer break from college when Robert showed up at the company with his father, Vincent Marchetto. I saw the discomfort in my father’s face as Robert walked right in and started talking to me. He had recognized me from when I was a freshman in high school and recalled who I had hung out with. He was charming and beautiful, just as I had remembered. Only right then, he was a man and I, too, had changed dramatically in those five years, enough so that Robert was very interested.

In hindsight, if I could go back and alter time, I would. There’s no use lamenting over the impossible, however.

My new home and job in the little town of Hera, New York are the perfect opposite of what I had in New Jersey. The furnished cottage I am now renting is a very cozy, little one-bedroom hut with full-on 1980s décor, not far from the center of town. Plus, in nice weather I can walk to my job at Blackard Designs. In contrast, my parents’ suburban neighborhood is not far from the Paramus strip of retail stores, businesses, car dealerships and other notorious establishments. I am used to density and traffic; Hera is quiet and wide open without a single traffic light. I can breathe in peace, and there’s no Robert here.

I am fortunate that Lauren, one of my good friends from college, hooked me up with this job. She and Imogene—also one of my college buddies and a lifelong resident of Hera—knew I was going crazy with interviews in New York City and getting rejected for every single position. Young, inexperienced college grads flood the streets of New York like confused locusts, swarming into each other with no real direction. I am no different than everyone else in our generation; I can only assume that I have some spectacular hidden talent to take on the world, yet it is hidden so well that I have no clue how to figure out what I should be excelling in.

At the age of twenty-three, I seem to be highly skilled in pacifying unsatisfied wholesale customers even though it is terribly unfulfilling to have people gripe at you all day about automotive parts.

I do credit Lauren with saving me from another year of living with my bickering parents and working in my father’s miserable offices. However, at least I can say that working for him over the years has given me the opportunity to wear a lot of hats, so I am qualified to do something beyond fetching coffee and filing.

My father is a difficult boss with all of his employees. He is fair, but he manages his staff like they are roaming, mindless herds that need constant prodding and shouting. As the underling assistant to the
real
marketing assistant in his wholesale department, I wasn’t spared his infamous wrath. Behind his back, everyone refers to him as Genghis Khan, and I couldn’t agree more. Often, my father would yell at me more than other employees as if to prove a point that I wasn’t getting any breaks for acquiring my job through nepotism. It was incredibly exhausting to play that role. Day after day of being his verbal assault target would wear down my nerves. Between his management style, and my mother’s breakdowns over wanting to flee New Jersey, I was suffocating.

After I interviewed with Carson Blackard at his furniture factory last week, I knew he would be so much more pleasant to work for than my father, and I already have Lauren and Imogene here as friends—people that have no connection to my Jersey life and the
other
family I am trying to forget about.

In my interview, Carson mentioned that the office is casual unless they visit clients out of the office. Nevertheless, I want to make a good impression on my first day, so I wear a charcoal gray pencil skirt that falls just above my knees; low black pumps; and a fitted, white silk blouse with a relaxed neckline. It’s not casual, but it’s not too conservative, either. I consider wrapping my long hair up into a loose twist, then decide that will look like I am trying too hard. I have seen the shop—guys wearing flannel and covered in sawdust and the receptionist wearing jeans—so I don’t want to look ridiculously out of place. I leave my hair down in loose waves and put on some mascara and lip gloss before heading out the door.

When Carson gave me the tour, I paid strict attention to the details of the process—from weathering the wood in the ovens to the actual craftsmanship that takes place in the studio. I took copious notes like I was in chemistry class, repeating everything he said and writing it down like I expected some big test on all the material. Carson kept glancing at my clipboard and smiling, probably because I was clearly so nervous and overzealous in my all-business attitude.

Once in town, I drive off the main street and around the building where others have parked behind the factory’s extension that houses new equipment. The employees’ vehicles are parked any which way on the dirt area, so I wedge my little car up along the far back wall, parking parallel to the side of the building and close to the side door. I have the smallest car on the lot, so it seems like the best spot for me.

I grab my huge leather satchel, which only holds my wallet and cell phone, hoping it makes me look more professional despite its sparse contents. I take the side entrance inside and walk through a hallway of offices that leads me out to the front desk where Daisy, the receptionist, sits.

“Good morning, Emma!” Daisy says, jumping out of her chair. “It’s so nice to see you again.” She is a very chipper person, the kind you want greeting everyone who comes through the front door.

“Hello, Daisy. It’s nice to see you, too. Where should I put my bag? Carson never showed me where I’d be working.” I step behind the receptionist counter to join her.

“That’s because we had to clean out the back office to make space for you and Dylan. He’s really a sweetheart. You’ll like—”

Daisy is cut off when a tall, broad-shouldered guy comes striding around the front of the receptionist’s counter. “Who took my spot?” he demands. “Someone parked in my bike—”

“Cool it, Rambo!” Daisy snaps and tosses her headset on her desk. “This is Emma Keller. She’s starting today. Emma, this is Dylan Blackard. You two will be working together.” She shoots Dylan a look that says he needs to play nice.

“Huh?” He sounds like Scooby-Doo, and I would laugh except he looks like a trained assassin, though a handsome one, in my humble opinion. Still, he looks tough. Actually, he’s very attractive despite a dark sandy buzz cut that shows off long, thin, white scars on either side of his head. He has aqua-blue eyes that complement his sculpted features, and there’s a fierce, rugged quality to him, like someone who has spent a lot of time outdoors. It doesn’t hurt that he is wearing a gray sleeved Henley that hugs his thick chest and his beefy biceps.

Beefy biceps? Since when do I care about guys’ arms? That’s not like me. I must be a little over-excited about starting work to let a guy like this unnerve me. I have worked with bigger guys than him, frigging goombas; I am not going to be intimidated by this guy. Damn, he is big, and he keeps looking at me with a confused expression like he can’t decide how he is going to kill me. Will that be quick and easy, or slow and torturous?

Obviously, I have spent too many years in my father’s male-dominated business and have seen my fair share of shady characters come and go from his office. Watching my father muttering angry expletives under his breath when one of those creeps would come around to give him problems was another reason why I wanted out of the family business. The smell of burnt coffee, stale cigars and motor oil is even less appealing when it comes at a steep price tag, like a mortgage you can never pay off.

Blackard Designs is hip and new, and it’s bursting into a more glamorous world of home design and eco-friendly development. It is a move
up
rather than the uninspiring lateral move I would take if I stayed in my father’s outdated business.

“Dylan, Emma is Carson’s new marketing and sales assistant. She’s helping with the clients. Remember, this was all discussed at the last company meeting?” Daisy looks at me with a roll of her eyes and shakes her head.

“Hi,” he says to me in a softer tone.

“Hello.” I wait for him to offer to walk me to our office, yet he just stands there, so I grab my bag and walk around the reception counter to follow him.

As he glances at my legs and my bag, he doesn’t even attempt to hide the fact that he’s checking me out.

“He’s recently been replaced by a surly, alien pod person,” Daisy says to me as she waves her hand in Dylan’s direction.

“This way,” he says and turns. I notice he is wearing faded, relaxed jeans as I follow his splendid butt down the hall to our office.

Opening the door, he leans against it so I have to squeeze by him to enter the room. I sense him looking down at me, getting a good view of my cleavage and my own rear end. That’s fine. I am used to working with men, and I work out for a reason. Sure, it’s a healthy activity, however I won’t lie, I like getting noticed, too. Better this guy than some of the middle-aged married men that I used to have to deal with in my father’s business.

The room has two desks with brand new computers, a couple of filing cabinets, and some nice chairs for visitors. One wall has two windows that face the side of the building where I’ve parked my car. Behind it, I see a shiny Harley has blocked me in.

“Oh,” I say, looking at my little Honda.

“So, you’re the one who took my parking spot.” He leans against the desk that has stacks of papers and a personal coffee mug.

“So you’re a Harley guy? A Super Glide?”

“How did you know?” His blue eyes narrow a bit.

“Don’t look so surprised. My dad has some vintage bikes, and he’s restored a few Harleys, so I know something about them.”

He scoffs and looks out the window, which gives me a good view of his profile consisting of a strong jaw and nice cheekbones.

I kept hearing how this guy was all baby doll charm and sweetness with a womanizing past; there is nothing sweet about him, though. He looks like he eats baby goats for breakfast. Lauren has filled me in on the accident he had a few months ago and his treatment for depression, but he is nothing like I’ve imagined. I expected a kind, quiet guy, not this tightly wound bundle of nerves in a hot package.

“If it had been marked as
reserved
, I wouldn’t have parked there.” I drop my bag on the floor next to the bare desk.

“Huh,” he grunts. “I didn’t know you were coming today. I didn’t even know my brother had hired you yet.”

I shrug. “Then I guess this is a surprise. Surprise!” I splay my hands open against my fake smile, yet his face remains impassive.

“Good, you’re here.” Carson stands in the doorway and gives me a warm smile.

The Blackard men sure got more than their fair share of the
handsome
gene, and from what I understand, they aren’t even related by blood. You won’t see me complaining about the view, however. These guys make my father’s employees look like trolls.

“Dylan, sit down with Emma and bring her up to date on all the accounts. Jess installed the new software last night so it’s a lot easier than the old system. You’ll see all the account tabs are easy to find, and if you have any trouble, Jess said she’d come in and give a tutorial.”

“I think I can figure it out,” Dylan responds as he drops his large frame into his office chair and leans back so his long legs stretch out under the desk.

Carson looks at Dylan quizzically for a moment and then turns to me. “Emma, stop by my office if you have any questions. The door is always open. Literally. There’s no door. Dylan managed to demolish it a while ago and we never replaced it. Why don’t you tell her that story to break the ice?” Carson smirks at Dylan.

“Another time,” Dylan replies, glancing down at his large, callused hands.

I look at his hands, too. Who rips a door off its hinges, and why do I have to share an office with him?

“You have my permission to kick him when he’s being a jerk,” Carson says. “I’m just down the hall if you need me.”

“Thank you.” When I sit down on the end of my new desk chair, Carson smiles and then leaves me alone with the mercenary.

“Okay,” Dylan says, standing back up, and with a finger, he rolls his chair next to mine. “Move over, and I’ll show you the set-up.”

He is terse and doesn’t seem pleased with me taking up space in his office. Fortunately—or not—I am used to this kind of guy. It would be easier to laugh it off if he had a potbelly and doughnut sugar sprinkled across his chin. He doesn’t, though.

I scoot my chair to the right and he slides in next to me. It’s a tight fit with both of us squeezed into the u-shaped desk area.

“Excuse me.” As he leans over my legs to reach the power switch under the desk, his hard chest pushes against my shins and I feel his breath on my bare skin.