You Are My Reason (You Are Mine Book 1) Read online

  A low hum of admonishment deep in his throat makes the smirk on my face widen into a smile.

  “I have my own company, my own life—” I start but my father cuts me off. Nothing new there.

  “You were born a Thatcher, and you’ll die a Thatcher.” The words leave a chill across my skin. That’s the crux of the problem. I was born into this life and I can’t run from it. Plus my company is in debt to him. It was a rookie mistake I made back before I knew what I was doing. When I didn’t see him for the man he really is.

  “Why do you even care what I do?” I finally ask him. His precious reputation is just fine now that I’m an adult and I’ve moved on from the fuckup I used to be. “I’m not the one coming to you—”

  “She did,” he answers simply with a spark in his eyes and the corners of his lips upturned as if that’s all the ammunition he needs. In some respects, he’s right. All the people in this city know where I come from and what it means to be a Thatcher. They know I have money and power behind me. That’s all anyone here cares about anyway. New York is all about the bottom dollar.

  Nonchalantly shrugging my shoulders, I stride closer to the desk, bracing myself by gripping the back of the chair opposite him. “You decided how to deal with her without vetting what she said.” I meet his glare easily, willing him to tell me again how he saved me. “She didn’t have anything on me. She couldn’t have done anything.” My voice rises toward the end of my statement and I hate that I’ve shown him this weak side of me. Even if only for a moment.

  Control. I thrive with control.

  A heavy breath leaves him as he stares back with pure hate but he doesn’t say a word. I knew he wouldn’t. He’s wrong. Dead wrong and ruined if I open my mouth to anyone. He took the initiative so I’d owe him, but in reality we both know that he owes me now.

  “It’s your fuckup, not mine.” I practically spit out the words and shove the chair forward as I turn to leave him. My body’s tense and the anger continues to rise. I try not to let it show. I hate that I can’t control myself around this prick. Everyone else I can handle, but my own father, not so much.

  “Mason!” he calls after me. His voice turns to white noise as the blood rushing in my ears gets louder and louder, drowning out all the bullshit.

  The second I open his office door, he goes silent. He’ll never let anyone hear us fighting. Never. Secrets are always kept behind closed doors. It’s a family rule.

  The door shuts with a loud thunk and as I walk down the empty hall, the thin carpeting muffles the sound of my black leather oxfords smacking against the ground at an incessant pace.

  Miss Geist looks up from her spot at her desk. The wrinkles around her eyes deepen as she tilts her head and gives me that familiar smile she always has for me. It’s one that says: Oh, what have you done now?

  Through the years, even after my mother’s death, Miss Theresa Geist has given me that look. She’s the only one who showed me any genuine regret and kindness when I had to deal with my mother’s passing. She’s a good person. I have no idea what she’s doing here working for a man like my father.

  She clutches the small pendant on her thin silver necklace and her forbearing smile changes to something more reserved when I look back at her. It’s instantaneous and makes me halt in my steps. I know I must look pissed; I’m beyond furious. It’s been two days since my father told me what he’d done all those months ago and my anger hasn’t waned one bit. Deep down I think I knew what he’d done back then, even if he never admitted it until now. I wish he hadn’t. The whole situation makes me sick.

  “He’s being a dick,” I mutter, waiting for the old lady to be a little more at ease. She doesn’t know a thing that goes on outside of the office and I don’t owe her an explanation, but I can’t help myself.

  “Now, now,” she says with a bit of playfulness although I can tell she’s still shaken. She’s not used to seeing me like this. Not in the last decade, at least.

  I give her a gentle smile and wink, putting on the act I use so well. Maybe I have a soft spot for her.

  “Have a good night, Mr. Thatcher,” she tells me as she shuffles the papers on her desk, seeming somewhat less disturbed.

  It’s enough that it settles me and I push open the double doors leading to the entrance with both hands and keep moving. The sound of my shoes pacing on the granite and the open air of the lobby filled with chatter soothe me.

  But only for a moment.

  It’s not until I leave the building that my true feelings surface. The mask fades, and fear sets in. I didn’t know what my father was capable of.

  I had an inkling, but I thought I’d always imagined it. I’d thought my memories weren’t quite right. It’s not that I expected more from him; I just hate that I was right.

  What’s done is done and I can’t stop what’s been set in motion.

  Julia

  Bloodred lips. The silver tube in my hand is labeled Black Honey, my favorite color. I’ve worn it since my freshman year of college and although I’ve experimented with other colors at times, it’s always been a staple in my beauty bag. Pressing my lips together, I smack them once as I examine myself in the mirror.

  My complexion is flawless thanks to the full-coverage foundation I’m wearing. My lashes are thick and long, and I’ve got just a hint of blush. It’s a timeless look, classic and clean. And it hides everything. My reddened skin and the dark circles under my eyes are nowhere to be found.

  I don’t look like the person I’ve become. This woman in the reflection, she’s who I used to be. A very large part of me wants this woman back. I want to smile like I used to and hear the sound of a genuine laugh from my own lips.

  My heart pangs and stops that thought in its place.

  He’ll never laugh again. It’s as if any small moment of time that passes where he’s forgotten for even a second is a disgrace. My eyes fall and I slip the cap back on the tube of lipstick, tossing it into the pouch on my vanity.

  No matter what I do, every little thing reminds me of him.

  Trivial things, like the color of the granite he insisted we purchase when we remodeled this place together. The knobs on the bathroom drawers he hated and never failed to complain about. The change he left in the cup holder in the Bentley. The pile of dimes and pennies that clink together when I drive over speed bumps or a pothole. The same small coins I refuse to touch. He put them there, and I can’t bring myself to move them.

  Freaking pieces of metal render me useless.

  It may seem pathetic, but not to me. From my perspective, I’m being as strong as I can. I face the New York City judgment every day, putting on a brave face and going about my life, my new normal.

  All the while I shove everything I’m feeling deep down inside. That’s healthy, right?

  I won’t let them see me crumble. There are those who want to. I could practically hear them licking their lips months ago when my world fell apart.

  Julia Summers, born into wealth and raised on the Upper East Side. She always did everything by the book and married young to her high school sweetheart, Jace Anderson. With a loving family, a handsome and doting husband and the social life every young woman in Manhattan dreams of, Jules had a picture-perfect life. Until her husband suddenly passed away at the age of twenty-eight, leaving the twenty-seven-year-old woman widowed and alone for the first time in her life.

  Twenty-eight now and numerous months since the tragic accident.

  They’re waiting to see what I’ll do next. Pens to the papers and cameras ready. There’s nothing better for the gossipmongers. It’s to be expected. Being in Page Six is how I’ve made my life.

  They’d love to see me fall and I have, but not in front of their eyes. I’ll keep my hair pinned up and my concealer on thick.

  I know what they say, though. This town whispers, especially in the circles I run in. They don’t need to see the truth to figure it out themselves. There are rumors of leaning too heavily on alcohol for comfort. I don’t c
ommand enough loyalty for discretion; every member of my household staff has sold out to the tabloids looking for a hint of what goes on behind these walls. Living on the Upper East Side, every single person who struts in front of my home is looking for a crack in my veneer.

  What’s ironic is that there’s no glamour here, nothing noteworthy. Just a woman who cries herself to sleep at least once a week still. A woman who’s struggling to move on because I’ve never been with anyone else. I suppose it’s what I get, though. I loved posing for the cameras and practically lived for regular mentions in the gossip columns. This is what I deserve. They wanted in my life and I let them. I can’t expect them to be shut out now.

  Days have turned to weeks and weeks to months. Now that my husband’s been gone for nearly eight months, I have plenty of cracks in this so-called perfect life. I’m still shattered but I’m working on gluing little pieces back into place.

  I glance at myself as I tug down my dress just slightly and smooth out the black lace. It’s time to face the music.

  I clear my throat as I turn off the light and grab my phone, checking the text again.

  Are you sure you don’t need me to pick you up?

  Kat’s a sweetheart. She’s always looking out for me. Of all my friends, she’s the one who still texts me religiously, which is insane because she’s constantly working and I have no idea how she finds the time.

  My fingers tap, tap, tap away an answer. I’ve got it. Leaving now.

  The Penrose is only twenty minutes away if there’s no traffic. Seeing how it’s 9:00 p.m. on a Friday night, I’m prepared to sit in the back of a taxi for half the night.

  A light sigh slips past my lips as I bend down to pick up my favorite Louboutins. With a row of spikes up the back and red-lacquered soles, they have exactly the touch of color and attitude I would’ve worn back then. I almost second-guess the simple black dress I’ve picked out. It’s a nod to Audrey Hepburn. But looking over my shoulder at the darkened bathroom mirror, all I see is one of the options I had for Jace’s funeral.

  I would’ve worn this dress last year before it all happened. Back when I was happy and everything was how it was supposed to be. And don’t I want to be that girl again? I want to find a way to move forward on a new path.

  Holding the heels in one hand and the iron banister in the other, I descend the winding staircase.

  I’m not that woman any longer; I’ve changed. I accept that, but I don’t love who I am now. The crying and feeling sorry for myself. I need something. A change and some light in all the darkness. Eight months of a pity party and being stuck in a rut is long enough. I’d like to say that Jace wouldn’t want to see me like this, but I don’t even know what Jace would want for me. I’ve quit wearing my wedding ring, although it still sits on my nightstand. I’m ready to find out who I am without him beside me.

  Before I open the front door, I glimpse out the large stained glass window in the foyer. It’s nothing but gray outside, and the hustle and bustle is only a fraction of what it could be.

  Heavy rain greets me when I step onto my small porch. I decided not to bother with an umbrella, simply grabbing a stylish trench coat on my way outside. Quickly taking the steps to the street out front, I hail a cab. My heels click as I wrap the belt around me and tie my coat tight when the first taxi comes to a slow stop in front of me.

  I could have called for someone to do this, to order me a cab so it would be waiting. I could ask for help with so many things. I’d rather do it myself, though.

  The light breeze and rain feel real. The rain is cold to the touch and I’m sure I’ll be regretting my decision soon. But it’s something different. I don’t want anyone’s help. I just need time.

  Climbing into the taxi, I shake off the gathered rain from my jacket; the inside of the cab is warm and welcoming. I push the hair out of my face and say, “Penrose, please.”

  “You got it,” the cabby says as he glances over his shoulder to look at me. His thinning black hair is oiled over and he’s more than a little overweight. The buttons on his striped shirt are straining to keep it shut.

  I can see curiosity in his eyes but just as he opens his mouth to ask something, I don’t know what, I turn to look out the closed window and thank him.

  Everything outside is wet and dreary. The people walking by move quickly and a couple only about ten feet away are fighting over an umbrella. It’s a cute little struggle though and the tall man in a navy blue Henley lets the woman win. She’s dressed in formal work clothes, while he’s in casual attire. But as soon as she takes full control of the umbrella, she walks closer to him and he wraps his arm around her waist.

  I rip my eyes away and pick at my nails. It’s little things like what I just witnessed that I find unbearable. I bite the inside of my cheek and hold back the bitterness.

  Luckily, the driver gets the picture. I’m not in the mood to talk and the cab moves ahead, taking me away from my sanctuary and toward another test.

  That’s what these things really are. Tests.

  It’s only in this moment that I realize I’m really doing it. I’ve put it off so many times over the last eight months. I’ve given so many excuses for not meeting up with the girls.

  Why today? I don’t know. My heart sinks thinking that maybe I’m really getting over my husband’s death.

  As much as I want to be the woman I once was, happy and carefree, I don’t want to forget him.

  I lay my head back on the headrest and close my eyes, my clutch in my lap. Jace gave it to me last Christmas. I snort at the thought, running my fingers over the smooth, hot pink leather. More like I picked it out and he paid for it.

  I close my eyes and take in a deep breath. It’s calming riding in a quiet cab at night in the city. The quiet rumble of the engine and the white noise of the rain are a serene mix.

  The last day I saw my husband was when we were watching my nephew Everett, so my sister could have a mother-daughter day with Lexi. It’s rare I see my family at all; everyone is so busy with their own lives and my sister is much older than I am… so we’re not exactly close. I still love them though.

  The thought of my nephew brings a smile to my face. With sandy blond hair that just barely covers his big blue eyes and a wide smile, you can’t help but smile back at him. He was only a few months old back then. A brand-new life in this world. That’s the way it works, isn’t it? Life and death go hand in hand.

  I glance forward out the windshield and give a slight start when we stop far away from Second Avenue where the bar is located; a bit of traffic is holding us up.

  The cabby notices my reaction in the rearview mirror and shrugs as he says, “We should be out of it soon.” He’s tense at the wheel, probably expecting me to snap at him, maybe blame him for taking this particular route. More guilt washes over me. I hate spreading negativity simply by being so … gloom and doom with the air surrounding me. I’m not an ice queen, or at least I don’t mean to be.

  I give him a soft smile, placing my clutch in the middle seat. “I figured we’d run into something,” I say easily. My voice comes out even and calm. It’s the voice I use with my mother. The kind of tone that says: I’m okay, just tired.

  The cabby shifts, making the leather seat grumble and he tries to make small chat.

  I nod my head and answer politely, but keep everything short and to the point. I can be accommodating with others and I truly want to do so. I’m tired of being alone and pushing others away. It’s just harder than I thought it would be after how I’ve been since Jace passed.

  After a moment of quiet, I look out the window again. The rain’s nearly stopped, and the sidewalks are instantly crowded as a result. The people were always there, waiting under awnings for protection. Not many people like to venture into weather that washes away your makeup and ruins even the best put-together look.

  They were waiting and ready to keep moving just the same. All they needed was a small break before setting out again. The only question is
if there will be another awning to save them when the brutal downpour comes back.

  The cabby stops and my eyes whip up to the sign on my right, my heart beating faster as I watch dozens of people walking in front of me on the sidewalk. Each going wherever it is that life has taken them. I don’t know if I’m ready, but at least I’m here.

  “Miss?” the cabby asks after I remain where I am in this cozy seat. I shake my head slightly with quick motions and play off my hesitation, paying him and leaving a big tip as well. He deserves it for having to suffer my company.

  “Have a good night,” I tell him as I slip out, my heels hitting the slick asphalt and the door shutting behind me with a resounding click.

  Mason

  It figures it would stop pouring the second I get in here. The bar is packed and the cacophony of guests chatting and glasses clinking welcome me. I can get lost in the crowds. I know the people here see me, but they don’t know me.

  This bar in particular is one of my favorites. It’s always full. Its tufted leather seats are constantly filled, and the warm rich tones of the wooden ceiling and brick walls make it feel like home somehow.

  My suit is nothing fancy, nothing that will stand out in here. Which is how I want it. I run my fingers through my hair and shake away the rain as I shrug off my jacket and toss it over the barstool at the very end.

  It’s been a long day and the last thing I need is to go home alone. As soon as my eyes lift, the bartender is on me. I think her name is Patricia. She’s in here every weekend.

  “Whiskey?” she asks me. She never stops moving, shoveling ice into short glasses and pouring liquor like a pro. Unlike the other women in here, she’s not looking for a man with deep pockets. She doesn’t do chitchat either, which is another reason I like sitting in this section. The biggest reason is that it’s out of the way, somewhere I can simply blend in and watch.