Read Online Mikalo's Grace by Syndra K. Shaw - Free Book Online
Authors: Syndra K. Shaw
Tags: Erótica, Romance, Contemporary, Sex, Adult, sexy, Contemporary Romance, Romantic, successful female, strong female, greek man
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nodded.
Deni leaned back with a sigh.
We sat in the breakfast nook, the large,
rambling kitchen with its blood-red Italian tile and shiny
stainless steel and rich, buttery slabs of butcher's block to the
left, the vast green of Central Park a couple of blocks away spied
through the large windows to the right.
And somewhere nearby, the sounds of her
maids, one carefully unwrapping yet another delivery of new clothes
-- Chanel this time, I believe --, the second just as carefully
hanging the stratospherically expensive garments on racks and
cataloging them before wheeling them into one of Deni's many
walk-in closets.
My omelet sat on the plate in front of me,
ignored.
I did drink the mimosa, though.
My second.
"Jacob's traveling?" I asked, well aware her
husband of fifteen years was rarely, if ever, in New York. I wasn't
sure how this marriage worked. But somehow it did. Or at least
seemed to.
Although we were close, Deni and I, it wasn't
something we discussed.
"LA," she said, spooning homemade ketchup
onto her plate. "We've decided to sell the house in Malibu. Having
the ocean outside your door is nice, he says, but it's too damn far
from everything. And when it rains, the highway ... oh, what's it
called --"
"PCH," I offered, my time at UCLA making me
more than familiar with Pacific Coast Highway.
"Yes, right," she said. "PCH turns into one,
gigantic, pain in the ass mudslide. Living by the beach is
overrated. Or so he says.
"Any-hoo, he's found a house in Bel-Air. On
Bellagio. With a pool, a view of LA, a tennis court. You know, same
ol', same ol'."
"Sounds nice. You haven't seen it?"
"Oh, I loathe LA. You know that. Just can't
conceive living my life in a t-shirt and jeans. Besides, do I look
like the yoga-going, smoothie drinking, pull my hair back into a
bouncy ponytail-type? No. No, I do not.
"I never even saw the house in Malibu, so I
doubt I'll see this one," she then said, stabbing some eggs and
stuffing them into her mouth.
"I had no idea his business would take him to
the Coast so much," I said.
"Nor did I," came the reply between
bites.
"So," she said, changing the subject as she
dunked another forkful of eggs into ketchup and then happily popped
it in her mouth, her Brooklyn roots as evident as always, "What's
the plan? Go in there, fall to your knees, and beg?"
"No, of course not."
"Then what?"
"Calmly explain my position, calmly point out
Mikalo's strengths and why they should reconsider, and calmly
--"
"Leave as the all your colleagues, all these
Partners, laugh at you and your career goes down the crapper," she
interrupted.
"Ronan, stop and think," she continued.
"Please."
"I am thinking --"
"Heart or head?" she asked, putting her fork
down and lacing her fingers under her chin as she leaned forward
and waited for my answer.
I paused.
"Heart or head?"
"Head," I finally said.
"You're such a damn liar," she said as she
picked up her fork and dug into her eggs again. "It's heart and you
know it. And you know as well as I do that when you think with your
heart, especially when it comes to business, things get screwed up
and complicated real quick."
She looked at me now.
"Ronan, my dear, dear Ronan, if you think
with your head, for just one second, you know the best thing to do
is let it be what it's going to be. Blazen and Jeffords and
everyone else over there will decide what they decide. And if it
means your Mikalo has to haul his ass back to Greece, well, so be
it.
"You've just met him. Are you sure he's worth
hurting your career over? And would he do the same for you?"
I put my head in my hands, the beginning of a
major headache starting somewhere near the base of my neck.
"I don't know, I don't know, I don't know," I
said, my voice muffled by my palms.
"Well, before you do anything monumentally
stupid, you better know."
Standing to go, I finished the mimosa.
"Thank you, Deni," I said, putting the
delicate flute back on the table.
"Leaving already?"
"Yeah, I need to walk.
Deni leaned back with a sigh.
We sat in the breakfast nook, the large,
rambling kitchen with its blood-red Italian tile and shiny
stainless steel and rich, buttery slabs of butcher's block to the
left, the vast green of Central Park a couple of blocks away spied
through the large windows to the right.
And somewhere nearby, the sounds of her
maids, one carefully unwrapping yet another delivery of new clothes
-- Chanel this time, I believe --, the second just as carefully
hanging the stratospherically expensive garments on racks and
cataloging them before wheeling them into one of Deni's many
walk-in closets.
My omelet sat on the plate in front of me,
ignored.
I did drink the mimosa, though.
My second.
"Jacob's traveling?" I asked, well aware her
husband of fifteen years was rarely, if ever, in New York. I wasn't
sure how this marriage worked. But somehow it did. Or at least
seemed to.
Although we were close, Deni and I, it wasn't
something we discussed.
"LA," she said, spooning homemade ketchup
onto her plate. "We've decided to sell the house in Malibu. Having
the ocean outside your door is nice, he says, but it's too damn far
from everything. And when it rains, the highway ... oh, what's it
called --"
"PCH," I offered, my time at UCLA making me
more than familiar with Pacific Coast Highway.
"Yes, right," she said. "PCH turns into one,
gigantic, pain in the ass mudslide. Living by the beach is
overrated. Or so he says.
"Any-hoo, he's found a house in Bel-Air. On
Bellagio. With a pool, a view of LA, a tennis court. You know, same
ol', same ol'."
"Sounds nice. You haven't seen it?"
"Oh, I loathe LA. You know that. Just can't
conceive living my life in a t-shirt and jeans. Besides, do I look
like the yoga-going, smoothie drinking, pull my hair back into a
bouncy ponytail-type? No. No, I do not.
"I never even saw the house in Malibu, so I
doubt I'll see this one," she then said, stabbing some eggs and
stuffing them into her mouth.
"I had no idea his business would take him to
the Coast so much," I said.
"Nor did I," came the reply between
bites.
"So," she said, changing the subject as she
dunked another forkful of eggs into ketchup and then happily popped
it in her mouth, her Brooklyn roots as evident as always, "What's
the plan? Go in there, fall to your knees, and beg?"
"No, of course not."
"Then what?"
"Calmly explain my position, calmly point out
Mikalo's strengths and why they should reconsider, and calmly
--"
"Leave as the all your colleagues, all these
Partners, laugh at you and your career goes down the crapper," she
interrupted.
"Ronan, stop and think," she continued.
"Please."
"I am thinking --"
"Heart or head?" she asked, putting her fork
down and lacing her fingers under her chin as she leaned forward
and waited for my answer.
I paused.
"Heart or head?"
"Head," I finally said.
"You're such a damn liar," she said as she
picked up her fork and dug into her eggs again. "It's heart and you
know it. And you know as well as I do that when you think with your
heart, especially when it comes to business, things get screwed up
and complicated real quick."
She looked at me now.
"Ronan, my dear, dear Ronan, if you think
with your head, for just one second, you know the best thing to do
is let it be what it's going to be. Blazen and Jeffords and
everyone else over there will decide what they decide. And if it
means your Mikalo has to haul his ass back to Greece, well, so be
it.
"You've just met him. Are you sure he's worth
hurting your career over? And would he do the same for you?"
I put my head in my hands, the beginning of a
major headache starting somewhere near the base of my neck.
"I don't know, I don't know, I don't know," I
said, my voice muffled by my palms.
"Well, before you do anything monumentally
stupid, you better know."
Standing to go, I finished the mimosa.
"Thank you, Deni," I said, putting the
delicate flute back on the table.
"Leaving already?"
"Yeah, I need to walk.
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