The Beaumont Brothers: Not the Boss's Baby. Sarah M. Anderson
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snapping her mouth shut. “Yes, Chadwick.”
He grinned an honest-to-God grin that took fifteen years off his face. “There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Then he turned away from her and headed back to his desk. Whatever moment they’d just had, it was over. “Bob Larsen should be in at ten. Let me know when he gets here.”
“Of course.” She couldn’t bring herself to say his name again. Her head was too busy swimming with everything that had just happened.
She was halfway through the door, already pulling it shut behind her, when he called out, “And Serena? Whatever you need. I mean it.”
“Yes, Chadwick.”
Then she closed his door.
This was the point in his morning where Chadwick normally reviewed the marketing numbers. Bob Larsen was his handpicked Vice President of Marketing. He’d helped move the company’s brand recognition way, way up. Although Bob was closing in on fifty, he had an intrinsic understanding of the internet and social media, and had used it to drag the brewery into the twenty-first century. He’d put Beaumont Brewery on Facebook, then Twitter—never chasing the trend, but leading it. Chadwick wasn’t sure exactly what SnappShot did, beyond make pictures look scratched and grainy, but Bob was convinced that it was the platform through which to launch their new line of Percheron Seasonal Ales. “Targeting all those foodies who snap shots of their dinners!” he’d said the week before, in the excited voice of a kid getting a new bike for Christmas.
Yes, that’s what Chadwick should have been thinking about. He took his meetings with his department heads seriously. He took the whole company seriously. He rewarded hard work and loyalty and never, ever allowed distractions. He ran a damn tight ship.
So why was he sitting there, thinking about his assistant?
Because he was. Man, was he.
Several months.
Her words kept rattling around in his brain, along with the way she’d looked that morning—drawn, tired. Like a woman who’d cried her eyes out most of the weekend. She hadn’t answered his question. If that prick had walked out several months before—and no matter what she said about what ‘we decided,’ Chadwick had heard the ‘he’ first—what had happened that weekend?
The thought of Neil Moore—mediocre golf pro always trying to suck up to the next big thing every time Chadwick had met him—doing anything to hurt Serena made him furious. He’d never liked Neil. Too much of a leech, not good enough for the likes of Serena Chase. Chadwick had always been of the opinion that she deserved someone better, someone who wouldn’t abandon her at a party to schmooze a local TV personality like he’d witnessed Neil do on at least three separate occasions.
Serena deserved so much better than that ass. Of course, Chadwick had known that for years. Why was it bothering him so much this morning?
She’d looked so...different. Upset, yes, but there was something else going on. Serena had always been unflappable, totally focused on the job. Of course Chadwick had never done anything inappropriate involving her, but he’d caught a few other men assuming she was up for grabs just because she was a woman in Hardwick Beaumont’s old office. Chadwick had never done business with those men again—which, a few times, meant going with the higher-priced vendor. It went against the principles his father, Hardwick, had raised him by—the bottom line was the most important thing.
Hardwick might have been a lying, cheating bastard, but that wasn’t Chadwick. And Serena knew it. She’d said so herself.
That had to be why Chadwick had lost his mind and done something he’d managed not to do for eight years—touch Serena. Oh, he’d touched her before. She had a hell of a handshake, one that betrayed no weakness or fear, something that occasionally undermined other women in a position of power. But putting his hand on her shoulder? Running a finger along the sensitive skin under her chin?
Hell.
For a moment, he’d done something he’d wanted to do for years—engage Serena Chase on a level that went far beyond his scheduling conflicts. And for that moment, it’d felt wonderful to see her dark brown eyes look up at him, her pupils dilating with need—reflecting his desire back at him. To feel her body respond to his touch.
Some days, it felt like he never got to do what he wanted. Chadwick was the responsible one. The one who ran the family company and cleaned up the family messes and paid the family bills while everyone else in the family ran amuck, having affairs and one-night stands and spending money like it was going out of style.
Just that weekend his brother Phillip had bought some horse for a million dollars. And what did his little brother do to pay for it? He went to company-sponsored parties and drank Beaumont Beer. That was the extent of Phillip’s involvement in the company. Phillip always did exactly what he wanted without a single thought for how it might affect other people—for how it might affect the brewery.
Not Chadwick. He’d been born to run this company. It wasn’t a joke—Hardwick Beaumont had called a press conference in the hospital and held the newborn Chadwick up, red-faced and screaming, to proclaim him the future of Beaumont Brewery. Chadwick had the newspaper articles to prove it.
He’d done a good job—so good, in fact, that the Brewery had become the target for takeovers and mergers by conglomerates who didn’t give a damn for beer or for the Beaumont name. They just wanted to boost their companies’ bottom lines with Beaumont’s profits.
Just once, he’d done something he wanted. Not what his father expected or the investors demanded or Wall Street projected—what he wanted. Serena had been upset. He’d wanted to comfort her. At heart, it wasn’t a bad thing.
But then he’d remembered his father. And that Chadwick seducing his assistant was no better than Hardwick Beaumont seducing his secretary. So he’d stopped. Chadwick Beaumont was responsible, focused, driven, and in no way controlled by his baser animal instincts. He was better than that. He was better than his father.
Chadwick had been faithful while married. Serena had been with—well, he’d never been sure if Neil was her husband, live-in lover, boyfriend, significant other, life partner—whatever people called it these days. Plus, she’d worked for Chadwick. That had always held him back because he was not the apple that had fallen from Hardwick’s tree, by God.
All of these correct thoughts did not explain why Chadwick’s finger was hovering over the intercom button, ready to call Serena back into the office and ask her again what had happened this weekend. Selfishly, he almost wanted her to break down and cry on his shoulder, just so he could hold her.
Chadwick forced himself to turn back to his monitor and call up the latest figures. Bob had emailed him the analytics Sunday night. Chadwick hated wasting time having something he could easily read explained to him. He was no idiot. Just because he didn’t understand why anyone would take pictures of their dinner and post them online didn’t mean he couldn’t see the user habits shifting, just as Bob said they would.
This was better, he thought, as he looked over the numbers. Work. Work was good. It kept him focused. Like telling Serena he was taking her to the gala—a work function. They’d been at galas and banquets like that before. What difference did it make if they arrived in the same car or not? It didn’t. It was business related. Nothing personal.
Except it was personal and he knew it. Picking her up in his car, taking her out to dinner? Not business. Even if they discussed business things, it still wouldn’t be the same as dinner with, say, Bob Larsen. Serena usually wore a black silk gown with a bit of a fishtail hem and a sweetheart neckline to these things. Chadwick didn’t care that it was always the same gown. She looked fabulous in it, a pashmina shawl draped over her otherwise bare shoulders, a small string of pearls resting against her collarbone, her thick brown hair swept up into an artful twist.
No, dinner would not be business-related. Not even close.
He