"My tattoo artist is too busy for someone you're not going to see again," I said, opening the door into her office. Her head was down, she was focused, reading, and she reminded me of what I could remember of our mother: studious, involved. "You okay, sis? Everything ticked along alright while I was gone?"
She looked up, smiled, although the ends of her mouth didn't reach the side of her glasses. "Jacks, you worry too much. Everything is under control. Have more faith. Max has been great." Maxwell was our big brother, mine by ten months and hers by another twelve. He was a huge beast of a man-bear who was obsessed with law, more so than I had ever been. He was our resident encyclopedic law-geek who looked more like a heavyweight boxer. With a ridiculous beard.
"So why are you here at this time in the morning?" I could see she looked tired but there weren't any lines around her eyes so I was less concerned. Claire had always marched to the beat of a very unique drum that no one else could hear, except whichever minion she knocked the beats in to.
"I had a date which was let's say – uninspiring – and coming here and working was less hassle than walking home." Claire looked up from her keyboard and gave me a tired but genuine grin. "It's fine, Jackson. Tell me about New York. Any wild, romantic encounters?"
"You need to stay out of my love life," I said, avoiding eye contact. My sister was the devil when it came to me and Maxwell and our bachelor statuses. She was obsessed by the idea of family and tradition, to the extent where she had become the role of family archivist and exploring, extracting our DNA and sending it off to various companies to find out where we originate from. Agreeing to have our mouths swabbed was by far the less painful option than listening to Claire discussing family trees and heritage and other shit I'd deposited to my mind's dustbin. "Everything's fine. How's the marketing consultant been? I've just met her downstairs." Given that my father was officially leaving the company in a working capacity in a few weeks we wanted a fresh, modern look across the board, one that would appeal to more modern clients as well as the older established ones.
Claire stretched then poked her glasses further up her nose. "She will be. Vanessa is nothing but a perfectionist. You know she's already got Dad's ball pretty much organized." Dad's retirement ball was planned for around six weeks' time.
I flinched, not wanting a reminder of something I'd been trying to avoid for several months already. "She'd better be a fucking genius, Claire, with the amount her company's charging." Vanessa was a contact of Claire's, and along with her portfolio, Claire's word had got her the job.
"She came in on Monday. Kirsty's face looked like a slapped baboon's backside by the end of the day."
"Hopefully Kirsty will learn a few things so we don't need to hire a fucking outside company again," the words sounded harsh even to me, mainly because Vanessa had already frustrated me in one way. "This Vanessa had better know how to be fucking professional."
My sister stood up and eyeballed me. "Have you been home yet?"
I shook my head.
"Have you had a decent coffee?"
"No. I came straight here from the airport."
"So, you're jetlagged, decaffeinated and highly irritable. There's no way you're going anywhere near my marketing lady again anytime soon. Can I suggest, Mr. Managing Partner Lawyer-Businessman extraordinaire, that you go home now you've exercised? Sleep. Jack-off to some porn or motorbike pictures and then meet Vanessa later. When you're human. And not before."
"I don't jack-off to motorbike pictures!" I shouted after her, listening to the clip of her heels followed by the click of the door. "And I'm taking her for breakfast." Which was not the best idea, given that it would involve pretending to be nice to people who were also pretending to be nice, because it was shitting early and no one could possibly be in a genuinely good mood unless they've been woken up by better means than an alarm clock.
CHAPTER FIVE
Chapter Two
Vanessa
Sweet baby Jesus. What in holy hotness was that?
I rummaged through my wash bag for my razor as shaving my legs and potentially a bit further up had now hit the top ten of things to urgently do today. I leaned back against the surprisingly clean shower tiles and pulled myself together because thinking about Jackson Callaghan in shorts and covered in sweat was not where my mind needed to be right now. Besides any relationship, other than the one I had with my vibrator, was not on any agenda. I was focused on work, on building my portfolio, on developing client relationships, on getting away from owning a business with my shitty ex, all as fast as possible, without giving in to the ex's ridiculous ideas on how much I could be bought out for, or how much he could try to screw me out of.
Richard, the ex, managed to cause me pain without being there as I put a little too much pressure on the razor shaving over my knee, blood dripping down my leg. There was no pain, there never was at first with a shaving cut, that would come later, but I was thankful for the distraction from the tight muscles and tattoos of my current employer. I didn't generally go for tattoos; only one of my past lovers had been inked and it was something I could've taken or left. Since being at the university, my type had always been the suited, power and money driven manipulators and I had gotten off on my manipulation of them as much as anything else. From what I knew of Jackson Callaghan he was driven, but not necessarily by wealth. That had never been a problem for the Callaghan Greene's: wealth had been theirs from birth.
I'd met Claire Callaghan through a networking event a year and a half ago. We'd found ourselves sitting next to each other, both nursing hangovers and large, strong cups of coffee. Rather than exchanging business details, we'd swapped background information on manicurists and arranged to meet for more coffee – the mention of wine was still banned at that point – when we were less hungover. She'd then talked me into pitching for the rebrand of her family's law firm. Grant Callaghan, the soon to be retired patriarch of the firm, also Claire's father, was notorious for upholding tradition and Callaghan Greene had plenty of that. There had been at least one lawyer in every generation going back around a hundred years and working from the same premises, although as the soon-to-be-old website explained, they took over several of the adjoining buildings as the business expanded. However, I knew it wouldn't be Grant that I dealt with, but his second eldest son, Jackson, who had been gradually phased in to manage the company, having been a qualified lawyer for a decade and an MBA graduate.
This was intended to be a swift four-week rebrand to encompass a modern, forward thinking firm steeped in success, tradition, and class. Part of the brief was to ensure potential clients were aware of all the areas of law that were covered as well as the in-depth specialism held by the partners, mainly but not exclusively, the Callaghan siblings. It should be my bread and butter, an easy job that showed off my skills and would enable me leverage to lose the albatross known as Richard from my neck and the rest of my life, along with his current blonde in need of a good meal. Not that I was bitter. Much.
I dried my hair off quickly, anxious to keep within the 30-minute time Jackson suggested. I spritzed on body moisturizer and added the usual daytime amount of make-up. I loved makeup, it was one of my biggest splurges, but I didn't wear too much. It was too easy to judge someone who looked like they were hiding behind a mask. A tailored light pink dress and grey kitten heels made me look like someone whose job was in marketing as opposed to sweating out in gyms and staring at random guys' muscles, and I headed to reception to meet Jackson. He wasn't there, but Claire and Maxwell were, both holding coffees and looking serious.
"I don't know I want to take the case," Claire said. "She's lovely but he's a dick. He'll play dirty and I don't want another six months where I'm switching hotels every few days worried someone's going to attempt to steal my files or hack into my laptop. Or worse."
Maxwell shrugged. "Discuss it with Jackson. You could work it together and he could use a pissing competition at the moment especially with a nob like him. What the fuck did she see in him anyway?"
"That's the age-old question most blokes ask when an attractive woman has been in a relationship with some rich, arrogant wanker. The answer is generally in the word 'rich'," I said, smiling at Maxwell. I've only been here three days but the eldest Callaghan was one of my favorites already. Drop dead gorgeous with thick dark hair and a face sculpted from stone. Unlike Jackson's beard, Max had tidied scruff that did nothing to dispel his reputation of a gruff and grumpy alpha male. But really, he was a big, muscular teddy bear and I could say that because I didn't have the slightest iota of attraction towards him.
He cricked his neck and frowned. "I was hoping it was deeper than rich. Speak to Jacks, Claire. I'd say take it but you've been here before." He strolled into his office, rubbing at his side.
Claire shook her head, staring at Maxwell's back. "Dick," she said. "My brothers are such imbeciles."
"Except the one closest to you in age."
