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1
Baxter
Ten years later
Trust isn’t something my father has ever given me. I’ve tried but failed many times over. Now, I have just the thing to turn the tide. I’ve settled down. Yes, the playboy, the irresponsible son, the jerk who couldn’t keep a girlfriend through high school and didn’t catch one in college where there were so many beautiful women to choose from, has found a woman to settle down with.
My dad takes every opportunity to remind me I’m in line to produce the next Andrew Delany Baxter-Scott, another heir to the Baxter-Scott fortune. Andrew the fourth, my father, thought I wouldn’t amount to anything. Given time without rules in place, I may have proven him right, but I’m tired of not having control of the Baxter-Scott company. It’s mine, and I want it.
I’ve worked hard, graduating in the top three in my class at Stanford. I received honors with my masters from Yale—I didn’t do law like I’d wanted. Instead, I studied business. To top it all off, I graduated early, but that wasn’t enough. No, I had to have the beautiful woman not just on my arm, but on my bank account for my father to think I’d achieved something worthwhile. He thought marriage would make me responsible, hell, it would probably make me wilder.
Sandra, my intended, may not be the smartest woman in the world, but she looked good doing it—whatever “It” was. Currently, it was sugar scrubs. Not that she sold them or made them or produced any money with those sweet-smelling scrubs. No, she spent my money finding the best sugar scrub in Manhattan, going from store to store, purchasing a scrub then taking it back to our apartment—which she hated—and Instagramming the whole adventure to her fans. Yes, she has fans and takes every opportunity to rub it in my face.
I didn’t hold her activities against her. She seemed happy, at least from my point of view she did, not that I spend much time with her. Her parents are the exact opposite of mine and required nothing from her. From my perspective, it is all good. She will produce beautiful children, which my dad informs me at least once a week is what it’s all about. Once I’m married and have a spawn, I will have my company to run.
The main issue continues to be how my dad threatens to leave the business to someone else unless I produced another Baxter-Scott. Time and time again, my dad would shake his hands at me, shouting to the night, the moon, the stars, and God only knows who else would listen as he listed my faults. I had plenty. From underage drinking—what football playing, drag car racing high school senior didn’t drink—to going with the wrong girl. Hey, it was a girl I'd been caught with, and he'd wanted me to produce an heir, just not an heir with someone so young or from the wrong zip code. That woman was amazing but vulgar as a stripper the day rent was due. I don’t remember her name, but she’d been smoking hot and ready for fun. Plus, she’d reminded me of Heather.
I sigh and think not for the first time, that the group in charge of running Baxter-Scott Enterprises would probably do better than I could, but it is the principle of the matter. I'd worked in the company mailroom when I was too young to get a job. I cleaned the toilets when my dad thought I needed more structure. When I proved myself, I was allowed to give input to the person doing the landscaping. Yes, I know what you're thinking. Landscaping. My father must own a landscaping company; it couldn't be further from the truth. After I proved myself in landscaping, I was allowed to shadow the sanitation crew. I cleaned every single office in the building at least once and all the toilets a hundred times, if not more. Then, finally, after I'd received my degree from Stanford, I was allowed to be an intern. I wasn't a paid intern. No, I was the chump who got coffee and donuts for the guys in sales—did I mention I didn't get paid? So in addition to getting my master’s degree, I’d been stuck working for free for my dad.
It was wonderful…so wonderful. I’m not sure if I gave off enough sarcasm there. I freaking hate how much my dad has manipulated my life.
In the middle of my master’s degree, my dad had a health scare. He installed the new management team then dangled the carrot again. If I got married, proved I was responsible, then and only then would I get the company. We both thought I had time to get to this point, but newsflash, I didn’t since my mom insisted he not work after they knew he would live.
From my perspective, getting married has nothing to do with proving I’m fit to run the company, but I was in this to win it. Thus, enter Sandra. Pretty, but not bright. I could marry her, produce one child, maybe two, possibly three, and continue with what I wanted to do in life. She fit my parent's expectation, though I didn't love her. But this is business, and she doesn't care that I don't care. Maybe I hadn't really been one hundred percent honest with her, but she would have money, and she could do her own thing, which she really seemed happy doing.
I check my watch for the tenth time. Where in the heck is Sandra anyway? She is supposed to be here by now. Maybe she’s going to meet me at the bar, but we’d discussed this more than once. I should have made her come to my office earlier. She is habitually late.
The problem is my parents are flying in from Venice, not the Venice, but Venice, Florida today, and want to meet us at their favorite bar before they head to their apartment. My mom always wanted to retire to the beach. My dad hated living in Florida. I’m a little ashamed to admit it gives me pleasure that he suffers.
My phone rings and I notice Sandra’s name on the display. “You’re late,” I bark, irritation deepening my voice.
“I’m not coming.”
Her words hit me like a splash of freezing water on a cold winter day. Responses form in my mind, but I can’t get them out.
“Ha, speechless. If I’d known that’s what it took, I would have done something like this a long time ago just to get you to shut the hell up.”
Anger boils, and I fight the urge to yell. "Get over here now," I say calmly. "We can talk about this later."
“No can do. I’m headed to Miami to spend time with another man I’ve been seeing. The thing is, he pays attention to me. Bye, Baxter, see you never again.”
She hangs up, leaving me holding my balls on a platter. Why hadn’t I seen this? Why didn’t I know about her seeing another guy? We are engaged. That is the plan. Why the hell hadn’t she called earlier and told me she wouldn’t be here?
There is no way I can find someone to be my fiancée in the—I check my watch—forty-five minutes I have before my parents arrive. What the hell am I going to do?
My secretary steps into my office and for a brief moment I think about asking her, but my dad would never believe I was dating this woman. She was too old, and not my type. Plus I think she’d married, but I’m not sure.
No, whomever I presented them with has to be amazing. Telling my dad the truth isn’t an option. He will never allow me to run the company if I can’t keep a woman. He’ll say something like If you can’t keep a woman, how the hell are you going to keep a company? Yes, I say those words in my head in his voice, and it almost makes me laugh, but this isn’t a laughing matter.
Since I’d gotten serious about my now ex-fiancée, I’d stopped dating other women. There are no alternatives. No women I can call. No backups. I have nothing, and my parents will be in Manhattan, ready to meet the future Mrs. Baxter-Scott in less than an hour.
I am doomed. There is no one at work. No one in my building. No one I know who is available.
I leave my office as I scroll through my contacts. I find no one I can call. This is terrible. After not finding anyone in my desperate attempt to search my contacts, I pull up LinkedIn and search through my connections from school. I have forty minutes to find someone, convince them to be my fiancée—well pretend to be my fiancée—and present them to my parents all the while keeping the truth hidden.
I open my messages in LinkedIn and freeze. I can’t. I won’t. The message is from someone I swore I’d never contact again because she’d broken my heart. She’d moved to New York last month—okay, two months ago I see after reading her whole message—and wants to get a drink or wanted to because the message is from a month ago. I hate myself for what I’m about to do.
Hell, this is worse than rush week, worse than finals, worse than working with my dad, worse than anything—but not worse than meeting my dad and telling him I am a failure.
Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad. She’d been nice through school—too nice really. I close my eyes, wishing I could avoid Hurricane Heather, but I’m desperate.
