Once Forbidden, Twice Shy, page 1
ONCE FORBIDDEN, TWICE SHY
CARRIE AARONS
Copyright © 2022 by Carrie Aarons
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Editing done by Proofing Style.
Cover designed by Okay Creations.
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For all the readers who get high on the “off-limits, sneaking around, we can’t tell anyone” kind of attraction that has us biting our nails and squeeing at the pages.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
Also by Carrie Aarons
About the Author
1
TAYLOR
Know what they don’t teach in college or even high school, when they talk about venturing out into the real world and getting your first job?
That you will, without fail, cry on the first day. Always, at every single company. Whether it’s in your car at lunchtime or in the bathroom when you manage to slip away and feign a bathroom break. Fat, ugly, tears of confusion at not knowing how the new-to-you copier works, or waterworks of frustration when the boss sends you to find something or someone and you get lost.
This outburst of emotion and prickling unfamiliarness with everything is inevitable. At least, for me, anyway.
My first job working in a teenage clothing store at the mall? I let the tears fall after the manager snootily instructed me on the proper way to fold shirts. As if a sixteen-year-old who didn’t handle their own laundry would have known the convoluted method. That summer camp counselor gig I took the summer before my baby fat melted away? You bet I retreated to a porta potty to sniffle after one of the kids told me I was fatter than an elephant pregnant with sixty babies.
Then there was the first day of my on-campus job as an alumni fund caller, where the second person I dialed told me I was a piece of shit for even daring to ask for money when he still had to pay school loans. Listen, I can’t say he was wrong, but if he only knew how much I needed that ten dollars an hour. It was enough that I’d resorted to asking people for money on a professional level.
The first day of my first job after graduation had been at a top-tier video game company, the only real job I’d ever held until the one I was about to start today. I’d been at Vultura Video Games for four years, after landing, by some miracle, an entry-level position. The coding work I’d learned there was indispensable, yet I’d bawled in a corner of the parking garage in my first hours after some mid-level manager told me I had “no fucking clue” how to cull data in a beta design.
Needless to say, I was a bit of an emotional wreck on that initial day. But I didn’t know anyone who wasn’t the same way or hadn’t had a similar experience. After admitting it to my friends back home, they’d used boisterous hand gestures and sarcasm to detail their disastrous first day tales.
But now they were a world away, or an ocean at least, back in New York while I was about to walk into the London offices of Homeboty.
I’d applied for the job on a whim after my life didn’t feel like my own anymore and, surprisingly, got it. London had been nowhere on my radar; as a kid growing up in New Jersey, it had always been New York City or bust for me. But when the Big Apple no longer felt even remotely safe, I knew it was time for a big change.
Going international felt like the best move. So here I am, the newest coder on a team working on artificial intelligence for home products. Homeboty was the most recent tech company to break the mold, and every software engineer who was anyone was clambering to work here. When I said I’d be willing to relocate to the London office, they’d sent me the offer letter.
“Thank you for calling Homeboty. How can I direct your call?” an admin echoes from the desk.
I’d taken the tube to Oxford Circus—how cute that they didn’t call it the subway, and that their public transit system was a thousand times cleaner than New York City’s—and walked to Rathbone Square. The business park in the heart of London sported a white and brown metal with tons of windows, gray brick sidewalks, and lush greenery to bring it to life.
People here move fast, just like in New York, but it all felt so much more sophisticated to an American like me. My all-black attire fits in, but I envy some of the street fashion I’d observed on the way over. My heart fluttered with anticipatory hope, thinking about all the places and shops I wanted to cross off my “weekend visits” list.
The inside of the Homeboty headquarters is much like every other tech company I’ve been to or seen online; white walls with a pop of turquoise accent color, neutral woods, lots of whiteboards, and old arcade games and oversized chess boards. The practical and modern tech mixed with the quirky. Companies like this always try to give off a vibe of being creator-focused and fun rather than stymieing and stuffy like old nine-to-fives. It’s both cliché and welcome in my book because a good office aesthetic leads to good work.
Putting on my best “I’m a normal coworker who loves to both do a good job and gossip at the lunch table, please befriend me,” smile, I introduce myself to the girl clicking on and off from calls at the front desk.
“Hi, I’m Taylor Arnold, reporting for my first day of boot camp.” I give her an old arm flex as if I’m a kid at summer camp.
She chuckles, and her thick British accent makes it more apparent I’m not at home anymore. “Welcome to Homeboty, and don’t worry, we do see how silly it is to make you go to camp. But it’s for a good cause, camaraderie, and all that. Plus, you do get a sense of what the company is all about, so you don’t have to ramp too much when you start working on projects.”
“No, I definitely get it. It’s actually a very helpful thing to look forward to, and I’ve heard tons of great feedback from any employee who has gone through it.”
It’s mandatory at Homeboty to go through boot camp your first week working here. Boot camp should really be rebranded as a week of learning about the company while drinking from swag cups and doing fun things like baseball games or nights out at a bowling alley that doubles as a bar. Though I guess they do different nighttime activities in London, considering baseball is an American game. Note to self: check out British things to do for fun.
“Well, I’m Lucy, and if you ever need anything, come interrupt me and save me from these boring phone calls.” She points to her phone, which seems to be ringing off the hook. “Let me get your welcome packet and ID badge. Oh, look, your picture is brilliant. Mine is ghastly. I hide it all times, even when Hubert yells at me for not identifying myself.”
Lucy rolls her eyes, and I try not to smirk. It shouldn’t be funny that she’s making fun of the director of the London office, but thinking about this sassy twenty-something with baby pink streaks cutting through her blond hair trolling the boss … well, I can’t deny that doesn’t make me marginally relax.
“Oh! You’re going to be doing the software on the new home robot prototypes! How exciting. I know everyone is buzzing about that.” She flips through my folder like I allow her access to all my personal information.
But intuition tells me Lucy is harmless, even if my intuition can’t be totally counted on these days.
I hold my hand out for the packet, and she hands it over with what residents here would call a cheeky smile. “I am, and I’m so excited. Like school-girl level, but don’t tell anyone I said that.”
“And this is your first time living in the city, right? You’ll bloody love it. I can show you—”
A woman in wide-leg magenta pants and a fire-engine red sweater waltzes past the front desk, flipping her security badge at the guard as he quickly opens the electronic turnstile to allow her to pass through.
“Lucy, what did I tell you about cursing on the job?” She throws this over her shoulder but doesn’t bother turning to look at the admin.
“Good morning to you, too, Marjorie! You look bloody killer.” Lucy winks even as she defies the higher-up.
Light laughter echoes down the hallway where Marjorie, I’m presuming, is about to take the elevator upstairs.
“Gotta love that old bird. You’ll get to know everyone in time. There are about four hundred of us, but it’s really a small world after a while.”
I nod like I know what she means, even though I clearly know not a soul here.
“Oh, wait!” She flips through another packet. “Your boss is actually new this week as well. He comes very highly recommended from a competitor. Innovative, bright, and ready to disrupt the space. Everyone is so excited he’ll be leading the new team. And lucky you, you get to do boot camp together.”
Internally, I give myself a high-five. I’ve had bosses that ranged from shit to moderately decent, but never one described like the one Lucy just gave me the rundown on. Sure, everyone has their bullshit, but if this guy is half of what she said, he’ll surpass all of my other bosses.
“Shit! I think that’s him.” She ducks her head as if she wasn’t just snooping all over his files, and I straighten to my full height.
Of course, this guy isn’t going to know I’m on his team, but better to introduce myself now than when we’re going around some table during an ice breaker. Then it will be weird and awkward, having to small talk about coding in front of people. Better bite the bullet and try to make a good impression now.
I turn, plastering a “I’m the best coder who will ever work for you” smile on my face.
And when I see who is walking briskly across the lobby, that smile is wiped clear the fuck off. That smile is back in New Jersey, four years ago, when I thought the man coming toward me would be the one I spent my entire future with.
Jack Merrick is all professional charm as he commands the tile floor, his cognac leather sneakers carrying strong legs encased in black denim. A white button-down, rolled up to the elbows, the top button loose, an easy swagger about him. Jack always did have that innate way of making people feel both extremely relaxed and flirtily flustered. His hair, the shade of a cinnamon-laced cappuccino, is longer than when I saw him last, the waves curling around the nape of his neck in a styled way. Like he uses gel. Damn, I guess the stylish capital of England is kind of getting to him. The chunky gold bracelet and leather watch around his right wrist are also evidence of that, but I see the hint of an earring in his left lobe and know that’s old hat.
Of course, the average onlooker wouldn’t know he has a peony inked on his left inner ankle or that the stud in his ear is a crescent moon. Both have been a staple on his body since he was eighteen. I cataloged them to memory.
I will myself to move, to escape from the onslaught of emotions hitting me because I know it’ll be worse once his eyes connect to mine and he realizes who is standing at the same check-in desk he’s about to walk up to. But I can’t. In all my escape from New York plans, I hadn’t once asked my brother where his internationally-traveled best friend was now living.
This is the boy who had been my childhood crush, my teenage dream, and my adult fantasy. One that had actually come true until he shattered me into a million pieces.
But before I can make any decision, I’m caught like a deer in headlights. I’ve always been able to feel Jack’s gaze on me, and right now is no different.
“Cookie?” That tone is quizzical, and as soon as he says his childhood nickname for me, he recoils as if he surprised himself by using it.
I should smile, give a lame wave, or perhaps act like I don’t know him at all to keep us completely platonic and undetected at work. But all I do is stare at him, my mouth wide open, my heart pumping overtime while my lungs squeeze so violently I might pass out from lack of air.
Jack stares at me, unblinking, those mesmerizing hazel eyes he possesses haunting my present as they’ve always haunted my past. When he wasn’t looking at me, which was typically all the time because what would interest him about his best friend’s little sister, I used to study his irises. An emerald flecked with gold, the color of a sunset, swirled together to make the most attractive twist.
He looks grown up since I last saw him, which is ironically about four years ago to this day, if I think about it. Except thinking about that night makes me burn with shame, rejection, and fury.
How the fuck could I be this stupid? How the hell could I have not double-checked this? Probably because I hadn’t asked Kit, my older brother, about his best friend since the night he left me under the cover of darkness.
Probably because I locked down any memory, remembrance, or wistful thought about him.
For four years, I refused to examine the heartbreak, which was now crushing down on my internal organs like it wanted to decimate them. It hurt too much; thinking about Jack sliced me to pieces, so I cut it out, leaving gnarly scars I refused to acknowledge.
And now he’s here, just as shocked as I am that we’re in the same city. It all comes rushing back, his face blurring in front of me.
The night of my college graduation party, he found me in my room and confessed that kissing me on the night of my high school graduation party had been the best and worst decision of his entire life. Because he hadn’t stopped thinking about me since because I was his best friend’s sister. Because for four years, he compared every other girl to me, just like he had when he was still in high school and couldn’t shake his feelings for me.
Even though I’d been heartbroken at eighteen after he hadn’t called or followed up in any way after that kiss, I let him kiss me again. I was twenty-two, older and much wiser when it came to boys. Didn’t mean I also hadn’t compared every guy I dated or hooked up with in college to Jack because, of course, I did. I’d been doing it almost my entire life.
I let him kiss me, strip off my clothes, and lay me down on the bed. I let him make love to me in the sweetest, sexiest, most intimate way a man ever had. That was the moment, or so I thought, that he’d fall in love with me despite the risk of pissing off his best friend.
That he’d fall in love with me the way I’d always been desperately in love with him.
A week later, after seven days of no calls or texts and zero communication, I heard from my brother that Jack had taken a job in Sweden a month prior and finally packed up to move across the world.
To say that my heart was obliterated would be an understatement. But I shut it down, became a shell of myself, and convinced my brain that I’d moved on.
Until this very moment.
“Oh, you know each other?” Lucy interrupts my horrible trip down memory lane and hands a stunned Jack his folder. “You’re her new boss! You’ll both be on the same team, coding for the new home robots.”
“You’re kidding,” he deadpans, and I want to melt into a puddle on the floor.
Or maybe sink through the floor. Is it possible to vanish into thin air if I try my hardest?
“Uh … hi.” My voice cracks awkwardly, and I want to punch myself in the face more than I had just seconds before.
Jack nods curtly, flipping through his folder, his eyes not even perusing me like mine can’t seem to stop doing to him. Yet again, I’m the one desperate for his attention while he can’t pay me two cents of his thoughts.
What are the fucking chances? Half a world away, I thought I’d be safe.
From the very real threats I encountered in New York, and from the one guy who had never given up the chokehold he has on my heart.
After months of seclusion, self-doubt, fear, and feeling like I would never be myself again, I thought London would be a fresh start. The only thing keeping me going was coming here and turning a page to a new chapter, where I wouldn’t feel afraid or unfulfilled.
Yet here he is, the very symbol of how unwanted I am. This city suddenly isn’t a clean slate for me; it’s a chalkboard marked up with years of history, rejection, and unworthiness that no matter how hard you try to scrub away with an eraser, a thin film of dust would always remain, reminding you.
