Desperately Seeking Epic(4)
“Let me at least get their credit cards before you come out.”
He lifts his sparkly blue eyes to meet my gaze, his stare filled with mirth, and winks. He lives for these three days a month when I allow him to be a prankster. The corner of his mouth lifts in a slight smirk. “Of course.”
Heading out front, I flip the OPEN sign and unlock the front door. Sipping my coffee, I check to make sure the waiver forms are on the clipboards and plenty of pens are in the cup in the center of the table. The doorbell jingles and Larry and Bowman walk in, both laughing.
“Morning, boss,” Larry calls.
“Morning, Clara,” Bowman follows.
“Morning, guys. Heads-up, Marcus is in the back prepping, so you better make yourselves scarce or he’ll get pissed.”
“Oh, shit,” Bowman chuckles. “It’s the fifteenth.”
Bowman and Larry are former military, both paratroopers during their time in service. They’re my most reliable and highly trained jumpers. They’re not cheap either, but aside from their experience they’re both extremely attractive and my female clientele flock to them like flies on shit. Larry is your classic Tom Cruise, with dark hair and eyes, and Bowman is a blue-eyed stud with a knee weakening smile. Since word of mouth is my best advertisement, I pay their hefty commission and they flirt their asses off with anything with breasts.
“How many today?” Larry asks as they pass by me.
“Twenty-five.”
“Yes,” Bowman coos. “Perfect day for jumping, too.”
Ten minutes later, our first two jumpers come in; a big guy and a tiny brunette. It’s always a mystery on who Marcus will pick in these situations. I never know because there’s really no rhyme or reason to his choosing.
“Bradley?” I question.
“That’s me,” the big guy responds.
I run through the formal greeting with them and hand them all their waivers to fill out and sign, basically stating they can’t sue us if they get hurt, and their families can’t sue us if anything happens to them. After I offer them coffee, Bradley hands me his credit card to pay for their jumps. As I turn to leave them to their paperwork while I run his card, the door jingles, causing me to turn back.
My heart drops to the floor and I suck in a deep breath as memories from what seem like a lifetime ago crash over me.
I don’t do happily ever after.
He’s here.
Paul has come home.
“I don’t understand,” I repeated for the thousandth time. “He’s leaving me his business?”
Mr. Mateo leaned back as he removed his glasses and tossed them on the desk. “Half his business. The other half he’s leaving to his nephew. Paul, Mr. Falco’s nephew,” he explained, “is interested in buying out your half.”
“It’s a skydiving business?” I questioned. He’d already told me this, repeatedly, but for some reason I couldn’t quite wrap my head around it. The fact I was even sitting in this office was mind-boggling, let alone apparently inheriting a skydiving business. The anxiety was enough to choke me. My hands were knotted in my lap, my knuckles white from squeezing so hard.
“That’s correct, Ms. Bateman. A prominent one in the area, at that. Mr. Falco was a great business man.”
“How wonderful for him,” I sneered, clenching my hands tighter. I hated myself for even being there. Did Dennis Falco really believe by leaving me half of his business he would somehow be absolved from the horrible thing he did? Did he think I would just forgive him?
Mr. Mateo sat up, his fancy leather desk chair squeaking as he shifted his weight, and opened the folder in front of him. After slipping his glasses back on, he grabbed an envelope and slid it across the desk to me. “He asked that you get this letter.”
A letter? What could this man have to say to me? I’m sorry for what I did? I’m sorry I ruined your life? I stared at the legal-sized envelope, debating whether or not I should leave it. Wouldn’t that be the ultimate middle finger to Dennis Falco? Then Mr. Mateo grabbed what looked like a brochure and placed it beside the envelope. Hesitantly, I picked up the brochure and read over it.
The brochure was covered with pictures of what appeared to be clients on their jumps, with pictures taken while in the air. Opening it, in the center was a photo of a tan-complexioned man, Italian maybe, with big brown eyes and the most beautiful smile I’d ever seen. He looked like he had a thousand teeth all perfectly placed. He’d definitely had braces at some point in his life—teeth were a specialty of mine. And he had the cutest dimples—as if he wasn’t already gorgeous enough.
Above his picture in bold lettering was: MEET EPIC, STUNTMAN EXTRODINAIRE.
“That’s Paul James. He’s your partner,” Mr. Mateo volunteered.
“They call him ‘Epic’?”
“He was a movie stuntman until he got injured. That was a few years ago. He’s a bit of a draw for the business.”
Moving my gaze back to the envelope, I continued debating whether I should take it or not. “Does his nephew know about this? About him leaving me half?”
“He knows half of the business was left to someone, but not who.”
“This is . . . surreal,” I managed.
Mr. Mateo gave a sad smile. “The business is very hands-on. Mr. Falco jumped almost every day until he got too bad off to. His nephew, Paul, also jumps every day. While the business is successful and profitable, your half would only sell for forty or fifty thousand judging by the numbers I’ve been provided.”