Unspoken (The Prose Series Book 1) Read online

  Unspoken

  The Prose Series - Book 1

  Sofia Tate

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  2. Bea

  “Ecstasy”

  3. Aiden

  4. Bea

  5. Aiden

  6. Bea

  “The Confession”

  7. Aiden

  8. Bea

  “Quid Pro Quo”

  9. Aiden

  10. Bea

  “The Trail to Happiness”

  11. Aiden

  “A Wall and a Pair of Pigalles”

  12. Bea

  13. Aiden

  “Yes, Sir.”

  14. Bea

  “Something New”

  15. Aiden

  16. Bea

  17. Aiden

  18. Bea

  19. Aiden

  20. Bea

  21. Aiden

  22. Six months later

  Also by Sofia Tate

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Sofia Tate

  Edited by Christa Soule Desir

  Cover Art by Cover Couture

  Photos © Shutterstock/Gpointstudio

  Photos © Depositphotos/Stokkete

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  ISBN: 978-1-7325261-0-5 (e-book edition)

  ISBN: 978-1-7325261-1-2 (print edition)

  For A

  Always,

  S

  Author’s Note

  Just as parents aren’t supposed to admit to having a favorite child, I think the same applies to authors and their novels. But I’m declaring this here and now – UNSPOKEN is my favorite book I’ve ever written, even though I still have many stories to tell (eight at last count). This book is very different from anything I’ve written before.

  I firmly believe that people enter your life for a reason. For as long as I live, I will always be grateful to the extraordinary person who inspired UNSPOKEN. This person appeared when I least expected it, believes in me when I think I’m a crap writer, and gets excited for me even when I only have “Chapter One” written at the top of the page.

  I wrote UNSPOKEN from my heart because of the person who served as its muse. It is the book I was meant to write, and for that and many other reasons, I am thankful for this person’s existence and being a part of my life.

  1

  Aiden

  I’ll never get used to this.

  “Yes, Mr. Dwyer, you’re expected. Please go right up. Happy holidays!” Isaac, the doorman at 700 Park Avenue, says to me in greeting.

  I step into the elevator, then wait as it lifts to the top.

  A black-and-white checkered marble floor greets me as I make my way to the sole apartment on this floor.

  “Ah, Mr. Aiden, please come in. Let me take your coat,” Sinclair, the Parkers’ butler, offers when he opens the door of the family’s opulent home that takes up an entire floor of the classically designed building, home to many of Manhattan’s society families.

  After all these years, my heart still races slightly faster and a wave of chills envelops my body, when I step into the apartment of Phillip and Margot Parker, parents of Sebastian Malcolm Parker, my best friend from Princeton.

  I am so far out of my comfort zone—the one that will require a ride through the Queens Midtown Tunnel, a zip through the EZ Pass lane, and a couple of exits on the Grand Central to get home tonight.

  After handing my coat to Sinclair, I check my jacket and tie in the mirror that hangs in the foyer, even though I already did that in the elevator when I came up; the one with the gold fixtures and Tiffany sconces.

  “They’re in the living room, sir. Please go right in.”

  I follow Sinclair’s instructions and make my way down the wide hallway, trying not to slip in the new shoes I bought last week for tonight. The maid obviously waxed the floor before I arrived.

  I hang a right at the first door, where the sounds of laughter are echoing. Three pairs of eyes turn to me when I step through the doorway.

  “Finally!” Sebastian shouts, grabbing me in a tight hug, giving me two hearty slaps on the back, which I return. “What the hell took you so long?”

  “It’s called traffic, Seb. It happens now and then in Queens. But you wouldn’t know since the only time you’re in Queens is to catch a flight from JFK or LaGuardia.”

  “Funny. Let me get you a drink, man.”

  Seb heads over to the liquor cart to pour me a whiskey when his mother rises from her seat on the sofa.

  “Ah, Aiden, so lovely to see you.” Sebastian’s mother welcomes me in that soft voice of hers, dressed in a red tweed suit and nude stilettos, a glass of pinot grigio in her right hand.

  I hand her the box of macaroons I picked up on my way over. “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Parker.”

  She slaps my arm as if to admonish me. “Aiden, you naughty boy. You know I shouldn’t have these.”

  “It’ll be our little secret,” I reply with a sly wink.

  She laughs at me good-naturedly when Seb’s father strides over, his tall frame overtaking his wife’s petite form. “Good to see you, Aiden. How’s your father?”

  I return his handshake. “Thank you, sir. He’s well. He gave me this for you, direct from Ireland.”

  Phillip Parker’s eyes glaze over, staring in wonderment at the gift box with Jameson emblazoned across the front. “God bless him, son.”

  I can’t help but grin in understanding, knowing well the feeling of the smooth liquor flowing down my throat, giving me a satisfactory burn in return. “I’ll tell him.”

  Seb hands me a crystal tumbler filled with amber liquid. “Here you go, Aid.”

  “Darling, have you seen the latest issue?” Mrs. Parker asks her son, picking up the most recent issue of Park from the coffee table.

  “No, Mom,” he mutters under his breath with a roll of his eyes.

  “You should have a look, dear. It appears several young ladies from your circle are on the committee of that New Year’s Eve benefit Bea is working on. So charitable, those girls.”

  I watch as Seb, with shoulders hunched and emitting a loud sigh, turns toward the Monet hanging over the mantel, as if he’s found something fascinating about it that he hasn’t before in all the years it’s hung in the same place.

  During our freshman year at Princeton, Seb filled me in on who his family was—the Parkers of Park Avenue are the family behind Park magazine, further going on to explain that it’s the magazine for the people in his family’s society circle. The only periodical I read on a regular basis is the sports pages in the Daily News. The magazine was founded by his grandfather, Hamish Parker, who named it for the street he lived on and where his family still resides, evoking the type of demographic he was aiming for as readers. It also helps that it’s a shortened version of the family surname.

  Seb’s posture echoes the burden he feels carryi
ng on the family legacy of the magazine. As publisher, Mr. Parker has always hoped that Seb would want to take his rightful place alongside his father at the helm, but his son has zero interest in the magazine. His interests lie more in finding the best places to ski in the off-season, having me play his wingman when he drags me out to some snooty bar on the Upper East Side, and seeing how many phone numbers he can collect on his phone in one night.

  Shaking his head in frustration at the sight of his son’s disinterest, Mr. Parker leans back in his seat. “So, Aiden, are you working on any exciting sites now?”

  I take a swallow of the scotch, turning my attention to Seb’s father. “Yes, sir. We’ve just broken ground on a new apartment building in Long Island City.”

  “I hear that’s a rapidly growing area of Queens.”

  I nod. “It is. It’s our first project that’ll be all eco-friendly, collecting rainwater on the roof, solar panels, the whole nine yards. Pop and I are very excited about it.”

  A low purr fills my ears. “No work boots tonight, Full Ride? Good thing since you could’ve tracked dirt all over the Aubusson.”

  Fuck.

  I exhale a breath, biting down on the inside of my lower lip. She sounds like honey at first, but then delivers a remark full of tart that causes one to wince in pain.

  I stand and turn around, coming face-to-face with the woman who to others may seem like my nemesis by how we address each other, but in reality, she’s the object of my lust and affection, and she would say the same if you asked her.

  Beatrice Parker, Bea, Seb’s little sister, or “The Park Avenue Princess” as local gossip columnists have crowned her. The girl who attended the finest schools, had her debutante coming out ball at the Waldorf, and is now primed to pick a husband only the best money and status can buy. A handful of suitors are already chomping at the bit to be known as Mr. Beatrice Parker.

  Good luck, morons. You’ll never know how to handle a spitfire like her.

  Bea possesses the ability to turn otherwise mature, intelligent men, into babbling masses of drained, brainless flesh.

  Except me—Full Ride, the nickname she ungraciously bestowed upon me because I received a full scholarship to Princeton. I never lose IQ points around her. I can give as good as I get, in spite of the heat sparking between us, or maybe because of it.

  Here we go. Ready.

  “Hello, Buzzy.”

  I smirk at the frown that takes over her entire face. She loathes it when I call her that. She throws her shoulders back and raises her head.

  Aim.

  “Aiden. I see you have a beard now. I’m surprised you didn’t show up in a flannel shirt. What’s next? Moving to a four-story walkup in Williamsburg next to an artisanal cheese shop and an organic free-trade café where you grind your own coffee beans?”

  “I trimmed it especially for you, so you wouldn’t be repulsed if the sauce from the duck a l’orange dribbled into it. And what about you? Will you be terrorizing the other skiers in Aspen for New Year’s Eve?”

  “Actually, it’ll be St. Moritz. After the benefit, of course.”

  “Good. I’ll be sure to warn the Swiss ski patrol to be on the lookout for a five-eight blonde who believes rules don’t apply to her.”

  Fire.

  “Don’t worry about me, Aiden. I doubt I’ll be skiing that much. I’m staying in a chalet that belongs to our close family friends. They want me to meet their nephew. A member of the Lichtenstein royal family. Who knows, I might just come back engaged.”

  Bullseye.

  Her frown is now upturned into a victorious grin.

  My hand tightens on my glass. As much as she’s won this round, and I’m smarting from her verbal lashing, it doesn’t stop me from wanting her. My eyes roam over her lithe body, her jade-green silk dress accentuating her emerald eyes and every luscious curve, the shiny silver heels on her feet highlighting her perfectly formed legs, her blond hair pinned into a bun at the nape of her neck, and finally, the fire engine-red lipstick covering her full mouth.

  I press my lips together to keep myself from doing what I want most right now—to drag her into the nearest closet, maid’s room, I don’t give a fuck as long as it’s empty, then keep her there until she admits what I’ve known for a while now—she wants me too. The Park Avenue Princess and the son of the Irish immigrant construction worker father from Astoria, Queens, who got a full ride to an Ivy League university. If I have to smear her lipstick as I take her tongue into my mouth, or undo that proper bun, letting the pins drop to the floor, cover her neck and chest with soft kisses and long licks, reach under her dress and gently rub her wet pussy with my fingers—I would do it all until she gave in, gave herself to me.

  And she knows it, judging by the softened look in her eyes, a look that seems to have cropped up again and again over the past few months as if she’s finally noticed me as a man and not just her brother’s best friend. If only she weren’t my best friend’s little sister and so far out of my league that I may as well be the unrequited pool boy at her family’s estate in the Hamptons.

  “Okay, stand down, you two,” Mr. Parker declares, rising to his feet. “I think dinner should be ready by now. Let’s adjourn into the dining room, shall we?”

  I don’t move, and neither does Bea. Our eyes are locked on each other, our chests rising with each breath, impervious to Seb and his parents grabbing their cocktails and moving toward the door.

  A hard slap on my shoulder blade jolts me back. “Come on, Aid. I’m starving. And I’m guessing so are you,” Seb surmises.

  Too right, man, but not for salad with champagne dressing, roasted goose, or apple pie with vanilla coulis.

  Bea gives me one last smirk before turning for the door, her lovely round ass covered in green silk taunting me.

  That gorgeous ass. That is why I’m starving.

  Dinner goes as usual in the Parker household. Food is served to the right of the guest; plates are removed from the left. Various discussion topics are discussed—the stock market, Christmas sales, the family’s upcoming winter stay at their home in Lyford Cay.

  All polite. All proper.

  But the looks that Bea and I exchange when no one is watching are nowhere near close to anything resembling propriety and decorum. She sits across the table from me, the light from the silver candelabra illuminating her creamy skin, highlighting the hints of caramel in her hair. We don’t need to verbally spar now. The power of her eyes expresses everything I need to know—she desires me as much as I do her. But I know she will never act on those feelings. I am beneath her in every way that matters to her—financially and socially. Plus, there’s Sebastian. Even though it’s unspoken between us, we’re afraid of what would happen if we acted on our feelings. She doesn’t even have to say it out loud. Goodbye, best friend.

  Finally, the meal ends with everyone pushing back from the table, returning to the living room for port or cognac, as is the ritual.

  I excuse myself and head for the guest bathroom. Winding my way toward it, I decide to take a detour and explore. I’ve been here countless times for various occasions, but I’m always blown away by the sheer luxury of my best friend’s family home. Nobody would think I was doing something untoward, but if asked, I could always say I was inspecting things from a construction point of view.

  I pass by the library, covered in wall-to-wall cherry wood bookshelves, all of them accessorized with sliding ladders to reach the books on the highest level. I step in and admire the quiet solemnity of the space when something catches my eye.

  A silver laptop sits alone on a side table near one of the leatherback chairs. I can’t help my curiosity. I step over and glance at the screensaver-a picture of Bea with her best friend, Marisol.

  It’s her laptop.

  I really shouldn’t.

  I glance behind me to make sure I’m alone. I press the screen open.

  A page pops up, illustrated in black and gold with the text against a white background. The webs
ite’s header is in black and written in cursive script: Prose. For Discreet Singles.

  My eyes pop open in shock. There’s no way Seb would need to join a dating site because he can land three girls in one night, which I saw happen more than once when were at school. And neither would Bea because—

  Then I see the login box for the user ID and password. The password box is empty, but not the ID. 10280girl.

  Beatrice is the only single girl in the house.

  Holy shit. It is Bea. On a fucking dating site. What in the hell is she doing on here? The line of her potential suitors could stretch up and down Park Avenue.

  I pause when I realize she didn’t use her own zip code, 10021.

  Where the fuck is 10280? I pull my cell from my back pocket and google it. The result reads Battery Park City, at the southernmost tip of Manhattan.

  That makes sense. She finds great pleasure in reminding me that nobody in her social circle ever ventures below 57th Street, except for a Broadway show in Times Square or a trendy restaurant in Soho or Tribeca.

  I reach down to click on the other links on her laptop, but before my finger reaches the icon, the sound of high heels walking down the hallway echoes into the room. Thank God for Carrara marble tiles.

  I jump back from the laptop and silently beg for the screen to close. I rush over to the display case where the first copy of Park, the one that Seb’s grandfather produced by hand, sits permanently under glass with an art light over it, illuminating the cover proudly as if it were in a museum. I make it in time to pretend I’m studying the magazine just as Bea enters the room.