by R.S. Grey
“Oh, err, I’m on the clock. Actually, is there anything I can get you, Mr. Ashwood? The kitchen is still open.”
That’s a lie. When I passed by, the kitchen staff was wrapping up for the night, cleaning and prepping for tomorrow, but I don’t care. I will force one of them to whip something up if James wants it, and if they don’t agree, I’ll do it myself. I’ve seen inside the refrigerators back there—there’s more than enough fancy food to mask my ineptitude.
“You’re still on the clock?” he asks, still facing away from me.
“Yes.”
With that, he uses his foot to push aside the barstool beside him. Now it’s angled to face him, and it’s clearly an invitation for me to sit.
“So then there’s no problem. I pay the club, the club pays you, and now I’m asking you to sit.”
His words are demanding and clear. This man has entitlement seeping from his pores, but his tone catches me off guard. It’s surprisingly gentle, almost…sad.
I step closer. “I really shouldn’t. I have closing duties.”
He chuckles, just once, like he knows I’m lying. “I’m sure they can manage without you.”
And then finally, he turns and levels me with his searing gaze. As I suspected, his eyes are dark brown, almost black, and they pack quite a punch.
“Mr. Ashwood! I didn’t realize you were still here.”
It’s Brian, finally. He’s rushing into the room to aid our last, lonely member, but James is still focused on me, studying me just like I’m studying him.
“I’d like Brooke to sit with me for a few minutes,” he says to Brian. “Can you spare her?”
“Oh!” Brian’s gaze volleys between us. “Of course, but it’s up to Brooke. Her shift is ending soon.”
I’m shocked by his answer. I assumed he would force me to sit and entertain James. Now, the decision is up to me, and that somehow makes it easier to step closer and accept the barstool he’s moved aside for me. Brian says he’ll be in his office if Mr. Ashwood needs anything, and before he leaves, he shoots me a warning with one look: don’t say anything stupid.
Then we’re alone again in the quiet dining room.
I situate myself on the barstool so my cocktail dress falls as far down my thighs as the silky material will allow. James acts like he doesn’t notice as he takes a long pull of his drink. I wonder what number he’s on. He doesn’t seem drunk, but he’s been in the club for hours, so there’s no way he’s exactly sober.
I turn and study his profile. At this proximity, I can see everything I’ve been imagining for the last few weeks. My gaze drags across his strong jawline and then higher, across his cheekbones. He’s still clean-shaven, and I wonder if he usually has more stubble by this time of day.
Maybe I would have asked him, but he speaks up first.
“Tell me the real reason you didn’t want to sit with me.”
He asks the question with a small, teasing smirk, and it makes me want to tease back.
“I didn’t want to get fired.”
His smirk extends another inch and he turns to face me. I’m sad to lose his profile, but this is so much better. It’s intoxicating to sit this close to him, with his full attention aimed at me. His eyes hold mine and I want to continue like that, meeting him spade for spade, but I cave. My gaze falls to my lap, and then over to the rows of expensive liquor lining the back of the bar.
“Having a drink with a member off the clock hardly seems like a fireable offense.”
“Well if I’m off the clock, I might as well just head home,” I say coyly.
“Something tells me you’ll stay.”
His voice is so smooth and enticing. It’s confident, but not nearly as sharp as I’d imagined.
“I usually don’t keep company with guys like you,” I say, giving him the real reason. I catch his raised eyebrows out of the corner of my eyes. Maybe my honesty caught him off guard. “Sorry, you’re probably used to staff members kissing your ass.”
He nods. “Usually the right cheek, but your boss, Brian—he goes for both.”
Is that genuine humor? It feels like a trap, as if he’s trying to bait me into incriminating myself. I remain silent, half tempted to slide off the barstool and leave.
“Well if it matters, you’re not my usual type either,” he offers.
What’s that supposed to mean?
“Well, yeah. I’d imagine you spend less time with the help and more time with the helped, like the group you came in with.”
“Those women came with my friends, part of the celebration committee,” he clarifies.
I remember that’s why he came in tonight.
“What are we celebrating?”
“We? Technically I’m the only one with a drink.”
He holds up his tumbler to prove his point.
Most of the veteran employees drink through their entire shift, so I don’t feel bad hopping down and slinking around the bar to pour myself something. There’s a ton of wine, but none of the bottles are open, so instead I settle for a Jack and Coke, heavy on the Coke. It’s not my usual, but I enjoy the slight burn of acid in the back of my throat. It distracts me from the fact that James is watching me walk around the bar and reclaim my seat. Jack and James.
I take another sip and then brave a glance at him. He looks amused…by me. How nice. I’ve always wanted to amuse a man as hot as him. Not.
“Now what are we celebrating?” I ask again, trying to keep the topic of conversation away from anything too personal.
“My company just launched a new product.”
“Oh yeah?” I’d heard he owned his own company. “What’s the product?”
“A smart watch.”
“Sounds fancy. What does this glorified pedometer do? Track how many steps housewives take between the wine aisle at Target and their kid’s soccer practice?”
I’m caught off guard by my own boldness, but if I’m truly off the clock, I’m no longer being paid to put up a subservient veneer.
“Not quite. It’s an early detection system for heart attacks.”
My glass pauses on the way to my mouth. “What? How?”
“It’ll bore you.”
“Try me.”
He sighs and sets his tumbler down. “Basically, a high-risk patient wears it around their wrist and the device’s biosensors keep track of temperature, oxygen saturation, blood pressure, and respiratory rates.”
“Sounds fancy,” I say.
“All of that is basic. The real breakthrough is our proprietary software. It integrates these previously isolated data points within predictive algorithms.”
He sees my raised eyebrow and decides to bring it down a notch.
“In 99% of the trial cases, it warned people about a myocardial infarction 10 minutes before it actually happened.”
“Wow, okay. So I pay you for a watch that beeps and tells me I’m going to die?”
He looks down and laughs, shaking his head. “When it detects an oncoming attack, it dispenses a low dose of aspirin, dispatches an ambulance to your location, and calls your emergency contact.”
I’m suddenly aware that I’ve started biting my lower lip. There’s something about a man talking passionately about something. When I realize what I’m doing, I release it and reach for my drink. “I feel bad for calling it a glorified pedometer.”
He laughs. “Well to be fair, it does track a user’s steps too. I think most smart watches do these days.”
I smile. “How long have you been working on it?”
“Five years.”
“Five years?! And you’re celebrating here?”
I sweep my hand across the dining room. It’s nice, don’t get me wrong, but if I’d spent five years working on something that SAVES PEOPLE’S LIVES, I’d celebrate anywhere but here. Disneyland, maybe.
“All day I’ve been pulled in different directions. Interviews, luncheons, a launch party…it feels good to sit here.” Maybe he can tell I’m not convinced, beca
use he continues, “I’ve been coming here since I was a kid. In a way, it’s a second home for me.”
That’s surprising to hear. Most of the members who are legacies tend to have that old money stench to them—lazy, entitled, and more demanding than most. James Ashwood doesn’t carry the stench. In fact, the man smells like an amalgam of all those sexy-sounding cologne things: spice and pine and sandalwood. What the hell is sandalwood anyway?
“How long ago was that? Were you here before they moved the golf course?” I ask.
“Are you just trying to figure out my age?”
Guilty.
I blush. “Maybe.”
“I’m 36.”
“Huh.”
For some reason, I’m disappointed.
“How old did you think I was?”
“Just…younger.”
I take another sip of my Jack and Coke. Soon I’m going to need a refill, or maybe by then James will be ready to leave.
“How old are you, Brooke?”
I still, somehow shocked that he knows my name. Did Brian say it earlier? I can’t remember.
I slide my gaze to him. He’s watching me with those eyes, a gaze that can cut straight through me. “I’m 25.”
“25,” he repeats with a nod before taking a sip of his drink.
“11 years.”
“What?”
“That’s the gap between us.”
He smirks. “Am I allowed to have a drink with a woman 11 years younger than me?”
He sounds amused again. My cheeks are so red they might stay that way permanently, but I refuse to be anything other than cool and collected around James.
I shrug. “It’s just a drink, right? I didn’t mean to insinuate that we’re—”
He cuts me off. “You didn’t. Anyway, you told me I wasn’t your type earlier, remember?”
I nearly choke. “Well, my type has been pretty hit-and-miss lately.”
“You have a boyfriend?”
There’s an authoritative edge to his tone when he asks that question—or maybe I’m reading too much into it.
“Soon to be ex, actually.”
“Poor guy.”
He doesn’t sound the least bit empathetic.
“Maybe he deserves it,” I point out.
“Maybe.”
I look away and change the subject. “So, you make heart attack watches…is that what you used to tell people you wanted to do when you grew up?”
He sighs like my question just weighed him down. I glance back to find him staring down at his empty glass.
“It’s just one part of my company…a means to an end.”
“For what?”
He glances up at me from beneath his brows. “I started BioWear when I graduated from college, when I was…well, a bit more idealistic. I wanted to help people who really needed it, not just rich Americans. I wanted to combat neglected tropical diseases.”
I laugh. “Okay, turn around—let me see if there’s a cape hanging off that suit.”
He doesn’t laugh with me. “I’m boring you. Let’s talk about something else.”
I’ve offended him.
I reach out and touch his shoulder. It’s an intimate act between friends, but we aren’t friends—we hardly know each other. We both freeze, and maybe I’ve gone too far, presumed too much. I yank my hand away and face the bar. It’s an awkward couple of seconds, made worse by the fact that he doesn’t rush to speak first.
“You can tell me about it if you want,” I offer quietly. “I’d like to know more.”
He doesn’t continue right away. He’s like a turtle coming out of his shell. Maybe he doesn’t open up to many people like this, or maybe he thinks I really am bored, but in truth, this man could read off his junk mail folder and I’d be listening with bated breath.
“During my senior year of college, I took a global health seminar as a blow-off class. The professor didn’t give tests, everyone knew it, so twice a week, I sat in the back row, bored and distracted while most of my friends didn’t even bother showing up. I don’t remember what most of the semester focused on, but one day, we had a guest lecturer, a project coordinator for Doctors Without Borders. She stood at the front of the class and flipped through a quick PowerPoint. Each slide presented some form of technology that could drastically impact the lives of people in third world countries—water filtration systems, solar panels, that sort of thing. At the end of it, she challenged us to be the next wave of inventors.”
“And you listened.”
He meets my gaze. “I guess so.”
“So what’s your focus?”
He answers quickly. “Mosquitos.”
“Mosquitos?”
“They’re the number one carrier of tropical diseases like malaria.”
I’ve listened to enough NPR news hours to realize that’s true, but short of eradicating the whole species, there’s not much that can be done. Unless…
“So you want to buy a bunch of mosquito nets?”
He smiles. “The first piece of wearable tech I developed was a shirt—the BioShield.”
“Sounds like something Iron Man would wear. What does it do?”
“It monitors the resting electric potential of human skin. The second a mosquito lands, the nanoprocessors in the device feel it. Before the mosquito can bite, an imperceptible electrical impulse is sent along the wearer’s epidermis, just enough to deter the mosquito.”
“Sounds awesome.”
“It is. In testing, the prototype reduced the transmission of mosquito-born diseases by 98%.”
“Have you guys started mass-producing it yet?”
He laughs. “To date, there have been three versions made. Each one cost about a million dollars.”
I’d do a spit-take if my Jack and Coke weren’t empty.
“I guess it’s pretty hard to market in sub-Saharan Africa at that price.”
“Exactly.”
He stares down at his glass.
“So what are you going to do?” I ask, enjoying the fact that he’s talking to me as if I’m an equal, not just some cabana girl.
“I’ve run the numbers, and with enough time and ingenuity, that number can be reduced to about $200 a shirt. So, while it won’t ever be profitable…”
“It would be affordable,” I finish, and he nods. “From a charity perspective. So your watch…it funds that project?”
He taps his glass on the bar twice in the affirmative. “Along with a few of our other mass-market consumer items.”
“You know you could just kick back and buy a yacht or something, right?” I laugh.
“Yeah, but the upkeep on those things is ridiculous. It’s better to rent, even if you have to give up that new yacht smell.”
His slow-rolling smirk catches me off guard.
“Oh, the problems of the rich,” I tease with an exaggerated eye roll.
It’s clear James realizes how fortunate he is—fortunate, and getting more irresistible by the minute, which is a problem for a whole slew of reasons. He’s 11 years older than me, and not once has he intimated that he invited me to sit for reasons beyond a platonic conversation. I should probably get up and leave before I accidentally fall into his bottomless brown eyes.
“Enough about me,” he says, as if reading my mind. “What do you want to do with your life?”
Oh come on, like that’s fair. It feels like I’m back in the third grade about to present my science fair project. Becky Olsen just went into detail about the efficacy and longevity of three popular sunscreen brands. Meanwhile, I’m picking my nose in front of a ragged poster that asks: Are Cocoa Puffs Yummier than Fruity Pebbles?
So, I deflect with humor. “You’re looking at it.”
“What? Working at a country club?”
Of course he sounds surprised, but for all he knows this is my dream job. Maybe I scraped by my entire life getting to this point and he just shit all over it.
“Ohh yeah. I love working at the cabana pool, ser
ving margaritas to old geezers like you.”
He smirks. “That’s fine. I just don’t see someone like you staying at a place like this for long.”
“Someone like me? Because you know me so well?”
“I know of you.”
Now I’m really confused.
“What does that mean?”
“You’re pretty infamous around here.”
I’m shocked. “For what exactly? I’ve only worked here for a few months.”
Rumors travel fast through the club, regardless of whether they’re based in fact or fiction. For all I know, some member has been going around with some story about how I gave him a blowjob down in the wine cellar. It wouldn’t be that much of a stretch—Janice did it with Mr. Neal last week. I know because I caught them in the act.
“Nothing bad,” he assures me. “Let’s just say that every male member took notice the day you started working here.”
Oh.
I don’t know what he wants me to do with that information, giggle and fan my face? You mean they like little ol’ me? The knowledge makes my skin itch. I want to deflect the attention away from me.
“Well, that’s interesting considering every female employee is obsessed with you.” I hold up my empty glass. “Cheers to being infamous.”
By my tone, it’s clear I don’t really put much stock in what he’s said. I’ve never wanted to be a woman who derives her self-worth from the opinions of lecherous old men.
He’s quiet, probably confused by my reaction, and instead of pushing away from the bar and offering up some excuse to leave, I gift him with the same knowledge he just gave me: the truth.
“I double-majored at UT, Spanish and French. Ideally, I’d like to find an au pair position where I can tutor a child in those languages one on one.”
“You speak French?”
“Oui,” I say with a wink.
The information seems to interest him more than it should, but I don’t get the chance to enquire as to why before I catch Brian approaching us out of the corner of my eye.
“Mr. Ashwood, how is everything going in here?” he asks with a light and pleasant tone. “The kitchen staff has left for the night”—subtle hint at how late it is—“but I’m happy to get you anything you need”—not-so-subtle hint that James is a VIP member Brian doesn’t want to piss off.