by Ivy Carter
I hold up my hand. Honestly, I can’t listen to such mundane statistics. “Look, Emily, I’m going to be honest with you. Please spare me the sob story about babies who can’t read. I don’t care about your charity. I don’t care if these kids can read or not, or what their level of reading is. It doesn’t matter to me. It is not what I’m here for. I am here to make money, broker deals, build buildings that make the Boston skyline even more beautiful and invest in real things that make lots of money. I’ll leave all the philanthropy nonsense to philosophers and dreamers to figure out. People like yourself, obviously.”
Emily keeps her eyes fixed on me for a moment before saying, “You truly are as cold as they say. I didn’t believe the stories, I came in here with an open mind, but it turns out you’re even worse than I could have imagined.” She shakes her head. “We need to invent a new word for cold because it doesn’t fit, that’s for sure. Colder than ice.”
Somehow I’m amused rather than offended. She has no idea that this version of me has been forged through years of relentless battles fought with and against those closest to me. She has no clue that it’s people like me who make jobs like hers possible.
But if she wants to melt the ice man, then perhaps I’ll see just how far she’s willing to go to heat things up.
“Tell you what,” I say, rising from the desk and slipping my hands in my pockets. “I will donate to your non-profit.” I pause, relishing in the surprise—and self-satisfaction—that flashes across Emily’s face. Like she just can’t wait to run back to her boss and brag that she did it—she landed a donation from the mighty Jackson Croft of Croft International. “In fact,” I say, “I’ll make it generous. Ten thousand dollars.”
A breath escapes her lips, and she can’t help but smile. She is pleased with herself. “Thank you very much, Mr. Croft. The Children’s Education Fund thanks you.” She strides toward me, that satisfied look playing on her lips with her hand stretched out toward mine. I take it in my own. Her hand is tiny—my own completely engulfs it, covering the smooth, soft skin.
“I’m not done yet,” I say, keeping her hand in mine. “There’s one condition. I’ll donate the money—if you allow me to take you out to dinner tonight.”
The smirk falls away from her face, and she pulls her hand out of my grasp.
“There is no way in hell,” she says. “Not even for a million.”
Emily
Arrogant prick.
Never has the term seemed so fitting. What an arrogant prick this Jackson Croft is, and to think I actually believed he’d want to add some philanthropy to his company, if for no other reason than it makes them look good.
As his words sink in, I’m shocked at his proposition. Even after I’ve said no, he’s clearly not discouraged. I can tell by the way he’s watching me, confident, his expression almost amused.
I’m suddenly flustered, despite my best intentions to stay focused and calm.
Because despite the fact that he’s an arrogant prick, I can’t help admit—secretly and only to myself—that he is hot.
He really knows how to wear that suit, perfect to his every muscle and bulge. The cost of that one suit could probably fund three kids in our program.
Of course, this makes me even more determined to say no to him—his values are so out of whack.
I square myself against him, trying to keep my eyes on his face, chiseled though it is, and not let them drift to his broad chest and flat abs. He may be wearing a perfectly fitted oxford and tie, but there is no hiding the fact that there’s one amazing body beneath the fabric.
“Look,” I say, trying to steady my voice. “There’s no way I’ll go to dinner with you just so we can get a donation. You are totally delusional.” I need to get out of his office and fast, because whoa. I can feel myself losing what little authority I pretended to have when I first stepped in here.
The longer I’m near this guy the weaker I feel. It’s purely an animal thing, I’m sure. The guy is an asshole. But he’s still the hottest man I’ve ever seen in my entire life.
Despite the fact that I am embarrassingly inexperienced in romance and sex, no man has ever made me feel this strongly, this quickly. It’s like I can feel the pull toward him, my body wanting to get closer to him, while my brain tells me to run for the door.
So I do, I head for the door, eager to get out, regretting my decision to storm in here in the first place.
“Emily, wait.”
My fingers are on the cool door handle. I pause. Looking back at Jackson, I can’t help but be curious. “What?”
“Slow down,” he says, and although his face is stern, I swear I hear the slightest hint of teasing in his deep baritone. He likes this, being in control.
“I won’t be bought,” I tell him. My parents taught my siblings and me to stand strong on our own two feet and make the world a better place, but they didn’t mean like this. Dad always said integrity can’t be bought, and he’s right. Clearly Jackson is used to buying whatever he wants, but he’s got the wrong girl this time.
His looks might make me weak in the knees, but his personality is ugly, and that’s what really counts.
“I’m not trying to buy you,” Jackson says. His voice has softened. “I’d simply like to spend the evening with you. One meal. I was curt with you when you came in here, and I want to make it up to you. Maybe you can tell me more about what you do at the fund.” He cocks his head to the side, his eyes like lasers on me. My heart has picked up speed again and I try to keep my emotions steady.
This isn’t how this morning was supposed to go. I knew Jackson Croft would be intimidating—a twenty-eight-year-old billionaire doesn’t get to this position without some serious balls, even if it is the family business. But I didn’t expect him to make me feel like charging across the room and wrapping my legs around his waist. I squirm under his gaze.
But if he can stay strong, so can I. “Not a chance,” I say, lifting my chin to show that I mean it—even if I am intrigued at the prospect. Which is why I have to get out of here, quickly.
Before I can open the door, he says, “Twenty thousand.”
“Excuse me?” I say, turning back to him.
“I’ll donate twenty thousand dollars to your charity.”
“Great, I’ll take the check now,” I say, hoping against reason that he’s not serious about the strings.
He slowly shakes his head. His hair is thick, chestnut brown with golden highlights that probably come from summers at Cape Cod. It’s combed back, every strand perfectly in place. God, even his hair wouldn’t dare disobey him.
“Dinner, Ms. Brown,” he says. “Tonight.”
“No,” I say, my face now blazing. I can’t believe the arrogance of his guy. “And it’s ridiculous that you’re even playing this game. With a charity. For kids.”
I’m disgusted and just want to get out of here.
I can dream about running my fingers through his hair as his lips kiss my neck—dream about him from a safe distance—but I can’t stand to be in this office a second longer.
Just as I finally open the door, he says, “One hundred thousand dollars.”
The words freeze me. A hundred thousand dollars. I mentally do the math and think about all the kids whose lives we could change. Plus it would be the biggest donation in the organization’s history.
All I have to do is sit through a dinner with him.
Just the two of us.
I wonder: would that really be so bad? I mean, I do have to eat, right? It might as well be with him instead of the UBurger I planned on picking up at the end of the day.
I close the door and turn back to Jackson. I stride across the room quickly, before I lose my nerve. He seems at once startled and amused.
I'm standing what feels like inches from him. So close I can smell him, a light, clean scent with a hint of spice. Up close I see the gold dust in the brown of his eyes, and the smooth skin over the sharp lines of his jaw.
Maybe moving so
close wasn’t a great idea. Now all I want to do is slide my hands up his chest and see if it really is as hard and strong as it looks through his shirt.
“Yes?” he says, cool as ever.
“You can’t be serious,” I say.
“I’m always serious.”
“Why?” I ask, honestly. “Why does it have to be like this? Why can’t you just be good and donate the money? I would have been happy with the ten thousand. That’s an amazingly generous offer that would do so much good. Don’t you want to do good?”
“Oh, I do good, Ms. Brown,” he says. “In more ways than one.”
“I mean with the charity,” I say, as my cheeks flush.
“I told you, I don’t care about the charity.”
I can’t even believe someone would say that, could feel that. I’m glad he said it, because it shows me once again how truly slimy he is.
“I won’t do it,” I say, and now I finally mean it.
Leaning toward me so close that I can feel his cool breath on my cheek, Jackson says, “Think of the children. Because I won’t.”
“You’re cruel,” I say.
“You have no idea. Now, this is your last chance to consider my offer, and because you’ve been so hard-headed about it, I’m putting you on a time limit.” He looks at his watch, which is large and flashy and totally obnoxious. “You have one minute to decide. Is dinner with me so horrible a thought that you’d give up all that money that, as you say, could do so much good? Time starts now.”
I want to explode. He’s an asshole, but there’s just something about him that’s got me, emotionally and physically. I hate him; I want to crawl all over him. He’s watching me closely. My eyes drift to his lips, which are parted slightly.
“Tick tock, tick tock,” he says softly, teasingly.
This is what I want to tell him: I’ll go to dinner with you. For free. I don’t need some sleazy proposal to do it.
I’d like to see him on more neutral ground, not this office where his presence hovers as high as the top floor his office sits on. Maybe in a restaurant he’s less of a prick. I picture him checking his heart at the lobby downstairs each morning before he comes to work. Maybe he gets it back at the end of each day.
He crosses his arms over his chest. The smirk is still there, playing on those lips. Yeah, this guy is definitely used to getting what he wants—in business and from women.
“No,” I say, finally. “I’m sorry you don’t feel your money is good enough for us. But I won’t be bought.”
He almost laughs. “You’re not serious.”
But I am serious, and I prove it to both of us by moving as quickly as I can—before I do what I really want to do and give him everything he wants and more.
On shaking legs and in heels that are cutting my feet, I finally leave Jackson Croft’s office.
I get on the T at the State Street Station in a bit of a fog. What did I just do? I just turned down one hundred thousand dollars…so much money for the Children’s Education Fund.
Money we desperately need.
Not only is that stupid, bad business, and irresponsible, it might also get me fired from the job I was hoping to move into full-time once I graduate next year.
Plus, all that money could have changed so many kids’ lives, and isn’t that my mission in life? Why I’m busting my butt in the graduate program at Boston University to get my master’s in educational leadership? I want to make a difference, add some good in the world.
And now what—I have too much integrity to have dinner with a gorgeous billionaire? Am I clinically insane?
But I know that the game he was playing was dangerous. If I’d agreed to that dinner, if something god forbid had happened between us—then I’d basically have been no different than a prostitute.
And I didn’t get into this to sell myself to rich men.
Not even sexy, gorgeous ones like Jackson Croft? I ask myself.
My chest aches, knowing that a bigger part of me than I’d like to admit, actually wanted to give into him. Was dying to give in to his demands. The reality of the situation is that I was lucky to make it out of his office by the skin of my teeth…and if he’d said one more thing, perhaps touched my arm…it all would have been over and I’d have crumbled before him.
I transfer to the green line on autopilot, headed back to my place in Allston. I have class later this afternoon. No way will I be able to concentrate. What am I going to tell everyone at work, anyway? I have to tell them the truth—that he offered, and I said no.
To calm myself, I imagine telling this story to my mom and dad. They’re the ones who raised me to live a life of service to others. We may not have had a ton of money, but we always give what we can to helping others. It’s how I was raised, and it’s the only way I know how to be.
Which makes Jackson Croft that much more confusing.
The thought of someone—especially someone so privileged—having zero interest in helping others, even so much as to write a freaking check, is totally foreign to me. I just don’t get it.
I get off the T at the Allston stop. There are hints of fall in the air, and I relish the crisp air on my cheeks—much better than the suffocating heat I was feeling in Jackson’s office.
As I head into my studio apartment in the back of a blue house on Greylock Road, I get the story straight in my head. I had a bold plan to ask a huge corporate boss-guy for a donation and he turned me down. That’s one part of the story, the one I’ll tell to my co-workers. The other part of the story is that I met one of the sexiest, most ridiculously attractive men I have ever seen in my life.
The way he acted repulsed me. The way he looked drove me insane in a completely different way.
I sigh with relief as I kick off my shoes. Stupid blister. As I hunt for Band-Aids, my phone buzzes. It’s Jules from work, no doubt wanting every detail of the meeting. I had gone in with total pipe dreams of securing a donation and gradually getting Jackson—and his money—more involved in CEF, but it backfired in a humiliating way.
“Hey, Jules,” I answer. I take a deep breath, preparing myself for blowing it so badly. If things had at least gone differently—like, if Jackson Croft had said he’d think about donating to such a worthwhile cause but needed to see more research, I could have brought in Jules to close the deal.
But now the deal is dead before anyone else had a chance at it. That’s my big mistake—going for such a big prospect with no backup.
“So?” Jules asks. “You’re on speaker. Talk.”
“Tell us!” voices say in the background, and there’s laughter. My stomach churns. It’s a small office but it sounds like most of the staff is there. Did they really think I was going to pull it off? Get Jackson Croft of Croft International to give money to our little charity?
“There’s not much to say,” I offer lamely.
“We need to know all about it,” she says.
“I’m just,” I begin, not knowing how to tell them all, where to begin. My mind has gone suddenly blank. “I don’t know what happened.”
“You’ll have to do better than that,” Jules says. “Because whatever you did needs to be standard operating procedure from now on. You’ll have to train the interns on how to ask for donations.”
“And get the big ones!” someone calls in the background.
I pause, confused. “Wait…” My mind is racing.
“So tell us how you did it,” Jules says. Why does her voice sound upbeat instead of pissed off to the point of terminating me?
Cautiously I say, “Did what?”
“You tease,” Jules laughs, and I hear a chorus of whoops in the background. “How did you get Jackson Croft to give the single biggest donation in CEF’s history? Emily, you’re amazing!”
“Way to go, Em!” someone else cheers.
I slowly lower myself to my threadbare couch. “Wait a minute. He actually did it? Jackson Croft donated?”
“One hundred thousand dollars,” Jules says to mo
re cheers. “We have to know—how did you convince him?”
I feel light headed. How did I do it? That’s a great question that I can’t answer.
“So?” Jules prompts.
She needs something from me, and I’m certainly not going to tell her or anyone else about Jackson’s little proposal, even if I did turn it down. Now that he’s donated the money, the last thing I need is for people to think that anything untoward happened between us.
It’s in everyone’s interest—donor and recipient—to present a clean, professional and united front.
“I just,” I begin, thinking. “You know, I gave the stats like you said. I mean, who can say no to kids, right?”
My brow is sweaty and I gulp anxiously. I feel hot, suddenly.
“I’m sure there was more to than that,” Jules says, “but whatever you did, it’s amazing. Truly, Emily. We’re so proud of you.”
“And excited about the money!” someone else cheers.
“Thanks, guys,” I say. “I’ll see you in the office.”
As we get off the phone, I hear more shouted congratulations and then I’m alone with just my racing thoughts.
Why did he do it?
I think back to our conversation and wonder if it was something specific that I said that made him change his mind. Or maybe he just regretted cornering me, had a change of heart.
Whatever it was that caused him to donate, the right thing to do is to call him and thank him. I can just leave a message with Sandra. I don’t want to speak to him directly, just hearing his voice makes my stomach flutter.
What is it with this guy and the spell he puts on me?
I quickly pick up my phone and call the number I have in my phone.
“Jackson Croft’s office.”
“Hi, um, Sandra? It’s Emily Brown, from earlier,” I begin, nervous already, even though it’s only a phone call. “Could you leave a message for Mr. Croft for me?” I continue, my throat raspy with emotion. “Tell him I called to say thank you for the very generous donation he gave to the Children’s Education Fund? Tell him it’s really going to do a lot of good for a lot of kids, and we really appreciate it.” A bit of a shaky voice but I got it out, thank God.