Promise (Venture Capitalist Book 2)

by Ainsley St Claire

  “That was before I knew you were married. It’ll never happen again.”

  “Our destiny is together, naked and enjoying everything each of us has to offer.”

  It’s after seven, and despite having three or four more hours of work, I start gathering my things, preparing to leave. “Our destiny is only business. It will never be personal again. Excuse me, but I have a date tonight. Maybe one of the girls in the office will fuck you, because it isn’t going to be me.”

  My cell phone shoots me an alert from our PR firm. We set up alerts for all our employees’ and clients’ names so each time one of our names shows up on the internet or news, we’re notified. I added Charles after he agreed to advise us, and Trey when he came on board.

  Hmmm. I wonder what happened today. I see there are roughly fifty links in the alert. Must be big. I click on the first link without realizing it’s for TMZ. All I see in the picture is an obstructed view of me from when I kissed Trey goodbye after lunch today. My stomach falls as the commentator on the link asks, “Is San Francisco’s most eligible bachelor off the market?”

  Crap. Shit. Fuck.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Trey

  I jump from meeting to meeting all afternoon before I finally check my e-mail. Apparently, I got an alert shortly before two.

  “Shit,” I say aloud, because I know what it’ll be. Opening the e-mail, I see the photo of Sara kissing me. A sigh of relief goes through me; it appears much more salacious than it actually was, but thankfully her face is obstructed.

  I need to let her know. Tonight’s plans may need to change.

  What do I do? Too distracted to focus on work, I pack up and make my way down to my car in the garage. Once they figure out it’s her, they’ll camp out at her home and her office. I need to protect her from the throngs of people that may come with that reality if I want to keep her in my life. In the back of my mind, I knew when she kissed me that something like this might happen, but the paparazzi haven’t been following me lately. I’ve been too boring.

  Goddammit.

  The picture making the tabloids this early in our relationship pisses me off. I was hoping she would fall in love with me before this crap started happening. I’ve learned from experience that women tend to run away from me when this shit starts to happen. Fuck!

  I head home and call CeCe, but she doesn’t answer. Just as well, since I think she and Sara are becoming friends, and the last thing I want is for her to inadvertently tell Sara to run away. I pour myself a drink and take in the view from my condo, which faces Alcatraz and the North Bay. I love my place because I can see Berkley, my alma mater, across the bay.

  My thoughts are consumed by Sara. I can’t let her go. Not yet. We’re only getting to know each other and already I feel a deeper connection to her than anyone before.

  Sitting in my living room, I watch the sun fall behind the horizon, painting the sky shades of red and pink, and I thank God that this day has come and gone. All the anxiety of the fucking tabloids has come again. All the hurt they cause.

  I won’t let her go that easily. I want to talk to her face-to-face about this. At least we have plans tonight, but I have to prepare her in case they’ve figured out who she is.

  I text Sara.

  Me: Have you seen the tabloids today?

  Sara: Apparently I’m almost famous.

  Me: I’m sorry.

  Sara: Did you have the picture taken?

  Me: Absolutely not. I hate them with a passion.

  Sara: Then don’t worry about it.

  Sara: That’s unless you’d prefer to forget tonight.

  Me: Are you kidding? I still want to see you. I didn’t want it to ruin your night.

  Sara: Don’t worry about me. I’m still not on their radar. I’ll meet you there and we’ll find a quiet corner, enjoy a drink, listen to some music, and ignore the tabloids.

  Me: You can come to my place and we can have a drink here.

  Sara: As much as I’d like that, it may not be a good idea. That kiss was electric and I want to slow down, not speed us up.

  Me: We’ll go at whatever speed you want to go.

  Me: Leaving now. Can’t wait to see you.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Sara

  I wish I had time to go home and take the edge off. Between the flirting with Trey and Henry’s aggressiveness, my hormones are at a colossal level, and I’m wound tight. I take a Lyft over to Maven’s in the Civic Center and walk in a few minutes early, heading back to the lounge area they call the Opium Room and finding a booth in the back.

  Me: I’m in the back in the corner. Come and find me…

  The waiter appears and is taking my order of a glass of scotch when Trey arrives.

  “How about making it two scotches,” Trey tells him. Turning to me, he asks, “Are you okay with blended scotch? They have Johnnie Walker Blue here.”

  He scoots into the booth beside me as I nod. “As long as it’s neat.”

  “Two glasses of Johnnie Walker Blue neat, please.”

  “Can you make mine a double?” Work has too many things going on at once, and Henry not getting the hint has my nerves frazzled. With a strong drink, I can relax.

  My heart is beating fast from being next to Trey. I can’t believe I’m sitting with my own Greek god.

  “Make them both doubles.” Reaching for my hand, he says, “You seem upset.”

  He can’t be interested in all the drama at work. Plus, I prefer to focus on the positive. “We got some good news. SillySally split a sixth time.”

  “That’s huge. How does that affect you? “

  “I’m not sure yet, though I was a full partner at the time we invested in SillySally. I’m sure we’ll talk about that on Sunday night. You’ll be there, right?”

  “Of course. But something’s bothering you,” he persists.

  He’s so perceptive, but I can manage my crazy work and Henry. He doesn’t need to share that burden.

  I relax and snuggle in close. “Not anymore since I’m here with you.”

  Our drinks arrive and we listen to a young jazz group, the music mesmerizing. With his arms around me, I feel safe for the first time outside of Jim and Carol. I trace an imaginary eight on his leg with my fingertip before I take a sip of my drink. It’s an indulgence to enjoy a good drink while listening to the sultry voice interpreting a wonderful Ella Fitzgerald tune with a sexy man on a work night. It’s relaxing, and while I’ve always enjoyed jazz music, hearing Trey share what excites him about the music seems to drag me further under his spell.

  I stare into his beautiful eyes and feel an immediate connection. I’ve never experienced such an intense, unexplainable bombardment of sensations all at one time. It’s insanely beautiful.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Trey

  Her touch is driving me crazy, and I’m as hard as a baseball bat. But she’s clearly distracted, and something seems to be bothering her, taking her mind away from our night out. She insists it isn’t the TMZ photo, and it can’t be money since she probably has more than I do—which is really saying something. Money doesn’t seem to affect her, anyway, which is a good sign for me.

  I rest my chin on the top of her head, placing my hand over hers that’s driving me crazy. “I’m trying really hard to abstain here, but you’re not making this easy on me.”

  With a provocative gaze, she murmurs, “I’m sorry.”

  Giving her hand a comforting squeeze, I take a deep breath, exhale and say, “Don’t be sorry. You’re driving me crazy, and I like it.”

  She visibly relaxes, and I enjoy the feel of her body pressed close to mine. She snuggles in, and we enjoy our drinks and the seductive sounds coming from the band.

  I take in the slope of her neck, the way her breasts move with each breath she takes. I want to explore her, succumb to this urge to take her into the bathroom and have my way with her, but I have too much respect for her, and I know I want more than a quickie in the bathroom.
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br />   After about an hour and a half of good music, a second round of doubles and two tall glasses of ice water, we pay our tab and I escort her toward the door, telling her, “My car service is waiting. Can I give you a ride home?”

  I can see the conflict on her face before she says, “You don’t know how much I want that. But that may not be a good idea.”

  Turning to gaze at her, I confirm, “I have no doubt there will be a few cameras pointed as we exit, and I don’t want you to be in tomorrow’s tabloids. May I kiss you here, just a chaste one?”

  I watch with bated breath as her full lips quirk up into a seductive grin. She stops mere inches away from my face, and suddenly I wonder what it would feel like to press my lips against hers. My mouth grows parched at the thought, and I still my movements while licking my lips. She nods and I lean in, giving her a kiss that is demure and yet leaves us both wanting more.

  She whispers, “Please don’t break me,” against my lips before pulling away.

  Break her? I think she’ll break me.

  “Tomorrow is Friday. Would you feel comfortable coming over to my house? We can have a nice dinner and relax without the worry of landing in the supermarket tabloids. Very low-key and quiet.”

  She thinks about it a few moments, then takes a big breath and, without glancing at me, softly says, “I have a better idea that may give us some more freedom and a lot of privacy. My foster parents have a place up in Stinson. It’s a beach house in a small gated community. Nothing fancy like you may be used to, but it might keep the paparazzi away. How about we pack a bag and go up there for the weekend? There are a few bedrooms, so there’s no pressure. We can pick up some groceries and wander the beach and relax, and then we can come back either late Saturday afternoon or Sunday.”

  Get out of town, only the two of us? That sounds like a perfect way to get to know her. Very low pressure, and it might even be fun. I can tell it was hard for her to ask, but I want to take some of the pressure off her, so I joke, “As long as you want me for my mind and not just my body.”

  She laughs. “Can’t I want both?”

  Staring at her intently, I tell her, “You can absolutely have both. When can I pick you up tomorrow?”

  No one seems to notice me in our dark corner, so I lean in close and slowly bring my lips to hers. Hers are soft and pliant as she pushes herself against me. I want to deepen the kiss, but I can’t risk it showing up in the tabloids.

  Pulling away, I tell her, “Seems like every time we kiss, I lose all reason.”

  “Have a good evening. I’m excited about our getaway.”

  “Me, too. How does three sound?”

  “Perfect. See you then.”

  I can hardly sleep, too keyed up about our weekend. She made it clear that there are multiple bedrooms, and I’ll only take this as fast as she wants to go. I pack a bag, hoping she wants to stay until Sunday. The idea of being alone and exploring everything she has to offer thrills me, and I want more from her.

  Finally, just before three, I surprise my staff when I walk out of the office and wish them a nice weekend.

  I text Sara and let her know I’m waiting outside her building. It takes a few minutes before she walks out in a suit. I jump out of the car to help her load her things, and then we’re off. The Friday afternoon traffic is busy, but we don’t notice, chatting away as we head out of town. We stop for groceries outside of Sausalito, then trek over the mountain through Mount Tamalpais State Park and drive into the Northern California beach town.

  The entire drive, we have a relaxed conversation. I love that Sara has her opinions and she shares them freely. I’ve been raised to rarely have an opinion as it might offend someone, and it’s refreshing to feel comfortable enough to share mine. We disagree on a few things, but when pressed, she can formulate a convincing argument, and when my belief doesn’t change, she doesn’t hold it against me. As we talk, I realize that in these simple exchanges, she knows me better than anyone outside of my family, and we’ve only known each other a short time.

  Driving through the two-block town, she directs me into the neighborhood to her foster family’s home. It’s a classic Cape Cod-style house on the beach with plenty of land to keep the neighbors and other prying eyes at bay.

  After we carry everything inside, she gives me a tour and shows me a room where I can put my things. I load my closet with beachwear—T-shirts, sweatshirts, khaki cargo pants and jeans.

  Hearing pans banging and music blaring, I investigate and find the kitchen, where I watch her for a moment as she chops peppers and shallots.

  “Can I help?” I ask when she’s between vegetables.

  “It isn’t a fancy meal, but we should be able to eat before eight. Can you open a bottle of wine?” She points me to a bottle next to two glasses.

  “Of course.” I watch her move around the kitchen with ease. “Tell me what you know about your biological mother.”

  “I don’t have much memory of my mother. I know she was a runaway and sixteen when I was born, just a child herself. She was nineteen and I was three when she left me at a Catholic church in San Francisco. The law allows for mothers to leave children at churches without criminal prosecution. The priest had been counseling her, so we have some information. It’s through the priest that we learned her family wasn’t interested in a bastard child. My biological mother was sent the paperwork from the state to release her parental rights, but she never returned them, so I was stuck in the foster system. I was difficult on good days and ultimately lived in thirteen foster homes over the next ten years. I never spent an entire year with one family until I landed with Jim and Carol.”

  “Wow. That must’ve been difficult. Tell me about your foster parents.”

  “I was placed with them at thirteen. They could never have kids of their own. Jim is a civil engineer and Carol’s an elementary school teacher. I knew I could wind up taking the same path my mother did, and I struggled with that. Jim and Carol were patient with me and my foolishness.” She eyes me, and I give her an encouraging smile before reaching for her hand and caress her knuckles.

  “One night, I snuck out and came home high, and Jim was waiting up for me,” she continues. “He made it clear that I was welcome to stay, but I needed to follow his rules, and they would respect me as long as I respected them.”

  “What did you think of that?” I ask as I reach for the bottle of wine and top her glass off.

  “I won’t kid you, part of me didn’t care about what he said. I went to bed and was angry that he wanted to put rules in my life, since in the past, those kinds of rules only got me in the cross hairs of people I didn’t want to notice me. But Jim never ogled me like a piece of meat. His hands never ‘accidentally’ touched me. I realized that was the first time I could ever remember feeling safe.”

  I can see she’s uncomfortable, but I only look at her and hold her hand.

  “The next morning, Carol took me shopping for some nice clothes and shared that she was hoping we could all make this work. Then she offered to help me find my mother, if that was what I wanted.”

  She withdraws her hand from mine to wipe a tear away, then pinches the skin between her thumb and index finger. I reach again for her hand and place it between both of mind, whispering, “You don’t have to go on if you don’t want to.”

  She smiles at me through her tears. “No. You need to hear this.” She takes a deep breath. “I realized then that Jim and Carol weren’t in the foster system to collect checks like so many others. They were hoping to fill their hearts.”

  I lean in and wipe her tears, then cup her cheek.

  “My life changed that very day. It was a pivotal moment, and for that I’m forever grateful to Jim and Carol. We started the search for my mom, and Carol helped me get caught up at school. They spent much more money on me than the foster system ever gave them, and we grew to love one another.”

  “Forgive my ignorance, but don’t you age out of foster care at eighteen?”


  She nods. “Yes, and they helped me achieve a full-ride scholarship to Santa Clara University. But it wasn’t always easy. Whenever things started to go well, I’d rebel, but Jim, Carol, and a therapist helped me funnel my anger into academics. But the day I left for Santa Clara, they sent me off with a suitcase full of clothes and a backpack full of school supplies, and over a congratulatory dinner, they presented me with a check. They never cared about the money they received for fostering, putting every check they received in a savings account that they gave to me when I graduated. The financial cushion that provided was the second time in my life I felt safe.”

  I’m in true awe of her story. She started with absolutely nothing, an orphan with a runaway mother who left her with a priest. “I’m impressed they did all of that. And you keep in touch with them, too.”

  “I do. They’re my rock when the storms get bad, and my sun and flowers on a beautiful spring day. I’m incredibly grateful that we found each other. Since then, I’ve tried to spoil them, but they rarely let me buy more than a dinner here and there.”

  I watch her transition from vulnerable to nervous to fill the quiet. Turning to me, she asks, “Tell me about your family. How do you manage to live any kind of normal life when everything you do is in the tabloids?”

  “I guess you get used to it. My family had its challenges. When CeCe got herself in big trouble shoplifting when she was thirteen years old, my mom sat my dad down and explained that he needed to be home more. It took multiple conversations, and CeCe showing up in the tabloids a few more times, before he agreed.”

  Eyes wide, she asks, “CeCe was in the tabloids? Not you?”

  I laugh. “Yes, it was more CeCe at that point. They focused on her appearance and were rough with her. So rough we thought she was going to commit suicide from all the unwanted attention.”

  “You’re kidding. CeCe is so confident and strong. I can’t imagine her struggling like that.”