by Harloe Rae
Her nonchalance won’t dissuade me. The floodgates are wide open, already spewing irrational drivel. I pride myself on being a practical person, but that doesn’t stop me from being committed to this nonsense. “Call me what you will. I’m going to grow old without experiencing love in all its decadent glory.”
Presley frowns, the smooth skin on her forehead puckering into deep caverns. “You are not.”
Too bad I’m currently lacking in spreading the positivity. “I totally am. That’s the only logical explanation for my horrific luck in the dating department. I’ve been single since the winter before graduation. That’s eighteen months, give or take. My dry spell is older than a toddler. I’ll be damned if just any guy with a dick breaks it. What’s a girl have to do these days?”
Clea cringes. “Twerk on TikTok?”
“Not stooping to that,” I mutter. Then I scrunch my nose and add, “Yet.”
“You’re only twenty-three.” Clea’s declaration is meant to be reassuring and make me feel better. But her words have an adverse effect.
The pebbles in my belly double in size and start stirring, causing an ache. Just what I need right about now. “I’m a planner, dammit. If I don’t make this a priority, thirty will arrive with my tires still spinning.”
She scoffs and swats at the air. “Oh, please. We’ll intervene long before then.”
Presley pins her with a pinched glare, then tosses a gentle smile my way. “What’s the latest disaster?”
“Worst. Date. Ever.” Those three words continue looping in my mind.
They share another withering expression. These ladies understand my unfortunate dating history better than anyone. They’ve been sitting front row through the worst of it these past several months. Even Audria—my third bestie, who relocated to freaking Iowa last year—has missed out on the latest grievances. The fact that she decided to make the move permanent is an entirely different story, which has nothing to do with my current predicament. To claim I’m unsatisfied and annoyed would be a massive understatement—not to mention sexually frustrated. I’ve been going through batteries at an alarming rate. The towel isn’t getting thrown in yet, though.
“Tell us what happened,” Clea prods.
A crinkle of static seems to cut across the patio. The telltale swoop of guilt quickly follows. “I’m being a buzzkill.”
“You’re allowed to vent. That’s what we’re here for. Just get it off your chest and plan for a brighter tomorrow.” Presley makes a rolling motion.
“That’s part of the problem.” I pick at my thumb nail while trying to leap over this mental hurdle. “It’s been somewhat of an obsession lately. Usually my persistence pays off, but the opposite seems to be true when it comes to relationships. Relying on others to fulfill their part of the deal is extremely discouraging.”
“Prince Charming might knock on your door in the morning,” Presley grins, her brows wagging at the possibility.
“Oh, please. That man resides in fairytales for a reason. I’m not expecting that level of perfection. Just a few solid qualities would be stellar. I’m willing to accept being gainfully employed and not living with his parents. Is that asking for too much?” I slouch in my seat from the load of that implication. The wound is still fresh.
Vibrant rainbows and sunshine can’t compete against her perky demeanor. “You’ll meet Mr. Right soon enough.”
“Highly doubtful. No, wait—make that completely unbelievable. It’s not like fate is actually going to swoop in and grant me a love connection. The last guy I went on a date with had bigger boobs than me. I’m almost positive he had implants in his pecs.” I provide a visual for maximum impact. “He was a total gym rat.”
Presley scrunches up her face. “Don’t let those bad swipes ruin your sparkle.”
“How’d you know I met him on an app?” Am I becoming predictable? That would be the greatest crime of all.
She purses her lips in that knowing way. “Lucky guess.”
Clea finishes off her white wine spritzer, making an awful racket by slurping any remaining liquid through the straw. “I’m perpetually single too. You don’t see me getting into a tizzy about it.”
I hike a brow full of sass. “We’re well aware why that is.”
Red blotches stain her cheeks. “Whatever.”
I’d usually take this opportunity to pivot and share the misery spotlight, but Clea’s downcast gaze gives me pause. I don’t need more reasons to feel like an awful friend. Another tortured groan escapes me as I continue treading water. How can they not be sick of me complaining? I’m tired of this pity party, and my chops are the ones flapping. That doesn’t mean I’m quite ready to stop. “Are we destined to settle?”
Presley chokes on her sip of orange juice. “Hell to the no. Look at Audria if you need proof.”
“Sure would, if she were here.” I cluck my tongue. “I’m not moving to the country.”
Her eyes widen. “That won’t be necessary. Please don’t consider it. I can’t lose another friend to long distance.”
I wave the concern away. Not even the Duke of Hastings could get me to relocate. That blatant lie singes my tongue with an ashy taste. A zip propels through me as I think of him and that damn spoon. He could get me to do just about anything. With a scoff, I find myself once again chasing fantasy into the far recesses where those dreams belong. Or until later, when I can binge on Netflix.
“At this rate, I doubt any guy will be worth sitting through an entire meal. My tolerance for bullshit has taken a hit as of late.”
Clea’s lips curve at the corners. “Careful, Van. You’re beginning to sound jaded.”
“Hey,” I clip. “It’s my job to deliver the snark.”
“Then snap out of it.” With a lift of her chin, she signals to our server that we’d like another round of drinks.
“What do you think I’m trying to accomplish?” I flail my arm to the side.
She folds her hands, pausing for dramatic effect. “The fine art of avoidance.”
I let my jaw hang. “Haven’t you been listening? I’ve been hogging the conversation.”
But she’s not wrong on calling me out. I’ve lost a bit of my luster as of late. If I want to dig at the root, this streak of bad luck began after my cousin’s wedding last spring. That was over a year ago. Since then, it’s been a gnarled string of letdowns. Giving spotlight to the source might offer some sense of closure, but focusing my attention on that surly asshole is more than he deserves. A muffled groan rips from the back of my throat. I still don’t know his name.
Ignoring his negative influence has made me weak. My friend is right, whether I willingly admit that aloud or not. This Debbie Downer mood needs to quit. Enough with the overplayed song—changing the channel only requires a slight flick of my wrist. I paste on a smile, internally yank on my big girl panties, and forget this frou-frou trouble. “I’m an independent woman. Who needs a significant other? Not me.”
Presley doesn’t appear convinced in the slightest, if the wrinkle of her pert nose is any indication to go by. Clea, on the other hand, is nodding with an enthusiastic bounce. “That’s the best attitude to have. Guys are intimidated by bold, successful women.”
“I hate that misogynistic crap. It’s a lame excuse,” I mutter.
“Doesn’t make it less true.”
The server arrives with our fresh drinks and I treat myself to a greedy slurp. I exhale a cleansing breath as the crisp mimosa washes away the bad vibes. “Okay, enough. My pity party has come to an end. Thanks for listening to me whine for five minutes.”
“Try ten,” Clea laughs. I frown at her and she raises both hands in protest. “I’m just trying to lighten the mood. It’s not a bad thing to discuss our troubles. That’s why we’re all such great friends.”
“Be that as it may, I’m positive there are more important matters to discuss than my horrendous love life. Or lack thereof,” I mumble. I’ve managed to excel in the professional department. Why can�
��t my romantic aspirations follow suit?
Presley smacks her lips after a long sip of juice. I’d assume she’s imagining something other than a straw in her mouth with that kind of enthusiasm. “Do you want me to set you up with someone?”
All thoughts of who’s been keeping her occupied flee with a whoosh. “You’re offering now? I just swore off men seven seconds ago.”
She lifts her shoulder in a lazy shrug. “As if your hopeless romantic spirit will stick to that plan.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I roll my eyes for what feels like the umpteenth time. “Who are these specimens? Have you been holding out on me?”
“Not really, but they fit your new standards.”
I huff, sending red strands off my forehead. “Put a pin in that. I’m determined to get out of this funk, one way or another. The male population is conspiring against me.”
“At least you’re about to be promoted.” Presley’s positive outlook brings a grin to my face.
“This is true. I have little to complain about.”
She pats my hand again, her motherly traits bleeding through. “It’s all right to be frustrated with the lack of good prospects. We’re well aware that your golden heart is searching for its match.”
My smile wobbles at the edges. “It really sucks that I care so much.”
“If you didn’t, we’d all lose faith in love. You need to stay dedicated for us.” Clea winks at me.
Before I can respond, a wince crosses Presley’s features. She bands an arm across her chest and hunches over. “Shit.”
I whip my gaze from left to right, searching for potential reinforcements. “What?”
Her features crumple further. “I need to go. My boobs are about to resemble concrete.”
That has empathy kicking in with a hiss. “Ah, lovely. How’s breastfeeding going?”
She stands, passing over some cash for her meal. “Very well, thanks for asking. Being a milk machine makes these outings more complicated, but I always appreciate a good challenge.”
I prop my chin on a closed fist. “You make motherhood look really swell.”
Her bottom lip quivers. “Really?”
“Hell yes, Press. Archer just popped out a few months ago and you’re already kicking single parenting’s ass.”
Her eyes get a bit misty and she blinks at the pooling moisture. “I really appreciate that. Chad does his fair share, though.”
“As he should,” Clea mumbles.
I nod at her. “He probably could’ve made this easier by—”
“Hey! None of that.” Presley points an accusatory finger from Clea to me. “It takes two to make a baby.”
Properly reprimanded, I beam at her with fluttering lashes. “Certainly does.”
“Now that we’ve covered basic reproduction, I’ll be seeing both of you soon.” She sends us air-kisses and darts out the side gate.
“And on that note,” Clea sing-songs.
I clink my glass against hers. “We drink in her honor.”
Afternoon traffic crawls along Wacker Street below my towering fortress. Two of the walls are made entirely of glass, providing an excellent vantage point for meaningless spectating. Cars resemble toys from this high up. Downtown Chicago during rush hour is a bitch even I don’t fuck with. From the perch of my leather chair, I can watch people struggling to gain an inch of leeway. I could almost grant an ounce of sympathy for the pitiful saps if it weren’t such a predictable routine. Giving a shit would also be a requirement—and I simply don’t care.
The view from my corner office is worth millions. Having the lake and river within range cranks that amount to an astronomical figure. I rarely spare a second to appreciate the bustling sights. Why bother? It’s always the same. Honking taxis carrying impatient tourists. Street vendors trying to make a quick buck. Congested sidewalks streaming with frustrated pedestrians. This entire section is a bottleneck. Stoplights block any attempt at a consistent flow, causing disarray at every intersection. The crowds grow thicker each day. Yet this city claims my roots, so I remain firmly planted.
My heritage is sunk deep into this concrete metropolis, clinging to the core that built these skyscrapers. Some of my ancestors fled to the east, settling into New York City. Those that stuck to the Midwest still call them weak for abandoning our history and namesake. I see it as a wider range of power.
With a deep inhale, I imagine the stale smog filtering into my lungs. All that I’m really ingesting is filtered air that reeks of lemon. Whoever’s responsible for choosing such an offensive odor will be reprimanded appropriately.
I wrench my gaze off the picturesque scenery that’s stamped onto every other postcard available for sale at the local Quick Mart. The distraction is worthless. Getting back to the grind is imperative. Time is money, especially in my case. Wasting it would be better spent on properly aged bourbon and custom suits. Stacks of spreadsheets litter my desk, demanding that I regain focus. I’m nothing if not disciplined.
“Sir?” A muted knock follows the formal title my pesky assistant insists on using. I’m certain he gets a rise out of defying me. That mockery doesn’t fly for many, and ignoring him is my natural response.
I continue glaring at the lists of numbers scattered out in front of me, refusing to acknowledge this inconvenient intrusion more than necessary. Walt seems compelled to trample into my office at least twice a day. It’s most likely to check that I haven’t morphed into a demon or something more sinister. “Better be good, kid.”
“Isn’t it always?” That take-no-shit attitude is how he manages to keep his job. Not many can put up with me on a daily basis, regardless of our blood relation. I applaud those willing to try.
“Then spit it out.” I make a forward motion with my hand, still avoiding his presence.
Walt thumps his shiny loafer on the carpet, the rapid beat searing into my skull. I flick my gaze up to his with a sneer. He gives a wide grin in return. If this little shit wasn’t my cousin, he would’ve been fired months ago. Not that I’m willing to overlook incompetence. One misguided step and I’ll easily forget his so-called ability to deal with me.
“Mr. Hughes is on hold. He wants to tell you about a potential deal.”
I scrub over my forehead. “That lawyer in Minnesota?”
His gelled hair catches reflective sunlight, the slick strands gleaming as he nods. “Yes, sir.”
“All right. Put him through.” I shove the reports away while Walt retreats to do my bidding.
Jordan Hughes is a business associate, but I use that term loosely. We’ve only spoken on a handful of occasions similar to this. He catches wind of an appetizing merger or expansion and passes the news along to me—the guy with capital. Usually the deals are decent enough to pique my interest. He hasn’t steered me wrong yet, but it only takes once to change that.
I snag the phone after a single ring. “Winters.”
“It’s actually spring, almost summer.” Hughes’ jovial tone grates on my already fraying nerves.
I don’t bother hiding my grunt. “Did you call to just yammer on about nothing but lame jokes?”
Jordan laughs. “You’re extra jolly this afternoon.”
“And your efforts to improve my mood are in vain.”
“Fine, I’ll cut straight to the point.”
“That’d be much appreciated,” I deadpan.
“The company is Sunny Skies,” he informs with a flourish.
I snort at the name. “You better be fucking with me.”
An impatient exhale greets mine. “Just hear me out. This baby is ripe for the picking. A golden goose ready to lay magical eggs. The one you’ve been—”
“Your theatrics aren’t necessary for the pitch.”
“Such a killjoy,” he mutters. But his voice remains electrified as he continues. “They create high-tech, ultra-efficient solar panels.”
“Aren’t those all the same?” The abandoned charts with reliable data are becoming more interesting with each pass
ing second.
Jordan huffs again. “Who the fuck cares about the specifics? Leave that up to the manufacturers. This game is about earning income and increasing profit. These guys are booming. Their business is making leaps on the daily. If you want in on the ground level, you gotta get in now.”
“I’m listening.” But barely.
“It’s a small warehouse at the moment, but they need more space to grow and spread their wings. That’s where you come in. They want to purchase a bigger property and are searching for investors.”
“Ah, the plot thickens. I see where this is going.” And I do. This is a very familiar conversation that I have multiples times per day. People are constantly coming to me with ideas, foaming at the mouth, waiting for me to bite. I rarely do.
“Worth a conversation?”
“I’d like to hear more about their recent gains and why I should bother.”
“Of course,” he agrees. Then he proceeds to prattle off rather impressive statistics that raise my brows.
“No shit?”
“I wouldn’t cut into your busy schedule with a bogus deal. Sunny Skies could be huge for you.”
“They’re reaching those totals with only one location?”
“Exactly!” His sharp clap rattles my eardrum. “Now you’re getting it. Think of the upside this opportunity could have. This is exactly why I’m delivering the news to you.”
I squint at the ceiling, making a few calculations. “Perhaps I’d be willing to acquire real estate in Minneapolis.”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” he whoops. I picture him pumping the air in victory. Jordan isn’t afraid to gloat, whether there’s a real reason or not.
“I haven’t agreed to anything yet,” I point out.
“Doesn’t matter. The fact you haven’t hung up yet is more than good enough. My proverbial foot is propping your door open.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “What a delightful visual.”
“So,” Jordan drawls. “Can I count on you making a visit soon?”
“You’ll handle the initial contact?”
“Absolutely.” There’s no doubting his eagerness.