by Tessa Bailey
The sparkle in her eyes dimmed, but her breath caught at the command in his voice. “No, I don’t want that.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
He tugged her toward the exit, but she resisted, searching his face. “Oliver,” she murmured, “tell me what this is really about. I…you seem stressed. I don’t want to be the reason for that.”
His heart constricted, denial burning through his chest. With the lobby’s crowds swirling around them and voices funneling together to create white noise, she became the only tangible thing in the room. Maybe in his life. Her eyes were his safety net as her statement hung in the air. Could he be honest with her? Reveal himself, right here in this moment? Logically, he didn’t think he could risk it. Not when he knew how she saw him. A responsibility-free player. But his instincts, maybe even the organ pounding so furiously in his ribcage, begged him to unload the burden. Tell her. She’ll understand.
“Eliza, I’m—”
His cell phone went off in his jacket pocket, tinny and loud. Son of a bitch. With an impatient noise, he reached into his pocket without looking and silenced the cell. Immediately, it started ringing again. She looked concerned as she watched him give in, dragging his phone out to check the screen. “Just answer it. We’re not in a rush.”
Oliver had the absurd desire for her to be less understanding, to demand he ignore the call and continue with what he’d wanted to say. But when he told Eliza he needed her in his life, it wouldn’t be with the Batman theme song playing in the background. He ran an irritated hand through his hair and checked the screen. Manhattan area code, but no name…weird. It could be an advertiser ready to pull the trigger, though, so he had to answer. He gave Eliza an apologetic look. “Oliver Preston.”
“Yeah, hi. Howya doing?” A thick Queens accent reached him. “This is Joe De Luca. You’ve been trying to get in touch with my niece about that scholarship?”
“Yes.” Oliver patted every pocket he had, searching frantically for a pen. Eliza handed him one, along with a notepad she magically produced from her purse.
God, I love this woman.
An innocent thought, sure, but it only took a split second to realize…he’d meant it. In every sense. A dull roar started in the back of his head and surged louder. He loved her. He loved Eliza. Not because she’d handed him a pen, but because she’d somehow known this call went beyond the usual importance. It was right there in her encouraging expression. Okay, calm down. Now you know. He’d have to think about it later, when she wasn’t standing two feet away looking at him like he’d sprouted horns. Why was she looking at him like that? Shit. The phone call. “Your niece hasn’t returned any of my calls.”
“That’s Frankie. She’s mule-headed like her mother, God rest her soul.”
There was a scratching sound on the other end, and Oliver got the impression the other man was crossing himself. “So you’re calling on her behalf?”
“Look, she’d pitch a shit fit if she knew I was calling you.” He lowered his voice. “She just walked in for her lunch break, though. I figure she’ll sit still for about twenty minutes, give or take, if you wanted to swing by and plead your case. ABC Cab Company on the West Side Highway.”
Oliver wanted to ask how he’d become the one pleading to give away money. Shouldn’t it be the opposite? Why did that fact that this girl didn’t want the money only assure him she was the right candidate? He looked at Eliza, watching him so patiently. He couldn’t give up the chance to spend an hour with her, could he? Dammit, though. This is exactly what everyone, his father included, would expect him to do. Blow off a project before he saw it completed. He swallowed hard, cursing the universe’s timing. He’d just have to work overtime to make sure he got this chance with Eliza again. “I’ll be there.”
Chapter Sixteen
Eliza watched Oliver hang up the phone, already knowing he was about to cancel. It startled her just how devastated she was by the prospect, when just fifteen minutes ago she thought he’d blown her off. She wanted to spend every minute with him that she could. Part of her had even been excited by his decree of look but don’t touch. That silly, hopeful part of her that wouldn’t seem to die even wondered if he just liked being with her. Even without the sex. Apparently she wouldn’t get the chance to find out.
“Rain check?” She almost winced at the desperate note in her voice.
Eyes closed, he dropped his head forward. The picture of male regret. As always, though, Oliver did it with a special flair. He took a step into her personal space and looked over her face like he wanted to catalogue every detail. She swore he even groaned when his attention snagged on her mouth. “I’m sorry, bunny. It’s really important or I wouldn’t leave. You know that, right?” Appearing fascinated, he traced her collarbone with his fingers. When he spoke again, he sounded as if he were talking to himself. “I’m under some pressure with a project. I can’t put this off.”
“I understand.” Curiosity got the best of her. She needed to know what managed to rattle Oliver from the casual, unconcerned air he reserved for business. “What’s the project?”
Oliver slid the pen behind his ear. “I set up a scholarship in my mother’s name. I’ve been looking through applicants for weeks. Students who were accepted to certain schools, but lacked the funds to pay tuition.” He looked down at the address where he’d jotted down the name of a…cab company? “This girl, Frankie—she’s a cab driver—just jumped out at me, her essay…she sounded like someone my mother would have liked. She even grew up in Middle Village, just like her. But all my calls go to voicemail. I don’t get it.”
Eliza swore she could feel her heart sinking toward her knees with the weight of feeling expanding in her chest. “I didn’t know you’d done that. It’s amazing. Y-you have to go.”
He glanced toward the door, then jerked back in her direction. “Would you…come with me?”
The hopefulness in voice pierced the air. Pierced her. “Yes. Of course.”
“Thank you, Jesus.” Once again, he took her hand and strode toward the revolving doors. They stepped out into the warm, spring air and stopped at the curb. Oliver put out his hand, signaling a yellow taxi to pull over and pick them up. “Is it ironic that we’re taking a cab to a cab company’s headquarters?”
“Ironic would be if we couldn’t get a ride back.”
Oliver laughed as she passed him and ducked into the cab. They rode in silence for a while toward the West Side. She sensed Oliver was pulling his thoughts together. Since he hadn’t brought Frankie’s application with him, he had to pull it up on his phone’s email, refreshing his memory on details that might be important during what would apparently be an ambush meeting.
He held her hand the entire way there, resting in between them on the vinyl seat. She didn’t know if he was aware of it, or if the absent brushing of his thumb over her knuckles was an attempt to scramble her brain. But she liked it. Okay, she loved it. In a way that could prove harmful to her health.
When they were almost there, he stowed his phone in his jacket pocket and stared out the window. “If I don’t deliver on this, no one will be surprised.”
She squeezed his hand. “I would.”
His gaze slammed into hers and held. “I’m really glad you’re here.”
“Me too.”
The air in the cab felt thin, hard to inhale. “What about you?” Oliver brought her hand to his mouth and kissed the back of her hand. “When are you meeting with Conrad Sterns?”
“Friday,” she managed. “We’re doing an in-house consultation.”
She swore his grip tightened at the words in-house, but his neutral expression made her wonder if she’d imaged it. “What’s your game plan?”
How could he expect her to concentrate when his tongue kept licking out to taste the pulse at her wrist? “Um…concealed luxury. Well-hidden flash. Modern bachelor meets overindulged celebrity.”
Oliver hummed in his throat. “It’s perfect. Can I make a suggestion?” He wa
ited for her nod. “Giant phallic symbols everywhere. He’ll love them, and he won’t know why.”
She laughed breathily. “Are you saying Mr. Sterns is overcompensating for something?”
“It doesn’t matter. You won’t be finding out, Eliza.”
Surprised by the intensity ringing in his voice, she drew her hand away. If he traced her sensitive skin with that skilled mouth a second longer while sounding so possessive, she’d combust.
Oliver watched her pull away with, his expression once again unreadable. “I thought of something else ironic.”
“Shoot.”
He turned to look out the window. “I’ve brought along one girl who doesn’t want what I’m offering to help convince another girl with the same problem.”
Eliza stared at Oliver, wondering if he’d started speaking in a different language. Or thought she was someone else. Doesn’t want what I’m offering. What did he mean? “I don’t under—”
The cab jolted to a stop. With mechanical movements, Oliver drew a twenty dollar bill out of his wallet and handed it to the cab driver. “Keep the change.”
She had no option but to exit the cab curbside and wait for Oliver to follow. Her earlier question was still flickering in her head, but Oliver’s stiff posture dissuaded her from asking it. He took her hand and led her toward the warehouse. Several men milled outside reading the day’s New York Post, probably waiting for their shifts to start. Other men exited looking weary, very likely having driven a cab for twelve straight hours. She and Oliver walked through a set of double-doors and into a massive garage. Yellow cabs were parked in rows extending all the way toward the back. An orange-vested man directed traffic in and out, cabs coming in or leaving. Oliver scanned the huge space for a moment, then tugged her along the perimeter toward the offices visible from the floor. A woman with a clipboard and a headset stood blocking the entrance, but she nodded and stepped aside when Oliver mentioned an Italian-sounding man’s name. It brought them into a hallway with offices on either side, which led them to a cafeteria-style room. Tables and chairs were arranged around the room in no particular pattern, all of them occupied.
Eliza watched as Oliver made eye-contact with a burly, mustached man sitting in a group. He nodded toward a table in the corner where a girl sat alone, eating an apple and reading a book. Even from this distance, Eliza could see it was T.S. Elliot. Definitely Frankie. Eliza tightened her fingers around Oliver’s hand to reassure him as they walked toward the girl. As if she had some kind of sensor, both of her unusally light-colored eyes flashed up to watch them approach, but she didn’t lower the book.
“It would appear you’re in the wrong place, folks,” Frankie said with an accent that made Eliza think of the Mets. Or Marisa Tomei. “You’re a good fifteen blocks from Bergdorf’s.”
“So this isn’t going to be easy,” Oliver muttered for Eliza’s ears alone. They stopped at the edge of her table. Still, Frankie didn’t lower the book. It might count the first time in history Eliza witnessed a girl completely ignore Oliver. “Actually, we’re here to see you, Frankie. I’m Oliver Preston from the Adele Preston Scholarship Fund.”
Her mouth paused in the act of chewing the apple. Without missing a beat, she gave the mustached man her middle finger. “Last time I tell you anything, Joe.”
“Hear ’em out, would ya?” The man called back, shifting on his bench. “I’m sick of your scrawny ass sitting around the place, reading books and making us all look bad. Go do something.”
Frankie’s cheeks turned red, and she let the book drop to the table. Now that Eliza had a full view of the other girl’s face, she realized how pretty Frankie was underneath the baseball cap and grease-smudged face. After a moment wherein she looked to be deliberating with herself, Frankie crossed her arms. “Looks like I don’t have a choice. Have a seat, if you don’t mind your clothes getting dirty.”
They exchanged a look and sat. “I’m confused, Ms. De Luca,” Oliver started. “Why did you apply for the scholarship if you don’t want it?”
She popped a piece of gum into her mouth and shrugged. “I just wanted to know I could do it.”
Oliver nodded as if that were the most obvious answer in the world. “How do you intend to pay for Columbia Business School without the scholarship? Why turn it down?”
“I’m going to do it on my own.” She picked up her half-eaten apple and tossed it into a brown paper bag. “I don’t need some rich guy telling me I’m worthy and handing me a wad of cash. The diploma will only be worth a damn to me if I didn’t take any handouts along the way.”
Eliza wanted to speak up on Oliver’s behalf, but she managed to hold her tongue. For now. But she wouldn’t be able to keep her opinion to herself much longer. Not with Oliver’s optimism starting to visibly wear off. In the face of such antagonism, he was maintaining a patient attitude, and she suddenly wanted to crawl into his lap and bury her face in his neck.
“It would be worth a damn. The money wouldn’t put in the hard work. You would.” He leaned forward when a group of drivers edged past the table. ”There’s nothing wrong with getting help, either. Grants and loans. That’s how a lot of people get through school.”
Frankie raised a dark eyebrow. “Not you, though, right? I’m sure you’re not paying off any loans to Fordham, Mr. Preston. Bet your parents took care of that.”
Instead of bristling at the scorn she directed at him, Oliver tilted his head. “How did you know where I went to college?”
She traced a pattern on the table. “I did my homework, too.”
At some point, maybe even now, this girl had wanted the money. Eliza could feel it. Furthermore, you didn’t do research into the grant manager’s past unless you were serious. Oliver appeared to have drawn the same conclusion. “Look, the grant is yours. I’m keeping it that way for another week, then I’m looking for another applicant. You’d be passing up a great opportunity if you don’t take it.”
Obviously having decided a more abrupt route would get her attention, he stood and Eliza followed suit. Frankie seemed a little dumbfounded that the ball had been put back in her court and that she hadn’t managed to fluster Oliver with her attitude. “I won’t call,” she said. “I don’t want some rich woman’s money. If she was alive, she wouldn’t look twice at me.” She laid her palms flat on the table, but Eliza could see a slight tremor move through them. “What makes you think she’d want me to have it?”
It was the hint of vulnerability in her voice that brought the picture into focus. For all her brashness and prickly personality, this girl didn’t feel deserving of the money. She looked mortified at having revealed such a weakness. Oliver opened his mouth, probably intending to reassure her, but closed it just as quickly. Out of my depth, his eyes seemed to communicate.
Eliza felt a rush of relief at the chance to be useful. Maybe even help. She sat back down at the table across from Frankie. “Mrs. Preston, Oliver’s mother, worked three jobs when she was your age. She wasn’t born into money. She just happened to fall for a man who had some extra cash lying around.” A touch of a reluctant smile. “I never had the chance to meet Mrs. Preston, but I know she raised two children who have all her best qualities. They’re smart and thoughtful. Genuine. They’re my two favorite people in the world.” She could feel Oliver’s gaze boring into her back, but didn’t have the courage to turn around. Didn’t want him to see how completely she meant what she’d said, afraid he’d see more. “I had nothing growing up. We survived on a truck driver’s salary that fluctuated every week. Without help, I never would have gotten through college. Would never have gotten a job I love.” Frankie’s intelligent eyes were weighing everything she said. “If you won’t take Oliver’s word for it, even though you should, take mine. I think if there were one person Mrs. Preston would have wanted to get the scholarship, it would be someone who was worried about disappointing her.” She lowered her voice. “The only person you can disappoint is yourself, Frankie. I’ve only spent a few minutes with
you, and I already know you won’t let that happen.”
Chapter Seventeen
When Oliver was twelve years old, he’d won the hundred yard dash at his middle school relay race. He could still remember how he’d felt right before the race, the surging adrenaline, the fear of failure. His parents and sister had been in the stands, three serene faces among the cheering crowd. It’s not that they were any less enthusiastic, they just played their emotions close to the vest. Always had. He’d been like a Monopoly pawn that had accidentally been stored with the chess set. Waiting for the race to start, it had struck him for the first time. How different he was from his overachiever sister, his former working-class mother, his quietly overbearing father. He’d thought, maybe if I win this race, I’ll be let into the club. They’ll realize I’m one of them, it just took me longer to get here.
Time stretched during the race, feeling interminably long. Like he was running under water. He didn’t see anyone on either side of him, but for all he knew, the race could be over. Reality was so blurry and fast he couldn’t grab onto any semblance of thought. When he crossed the finish line and realized he’d won, he didn’t know what to do with his hands. He remembered it so clearly, not knowing whether to raise them over his head or prop them on his hips. When it dawned on him that no one was cheering, he’d turned toward the stands and noticed everyone’s attention was still fixed back towards where the race had started.
One of his opponents had tripped halfway through and gone face-first into the track. Blood streaked down his face and dribbled off his chin. The poor kid had looked miserable, probably mortified at having so many people witness his fall. Parents, coaches, girls. But as Oliver watched, the guy smiled. The other runners had stopped mid-race to help him to his feet and walk with him toward the finish line. Everyone except Oliver because he’d been too far away, frozen to the spot.
Whenever he looked back as an adult, he picked it out as one of the worst moments of his youth. Not because it wasn’t an amazing moment to witness. Five self-centered pre-teens banding together to do the right thing didn’t happen every day. No, it was seeing so much good in front of him and knowing he’d never be able to touch it. He didn’t know how to have those moments. They played out in front of him like a movie, something he could watch but never have a role in.