“We’re expanding our business coverage. That’s what our readers care about. We want to look at the men and women who will become the next generation of business leaders. Who is the next Mark Zuckerberg, Jeff Bezos, Larry Page? That’s what I want to do. To profile the rising stars and give our readers a true sense of who the business leaders of tomorrow will be.”
A burst of excitement whips through me. He’s talking my language. “That’s exactly the type of story I love writing. Something deep, where I can dig into what makes a person tick.”
“That’s what I’m looking for, and that’s why I want you to profile Flynn Parker.”
I smile when he mentions the internet boy wonder. I’ve never met him before, but I know of him, of course. “Mr. Parker has something of the Midas touch, doesn’t he? After selling his first company for a record high valuation and then starting the hottest new tech in home automation, he’s absolutely one to watch. Especially since Haven is poised to be at the forefront of a whole new and exciting sector.”
Mr. Galloway nods, a sage look in his gray eyes telling me he likes my response. “Exactly. Get in there and dive into who he is and what drives him. That’s what I want you to uncover. He’s thought to be the next Zuckerberg. Find out what makes him tick. I want to understand who the next business visionary is.”
I nod enthusiastically as ideas for questions to ask Flynn ping-pong in my head. “I’ve never had the chance to interview him, but I think that can benefit the piece since I’ll come into it with a fresh start. No preconceived notions,” I say, wanting to be frank with Mr. Galloway. Even though I’ve covered a lot of people in business, that doesn’t mean I’ve interviewed everyone in New York yet.
He slashes a hand through the air for emphasis. “That’s what I want. A clean slate. You don’t bring anything to the table about Mr. Parker.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Should I bring something to the table when it comes to him?” I drop my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Are there skeletons in his closet you want me to discover?”
Mr. Galloway chuckles, a deep, scratchy sound. “If he does have any skeletons I would very much like to know about them, but I suspect he’s one of those squeaky-clean people.”
I laugh. “Sometimes they’re the ones with the most to hide.” I fix on a more serious expression. “But regardless, I’m your woman. I’ll find out what excites him, what scares him, what keeps him up at night, and what motivates him to get out of bed in the morning.”
“Exactly. Learn his keys for success. That’s what our readers want to know. And I don’t want those top five points he shares at conferences.” He scoffs derisively. “Get me something fresh. Roll up your sleeves and find the real story behind his success.”
I mime rolling up my sleeves, even though I don’t have any. “Will do.”
Mr. Galloway rises, brushing his hands over his slacks. “My assistant will send you the name of Parker’s PR person, and you can start there to schedule with him. The company is open to the piece, and Parker knows about it, so scheduling won’t be a problem. You should be able to get some good interviews with him. You might need a few meetings.”
“Consider it done.” I stand, shoulder my bag, and shake his hand.
“I’ll need the piece in two weeks.”
“I’ll have it to you on time.”
We firm up the final details, like word count and pay. I suppress a squeal when he tells me the fee—much higher than I expected, much higher than is the industry norm too. It’ll give me breathing room and let me help my brother.
“I’ll have the piece to you in two weeks.”
“Brilliant.” Taking a seat at his desk, he taps his keyboard, presumably to move on to the next item on his list. “And if this works out, we might be able to start covering that sector on a regular basis. You’d be first in line for the beat.”
“That’s great,” I say, reining in a big fat grin.
As I leave, I resist the impulse to run down the magazine’s hallway, smacking the walls as I hoot and holler because, holy smokes, from the party, to the guy, to the gig, my luck is changing.
Once I’m in the elevator, I start my research, googling Flynn Parker, eager to talk to him for the first time. When his picture pops up, a whoa slips from my mouth. Damn, he is fine-looking. Even though I’ve never interviewed him, I’m well aware he’s been named a most eligible bachelor, given his fortune, but I wasn’t aware he was quite this handsome. Now I see another reason he’s earned that title—that face. For the flash of a second, there’s something eerily familiar in the set of his jaw, and his eyes remind me of someone. But then, I can’t get a good look at them since he’s wearing glasses.
Not that it matters—I’m sure I’d remember meeting someone this fine in the flesh.
But who cares if he’s hot? I’m not interested in his looks. I’m interested in his story. Besides, I’m a professional. I’m going to treat this professionally because this is a tremendous opportunity that could lead to an even bigger one. That’s why I won’t let myself think twice about how good-looking he is, even though there’s a soft rap on the door in the back of my brain, telling me I’ve met him. I cycle through parties and conferences, keynotes and events. Surely, I’m remembering seeing him in passing somewhere, or saying hello after a presentation he made. That has to be it.
I shove him out of my mind for the moment. I’ll return to him tonight as I dive into my prep. When I reach the lobby I duck into the restroom, change out of my super-reporter outfit, and slip into something that feels more like me.
The me who met the duke.
Do-it-yourself Sabrina.
Since it’s easier to change here than go home, I tug on a short polka-dot skirt I made and a pair of red ankle boots, tucking my work skirt and pumps into my bag. I leave on the blouse since there’s just something about a cute white blouse that works with nearly any outfit.
As I look in the mirror, I consider my hair, scooping it up. Will he kiss my neck again today? Will he nibble on my earlobe? Grab my hands, steal me down a hallway, and press those lush lips to mine?
I shiver as the delicious memories dance before my eyes.
I’ll say yes. I’ll say yes to whatever he wants to do to me.
I let go of my hair, leaving it down, then clip one side with a small rose-gold barrette with a tiny crown design at the top. I pair them with little crown stud earrings, then I layer tiny pink hoops above them.
My stomach flips nervously. I’m going to see him in person. Without masks and with names. Will we still like each other?
Part of me wishes we could keep up the charade, but another part wants to know him for real.
As I catch the subway to The Dollhouse in Tribeca, my phone lights up with a message—the contact for Mr. Parker. I send her an email as the train rumbles under Manhattan, and when I arrive at the station, her reply lands in my inbox.
Tomorrow, I have my first interview.
A few minutes later, I enter The Dollhouse, grab a stool at the bar, and do a double take when I see Flynn Parker walking toward me.
11
Flynn
An hour earlier
* * *
“There you are.”
As I wait for the elevator—and “wait” is a generous description, because it’s more like I tap my foot and count down every single second because I am so amped up—I turn to see Jennica marching to me, pink sunglasses perched on her head, a huge purse weighing down her arm.
“Here I am,” I reply.
“You’re leaving early?”
“It’s five thirty.”
She arches a brow. “That’s early for you, Flynn.”
I shrug, taking off my glasses, wiping the lenses on a shirtsleeve, and putting them back on. They’re as clean as they were . . . well, before I cleaned them. “Anyway, you’re looking for me?”
“I want to let you know I’m ready to accept my badge of awesome right now.” She pats her chest.
�
��And to what do we owe the honor of your awesomeness today?”
She thrusts an arm in the air, victory-style, as the elevator arrives. We step in together, and I press the button for the lobby. “I was on the phone a few minutes ago with none other than Bob Galloway. He has officially assigned a reporter at Up Next to do an in-depth feature piece on you.” Her voice rises high on the last word as she pokes my shoulder with affection.
“Cool,” I say, checking my reflection in the elevator panel to make sure all the buttons are lined up on my shirt. You never know if you’ve misbuttoned something. Not that I did that in my senior year of high school before a speech. Not that I’ve ever forgotten that moment of embarrassment either. In my defense, buttons are hard.
“Cool? That’s more than cool. That’s amazing.”
“Right,” I say, nodding as I study the alignment. I bare my teeth next, making sure the choppers look sharp and lunch-free.
“I talked to the reporter too. The piece is going to pivot a bit from what I pitched them, but I think it’ll be even better. Get this—it’s going to be about you as one of the next generations of business visionaries.” She rattles off more details on the piece, telling me the reporter is Sabrina Granger, my assistant has scheduled a meeting, and tomorrow is our first interview.
I run a hand through my hair. Yup. Just the right amount of floppy mess.
“It’s going to be a fantastic piece,” Jennica adds.
“That’s great.”
The elevator goes silent.
Jennica clears her throat, catching my attention with the sound. I snap my gaze to her. Her hands are parked on her hips. “You’re barely paying attention.”
“Visionary, check. Tomorrow, check. Sabrina, check. Piece will be great, check.” I tap my temple. “I listened.”
“Hardly. You were distracted, and I’m willing to bet it’s because you have a hot date.”
I scoff.
She laughs, shaking her head. “Flynn Parker, you’ve been checking your reflection, and you’re making sure you don’t have lettuce in your teeth, even though it was five hours ago that we went to the salad bar for lunch, and you’ve probably also brushed your teeth twenty times since then.”
I blow out a breath of air. “Minty fresh. Guilty as charged.”
“Who is the lucky lady, and does she know you’re a certified dork?”
“Correction. It’s not yet official. But the Adorkable Committee assures me the certificate should arrive any day.”
“Excellent. We’ll frame it,” she says as we reach the lobby, and she shoves her bag higher on her shoulder. “Now, fess up. Who is the lovely you’re lettuce-free for?”
I laugh, shaking my head. Jennica wouldn’t believe me if I said I didn’t know who she is. I hardly believe me. “She’s a bit of a mystery.”
Her eyebrows shoot up, and she hums her approval. “A mystery girl. How intriguing. What do we know about her?”
Let’s see. I don’t know her name, her occupation, her family background, where she lives, or any of the usual details. But I do know some key traits already. “She’s smart, independent, clever, and likes my jokes.”
Also, she’s great in bed—or against the wall, as the case may be—and feels spectacular in my arms. But I keep those key attributes to myself.
“Sounds like a keeper.”
“Plus, she hasn’t proposed to me yet.”
“There’s still time tonight for her to get down on one knee. And on that note, I need to get to the year-end open house at my daughter’s first-grade classroom. My husband is making me attend. The torture. Dear God, the torture of an open house.”
“Have fun with Steve, and be sure to take Taylor out for frozen hot chocolate at Serendipity when you’re done.”
“Her? How about someone taking me out for enduring an open house?”
We say goodbye, and I head in the direction of The Dollhouse. When I looked up the description online, I immediately thought, Aha, it’s perfect for her.
On the way downtown, I check my reflection in the subway window. When I exit in Tribeca and carve a path through the trendy streets, I peer into shop windows to make sure my glasses aren’t sliding down my nose. Jennica was right to note my distractedness—I am nervous, and that’s unusual, especially considering I don’t break a sweat when I deliver a keynote speech, negotiate with business partners, or go out on dates.
But this date feels different. It’s like we’ve done things entirely backward. Like we’re assembling a jigsaw puzzle from the middle out. But we both seem to like it this way. She likes the intrigue as much as I do, and that makes me want to know her even more, learn what makes her tick, what excites her. But more than that, I want her to keep wanting to see me, the guy she called Duke, not the dude everyone wants a piece of.
Then I’d know if it was real. Then I’d know it was about me, and not about anything else I might bring to the table. I almost wish I could keep up the ruse.
Because it’s not merely that I’m tired of the random women, the catfishers, the gold-diggers, and the money-hunters. I can handle a woman hitting on me at a conference, a bar, or the gym because she’s figured out I could be a meal ticket. I can shake that off and move on. Other things are harder to let go. I know what it’s like to give my heart to someone thinking she wants it, but then learn she only wants all the zeros attached to my name.
That was Annie.
She was a math nerd too, and we went to college together. I had the biggest crush on Annie, with her big blue eyes and equally blue hair, and her badass coder attitude. She didn’t give me the time of day romantically, but friend-wise, absolutely. I was the guy she leaned on, the one she told her man woes to. Yeah, I was that guy, and then I finally found the guts to ask her out.
But her answer was clear—I was friend-zoned forever. “But we’re so much better off as friends, don’t you think?”
“Sure,” I’d said because some of her was better than nothing.
We stayed buddies, keeping in touch even though we moved to separate coasts after graduation. A few years ago, she returned to New York and asked, ever-so-sweetly, if she could have a do-over on the “let’s just be friends” bit.
Hell to the yes. I hadn’t forgotten why I’d liked Annie. She was cool and smart.
We went out for several months, and it felt like sweet victory. Revenge of the nerds, indeed. Finally, the girl I’d wanted, wanted me too. And boy, did she ever. The praise flowed in. How good it was to finally be with me. The sex was plentiful, like she couldn’t get enough. Plus, she liked to sleep naked. Can you say kryptonite for a guy?
The closer we grew, the more often she floated the idea of moving in, maybe getting engaged.
I wasn’t opposed to bumping things to the next level, but my radar went off when she became not only overly interested in me, but keenly curious about my bank accounts. Where do you park all the money? Who manages it? What sort of investments do you have?
“The kind that requires a prenup.”
Yes, I told her that.
Because I’m not stupid.
“I can’t believe you’d want a prenup,” she said, like I was the jerk.
“Annie, we’re not even engaged.”
“But you’re well and truly saying you’d want a prenup?”
“Um, yeah.”
“I can’t believe you don’t trust me.”
I certainly didn’t after that. It didn’t take a genius to figure out why I’d been laddered up to the Let’s Be More Than Friends category. The more she pressed, the more evident it became. I hadn’t been promoted from the friend zone. I was skyrocketed into the green belt, and she watered the Flynn plant with compliments and nudity. A hungry ficus tree, I guzzled it up.
I suppose in the end I’m simply grateful that she showed her cards before I fell any deeper for her.
That’s why I wish Angel and I could keep up the masquerade. Because it’s honest. It’s freeing. I don’t have to worry about getting hurt.
I don’t have time for another heartbreak. I have a company to run and employees to provide for.
I do, however, have time for a fantastic night out or two or three, and that’s exactly what I want.
As I glance up at the numbers above the storefronts, a window full of old-fashioned toys comes into view. There’s a spinning top, a hobby horse, and some wooden blocks that spell the name of the establishment. The Dollhouse.
It’s one of those places that doesn’t need to rely on a flashing neon sign or scads of scantily dressed ladies out front to lure anyone in. It’s like a speakeasy. You need the secret language to enter, and the code is knowing this isn’t a storefront for old-fashioned toys.
Smiling, I push open the door and head into a bar. One wall is lined with shelves holding rooms from dollhouses—sitting areas decorated with pint-size couches, sleeping dens with beds that would hold a teaspoon and pillows no bigger than a fingernail. At the bar, the napkin holders are actual upside-down doll-size tables, that would, I think, fit inside one of those little homes.
Patrons sip drinks from teacups in shades of pastel blue and pink.
It’s so retro, it’s beyond retro. It’s like a fiesta of quirkiness, and as I look around, I hope I’ll recognize the woman from the party instantly. But then, I’m not sure how I won’t recognize her. I ran my fingers up her legs, slid them between her thighs, felt her tremble, kissed her lips.
I’ll know her.
The hostess strolls over and asks me if I’m meeting someone. I survey the tables and the bar, hunting for caramel hair, green eyes, pink lips. There’s a sign by the taps that says: Lollipops for good boys and girls.
My gaze drifts past the sign, and a smile tugs at my lips.
Damn, I’ve got it bad already.
“Yeah,” I say, and my voice sounds a little dreamy, a little dopey when my eyes land on a woman wearing a polka-dot skirt. I zero in on her hair, a warm shade of brown.
The woman whose underwear is in my pocket.
The woman whose scent has been in my head for the last twenty-four hours.
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