Holt, Her Ruthless Billionaire

by Theodora Taylor

  She is at least three inches taller than Sylvie and quite a few shades lighter, with long dreads, wide-set hips, and dimples so deep I can spot them from across the room. She also has a set of dark, lovely eyes—I discover that feature when she looks up from whatever is in the pot and spots me standing in the doorway.

  “Oh!” she says when she sees me. “Oh, hi! I’m Mika!” She gives a little wave. “And this is my son, Albie—say hi, Albie.”

  “Hi,” Albie says without looking up from whatever he’s stirring in the pan.

  JFK CEO…I remind myself, before forcing a polite tone and say, “I’m Holt Calson, Wes’s father.”

  “I knoooow!” Mika says, widening her eyes and extending the “know” as if who I am is both obvious and awesome. “Vee said there was a good chance I wouldn’t see you at all tonight. But here you are! Isn’t that cool, Albie? Just a few weeks in Connecticut, and we’ve already met the CEO of Cal-Mart. You love Cal-Mart!”

  “Not as much as I love Hawaii,” Albie answers flatly. “It’s warmer there.”

  “Jamaica and Mexico, too,” an accented voice agrees. “But Mama says you get used to it.”

  I follow the voice to the table where I usually eat my dinner and find Ender there, tinkering with some kind of space age helmet that seems to have several nodes inside it. This must be the bioHelmet Wes was telling me about at the dinner Sylvie forced him to eat with me.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, honestly curious about the helmet and the thin cords he seems to be attaching to the ivory color nodes inside it.

  “Making green spaghetti!” Wes answers, mistaking the direction of my question.

  “And the regular kind, too,” Ender adds, without looking up from his bioHelmet. “Then I’m going to monitor Wes’s brainwaves with the bioHelmet as he tries both.”

  “Yeah, it’s a bit off the wall,” Mika points out in a cheerful tone from her position at the stove. “But that’s what the boys said they wanted to do tonight. And it’s fun and maybe even a little educational, right, Albie?”

  “Not as fun as surfing,” Albie answers, his voice still flat and tight. “But yeah, I guess.”

  I narrow my eyes at Ender. “So let me get this straight. You’re running experiments on my son?”

  Ender finally looks up from his helmet, as if only now realizing I am there. “No…not an experiment exactly. Mama said I would have to get your permission if I wanted to do that. But Wes has a large range of fluctuating moods and strong emotions, and I decided to record and track his feelings since I now have daily access to him. It’s more like I’m monitoring him. Or I guess you could say I’m sequencing his brain waves, mon!”

  Ender snickers like he’s made a joke.

  One I definitely don’t get.

  “Where’s Sylvie?” I ask him, finally deciding to give up all pretense of being interested in anything but the answer to that question.

  Ender goes back to running thin cords out of the helmet, eyes hyper focused and intent on the project as he replies, “Um…on a date…I guess,” in a highly distracted tone. “With some professor. Not one of mine. Somebody Jamaican who I don’t know.”

  Wait…what the hell?

  “Dad! Dad! Look at the green spaghetti!” Wes shouts somewhere in the distance.

  But I barely hear him because Ender’s words are echoing too loudly in my ears.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Holt, Holt…wake up!”

  I open my eyes, fully expecting to find my mother in long braids, wellie boots, and pajamas, her blue eyes excited for a raccoon hunt.

  But instead, I see Sylvie, her brown eyes looking excited above a plate of pancakes.

  “What’s this?” I ask, shaking off the sleep and the joint I smoked on the balcony in the middle of the night while Sylvie slept. She never says anything, but I know she doesn’t like it. So like cursing, it’s something I try to only do when she’s asleep or not at home.

  “Happy Birthday!” she says, holding out the plate.

  “Uh, thanks babe…” I say, narrowing my eyes suspiciously at the plate’s contents. The three circles look like pancakes but smell like bananas.

  “Banana fritters,” she explains off my questioning look. “This is what my mother made for me growing up. Ask any Jamaican and they will tell you these are delicious.”

  Okay, I don’t love bananas. In fact, I kind of hate them to the point that when I was a kid, I forbade my nanny to ever put them on my plate, much less slice them into my cereal or any of the other fucked-up shit people who aren’t grossed out by bananas do with them.

  But I love Sylvie. So, I put on my game face, take a big bite, and find them…whoa, really banana-y. Her pleased smile makes them go down easier than they would have when I was ten though. And so, I end up eating every last bite.

  “Wow, you ate those faster than a real Jamaican,” she says, taking back the plate with a pleased smile.

  She’s happy, but her words blow a cold wind through my heart. “Do you ever mind…you know, that I’m not Jamaican?”

  She doesn’t answer right away, and I can tell she feels conflicted, as she often seems to be between how she was brought up and the life she now has with me.

  “Of course, if I was the same color as you and you were the same color as me, then that would make both our lives easier. But honestly, when I think about being with a Jamaican guy or someone who is not you, it does not sit right on my heart. When I think about who I am, who I love—I can only see you. You are the only one I love in this way…the only one I can imagine loving in this way.”

  She is so sweet. So innocent. The most honest person I have ever met. And that makes me feel even luckier that I found her in this big world.

  “Thank you for the pancakes,” I lie easily as I set the plate aside on the nightstand where I used to keep my coke and oxy mirror. “We still getting married today?”

  She hesitates…then nods shyly. And that nod makes the after taste of bananas in my throat worth it, I decide.

  “Know what else I want for my birthday?” I ask, pulling her into my arms.

  She doesn’t have to reply because I answer my own question with her for the rest of the morning and well into the afternoon.

  That empty plate never does make it back into the kitchen. A few days later, I find it still waiting on my nightstand when I am finally cleared to move from the hospital bed in the den back into my room.

  “Holt?”

  Less than 24 hours.

  Less than 24 hours passed between when my sweet and innocent girlfriend told me I was the only person she could imagine loving, and when she left me to die in that same bedroom.

  “Holt?”

  And now, I bitterly think ten years later, she is on a fucking date…with some Jamaican professor.

  “Holt? Holt? Earth to Holt!”

  I snap back out of the past, the present coming into sharp focus. And instead of my New Haven bedroom, I see a stage with an elegant backdrop that says Greenwich Ballet’s 56th Annual Fall Gala. The stage is filled with men in tuxes and women in evening gowns.

  One of the most famous of whom is my date. What’s her name again? Amy? Allie? No, that’s my assistant. Got it! Abigail…Abigail Kent. The daughter of a pharmaceutical millionaire and a principal dancer for the Greenwich Ballet. She’s the lucky winner of Della’s power point presentation slide deck, and the woman she selected to be seen and photographed with me tonight.

  A classic, slender brunette who speaks more eloquently than most women her age, every syllable refined and precise, Abigail is the complete opposite of the trashy actresses my father was often seen out and about with after my mother died. And since achieving principal dancer status, she hasn’t been photographed with a man worth less than ten figures.

  But according to the bio Della provided me, Abigail told the Greenwich Times she plans to retire from ballet when she finds the right person to raise a family with. A media-savvy dancer with no plans to do this forever�
��Della was right to choose her. She would be the perfect proof to the board that I’m not a dilettante playboy like my father, but a potential family man who can help rebrand Cal-Mart as a company America can trust.

  On cue, I pull Abigail in for a side hug picture, which I’m certain Della will send to several media outlets with some kind of vague yet obvious caption that ensures anyone who Googles me will know I was recently seen out and about on a “date” with someone they could easily imagine as a young CEO’s second—and much improved—wife.

  And what does Sylvie matter, anyway? She’ll be gone by January, as stated in the contract end date she traded sex with me to obtain. That’s all we are, I reminded myself. An arrangement. One more way for me to punish her for what she did. So why doesn’t it feel like it’s working?

  “And there you go again…Holt, come back.”

  I blink and find myself once more on the receiving end of Abigail’s quizzical look. “Is something wrong?” she asks. “You seem far away.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “I’ve got a tough negotiation with one of our distributors on Monday. It’s been on my mind a lot.”

  “Oh, I understand,” she says with a gracious and sympathetic smile. Then she launches into her own story about a new director at a particularly difficult venue on the ballet’s upcoming winter tour.

  I like Abigail. I do. She is gracious and direct and has a tinkling laugh that pairs well with the one and only glass of champagne she sips throughout the night.

  She also seems genuinely happy to be here with me, which is a nice change of pace from the trapped animal look Sylvie has whenever I walk into the room for our nightly rendezvous.

  Abigail abruptly stops her work story and asks, “Why are you smiling?”

  I shake my head and decide to tell her the truth. “Just thinking about how perfect you are.”

  “Oh.” She blushes prettily, then covers her chest above her pale brown evening gown to say, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “You know, I heard you grew up in New Haven and still donate to their opera company. You’ve probably already seen it, but the Greenwich Ballet is hosting a trip to see Chrysanthemum there next week. It’s already sold out, but if you like, you could come with me as my plus one.”

  It’s an intriguing invitation. Both her star and mine would rise if we made an appearance at another event together so soon after the first. And I would bet a month’s worth of Cal-Mart profits that Della would finagle some photog into taking a picture that would be splashed all over the internet.

  “Sounds good. Give my assistant a call on Monday to schedule it,” I say.

  “Really?” she asks, her entire face lighting up for reasons that probably have nothing to do with this date or even me, and everything to do with what I can do for her.

  But I don’t care. “How about we get out of here and go grab a bite to eat?” I suggest, knowing what her answer will be even before a new, much sexier smile spreads across her lips.

  I am going to fuck this woman, I decide as we leave the gala together. I am going to fuck her tonight, and then go to the opera with her next week. And hell, by this time next year, I might even announce our engagement.

  No more obsession, I tell myself as my driver and bodyguard, Yahto, lets us off in front of the place we’ll be dining at tonight.

  Abigail’s eyes light up when she sees the sign for 2AMSun, a hot new restaurant owned by a celebrity chef that opened a few weeks ago.

  “You were able to get a reservation here?” she asks. “I’ve been trying to get one for weeks, but they’re booked well into next year.”

  No, I don’t have a reservation. But I texted Della to get us one on the way over. And despite my major image rebranding, I am still entitled enough to expect that there will be a table waiting for us when we walk in. In fact, I spot a table for two right next to the large picture window where anyone who walks by will see one of America’s youngest billionaires sitting with Greenwich’s most beautiful ballet dancer.

  But instead of smoothly escorting Abigail inside, I stop, transfixed. Not by 2AMSun’s window, but by one across the way. Beneath a dark red canopy that reads “pastabene” in unassuming lowercase letters, I see Sylvie sitting across from an owlish, light-skinned black man in a tweed suit.

  “Actually…” I say to Abigail, my voice becoming hard.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  SYLVIE

  I’m having a good time. I’m having a good time, I insist inwardly as I force myself to laugh at yet another of Glen’s lazy student jokes.

  But then the laughter dies in my throat, and not just because I find his mostly student-targeted jokes anything but funny.

  Following my gaze, Glen says, “That’s Holt Calson, the CEO of Cal-Mart, right? Do you know him?”

  “Yes, he is my…ah, boss.”

  Glen’s eyes widen. “Holt Calson is your boss?”

  “Yes,” I answer, noticing that not one, but two of the wait staff rush over to a newly empty table by ours and frantically start clearing it off.

  There is also a man with a heavy paunch at the restaurant’s front door. He is either the manager or the owner because he flips the black, white, and red door sign from “open” to “closed” before walking to the closest occupied table. After talking to the two men eating dinner there, he moves onto the next two top and then the next.

  We soon discover why when he reaches our table and lets us know that the Holt Calson has booked the entire restaurant for himself and his date. But of course, we are more than welcome to finish our meals before we leave, and Mr. Calson has generously offered to pay our dinner bills to offset any inconvenience his arrival may cause.

  Glen’s eyes widen. “Are you serious?” he says, looking all sorts of delighted that he is no longer expected to pick up the check.

  “Wow! Your boss is a real romantic,” he comments after the manager moves on to the next table. Then he drops his voice to ask, “But wasn’t his son on YouTube a few months back threatening to kill a bunch of kids at some vacation club?”

  “That clip is nothing to go by. His son is a wonderful soul,” I answer, feeling defensive of Wes.

  “You must be some kind of super nanny,” Glen insists.

  “I’m not. Really, I’m not.”

  But my date just shakes his head and says, “I cannot believe I’m sitting across from Holt Calson’s nanny! Janet is not going to believe it when I tell her.”

  Janet being his evil feminist ex-wife who Glenn has spent half the evening complaining about.

  “Can we change the subject?” I ask as I watch the host escort Holt, who is wearing a tux, and a stunning, willowy brunette in a floor length evening gown, to the table with a view out the restaurant’s large street-facing bay window.

  It is the perfect table for a romantic date and unfortunately, it is next to ours. Glen and I watch as Holt pulls out a chair for his date, like the hero in an old-fashioned romantic movie.

  Thanks to the reflection offered by the curved bay window, I can see both Holt and his date as clearly as if I am watching them in a silent film. But if Holt notices me, he doesn’t acknowledge it or so much as glance my way, even after he takes a seat that directly faces me.

  “Do you want to go over and say hello?” Glen asks, turning back around to look at me.

  “No, that’s okay. I imagine they want their privacy. I’ll wave on the way out,” I answer. Then I put every ounce of focus I have into concentrating on Glen instead of the man seated at the next table across from a lovely swan of a woman who makes me feel like a dumpy pigeon in my simple wrap dress.

  Glen’s nods sympathetically. “Yes, I suppose that might make it feel a little bit too much like being at work, huh?”

  “Actually, I don’t see him much at work,” I answer. And even though I was forced to take the job as Wes’s nanny, I admit, “I really enjoy what I do.”

  “Well, good for you!” Glen says, tapping the table with his hand
for extra emphasis. “As you can imagine, it has not been easy to care for my daughter on my own. It is so nice to meet a woman who has chosen to make a career out of childcare. What attracts you to caring for other people’s children?”

  I shift uncomfortably. This is not the first time tonight that I have felt as if this is a job interview rather than a date. Glen has asked me a number of questions about my childcare philosophy ever since we met outside CIT’s main lecture hall. And though I understand why my Aunt Judith would be excited at the prospect of me dating an educated Jamaican man, I cannot help but wonder if Glen will try to swap out a goodnight kiss for a meet and greet with his daughter.

  But Holt is...well, he may not be watching us, but he is right there. So, I answer the question as best I can. “I do not think of it as ‘taking care of another family’s child.’ To me, it is more like hanging out with some admittedly small friends who I can encourage to become kind and competent adults. I have always found children interesting and funny, even when they are ‘doing bad’ as my mother would say. Children are a blessing, not a curse. That’s how I see it.”

  “What a great perspective!” Glen agrees with a nod that mimics his voice: overemphatic to the point of patronizing.

  But he is cute, I remind myself. He’s on the lighter side, but he didn’t seem remotely off put by my darker skin—something that came up a few times for me when I was dating in Jamaica. Maybe the conversation will improve after dinner, I tell myself as the server sets two steaming plates of pasta in front of us.

  Yet while we eat, Glen asks even more interview-like questions.

  Do I have plans to move back to Hartford to be closer to my mother? (No, since I have to accompany my son to his classes for the next four years—I don’t bother telling him my mother and I are more or less estranged.)