“It seems like your glass is empty, Doctor Flemming,” he says. “Can I get you a new one?”
Karlene handed my empty glass back to me after I finished with my fun. And it was fun, despite the fact that those rock-hard stripper abs have had more hands on them than a lucky penny.
“No, thank you.”
My answer is swift. Firm. No-nonsense.
“Excuse me.” Karlene heads over to the party, where our police friend seems to be wrapping up his show.
“Why not?”
He’s as direct as I’d expect him to be.
“Because you are a sponsor, and I’m your RPM.”
“Do you want another drink?”
I look at the melting ice cubes in my glass. I could use one, but he won’t be buying it.
As I hesitate, Hayden leans over and says something to a young guy, an artist type who immediately scurries by us.
“Friend of yours?” I ask.
There’s not a ton of room where we’re standing—people keep jostling me on their way past. My inclination is to move, but I don’t want to signal I’m interested in continuing this conversation.
Hayden nods toward our policeman, who’s gathering his clothes.
“Friend of yours?”
Touché.
“I’m not on the clock,” I remind him, aware I sound defensive. There’s no morality clause in my contract, but if someone had snapped a photo of my performance, I doubt it would help my chances of getting the promotion.
“I’m not a prude,” he says in a way that suggests he’s anything but. “I don’t give a shit what you do in your free time.”
“Gee, thanks.”
His eyes are green. A green so stark it doesn’t seem natural. My eyes are green, sometimes, but they’re a normal green. Hazel, really. It’s hard to look away.
“I have to go,” I start when his artist friend comes back and hands him two drinks. One a beer, and the other . . .
“Here you go.” He hands the glass to me as his friend walks away.
“What’s this?”
“Your drink.”
“I said I didn’t want one,” I say, trying to hand it back.
“No, you said you didn’t want me to buy you one. So I didn’t.” He nods toward a small group that now includes the guy who brought over the drinks. “He did.”
“Do you know him?”
Hayden shakes his head, taking a swig of his beer. “No.”
“Then why’d he get these drinks? How did you know what I was drinking, anyway?” Because it’s a vodka and club, just like I’ve been drinking all night. I peer down in the glass. “And how do you know it’s safe? I don’t typically take drinks from strangers.”
I try to hand it back again.
“Because I paid him to get them. Quickly. As for the drink, I guessed after seeing your empty glass. I watched him the entire time. It hasn’t been tampered with.”
He’s so arrogant, part of me wants to stop this conversation immediately. But the other part of me is curious.
“You didn’t give him any money, though.”
That same smile he gave me outside the ladies’ room appears now. The one that nearly made me forget I was being picked up by a guy in my own office building.
“I did. You didn’t notice.” And then he lifts his hand, wiggling his fingers. “They’re highly skilled.”
Which was a little heavy-handed, really, but I’ll hand it to him. I’m imagining what those highly skilled fingers can do.
I pretend not to pick up on his innuendo.
“So if you paid him to get these drinks, then you bought it for me. In which case, I refuse.”
But he still won’t accept my drink.
“Wrong again, Doctor.”
I notice my friends are moving toward the bar, now that the entertainment is gone. Looks like we’re staying here for a bit.
Which makes me really want to take a sip of the drink, but I refuse on principle.
“Enlighten me.” I try to sound bored, but I really am interested in his answer. How many steps ahead did he plan within the few minutes available to him?
“Grab a Stella for me and a Belvedere and club for my friend and make it quick. Tell the bartender I need them on the house. Here’s a hundred.”
He was actually serious.
“You paid a hundred dollars for two drinks?”
Another devastating smile. “Technically, the drinks were free. I paid a hundred dollars to have them delivered. Bartender is a friend of mine.”
When he moves closer to me, I’m not sure if I should back up, to preserve my sanity. Or stand my ground, to show him he doesn’t affect me.
Which is the most blatant lie I’ve told myself since I pretended I’d only join the bachelorette party for one drink.
“That’s insane.”
“Take a sip.” He sounds exactly like I’d imagine the devil would. Tempting me. “You wanted another drink, and you have one. I promise it’s safe, and I didn’t buy it.”
Why do I think taking a sip of this drink is actually a metaphor for something more? Really, it’s just a drink, the same one I’ve been partaking in all evening.
“Are you always this presumptuous?” I stall.
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Yes.”
I realize now what it is about him. His partner is just as good-looking. And yes, the fact that he’s way too cocky is a draw because, well, I’m flawed.
But it’s not just that.
I’ve never met anyone who held eye contact for this long. It’s disconcerting.
And also attractive.
“If I take a sip of this drink,” I say, aware that I’m now bargaining with the devil, “it doesn’t mean your review will take even a day less.”
In answer, he brings his beer bottle to his lips and drinks. A long, slow sip that I’m sure does nothing for the detached, professional demeanor I’m attempting to channel.
Dear lord, this man is sexy.
“It’s just a drink,” he says.
Which only makes me more certain that it’s not.
From the corner of my eye, I see a hand waving frantically. Karlene is attempting to get my attention from the bar. She holds up her drink.
Do I need one?
I glance between her and Hay—Mr. Tanner. Somehow he knew exactly what I was drinking, except for the vodka upgrade, and it’s honestly silly for Karlene to waste her money.
I’m being ridiculous.
Shaking my head, I lift up the full glass to indicate I’ve got a drink. I finally take a sip, and although his expression doesn’t change, I see the look in those impossibly sexy eyes.
He considers this a victory. So I take away his power over me.
“Thank you for having this very expensive drink delivered to me.”
There. No big deal.
“Thank you for working so diligently to get us approved.”
“Like I said, don’t expect any special treatment. I won’t do anything for you that I wouldn’t for every other sponsor.”
“Really?” He doesn’t even attempt to hide his skepticism. “How about the way you summoned me over here?”
I nearly spit out a mouthful of vodka. “Summoned you? Hardly.”
“Then what would you call it?”
I think back to that exact moment I saw him. After the jolt of recognition—and attraction—passed, I felt achingly aware of the compromising position I was in. But I didn’t want to feel bad for having fun, for letting loose, so I defied him by staring him down.
“You have quite an imagination.”
“Mmmm.” His throaty little sound is one I hope I never have to hear again. It reminds me very much of the sound of appreciation a man might make upon touching the bare skin of a lover for the first time.
“I’ll admit, I do have a vivid imagination, Doctor Flemming.”
Bowing slightly, which is apparently a habit of his—probably chapter two in that handbook—Mr. Tanner turns to leave.
“Goodnight, Doctor.”
I’m left staring at the empty spot where he stood. The jerk doesn’t even bother to look back. Not once. He rejoins his friend, business partner, whatever, and sits his fine-looking ass on the barstool like he didn’t just saunter over here, play me like a fiddle, and then walk away.
For the second time this week, I’m really, really glad I won’t be dealing with him on a weekly basis. His account might be mine, but the much more friendly and less dangerous Mr. DeLuca is a man I can easily deal with.
Mr. Sexy Eyes, not so much.
8
Hayden
“Calm down.”
Easy for Enzo to say.
I pace the length of his temporary office, the location perfect for our purposes. It’s small, but neither of us spend enough time here to warrant anything bigger for now. Enzo gets the one private office, and I share a big open space with our four other employees.
Enzo is the one who needs privacy. He’s the inventor in all of this. His calculations are what will make or break us, and it’s harder for him to concentrate here than when he’s at the lab.
“I am calm,” I insist.
“Is that why you’re pacing around my office?” He rolls backward in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I can’t take him anymore.”
“By him you mean your dad?”
I don’t dignify his question with an unnecessary answer.
“What now?”
“I swear to God, Enzo, if this doesn’t get approved on time, if my father’s brought on as a partner . . .”
“Breathe.”
I’m not into all that crap. Enzo loves talking about clearing his head. Swimming. Even yoga. But I like to take out my frustrations on a few hundred-pound weights. Or with late nights and lots of alcohol.
But I do as he says.
In and out.
“Feel better?”
I sink into the chair across from Enzo’s desk.
“No.”
I cover my face with my hands, attempting to wipe away the last fifteen minutes of my life. It doesn’t work.
“Talk to me.”
“He’s been on my case since last week. He keeps bugging me about visiting the plant.”
Enzo makes a face. “I was just there two weeks ago.”
“Apparently that’s not good enough for my father. He also has a problem with the marketing firm we hired, and this morning he considered it his duty to remind me of the terms of the agreement, again.”
As if I needed the reminder.
Eight million dollars to fund clinical trials on the pill and to build the manufacturing plant. Interest free, with one gigantic catch.
If we don’t begin to bring in money by the eighteen-month mark, it’s no longer a loan but an investment. Angel, Inc. will no longer be a partnership between Enzo and I but a corporation of which my father is a partial investor.
As Enzo has reminded me many, many times . . . it’s a good deal. The risk of funding us is huge—no product like it has ever been brought to market before.
The problem? My father barely liked me growing up, and cares even less for me now. He only agreed to fund our enterprise because, in his own words, “It’s my best chance to not be embarrassed by you.”
He believes in Enzo. Not me.
And already his grip is tightening.
“I can’t work with him, Enzo.”
“I know. You won’t have to. Even if we’re delayed for thirty days, we still have nearly two months, and everything else is on track. Want some good news?”
“Yes, please.”
“The wine formula is looking much better than anticipated. I’m heading to the lab tomorrow, but I think it’s possible we’ll be able to fast-track it. We’ve learned by blending with the beer what needs to be adjusted. You were right about manufacturing this ourselves, at least for now, until we can sell the exact protocol.”
Enzo’s smiling like a mad chemist with a new discovery, which is pretty spot on.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
That’s actually really good news. We agreed to start with beer, Angel Pale Ale and Angel Lager. According to Enzo, it’s easier to mask the taste of the additive with beer, for whatever reason. It’ll be trickier to find the right balance with wine and spirits, but our goal is to eventually make Angel everything. Beer. Wine. Vodka. Gin. All of it. And when we learn how to perfectly blend each, we will sell it to others too. It’s a product that deserves variety to serve as many people as possible. Our social responsibility with this product is something Enzo and I feel strongly about.
“Holy shit. Why didn’t you tell me that earlier?” I lean forward. “Let’s celebrate. I’ve been wanting to try this little Italian place my assistant’s been raving about. No work talk.”
“This weekend?”
“No, tonight. Why wait?”
Enzo makes a face. “Sure.”
He’s a hard worker, which maybe isn’t putting it strongly enough. The truth is, he never stops working. So I’m almost surprised he agreed to go out, even if just for dinner, on a Wednesday night.
“In the meantime, with your dad . . .” He looks down as his phone vibrates. “I need to take this.”
Enzo holds up his finger for me to wait.
“Hello?”
It’s most likely one of his siblings. Enzo might not go home as much as he used to, but he talks to his family nearly every day.
Lucky guy.
“Yes, I agree. Let me take a look.”
He fires up his laptop.
“I’m not available that weekend. Is it possible to do the following one?”
We have enough start-up money that Enzo could easily hire a secretary, or assistant, but the stubborn ass insists on doing everything himself. If Angel, Inc. does take off, he’s going to have to learn how to accept help.
“No, no. We don’t want anything to cause further delays.”
That gets my attention.
“Can you hold for just a second?” He puts the call on hold and glances up at me. “Quick, see if you’re available the weekend of the 24th.”
“For what?” I ask, even as I pull out my phone and check the dates. “I am. Who’s on the phone?”
“I’ll explain in a sec. Hold on.”
Before I can object or ask any more questions, Enzo clicks back to his caller. “My partner is available that weekend. . . . Uh-huh. Our meeting on Thursday—should I give that to him if he’ll be doing the site visit?”
The site visit.
He must be talking about the plant, although I’m not sure who I’ll be bringing for a site visit. The FDA inspectors aren’t going to be able to come until next month. Well, my father will be happy, anyway. He’s been after me to go up there for weeks.
What I didn’t say was, Would you please trust me to run my own company? or I thought this was a no-strings-attached loan.
Pissing off my father was the one sure way to ensure more meddling.
“OK, I’ll have him get in touch to arrange the handover. Thank you for getting us in so quickly. We really appreciate it.”
A pause, then, “Same to you.”
Enzo drops his phone on the desk and looks at me like I’m responsible for Cornell losing a championship.
“What?”
“I’m gonna go on the record saying this is probably not a great idea, especially after last weekend.”
Last weekend? What the hell did I do last weekend? As far as I can remember, I was pretty well behaved.
“Spit it out.”
“That was our RPM.”
Ahhh. The lovely Ada Flemming.
“She has an opening for a site visit in two weeks and can squeeze us in. But I have an out-of-town meeting scheduled with Anthony Walden.”
I try to place the name. Walden, the owner of SouthBev. He and other regional beer distributors will be key to getting our product to market.
Wait. Enzo�
��s words just hit me.
“Did you really just schedule me to go upstate for a site visit with Doctor Flemming?”
Enzo’s eyes narrow. “And her team.”
Oh shit.
“Which is why you’ll be the POC until the visit. To prepare. I told her you’d get in touch for a meeting on Thursday with the ODE team.”
I make a face.
“Sorry. Office of Drug Evaluation.”
Enzo’s been the point of contact for the product development and antidote approval process, which means he’s more up on the FDA lingo than I am.
I don’t need to ask him why he’s looking at me like that. While I assured him that my behavior on Saturday night meant nothing, we both know I had no good reason to approach Ada Flemming in that bar. And Enzo doesn’t even know about the hundred-dollar drink.
Maybe my father is right.
I’m a screwup, and I keep discovering new ways to get myself in trouble on a regular basis.
“I take it you don’t think it’s a good idea?” I ask.
“Hell no, it’s not a good idea. But it’s a better one than passing on an opportunity to move the process along.”
I clear my throat. “Agreed.”
Enzo shoots me a warning look.
“Listen.” The last thing I want is for Enzo to be nervous. He entrusted this venture to me, and I won’t let him down. “I would never screw up something this important. For a woman. Even one as pretty as Ada Flemming.”
Denying I’m attracted to her would just mark me as a straight-up liar, and Enzo would never buy it anyway.
“I’m serious,” I add, standing. “Send me her info. And meet me at Faustini’s at six thirty.”
Enzo doesn’t seem completely pacified, and I don’t blame him. My track record is less than stellar. But on this, he doesn’t need to worry.
My best friend’s genius invention.
Eight million dollars of my father’s money.
Angel, Inc. is no ordinary venture, and even I know enough not to fuck this one up.
9
Ada
“Thank God, you are a lifesaver!”
My colleague looks at me like I’ve lost my ever-loving mind.
“I’m a lifesaver because I’m dragging you into a meeting?” Qasim asks.
Last Call Page 4