She laughs. “Don’t ask me, I’m thirty-one. Practically a senior citizen in terms of Internet lingo.”
“Well, I’m forty-one, so you have to be better than me.”
Daphne holds my gaze, and I feel something passing between us. Damn, I hope she feels our chemistry as strongly as I do.
“Anyway…” She looks at her lap and then back up at me. “Thank you. And thanks for doing this dinner, and being okay with the photographer. I think once the world sees a photo of us meeting and we go back to our everyday lives, this will all pass.”
“You don’t like all the attention,” I say, because given her tone and expression, it’s not even a question.
“No. My family has money, and with my dad’s work, I’ve always felt like we were in the spotlight. And finally, I’m away from all that.” With a sheepish grin, she says, “I mean no offense by this, but the world of the rich and famous isn’t for me.”
“I understand.”
And I do. I wish I could live my life with less scrutiny, but it’s just not possible. Once I passed a certain level of wealth, people became interested in everything about me. Where I’m traveling to. Who I’m with. How much I tip at restaurants. And the level of interest is highest in Chicago, since I own the Blaze.
“After tonight, I’m hoping to slide back into oblivion,” Daphne cracks, but I know she’s not entirely joking.
There’s no way she can completely fly under the radar, though. She’s too bright. I don’t say that, though. I’m still feeling like a tongue-tied teenager in her presence, which is new for me. Usually I’m in control of every situation I’m in. I’m the one in the room everyone wants to impress, not the one trying to be impressive.
“I guess we should get out there,” she says with a soft sigh. “My family can be a little much, just so you know. I recommend drinking and pretending you don’t hear about seventy percent of what they say.”
“I’ll manage,” I say with a wry smile.
She leads the way back to the room we came from, and as soon as we walk in, Josephine gives Daphne a puzzled look.
“No T-shirt about crushing the patriarchy, I see,” she says. “Is it laundry day?”
Daphne shakes her head and accepts the drink Julia passes her. “Just mixing it up, Grandma Jo.”
“She’s a firebrand,” Josephine says to me, pointing at Daphne. “I won’t be surprised if I wake up some morning and she’s chained herself to a tree trying to save the earth.”
“I’m more about human rights, Grandma Jo,” Daphne says, sounding weary.
“Oh, let’s not get into all that unpleasantness,” Sandra says, scrunching her nose. “Olivier, you grew up in France, didn’t you? We’d love to hear about that.”
I spend the rest of the evening talking to Daphne’s parents. We chat about France, the stock market, politics and the Blaze. I’m disappointed to see that Daphne is hardly even paying attention. She looks like she’s just trying to survive the dinner.
I do get a warm smile as she says goodbye to me when I’m leaving, but it feels perfunctory.
I shake my head on the ride home, both frustrated and amused. Daphne Barrington couldn’t be less interested in me. I was named Hottest Bachelor in Chicago by a magazine a few months ago, I’m wealthy as fuck and I’m not bad looking.
I know she’s single and attracted to men, because her grandma made several cracks at dinner about her dirtbag ex-fiancé. But for whatever reason, Daphne isn’t the least bit interested in me.
At least, not yet.
Chapter Six
Daphne
“Grocery store sheet cakes are so underrated,” my coworker Nina says as she cuts another piece of the cake in our closet-sized breakroom. “I’ll take a piece of this over that gourmet bakery shit any day.”
“It is really good,” I agree. “Thanks again, you guys; you didn’t have to do that.”
When I got to the office this morning, Nina and our boss Ty were waiting for me with a cake that said, “Welcome back Daphne.” I got tears in my eyes when I saw it. I hugged them both, overcome with relief. Ty and Nina know I come from a wealthy family, but it’s never been an issue. With all the coverage of the accident and my family online, though, I worried that maybe they’d see me differently now.
Things haven’t changed a bit, though. Ty caught me up on what I’ve missed and then asked me to sort through the mountain of donated clothes and shoes piled up in our back room once I got caught up on email and settled.
“People donate some really nasty shit,” I tell Nina and Ty as I toss my paper plate into the trash. We wash and reuse the plastic forks, because every dollar counts here.
Nina snort laughs. “Some lady called me last week and asked how much of a tax donation she could get for giving us a snowmobile without an engine.”
“Always a helpful item for the homeless,” I say, rolling my eyes. “This morning I sorted through stained, dirty underwear with holes. And toothbrushes. Used toothbrushes with flattened bristles. People are disgusting.”
“I hope you wore rubber gloves,” Ty says.
“I doubled up.”
He glances at his watch. “After my next meeting, I’ll come take over on sorting. You should go to the bridge and see everyone. They’ve been asking about you.”
“Really?”
Ty grins. “Of course, Daphne. Everyone loves you. Ray’s been missing you something bad.”
I sigh heavily, but then laugh. Ray is a homeless man in his seventies with mental health issues who has a thing for me. He’s proposed to me at least fifty times, offering to share his tent under the bridge with me forever if I’ll have him.
“Don’t ever tell him this, but I even missed Ray,” I say. “I never would’ve imagined that’s possible. I think I will go over this afternoon.”
“We just stocked up on toiletries if you want to bring some with you,” Ty offers.
“Yeah, that sounds good.”
Visiting the homeless people who live beneath a bridge not far from the shelter is one of my favorite things to do. I stuff a backpack full of candy, socks and toiletries and pass everything out. It’s humbling to see people cry with gratitude when they receive something most of us take for granted.
I sort through more donations, building up my three piles—garbage, clothing that needs to be washed, and items that are ready to be used. It’s cold, so I know the boots, shoes, coats and hats will go fast.
Once Ty takes over sorting, I grab the backpack I filled earlier and prepare to walk. With downtown Chicago traffic, it takes me longer to drive. I’m putting on my coat when the front door to Safe Harbor is opened and Olivier Durand walks inside.
I’m so surprised to see him that it takes me a couple seconds to process his presence. In his dark custom suit and long wool coat, he looks out of place in Safe Harbor’s shabby lobby, where the old linoleum floor has chunks missing and the only seats are ancient metal folding chairs.
“Hi,” he says, raising a leather-gloved hand in greeting.
“Hi.”
He looks at my T-shirt, which has a picture of Ruth Bader Ginsburg and says, ‘You Can’t Handle the Ruth.’ I can’t tell if his grin is amused or patronizing, but it irks me that he’s grinning at all. My shirts are not meant as jokes.
“How’s your first day back at work going?”
“Really good. It’s great to be back.”
He nods and takes off his gloves, stuffing them in a pocket of his coat. I want to ask him why he’s here, but I don’t want to be rude, so I wait for him to tell me.
“Going out for a hike?” he asks me, looking at the backpack on the floor.
“Oh.” I look down at the pack, then up at him. “No, just going to pass out a few things to people who need them.”
“It’s freezing out there.”
I zip up my coat and say, “Which is why it’s so important that I take these hats and gloves to people who need them.”
“What about your boot, though?�
�� He frowns.
“The doctor said I can do as much walking as I want, as long as I’m wearing it.”
“In the snow, though?”
Who even is this guy? He saved me and I’m forever grateful, but now he’s standing in my workplace and treating me like a child who needs looking after.
He came close to dying when he saved my life, though, so…no snarky comments, Daphne.
“I’ll be okay,” I assure him. “And I don’t mean to be rude, but I really need to get going. I want to be back here before it gets dark.”
He looks a little stunned as he says, “Do you have security?”
“No, but I figure there’ll be at least a few photographers following me. Most people don’t like to mug someone if there’s a guy taking photos of it.”
With a look at his watch, he says, “I’d go with you, but I have a meeting I can’t miss. How about if I send one of my security guys with you?”
I laugh, because seriously…I still don’t even know why he’s here.
“You don’t need to do that. I’ve been doing this job for three years now. The people I’m helping know me. I’ll be perfectly safe.”
Olivier furrows his brow. “Even so, you don’t need to be carrying around that heavy backpack with your ankle still healing. Just let my guy carry it for you, okay?”
My guy. Olivier is apparently one of those rich guys who thinks he has “people” to do his bidding.
I shoulder the pack, trying not to grunt beneath the weight of it.
“Daphne.” Olivier takes the few steps separating us and tries to hold up the backpack from behind me.
“I’ve got it,” I say.
“Do you want to hurt your ankle again and end up away from work even longer?”
His tone is scolding, and my laugh is unamused.
“I’m sorry, who asked you to come lecture me at my workplace?” I say, aggravated.
He sighs heavily. “I don’t mean to lecture, I’m just concerned about you.”
“I appreciate it, but I’m fine. I’ve been sitting around doing nothing and helping no one for a month now, and I need to get back to it.”
“What if you tell my security guy where to go and he takes it? He’s trustworthy.”
I shake my head. “It has to be me.” Turning my head to the side, I look back at him. “You don’t need to hold on to the backpack.”
“It’s heavy.”
“I know.”
“Will you just take it off for one minute?” he asks. “I came here to give you something.”
“Something other than a hard time?” I quip.
“Yes, smartass.”
Shrugging out of the pack, I turn around and give him a mock glare as it hits the floor.
“Smartass? Do you treat every woman you rescue from a burning car this way?”
He’s fighting off a smile as he says, “Do you treat every man who tries to help you this way?”
“Depends on whether I actually need help. In this case, I don’t.”
Olivier leans to the side to look out the front window of the Safe Harbor lobby. “There are photographers taking photos of us right now. Is there somewhere more private we can go?”
My stomach does a flip at the sound of the words more private. I can’t deny that Olivier is very attractive. He’s tall, with broad shoulders, blue eyes and light brown hair. Even though nothing else about him is my type, I can’t help my body’s inner dance of joy over a hot guy asking me to go somewhere more private.
Aiden and I were together for almost four years and had been engaged for more than a year when I found out he’d been cheating on me. It didn’t just hurt, it also made me question my judgment. How could I have thought everything was just fine when he was sleeping with someone else, and even taking her out on dates sometimes?
I never want to get blindsided like that again. So no matter how hot Olivier is, I’m not letting on that I notice. Twitter will move on from #Olidaph.
“This is my office,” I say, leading Olivier into the small room.
“Wow,” he says as he steps inside.
“I know, it’s not much.”
“No, I meant…I like it.”
I lower my brows, doubt laced through each word as I say, “You like my office.”
Like the waiting room, my office has peeling, damaged linoleum, which I’ve mostly covered with a bright blue rug. My desk is small and simple. One wall of the room has a bookcase stuffed with books and potted plants. The others have colorful framed paintings of people I admire and their words. Olivier scans pictures of Maya Angelou, Alice Nkom and John Lewis and a smile slowly spreads over his face.
“I like it a lot,” he says, gesturing at the folding chair in front of my desk. “Can we sit for a minute?”
I hesitate a moment before saying, “Sure.”
Olivier unbuttons his suit coat and sits down.
“You seem skeptical of me, Daphne,” he says, meeting my eyes.
“I’m not skeptical of you, it’s more…confused, I guess.”
He reaches into an inner pocket of his coat and takes out an envelope, passing it across my desk to me.
“I wanted to make a donation to Safe Harbor.”
I cringe. Of course I had to be an asshole to him out in the lobby when he came here to make a donation. I peek in the envelope, see a check for $25,000, and cringe again.
“That’s so generous of you,” I say, looking up at him. “Thank you.”
“You don’t look pleased.”
I smile. “I am. Thank you. I just wish I hadn’t been so prickly out in the lobby.”
The corners of his eyes crinkle as Olivier smiles back at me. “Don’t worry about it. I think maybe we’re both just strong-willed.”
“Is that a nice way of saying we’re stubborn and difficult?”
He shrugs. “I know I can be at times.”
I don’t know why him admitting that is so sexy, but it is. I’m still used to Aiden, who wouldn’t admit he was wrong even when he was caught red-handed. He blamed his cheating on me working too much and losing interest in sex.
“I suppose I can be a little bit stubborn,” I admit. “On occasion.”
Olivier holds my gaze, and the silence between us isn’t awkward. I can tell he wants to say something, so I wait. The last thing I want to do is tell him I need to get going and have him pull another envelope out of his pocket.
“Can I take you out for dinner sometime?” he asks.
“Me?” My lips part with surprise.
“You.”
“But why?”
He gives me a wry grin. “Because I like you.”
I look down at my desk, trying to figure out what to say. And of course, what I say ends up sounding awkward.
“Is this about the hashtag?”
“No. I honestly don’t like all this attention any more than you do.”
“But if we…I mean, they’d go nuts if we were seen going out for dinner together.”
He shrugs. “I have good security. I’ll make sure we have privacy.”
I think I’d like to get to know Olivier better. Obviously, he’s nice and beyond worthy of any woman’s attention. But I can’t bring myself to say yes. I’m still finding my way after the breakup with Aiden and the accident. And Olivier is a billionaire. He had no trouble chatting it up with my parents about the stock market and interest rates. His world is the one I’m trying to get further away from, not deeper into.
“I’m flattered, but I have to decline,” I say, my heart hammering.
His expression stays neutral as he nods.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out, standing up. “It’s just that you’re…anyway, it doesn’t matter. I need to go.”
“Am I too old for you?”
“No!” I feel my cheeks warming. “It’s not that.”
“Then what?”
I lock eyes with him and admit the truth. “You’re too rich.”
He lowers his brows, genuinely confu
sed. “I’m too…rich?”
“Yes. I know it sounds crazy, but that’s just not me. My grandmother is hardly leaving me anything in her will because she’s worried I’ll just give it all to charity. And she’s right.”
“Is that truly the reason?” He stands up, too.
“It is. I mean, there’s also the fact that I want to get rid of the photographers following me every day. But I…when I decide to date again, it’ll be someone like a poet. Or a musician. Maybe a guy who works for Doctors Without Borders. I’m just not meant to go out with a billionaire.”
He narrows his eyes, the corners of his lips twitching with a smile. “I didn’t think you were the type of woman to judge people by how much money they have.”
“That’s…you’re ridiculous,” I say, flustered. “And I really do have to go so I can get back before dark.”
“Take my security guy with you. You won’t even know he’s there and he’ll carry the pack.”
“It’s okay. I’m fine.” I walk out of my office, my heart still pounding. I turn to look at him over my shoulder. “Do you want the donation back?”
He scoffs. “No.”
“Thank you again,” I say, the awkwardness so real I want to crawl under a chair. “For the donation.”
“It was my pleasure. Take care, Daphne.”
“Bye.”
He buttons his coat, puts on his gloves and leaves. I bury my face in my hands, wishing I could text Julia about what just happened. I have to get this stuff delivered, though, so I put the heavy backpack back on, waiting a couple minutes to leave so I don’t have to face Olivier again.
When I walk out the door, the icy Chicago wind whips against my face. A big guy in a dark coat is tailing me, and I know it’s Olivier’s security guy.
Stubborn ass. He’s right, though, we are a lot alike. Which is why, other than the fact that he’s a billionaire, nothing could ever work between us.
Chapter Seven
Olivier
“Is everyone in the conference room?” I ask Hassan, glancing at my watch.
“All but one of the in-person attendees are there and we’re still waiting on two of the video attendees.”
Olivier: A Chicago Blaze Hockey Romance Page 4