I narrow my eyes, aggravated. “So three people are late.”
“Well, not really.”
“If the meeting starts in one minute and they aren’t here, they’re late,” I snap.
I hate it when people are late. It shows disrespect for my time. There are plenty of people who do respect my time, and I prefer to do business with them.
“Well, not really,” Hassan says.
“You mean they’re not late until 10:01?” I scoff. “That’s bullshit logic. If you’re not in your chair with the meeting details in front of you at start time, you’re late.”
“But remember, I bumped the meeting back fifteen minutes so you could talk to Char Morris privately before it started. And then you and Char ended up talking yesterday so you didn’t need to do it today.”
He’s right. And while I usually would admit it, I don’t today because I’m in a foul mood and I’m looking for reasons to be pissed off. Hassan is used to this, and he’s also used to getting a very large bonus at the end of every year for dealing with my surliness.
I still can’t believe Daphne turned me down yesterday. I haven’t asked a woman out in a long time, but it’s like riding a bike. The donation to Safe Harbor should have softened her up.
Too rich. Not a poet. I can’t believe those are her reasons for saying no. I’m not used to that word, and I don’t fucking like it. Not when it comes to women, and not when it comes to business.
“Looks like Larry Knowles is signing on. I need to go make sure his video connection is good,” Hassan says after reading a message on his computer screen.
The kid’s the best assistant I’ve ever had. He’s a twenty-seven-year-old who agreed to work for me when I recruited him if I gave him stock options in my companies and mentored him. He keeps up with everything in my Chicago and New York offices without missing a beat. These meetings with lots of people appearing by video are a pain in the ass to set up, but he makes it look easy.
While he’s in the conference room, I grab a piece of notepaper with the Durand Enterprises name and logo on top and write out a note.
“All set,” Hassan says when he walks back into his office. “Maureen called in when I was in there, and Shane texted that he’s on the elevator.”
I pass him the folded note I wrote. “I need this delivered to Daphne Barrington at Safe Harbor today with flowers. Not red roses. Send something that’s nice, but not over the top. And I want you to deliver it yourself.”
“No problem.”
“Thanks.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket with a text and I check it.
Giselle: Thanks for getting me Starbucks this morning and letting me drive my car today.
I write back.
Me: You’re welcome. Have a good day, love you.
Even though my visit to Safe Harbor yesterday was caught by one photographer, most of the reporters and photographers have backed off now. I decided to return to the security procedures I’ve always used for Giselle, which is two guards following her in separate cars anytime she’s driving her car or riding in someone else’s car. I can’t risk someone taking her for ransom, or worse.
“Olivier?” Hassan asks as I’m about to leave his office.
I turn to look at him, and he says, “How about sunflowers?”
I smile. “That’s perfect. Thanks, Hassan.”
I head into my meeting about the status of the real estate company I’m acquiring, hoping I can keep my mind on the many details of the deal. It’s hard to keep my thoughts from wandering to Daphne, though. Now that I’ve seen her office and I know a little more about her, I’m even more intrigued. I just have to show her there’s more to me than a lot of money.
Later that evening, tumbler of bourbon in hand to celebrate finalizing the acquisition at today’s meeting, I’m standing outside my daughter’s closed bedroom door, trying to persuade her to open it. Or at least respond.
“Giselle…I know you’re in there, your car is in the garage. And you’re not in the shower, because I can’t hear it running.”
Nothing. I’ve been home for half an hour and I haven’t seen a sign of her.
“Should I text?” I quip. “Or go get you a venti latte mocha grande espresso?”
I’m shit at ordering from Starbucks. The baristas look at me like I’m about a hundred years old when I order a large black coffee. Giselle has to remind me several times what she wants, or better yet, order it herself.
“It’s a tall iced caramel macchiato, Dad,” she says, her tone grumpy and nasally.
So she’s been crying. Fuck.
“You want one? We can take the McLaren. I’ll let you drive.”
“I just want to be alone,” she says.
“Why don’t we get some dinner and then you can be alone?”
After a pause she says, “I’m not hungry.”
“Giselle.”
“Go away, Dad.”
“You sound like you’ve been crying. I can’t go away when you’re upset.”
“Yes, you can.”
I lean a hand on the doorframe, taking a sip of my drink.
“I could, but I don’t want to. Will you just open the door?”
Silence. I walk over to a table in the hallway and set my glass down, then unbutton my shirt sleeves and roll them up, needing to get out some nervous energy. My instinct is to yell and bang on the door until my daughter opens it, but the therapist I saw when I took full custody of her told me not to do that.
Talk it out, she said. So I lean both hands on the doorframe and take a deep breath, trying again.
“Giselle, your old dad’s been through some shit over the years, you know. Whatever is going on, I just want to listen and help.”
I hear laugher mixed in with tears. “Yeah, right. You’ll kill the guy, Dad. I don’t want more attention on any of this. Just leave me alone.”
Guy. All I heard was guy, and my daughter telling me I’ll want to kill him for whatever he did to upset her. I want to punch a hole through the door. Even though I know the door is locked, I try the handle again, and when it doesn’t budge, I walk down the hallway, hands on my head.
I’m not cut out for this. Renee and I were supposed to be raising our daughter together, but now there’s just me, trying to navigate the needs and moods of a teenager. It’s so much fucking harder than it was when she was a little girl. An ice cream cone and a piggyback ride solved every problem back then.
I jog down the stairs, then go into my bedroom, where I grab a pillow and set it on the bed, then punch it about thirty times. Once I’m out of breath and feeling a little less homicidal toward the guy who upset my daughter, I go back upstairs.
“Giselle, I’m your father and I’m telling you to open this door.”
“Will you just leave me alone? God. Like it matters whether I eat dinner tonight.”
“It’s not about dinner, it’s about you being upset.”
I hear her walking, and then her voice is louder, so I know she’s on the other side of the door. “It’s nothing you can help with, okay? It’s just going to make you mad and I can’t handle that right now.”
I squeeze the sides of the doorframe until my knuckles turn white. Talk it out.
“What if I promise not to get mad?”
She laughs. “That’s not possible.”
“Are you pregnant?”
Another laugh. “Are you serious? No, I’m not pregnant.”
I relax slightly, and take a deep breath in and out. “Did someone physically hurt you? Is that why you don’t want me to see you?”
“No, Dad. It’s nothing like that. I’m just…humiliated. That’s what it is, okay? I just need to be alone.”
“Please let me in. I promise I won’t get mad. Just give me five minutes.”
“Whatever.” She huffs a sigh and unlocks the door.
The dark wood floor of her bedroom is strewn with clothes, and more are piled in a gray chair in the corner. A strand of LED lights hanging behin
d her dresser casts a purple glow. And on her queen-sized bed, there’s a mountain of used tissues.
She flops down next to the pile, then curls up and rests her head on her arm.
“Will you order pizza?” she asks.
“Sure, I can do that. You want the cheesy bread, too?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s got you so upset, ma crevette?”
I dump the clothes off the gray chair and move it next to her bed so I can sit down while we talk.
Giselle sits up and crosses her legs. “Did you go see the woman you rescued from the car?”
I furrow my brow. “I did yesterday. Why?”
She shrugs. “I saw a picture of you on Twitter and it said you were going to see her. Do you like her?”
“I do, but Giselle, no one will ever be more important to me than you. Don’t ever worry about that, okay?”
“As long as you’re not moving in with her and her husband to become a throuple.”
I shake my head, cursing my ex-wife. “Never ever. If I date a woman, and that’s a big if, it will just be me and her, and it’ll never come between us. Until you go off to college, you and me are going to live right here, just the two of us.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
“It’s not that I don’t want you to date anyone. I just don’t want it to be serious immediately.”
“I get that. You have my word. Is that why you’re upset?”
She pulls her knees up to her chest, sighs and looks away. “I sent a picture to a guy from school. He said no one else would see it, but he lied. He sent it out to everyone.”
My stomach clenches. “What kind of a picture?”
She shrugs. “I’m sure you can imagine, Dad.”
My heart hits the floor. Fuck. It sickens me to think of my daughter sending a nude photo to anyone, and then for it to be shared with others? I want to crush that boy’s bones to dust with my bare hands.
I close my eyes, forcing myself to keep my promise about not getting mad. Elbows on my knees, I ask, “Was it a nude photo?”
“God, this is so embarrassing.”
“Just tell me and we can deal with it, whatever it is.”
She buries her face in her knees and says, “It was shirtless. So I guess it looked like I was naked because you couldn’t see anything but my stomach up. I had pants on, though.”
She’s crying again. I want to throw a chair through a window because I’m so fucking pissed at the kid who shared her photo, but that’s not what she needs right now.
“How old is this guy?” I ask.
If he’s eighteen or older, the police will be on his doorstep within an hour, but I don’t tell her that.
“He’s sixteen and we’re in the same grade. But Dad, please don’t go to his house. Or call his parents. I don’t want this to be any worse than it already is.”
I sit back in the chair, considering my options. “He needs to face the consequences of his actions.”
“If you want me to talk to you about stuff, you can’t run off and tell everyone’s parents.” Giselle’s look is pleading. “If you do, I won’t trust you next time.”
I stand, still wanting to punch that kid in the face. “Why did he do that?” I ask out loud. “Such a dick move.”
“He said he liked me, but…” Giselle’s voice catches. “It was all a lie. He was tricking me the whole time.”
“I want to pull his teeth out with pliers,” I say in a level tone. “I’m not going to, but I really, really want to.”
She almost smiles. “He deserves it.”
“I’m sorry. You’re a beautiful, strong and smart person and you didn’t deserve this. No one does. But it’s especially hard to see my amazing daughter hurting.”
“I called Mom and tried to talk to her about it. That was stupid of me.”
I lower my brows. “What did she say?”
“She put me on speaker with her boyfriend and girlfriend or whatever I’m supposed to call them. She said all of them love me and they all wanted to help.”
I cringe. “That’s bullshit. God, I’m sorry.”
After a pause, she looks at me and asks, “You aren’t mad at me for sending the picture?”
I shrug. “It’s done now. It was a hard lesson for you.”
“Am I grounded?”
I look at her red swollen eyes. The poor kid has already suffered enough.
“You’re the opposite of grounded,” I say. “Why don’t we take a trip? Just you and me?”
“When? Now?”
I’m not normally this impulsive, but I’d do just about anything to make my daughter feel better right now.
“Sure. Why not?”
“Well school, for one. And your job.”
“Let’s blow those off for a week and go to Paris. I haven’t been to my apartment there in more than a year. We can leave our phones at home and just be. Dinner on the Seine, the Louvre and Musee D’Orsay, pastries from that bakery you love…what do you say?”
“It sounds fun. But no phones? Are you sure? What about work?”
“I’ve got people working for me who can handle it. Let’s ditch social media and email and just have some fun.”
Giselle smiles. “Okay. Should I pack?”
“Yes. You pack, and I’ll order pizza and I’ll have Hassan set up our flight and move work stuff around.” I look at my watch. “We should be able to leave in an hour or so.”
“Really?”
“There are a few perks to having your own plane.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
I leave Giselle’s bedroom feeling like I got this one right. My daughter needs my attention, and nothing else matters as much as that. And the long flight to Paris will give us plenty of time to talk about how teenage boys don’t deserve my little girl’s undivided trust.
The phone thing…that won’t be easy. It just kind of slipped out of my mouth before I had time to think about it. But the truth is, I’d be checking work emails if I had it, and I want Giselle to know I’d rather be with her and not have any other distractions.
I’ll have a lot to catch up on when I get back, but if it puts a smile on her face, it’s worth it.
Chapter Eight
Daphne
“Why are you an asshole?” Nina glares at me over the rim of her glasses.
“Really?” I scowl. “Turning a man down for a date makes me an asshole?”
“No, turning that man down for a date makes you an asshole.” She gestures at the half dozen sunflowers in bloom in a vase on my desk.
“He’s not my type, okay?”
Her laugh is not amused. “Girl, you need to take a long hard look at your type, then. Not only did he pull you out of a burning car, he met your insufferable parents and didn’t punch them in the face. Then he comes in here looking sexy as hell to ask you out in person. And that note…”
Nina fake swoons and falls against the back of my office door. I can’t help cracking a smile.
“The note wasn’t bad,” I admit.
It’s hanging on my bulletin board right now, and my eyes roam over to it at least five times a day, if not more.
Dear Daphne,
Isn’t it funny
That because of my money
You refused me a date
But what if I’m great?
Even though you don’t know it
I can be a poet
And if you say yes
You can hear more of my poems...or less
Olivier
He wrote his phone number below his name. The note and flowers were delivered to the shelter last Tuesday at the end of the workday, and since I had a work event that night, I didn’t text him back until mid-morning Wednesday.
Me: Thanks for the flowers, they’re lovely. The poem made me smile.
I expected him to text back, but he never did.
“Don’t you think he would have texted me back if he was still interested?” I ask Nina.
>
“You should text him again.”
“That’s not how it works.”
“He didn’t send you the flowers and note, with his number, because he planned to ignore you,” Nina says, moving to sit down in the folding chair.
“Well, he is ignoring me,” I say with a shrug. “It’s been a week and I haven’t heard back. Maybe he googled me and found out I got arrested at a protest once.”
Nina quirks a brow. “Did you really? And did I know that?”
“I don’t know. I told Ty before he hired me, though. It was a protest over the murder of a trans person not being properly investigated.”
“Oh God, how terrible.”
“It was.”
“I’m just saying that you should call his office, maybe. What if he dropped his phone in the toilet and had to get a new number?”
I give her a wry look. “Why would he have to get a new number?”
She throws her hands in the air. “This can’t be the end of it. I’m invested in hashtag Olidaph, and a lot of other people are, too.”
Smiling, I say, “I texted him, Nina. I’m not interested in a serious relationship so soon after my broken engagement, but I probably would’ve had dinner with him if he asked again. He’s over it, though. Let’s move on.”
“I just think—”
I’m saved by a knock on the door of my office. Ty opens the door and says, “Daph, your boyfriend’s here.”
I groan. That’s what he calls Ray. I left two pairs of socks and a candy bar in his tent when I was delivering supplies last week.
“I’ll be right out,” I tell Ty.
“You want me to stay with you?”
Ty always offers to be close by when Ray comes in to see me, because Ray does and says inappropriate things. I had to learn to assert myself with him early on.
“No, I’m good, but thanks,” I say.
Nina gives me a look as she walks out of my office, saying, “We’re not done talking about the French hottie.”
We are done, but I don’t say so. Olivier not returning my text told me everything I need to know about him. He had lost interest in me by the end of the day he sent the flowers. When Aiden admitted to cheating on me, he told me he met a waitress at a restaurant one day and screwed her that very night. That’s how long it takes to lose a man’s attention. Been there, done that.
Olivier: A Chicago Blaze Hockey Romance Page 5