by Lee, Nadia
Patience.
I can’t tell her what I’m planning to do with her parents listening. I want to make sure she isn’t already overloaded. The point is to monopolize her time, not make her work until she drops dead. I’ve considered telling her dad I want Skittles’ undivided attention on my hundred million, but that isn’t nearly enough money to make a man jump through a hoop.
Besides, this dinner is anything but social. It’s an inquisition to see if I’m a sociopathic loon. Poor Skittles—no wonder she’s so tense. I wish I could tell her I got this.
Everyone digs in. The food is amazing, everything perfectly seasoned and prepared. I wasn’t buttering Esther up earlier; I can’t remember the last time I had a homey meal like this.
Mom’s idea of cooking is whatever our housekeepers put together. When she wants to get fancy, she hires a professional chef to prepare a six-course meal.
I’d much rather eat Esther’s food than whatever lavish junk Mom’s chef can concoct.
Something taps my foot. I look down and see Nijinsky. I glance around surreptitiously then slip her a small piece of meat. She licks my fingers.
“This is a great choice.” Steve’s sudden remark makes me straighten and pay attention. “Didn’t know you were a connoisseur.”
“I’m not,” I say quickly before he decides to quiz me. I know a little about wine—like a few famous labels and vintages—but not like Tony. “I had a recommendation from a friend.” Or, more precisely, Ivy telling me to take whatever I wanted. But Steve doesn’t need to know that.
Steve nods, then concentrates on the bottle, slowly pulling out the corkscrew. “So tell me. What are you doing with my daughter?”
Damn, that’s blunt. Esther rolls her eyes and grabs a roll.
Skittles shoots me a look. Unless I’m mistaken, she’s even shaking her head a little. She obviously wants me to claim that there’s nothing serious between us. Except I don’t want to do that because I’d be lying. After all, we slept together. Had sex at least five times that I can remember. And I gave her at least twelve orgasms. That sounds pretty serious to me. Not that I’d say any of that in front of her mom and dad.
“I like Pascal,” I say. “And I’d like to continue to see her. I wouldn’t have gone to Maui if I didn’t feel that way.”
Beaming, Steve hands me a glass of rosé. I wait until everyone has a glass and a chance to clink, then take a sip. Damn. This is seriously excellent shit. Thank you, Tony. A point for moi.
“Good, good,” Steve says. “I did wonder about you last weekend. But it’s about time Pascal takes her personal life more seriously. Her sister's already married, but she’s still single.”
Guess her dad’s getting antsy. Well, well. Maybe Skittles is wrong about the dating equals no promotion thing.
“Daaaaad.”
Esther seems to take pity on her daughter. But not so much on me. “Court, when you came to Hawaii, you thought Pascal was marrying Joe. That had no effect on you at all?”
Her tone is polite, but the glitter in her eyes says she wanted to ask the second I showed up with the flowers and wine. And she isn’t the only one looking at me like I’m Moses holding the stone tablets. Steve is staring too.
I look at both of them, meeting their gazes. I’m so ready for this question. “I figured she had a reason. A woman happy with her fiancé wouldn’t have been with me. So I decided I owed it to us to at least look into what was going on. For all I knew, she could’ve been being forced into something.”
Pain explodes on the side of my calf, and I almost drop my fork. Skittles’ kick carries more viciousness than a horny goat forced into celibacy.
But if she thinks she can punt me into silence, she has another think coming. And regardless of what she said in Maui, there definitely is an “us.”
“And then what? What would you have done if she were being forced?” Steve asked, leaning forward. It’s almost like he’s living the hypothetical scenario I’ve concocted.
“Rescued her, obviously. And if everything worked out between us, maybe we’d go back to Maui for our own ceremony.” I leave it at that, drink the wine and smile. Let the parents put their own rosy ending to it.
Skittles’ knuckles turn white. Her glare stabs my face like an ice pick. Guess she’s mad because I’m not disavowing everything and acting like there’s nothing between us. But what the hell did she think I’d say? Hey, I screwed your daughter for fun, but don’t expect anything else. The best part of her is what’s between her legs. The rest I can take or leave.
I have no desire to be skinned alive. Besides, doesn’t she want to keep her parents out of jail? Murder is a serious matter. “That motherfucker screwed my daughter” is not a valid legal defense.
And based on the happy, glowing smile on her dad’s face, he is definitely not upset about the Hollywood ending I described.
Steve notes my half-empty glass. “Have some more wine.”
“No, thank you. I’m driving.”
Esther nods with approval. Steve looks at me like there’s a halo around my head.
“Responsible and sensible. You’re a surprising young man,” he says.
“Well,” I say, trying for some false modesty. This trick never gets old. Tony taught it to me when I first entered school. He said if I behaved like an angel for a week, I could get away with murder for the rest of the year. Apparently teachers always create their long-lasting impressions of each student based on how they behave during the first week.
Skittles’ parents are a bit trickier because of the whole twin thing, but now they think I’m a perfect man for their precious daughter. I can see it in their eyes.
And if Steve thinks that, surely he won’t get in the way of Skittles’ promotion.
Her mouth tight, Skittles looks like she wants to cut more than the meat on her plate with her knife. The she mutters in Klingon, “Men. I should’ve been a nun.”
Laughter bubbles in my chest. She’s peeved because she’s been proven wrong. Smart people can’t stand it when they’re wrong. I’m almost tempted to respond with something clever, but I get distracted when Esther pushes the bowl of mashed potatoes in my direction.
“I baked a pie for dessert.” She beams at me. “If that isn’t enough, we have seven different flavors of ice cream.”
Chapter Sixteen
Pascal
Court is either incapable of reading people’s expressions or being deliberately obtuse for the sole purpose of driving me crazy. Did I not make myself clear in Maui? Should I have sprinkled his food with rat poison—not enough to kill him, of course, but enough to make him spend all his time in the bathroom?
No, probably not a good idea. With Dad being so weird lately, he might ask me to nurse Court back to health. As payment for what he ostensibly did for me in Hawaii.
This relationship of ours… Actually, it can’t even be called a relationship. We spent a night together. But he’s acting like it was some kind of grand romance that got interrupted.
Damn those fifty dollars. I should’ve ignored my principles. If I had, maybe he wouldn’t have shown up in Maui to ask me what the money meant. Better yet, I should’ve never gone clubbing. This is what happens when you deviate from your usual routine and have too much fun.
But you like fun!
Yes. But the aftermath sucks, I tell the voice in my head.
After the dessert, I paste on a fake smile. “Mom, Dad? Do you mind if I take Court out for a short walk? Kind of need some help digesting the food.”
Mom glances at Court. “He might want to have some coffee, or tea—”
“It’s all right,” he says, patting his belly. “A walk sounds perfect. I’m actually pretty full.”
So he’s not totally oblivious.
Mom looks at him like he just handed her a winning lottery ticket. It’s positively nauseating. No guy I ever dated sucked up this hard. Or this well. Other than trying to kidnap Curie in Maui, he’s been killing it with my parents.
“Let’s go,” I say. I try to lead him out without holding his hand, but he’s too quick. He links his fingers with mine, and I can’t pull away without making a scene.
Shooting me a smug smile, he squeezes. Our palms press tighter, and I swear I can feel his pulse. And mine throbs and matches his rhythm.
This kind of connection is ridiculous. I’ve never felt anything remotely like it before. And why now?
Focus. This is not the reason I took Court out of the house.
Because I know about Mom’s propensity to eavesdrop, I walk in silence for a couple of blocks, then look around. We’re clear.
“Now we can talk,” I say.
I expect Court to look concerned or slightly upset, but he just gives me that easygoing smile. “Sure. About what?”
“Did you hear anything I said in Maui? My ‘no dating until the promotion’ thing?”
“Sure, how could I forget? I’ve never heard anything so crazy.”
I shake my head. “You don’t understand.” And he never will because he’s a man. “The firm’s very male-dominant. It’s hard to stand out or be heard as a woman. A man and I can say the exact same thing, and everyone’s going to praise him for his great idea, while acting like I said nothing.”
I brace myself for an argument. Things like that don’t happen anymore.
Companies are much more egalitarian now.
Maybe it’s just you, not your gender.
“That sucks. And what a waste. Fifty percent of the population is women. Ignoring them is stupid.”
My anger and resentment recede like a tide at his sincere tone.
“I’m surprised your dad lets people do that to you.” He stops for a second. “They do know who your dad is, right?”
“Yeah, but he doesn’t want any appearance of nepotism.” Actually, it’s worse because he acts just like the VPs. But I don’t want to admit that to Court. It seems…somehow disloyal to speak that way about Dad to him.
Court frowns. “He still should say something. If they’re doing it to you, they’re probably doing it to other women, too.”
Maybe. There are two other female junior analysts, but we don’t socialize much, since they’re both covering Europe. And “Hey, is your boss ignoring you, too?” isn’t something you can just bring up at the annual Christmas party.
“It’s better he doesn’t. I don’t want any special treatment.” My tone is prickly as the scene from the meeting flashes through my head. Frustration and anger entwine around me. I shouldn’t have to feel the need to defend how I’m treated by other VPs or my own dad at work.
But I don’t think my defense makes a difference. Court is still looking at me like Dad should say something.
He shakes his head. “Never mind nepotism and your dad. If the promotion is that important, wouldn’t you get it if you had a huge account that you could manage?”
It’s sweet of him to try to help, but it’s obvious Court knows nothing about how SFG works. “I could bring in an account, but that’s about where it would end. Nobody lets a junior analyst manage a big account.”
“That’s just a small detail. I can put some money in with the company. Let’s say…a hundred million?”
I stare, unable to believe what he’s suggesting. A hundred million?
He continues, “That should be enough to get you noticed… Don’t you think?”
No kidding. My thoughts and emotions spin out in all directions. It’s like what Rodney and I discussed after the meeting telepathically transported itself into Court’s head. Rodney thought I’d have to do some convincing to do. But it doesn’t look that way. Court is actually volunteering.
A hundred million.
The amount takes my breath away, but he’s talking about it like it’s nothing.
But why is he doing this for me? He doesn’t know me well enough to do that. My promotion means nothing to him. What’s his deal? In most normal cases, I’d say he’s hoping for some nights out and getting laid, but a hundred million is a way too much for that.
He isn’t finished. “And I can say that the condition of me keeping my money with SFG is you managing my portfolio. What do you think?”
Holy cow. “You know if you do that, I really will end up managing your money, don’t you?” I say weakly. I do grunt work. Even if I get promoted, I’ll be building models, not managing a full portfolio for a client on my own.
“Yeah, so? Aren’t you good?” He smiles.
His grin pierces my heart like Cupid’s arrow. It explodes into glitters and lights. Hot, intense emotions I’ve never felt before and can’t quite identify surge through me.
But the strangest thing is that the scheme no longer sounds tempting. It sounds sleazy and manipulative.
“I am, and thank you. But I can’t let you do that,” I say.
He stops abruptly and gives me a look normally reserved for an asylum escapee. “Why not? It’s really not that much money.”
The question feels sincere, but I don’t understand how he can be so blasé about that kind of sum. “It’s not about that. It’s about the fact that I want to earn my promotion. I need to make my place within the firm on my own. If you do this, I’m buying it, and it won’t be right.”
He considers me for a moment. There’s none of the easy humor in his blue eyes now. “Is it your ego?”
I shake my head. “It’s more than that. It’s a matter of pride. I don’t know all the reasons you’re offering to do this, but I know it isn’t because you think I’m the best choice to manage your money for you.”
“I can respect that.”
“Thanks.”
And I realize something. I like Court in a way that goes beyond just physical attraction or chemistry. I can’t remember the last time a guy I was dating showed consideration for my career ambitions. My exes usually presumed that since I’m working for my dad, I should just wheedle my way up the ladder. Even when I tried to set them straight, they thought I was just protesting as a formality or something.
“My brother’s having a small dinner party tomorrow,” he says. “Be my plus one.”
My immediate instinct is to say yes, but I pull back. After telling him that we can’t date so I can get my promotion, it sounds silly and hypocritical to jump on the invitation, even though I really, really like him.
He adds, “It’s just a dinner. And not at all intimate.”
“Well…”
“I know you did your survey and all, but I don’t think what’s going on at your dad’s firm is about dating. I just can’t imagine anybody caring that much about somebody’s personal life.”
I cross my arms, slightly irritated because my data is solid. The feeling is intensified by the fact that Court has a motive to see me incorrect—he wants to date me. “Then what do you think it’s about?”
“Something at work you aren’t considering?” He shrugs. “What you need to do is figure out the real reason you’re getting passed over.”
That feels like a slap. A hard one. My cheeks heat, and the muscles along my spine tighten. “Are you telling me I’m not good at my job?”
“No. If you sucked at it, you would’ve definitely taken my offer, because you wouldn’t care how you hang in there as long as you do. But you have pride, which tells me you strive to be good at what you do. And you’re smart, which means you probably excel at whatever you set your mind on.”
I can tell he isn’t saying it just to flatter me. My shoulders relax, and I let my arms drop.
Then he adds, looking off into the darkness, “So if you’re good at your job, but you’re still struggling to get recognition and promotion, somebody’s probably sabotaging you. Think about that.”
Chapter Seventeen
Court
Skittles turned down my invite, and still hasn’t called or texted. What I said probably came as a shock. I’m sure she hasn’t experienced the kind of scandal my family has. But sometimes the people who hurt us the deepest are those who are closest to us. They
know all our hopes, dreams and weaknesses because we’re too unguarded around them.
Well. If she wants me to not open an account at SFG, so it doesn’t look like she’s sleeping her way up the ladder or something, that’s fine with me. There are other ways I can scale the wall around her.
When I arrive at Tony’s mansion, the huge place is in an uproar. It’s to be expected, though. Yuna doesn’t travel light.
With most people, that means traveling with a million suitcases. But in her case, it means traveling with an entourage.
When she first visited, she came with her father’s secretary. The second time, it was with two of her mom’s assistants. She’s probably here with at least two people. Her parents are paranoid about her safety, and I can’t blame them. They’re worth tens of billions, and their daughter would be a juicy target for a fortune hunter—or worse.
But the biggest reason the place is bustling is Yuna herself. The woman just doesn’t believe in restraint.
When I walk into the living room, Ivy and Tony wave from the love seat they’re sharing. They’re sitting with their arms and legs touching, like there are ropes tying them together.
“You made it.” Ivy smiles warmly.
“And with flowers,” Tony says. “Although that rosé you filched is worth more than tiger lilies and orchids.”
“Oh, shut it,” I say. “You have more wine than you can drink in your lifetime. Sharing is caring.”
Yuna stands, looking like she’s just come from a relaxing day at a spa instead of a trans-Pacific flight. Her hair is dyed dark auburn and is longer now, hanging almost to her lower back. There’s a slight gold tint to her skin, which is always pale. But from what Ivy’s said, milky is how she prefers her complexion. She’s exceptionally slim, too. I swear, her family needs to spend some money on food, not fancy designer dresses and shoes.
“Court, so great to see you.” She gives me a tight hug.
I hug her back. “Good to see you too. How long it’s been?”
“Two months. An eternity.”