Then I add, “Honestly, I rather liked her. I wouldn't mind seeing her again.”
A beat of silence. Then her tone shifts back into drill-sergeant mode.
“Well, before you start chasing a book lady who probably lives in a one-bedroom apartment with ten cats and a pile of debt,” she says, “remember we’ve got to lock down the Merritt deal completely this week if there’s any chance of you jetting off on your Alpine biking fantasy.”
Gina’s a bulldog. Ruthless. Relentless. And exactly what I pay her for. She keeps my personal life out of my portfolio—and my portfolio out of the tabloids. And she’s why I’ll probably die alone.
“Oh, and don’t forget. Today, you’re going straight from the airport to the firm’s family appreciation picnic in Boston. Seraphina and Jaxson will meet you there.”
“Got it,” I say, already wondering how she everconvinced me that having my younger sister and nephew as my guests was a good idea.
But I know what she’s setting up before she even says it.
“And remember—we need some good shots of the three of you that can be captioned in ways that position you as a family man. Even if it is a somewhat borrowed family.”
“I remember. But let me say again, for the record, I think it’s over the top. And even deceptive.” I don’t try to hide my irritation.
“AndIwill say again—it’s a strategy.” She doesn’t try to hide her irritation, either. “A strategy that makes things easier for you and the board. Nobody wants their favorite billionaire CEO drawing too much attention to his life as a single playboy.”
She barely takes a breath before going on.
“No detours right now. No distractions. Nose to the grindstone, and then the Alps. You hold up your end of the bargainthisweek. I hold up mine for the next three, doing contortions to keep anyone or anything from interfering with your trip.”
“Got it,” I say, feeling the weight of life with both a real mother and a workplace mother. Exhausting.
I hang up and glance again at the note from Rhea, then tuck it into my computer bag.
Avec toute ma reconnaissance,
I know how to interpret the French:with all my appreciation.
I’m just not sure how to interpret the meaning.
FIVE
RHEA
Sunday morning.
Back in sneakers, sweats, and my faded Smith College sweatshirt, I board the early flight home. I tuck myself against the window, headphones in, eyes closed.
But I don’t sleep.
Not really.
Not withhimstill in my head. The smell of him still on my skin.
The way he looked in the early light—bare-chested, limbs tangled in those expensive hotel sheets like he’d been sculpted there. The way he touched me. The way he listened.
The way he made menearlyforget that I’m a girl who plays it safe, stays in control, and minimizes risk.
I’d slipped out of bed and dressed quietly in the next room. Heels in hand, I’d tiptoed back into the borrowed dress with the awkward zipper and padded softly to my room on the fifth floor.
Earlier that morning, I’d arrived in aweof my little luxury suite, but having seen his made mine feel more like a closet.
Pulling out the cocktail napkin, his number scrawled across it like something from a rom-com, I stare at his handwriting. The ink is a bit smudged, but still, I think I can make it out. Was that a seven? No, definitely a one.
New contact. Spencer D.
