“How’d I do?”
“D’s get degrees, as they say.”
I smack him in the shoulder. “Rude! That was a C-plus effort at worst.”
One half of his mouth grins while the other stays planted in its usual scowling position. “Your palate isn’t terrible,” he says finally. “That’s as nice as I’m ever gonna get. Ready to go feed the sharks?”
“Nope,” I say flatly.
“Good. Confidence is overrated.” He straightens his cuffs—a tell I’m beginning to recognize as his reset button—then starts to move toward the door. Halfway there, though, he pauses. “One more thing.”
“What?”
“When Harold Fitzgerald—he’ll be the one with the bow tie—starts talking about his wine collection, look impressed but not too eager. He’ll offer to show you his cellar. Decline politely.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s sixty-three, married, and has wandering hands.”
I shudder. “Gross.”
“Agreed. Stay close to me.”
“Worried about my womanly virtue?”
“Hardly,” he snorts. “I’m more worried about a lawsuit when you break his fingers.”
“You think I’d break his fingers?”
“If you don’t, I will.” He gestures for me to go first. “After you, Ms. Hunter.”
I walk past him into the hallway, my body still humming from the wine and his proximity and the impossible tension ofwhatever this is between us. As we make our way toward the private dining room, his hand finds my lower back again.
This time, I don’t even pretend to mind.
16
ELIANA
shuck·ing: /'SH?kiNG/: verb
1: the act of opening an oyster shell.
2: when someone finally cracks open enough to show you what they’ve been keeping hidden inside all along.
The investors love me. Most of them do it in appropriate ways—although, per Bastian’s warning, Harold Fitzgerald (bow tie with sailboats printed on it, leering eyes, every bit as creepy as advertised) does corner me near the cheese table to explain the difference between Old World and New World wines while his gaze drifts repeatedly to my chest.
I nod and make impressed noises, all the while mentally calculating how hard I’d have to stomp on his Italian loafers to break a toe.
“You simplymustsee my cellar,” he’s saying, one liver-spotted hand reaching toward my elbow. “I have a 1943 Cheval Blanc that would make you weep.”
“The only thing that would make Ms. Hunter weep,” Bastian interjects as he materializes at my shoulder, “is missing our meeting with the Singapore team. Which starts in—” He checks his watch. “—twelve minutes.”
Harold’s hand retreats. “Singapore? At this hour?”
“Time zones are merciless,” Bastian says smoothly. “If you’ll excuse us.”
He steers me away like this isn’t his first time rescuing a damsel in distress from Harold’s black hole orbit. By the time the last investor air-kisses their goodbyes and totters toward their valeted Tesla, I’m exhausted from pretending to be someone I’m not for three straight hours. My feet hurt from standing in heels, my face aches from smiling, and I’ve said the word “synergy” so many times it’s lost all meaning.
