I’m lying. I knew he was in high demand. I could see why: his looks were only superseded by his personality. According to my single friends, handsome and funny was a hard combination to find in a city of finance bros and personal trainers with the conversational aptitude of a cardboard box.
He stroked the edge of his mug. “I don’t need to... because I’m seeing someone.”
“Oh... ummm... congratulations,” I said, forcing a tight smile.
Eric smirked and tilted his head to the side, the light bouncing off his cheekbone. “Congratulations? I didn’t win a Nobel Peace Prize.”
My cheeks flushed as I scrambled for something positive to say. “No... I just mean, you know, yay.” I waved my hands in celebration, then cleared my throat. “I’m just surprised. I thought you ‘didn’t date.’” I imitated his low tone. Mockery, yes, that would cover whatever else was going on in my demeanor.
I forced myself to swallow the barrage of questions sitting on my chest. I had absolutely no right to know what she looked like, how they met or if she had any interesting hobbies. I didn’t have a right to know anything about his personal life, but it didn’t mean the lack of knowing wouldn’t eat away at me.
“I guess I’m more nuanced than you thought.”
More nuanced for the right woman? I blinked rapidly, refusing to question why I cared.
I pushed my confusing feelings down and settled for leaning into his rumored reputation. “Is she an heiress or model?” My lips curved; this was a comfortable place for us; this was the Venn diagram overlap between sincerity and artifice where our friendship lived.
He huffed a laugh and rolled his eyes. “Fuck off...” And he sank into his chair. “Both.”
18
EB: When you’re done texting we need to talk through tomorrow’s Heimach meeting.
The message pops up on my screen the literal second my arse hits the chair. Seriously, does he have a tail on me or something? I scan the words three times and blow out an overdramatic breath, rolling my eyes as I push myself away from the desk, pick up my laptop and stride purposefully to the reception of Ignite, face-to-face with Harriet, Mr. Catcher’s assistant. Catch Group’s CEO likes to have his office next to the Ignite offices to safeguard his flagship app.
She glances up at me and then back to her computer. “Welcome to Ignite. Name, please?”
I study her in silence. “Harriet?”
She looks up again, a smile spreading across her face and pure, unadulterated joy in her voice: “Oh my God, snap! I’m Harriet too.”
“No, my name isn’t Harriet. It’s Grace. From Fate? Grace Hastings?” I clarify.
“Oh, hi, Grace.” She looks disappointed to have not met a name twin. “You don’t have a meeting, do you?”
“Um, no.” I give her a polite smile.
“Then what are you doing here?” She looks down at her keyboard and starts typing, back to being uninterested in our exchange.
I lean on the desk and speak in a hushed voice: “There’s a rumor going around the eighth floor that Ignite is run by aliens in human suits. I’ve been sent to confirm.”
She blinks at me, expressionless.
“Never mind. I’m here to see Bancroft. Is His Majesty available?” I ask.
“Right!” She laughs. “Eric is in his office. I’ll let him know you’re coming.”
“Thanks.”
She beams. “You’re welcome!”
I spin on my heel, opening the door to the main floor before Harriet calls me back.
“Oh, Grace?” I turn around expectantly. “Could you be a doll and give this to Jeffrey? You’ll pass right by his desk on the way to Eric’s office.”
She holds out a thick wedge of papers with perfectly manicured fingers. Jeffrey is the epitome of Ignite culture and he gives me, and just about every other woman in the Catch Group, serious heebie-jeebies.
“I’d love to,” I say sarcastically.
