“Fuck!” I spit the Kahlua at the screen, frantically scrolling back to the original email. The questionnaire is an auto-submit form. I missed the line that explained that saving means submitting.
“Oh shit. Ohshitohshitohshitohshit,” I whisper, eyes bugging out as I reread my answers.
I push away from the computer, heading unsteadily for my bedroom. I fall face-first into my pillow, letting out a smothered scream.
“Fuck.” I jerk upright. “Bess can never know. No one caneverknow.”
God help me.
THREE
MOLLY
“Mr. Ainsle.” I dial up my smile to flirtatiously professional, while ignoring the pounding in my head. “So wonderful to see you.” I hold out a hand, letting him draw me in for a kiss on the cheek.
“Molly Archer.” His big voice booms out of his rotund body. “When will you run away with me?”
I withdraw my hand, smile locked firmly in place. “You know my heart is with the children.”
Duncan Ainsle chuckles, turning to take his seat at the boardroom table. “The children? I could give you a parcel.”
I ignore that he’s older than my father, has eight children to six wives, and doesn’t know the names of the three illegitimate sons he pays support for.
Afterall, what does that matter when he can assuage his guilt by contributing to our cause?
“Vivian has prepared your coffee.” I gesture at the cup and plate of cookies beside it. “I also baked, I hope you don’t mind.”
“Ah, buttering me up, are you?” He chuckles at his joke, reaching out for one of the chocolate chip cookies. He bites into it, moaning.
I wait, sipping my peppermint tea and regretting last night’s drunken shenanigans. Dealing with men like Duncan Ainsle takes all my concentration on a good day, and today didn’t feel like a good day. I have to focus; big donors don’t just fall from trees. They require perseverance, praise, attention, and lots andlotsof pandering.
Hendrix lends me a space in his office building twice a week to conduct these charity meetings. He likes to refer to it as his “philanthropic offering.”
My brothers have all put their schooling to good, making it rich in their respective fields. I’m the black sheep who decided that teaching and philanthropy were more my speed.
If only I’d taken coding classes. I could be a big shot billionaire who funds a charity without worry about wooing old men with more money than sense.
Duncan eats three cookies as he flicks through the proposal in front of him. He runs a finger around the plate, chasing the final crumbs before looking to me. “A new center?”
I replace my teacup in its saucer, pressing a polished finger to the intercom. “Vivian, can you send some more cookies and tea in, please?” I turn back to Duncan, knitting my fingers on the table. “We’ve outgrown the existing premises.”
He huffs. “But a million?”
I smile. “As a start. The million will allow us time to scope other buildings and start fundraising initiatives.”
He taps his fingers against the table. “I’m very generous.”
I incline my head, still smiling. “Very.”
“The charity dinner would be mine?” he clarifies.
“Of course, Mr. Ainsle. It’s essential we have your name to draw others to the cause. We need large donors. Think of all the children you’ll help.”
The door opens, permitting one of Hendrix’s admin staff. He hurries in, placing a plate of cookies in front of Duncan andrefreshing the tea and coffee pots. He leaves a moment later, closing the door softly behind him, sealing us in once more.
I wait Duncan out.
“The dinner in my name and I expect a plaque on the new building.”
