“Billionaire tech guy. Made his fortune in artificial intelligence or something equally boring. Very private. Never does interviews.” Her eyes lit up the way they always did when she was onto something good. “His wife died.”
“That’s awful.”
“It gets worse.” She lowered her voice. “Rumor is she was having an affair. And the kid—Tucker’s daughter—might not even be his.”
“Oh my god.”
“Right? And he’s here. In Vegas. I have it on good authority he’s been holed up at the Bellagio for the past week meeting with lawyers. Probably dealing with the paternity stuff.” She took another bite of her salad. “If I can get him to talk—even just a few quotes—it would be huge. Nobody’s been able to get near him.”
“So you’re stalking a grieving billionaire?”
“I prefer ‘pursuing a story with dedication.’” She grinned. “But yeah, basically. My editor’s been on me about getting something juicy and this is about as juicy as it gets. Dead wife, secret affair, disputed paternity? That’s front-page material.”
“You’re terrible.”
“I’m a journalist. Don’t blame me.”
I shook my head, but I was smiling. This was classic Pauline. When she was onto a story, nothing could stop her. “So that’s why you’re still here. And here I was thinking you came to see your dearest friend.”
“It’s both. I also wanted to make sure you were settling in okay.” She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “You’re my best friend. The story’s important, but so are you.”
“That’s very sweet. In a slightly mercenary way.”
“I contain multitudes.”
We talked for a few more minutes about her attempts to track Tucker down. How his security team kept shutting her out. How she’d almost gotten into the same restaurant as him yesterday but had been turned away at the door.
“So,” I said, taking another bite of my sandwich, “Jack’s coming by tomorrow. Michael invited him for dinner. Something about them not spending enough time together since the wedding.
“But I think he’s lying. He probably wants to see how Michael is taking care of me. He does too much—“. I paused, noticing Pauline’s expression, the way her fork froze halfway to her mouth.
“That’s nice,” she said. Setting down her fork.
I looked at her. The smile had disappeared from her face, so did the lightness from earlier.
“Oh, here we go,” I muttered.
“What?”
“This. The thing you do every single time I mention Jack.” I leaned back in my chair. “The whole ‘I’m fine’ act while looking like you’d rather be literally anywhere else.”
“I don’t do that.”
“You absolutely do that. You’ve been doing it since college and even a few weeks ago.” I picked up my water, eying her.
Pauline stabbed her salad with unnecessary force. “Can we not talk about this?”
“No. Because every time I try to figure out what happened between you two, you shut down. Or change the subject. Or suddenly remember you have somewhere to be.” I set down my water. “I’m your best friend. Jack’s my brother. So today’s the day that we’re talking about this.”
She was quiet for a moment, still pushing lettuce around her plate.
“Pauly. Please.”
Resignation flickered in her eyes. “Remember that guy in college? The one who humiliated me?”
“The rich asshole who said you weren’t his type?”
“Yeah.” She exhaled slowly. “It was Jack.”
