She nods. “Just got off the phone with Noah. He said to tell you—and I quote—‘tell loverboy he better wear a shirt with buttons and try not to be a dumbass.’”
Huffing a laugh, I drag a hand over my face. “Classic Noah.”
Payton smiles and turns to leave. “I’ll send the reservation info when I get it.”
“Thanks, Payton.”
As soon as she’s gone, I grab my phone and open my messages.
Me: McNeal wants to meet with us tonight.
My Girl: That’s good news
Me: It could be. Or it could be that he doesn’t want to do business with us.
My Girl: Wear the navy button-up. I love that one. And don’t forget deodorant. No one signs contracts with a sweaty man.
Me: Noted. I’m only doing this for you.
My Girl: And the multimillion-dollar deal?
Me: Right. That too.
I sit back in my chair and stare out the window. My heart’s doing that low thrum thing it does when something big is coming. Good or bad, I don’t know yet. But I’m ready.
At least I’ve got the girl. Now I just need the deal.
The restaurant is the same one we came to the first time we met. It’s a dimly lit place that smells like money and perfectly cooked steak. I’m standing outside with Noah and Austin, all of us in suits, all of us pretending not to be nervous and failing.
Austin’s shifting from foot to foot like he’s got ants in his pants, and Noah’s got his arms crossed so tightly it looks like he’s trying to keep himself from exploding.
I shove my hands in my pockets and glance at both of them.
“Well, boys. Time to shine. Deal or no deal, we’ll be okay.”
Noah lets out a breath. “Easy for you to say. You’ve got the charm. I’ve got heartburn.”
Austin grunts. “Let’s just get this over with. I hate waiting.”
“Same,” I say, pushing the door open.
We step inside, and the hostess leads us to a private table in the back. McNeal isn’t here yet.
We sit.
And we wait.
No one says a word. The silence stretches like a tightrope between us. I can feel the tension bouncing off Austin and Noah. Even I can’t pretend I’m cool. My leg’s bouncing under the table like it has a mind of its own.
I glance at the door every two seconds, silently begging McNeal to just walk in already so we can get this over with.
Finally, after what feels like a damn hour, he arrives.
He walks in looking sharp as ever, cool and calm like this is just another night for him. But what makes my stomach tighten is the man walking beside him, a guy in a sleek black suit, mid-50s, with dark slicked-back hair and a serious expression.
We all stand.
McNeal offers a smile as he approaches. “Gentlemen. Thank you for meeting me.”
