The waitress—Naomi, apparently—sashays away, swinging her ass for Nate’s benefit, but he isn’t watching. That thing he just did wasn’t flirting, see. The guy is just flat-out good at handling people, making them feel like he’s interested in them from the get-go. He’s charming, likeable, and he plays by his own rules. I swear he’s got more connections than the bus terminal at Port Authority.
“How do you do it, man?” I ask.
“Do what?” Nate says, pushing up his glasses before he takes a long drink of his Negroni.
“You always remember names and faces and fucking drink orders, and which gallery you met someone at. Who’s got a kid in Little League, who’s looking at real estate in Cape Cod.”
He shrugs. “Honestly? It’s easy for me. I guess because I find other people interesting. They tell me their stories and I just…pay attention. It’s a hell of a lot more fun than handling QG’s financials, that’s for sure.”
“You ever wonder what his story is?” I tip my head toward Becker.
Just then, Theo rolls up to us with a drink already in hand. Tan and athletic, he tends to give off the vibe that he’s dyingto shed his bespoke suit and bolt into the first lifting gym or half-marathon he can find. Of the four of us, he’s the youngest and most easygoing, yet he runs The Regent like a well-oiled machine, despite the fact that managing an elite luxury hotel in the heart of Lincoln Square is more or less an act of insanity. There are just too many goddamn logistics. Not to mention having to pamper and please hundreds of wealthy, finicky guests 24/7, wrangle employees, schedule maintenance. There are fucking floral arrangements to approve, financial what-have-yous to keep tabs on.
I guess it’d be more accurate to say Theo’s easygoing until he’s not. The man knows how to get shit done.
Theo’s mouth quirks as he drops into a chair. “Becker? He’s an asshole. That’s all the story you need to know.”
I shake my head and reach for my scotch. “Besides that.”
Nate glances over at me with an assessing gaze. “Why are you asking? Getting tired of the skeletons in your own closet? Looking in other people’s closets now?”
“Give him a break,” Theo says around his drink. “Sebastian’s just coming out of the off-season. The man’s probably had way too much time to think.”
“He doesn’t have that kind of time anymore,” Becker says as he walks up to the table, slipping his phone into the pocket of his blazer.
“How’s that?” I ask.
Becker grins, but there’s no humor in his icy blue eyes. “Because I have a very important job for you, Sebastian.”
I don’t like the look of that grin. Something tells me this isn’t the kind of job I’m going to enjoy. I brace myself for the worst-case scenario as Beck eases into the last chair.
“I’m listening,” I say, not bothering to lower my voice.
Under normal circumstances, I’d be more discreet. But Indigo is only open to clients we’ve worked with before, orthose considering using our consulting services in the future. Not only that, but there’s a strict NDA that goes along with the membership fee that these people have paid for the privilege of being here in the establishment. Every set of lips in here is sealed. Hence why the four of us so often meet here at the club when we have business to hash out.
Becker turns to me, but Naomi reappears with a scotch in hand. “Your Glenfiddich, Mr. Colburn.”
He nods, and the rest of us decline a second round. We’re here to talk shop, not get buzzed. As soon as the cocktail waitress retreats, all eyes are on Beck again.
“So what’s the job?” I prompt. “Is this related to the call you were on?”
Becker frowns and says, “No. A ghost from my past just called. And she wants a favor. But you need not concern yourself with it.”
I glance at Theo and Nate, lifting a brow. Skeleton, meet closet.
“Oh, really? What kind of ghost?” Nate prods.
“The kind I prefer not to discuss,” Becker says shortly.
“Does she have something on you? Is she someone we should be worried about?” I ask, shamelessly fishing for information as my curiosity gets the best of me. “You seem pretty worked up.”
Becker picks up his scotch and downs a generous swallow. “As I said, it’s none of your concern, Sebastian. Just make it an early night and get your bags packed. You’ve got a flight to catch to the island in the morning.”
This gets everyone’s attention. No one is scheduled to go to the island until next week.
“But the Tisdale match isn’t slotted for another eight days,” Theo says, proving he’s well apprised of the agency’s schedule even though it doesn’t fall under his purview. “Did it get moved up?”
I’m confused, too. The Tisdales are important clients, but they’re no higher up on the VIP list than any of the other rich and influential families for whom The Quattuor Group plays matchmaker. Which is the specific kind of consulting we do. We mediate relationships. Marriages. Arrangements, let’s call them. And we’re paid handsomely to do so. But it’s a delicate task, one that relies on timing just as much as it does human connection, and as such, the agency’s schedule is set in stone. There are too many moving parts for us to just shift potential matches around on a whim.
