I looked across the bar and instantly locked eyes with someone. Brown hair and a lopsided grin. He was standing in the center of the soon-to-be-moneyed tech bros pack. They werelaughing too loud at his jokes, but he didn’t seem to notice them. He looked right at me as he lifted his glass in salute, a silent hello from the loudest energy in the room.
He was handsome, and there was an edge of power in his presence—something about the way his clothes fit or the way he seemed so unbothered by the scene around him. While I was playing at control, he had harnessed it.
Beau Walker. In the flesh.
“Holy shit. How did you get them here?” I look back at her.
“I met a bunch of them when I was freelancing behind the bar of InfoSynth’s Christmas party last year. You said you were looking for him and I heard their event person was sniffing around for a place to host a happy hour. I made a few calls, offered them our patio, et voilà.” Her eyebrows wagged.
This was how she slipped past my defenses. Once, she tipped me off that a competitor of Simon’s was meeting here to discuss a merger. When I delivered the news to Simon, he squashed the merger by buying up half the tech on offer in a competing bid. He told me I had killer instincts. Then, he took me home and kissed me like I had won a war. And I paid Gemma back by giving her Simon’s suite at a Lakers game.
If this deal goes the way Simon hopes it will, Gemma’s getting season tickets.
“Want me to call him over?” she offered.
I looked back in Beau’s direction. He wore jeans and a vintage George Clinton Atomic Dog T-shirt—an outfit that I found vaguely irksome, though I couldn’t decide why. Maybe it was the obscurity of the musical reference. Or maybe it was that, dressed as he was, it was hard to know if he was coming from the office or some ocean-side ayahuasca retreat. Still, he looked good, if a little bit rugged.
But I’m in a situationship with my boss, so I can only admire him from afar.
“You’ve got a little drool. Just there,” Gemma teased, reaching for my cheek.
I batted her hand away. “Shouldn’t he be kayaking in theBaltic Sea or hanging off the side of some glacier on an Alaskan ice-climbing trip?”
The intrepid, modern-day innovator. It’s all so Bruce Wayne–coded I could puke.
“Feel free to thank me at any point,” Gemma persisted. “I mean. One thing could lead to another.”
I wagged a finger. “No. One thing will not lead to another. You said yourself he’s on the verge of being a gazillionaire—the toast of the town. He’s about to be covered in ‘pick me girl’ pheromones. I don’t need to be lumped in with that. I need him to agree to meet with Simon.”
“Oh,come on.This is a work thing?” Gemma frowned. “I thought you wanted to be fixed up. You’ve been on the bench for, like, a year. What is that?”
“I’m not benched. I’m busy,” I said with a roll of my eyes.
Busy, and moving in stealth mode.
I went on, “Maybe when I’m a successful executive there will be time, but I’m in averycommitted relationship with PowerPoint at the moment.”
“Gemma, right?” I heard a warm, masculine voice say. “Am I interrupting if I come over to say hi?” Beau was suddenly standing beside Gemma with that boyish smile.
“You’re not interrupting, Beau.” Gemma gave me a side glance, like she couldn’t believe our luck. “This is my friend Este.”
“Charmed.” He nodded in my direction, and the energy I’d felt from across the room was more formidable up close than I had expected. With the slightest gesture, he could have commanded the attention of the entire bar. And the most dangerous part was how much I wanted to see him do it.
It wasn’t fair. Power like that and such a magnetic smile.
“How’ve you been?” Gemma gushed. “Nice shirt, by the way. I’m such a big fan of George Clinton.”
“Really?” Beau looked surprised
“No.” She laughed impishly. “I am pop music to my very core.”
“What about you, Este?” Beau looked at me again, and the spark in his eyes felt somehow both dangerous and familiar.
I searched for a witty comeback but decided on the truth instead. “I don’t know a lot of George Clinton. My musical library was…limited when I was a kid, so I’m still getting caught up. My parents only let me listen to Public Enemy because Chuck D credited Noam Chomsky for ‘Don’t believe the hype.’ ”
When I’d moved in with Delia, she’d blasted jazz standards through the house—like she was trying to reprogram my childhood with Ella Fitzgerald. It kind of worked.
Beau blinked, as if somehow he was expecting me to say anything but that. “Honestly? Strong start.”
