Chapter 3
Xander
Rubber floors. Metal clangs. The steady thud of bass in my ears as I shove the weight overhead.
I love the gym at Merged. My company. A company that I’m building here with my partners.
Something that’s mine.
Something I won’t fail at.
Something I keep growing and succeeding at. Something I can have.
Just because I can have something doesn’t mean I want it.
Why do I keep thinking about that even weeks later? Why can’t I imagine that concept in practice?
I want all I can have, don’t I?
But it’s not just her subtle determination behind that rejection. It’s the smile that came with it. The twinkle in her eyes.
The pistachio cream in the corner of her lips that I didn’t lick away. The lips I didn’t kiss.
“Why are you smiling like an idiot?” Cal swats me with his towel, sweat trickling from his forehead.
“I figured out how we can save the Chicago deal.” I tap my earphones to stop the music.
It’s not a lie, because I do have a solution for the trouble we encountered with one of our clients.
The annoying part is that he caught me grinning without me even realizing I was. I’m so fucked.
“If thinking about work puts that smile on your face, you have a problem, dude.” He unscrews the cap on the bottle and gulps it down, before basketball dunking it into a bin.
“As if anything else made you smile before you got married and became a father, and utterly boring.” I stand up from the bench. “Have you worked out? Or just flirted with your reflection on the treadmill again?” I redirect from myself.
“Asshole.” He wipes his forehead and tosses the towel over his shoulder. “Take it from the converted, settling down has been surprisingly rewarding. It doesn’t compare to the constant, fleeting gratification of partying and hookups.”
“I’m too young to settle.” I load another disk on my bar, because apparently I’ve lost my damn mind today.
“That is a nice story to believe, when the truth is nobody would take the leap.” He snorts.
“Are you saying I’m not a good catch?” I pretend-scoff.
“I’m saying you’re incapable of dating, let alone of any serious commitment.” He lowers himself onto the rowing machine and grabs the handles. “It’s okay if that’s what you want.” He starts rowing.
“I’m capable of commitment.” Even to my ears, I sound unconvincing. “I just don’t want one. I’m enjoying my bachelor status.”
“I’m sure you are,” he pants out, increasing his speed. His tone is definitely mocking.
“Let’s bet on it.” I don’t even know what I’m saying. Why do I care about his opinion on the matter?
He stops rowing and frowns at me. “You want to bet on enjoying your bachelor status?”
“No, you douchebag, ten thousand that I can date one woman for at least a month.”
He laughs. “That’s hardly a commitment, but you’re on. In fact, make it twenty thousand.”
“You’re awfully cocky.”
“It’s confidence, my friend; it’s confidence.” He hoists himself up and offers me his hand.
I shake it. “I will date someone for at least a month.”
“Officially, and without straying… though I’m not sure how I would check that. And let’s put a time frame on it. I don’t want to wait for my winnings until I’m retired.”
“Six months. If I don’t start dating someone in the next six months, I’ll pay out.”
He smirks. “Easiest money I ever made.”
“Don’t count on it. I never lose.”
He laughs and returns to his rowing. I do one more set of squats, almost breaking under the weight, but enjoying every minute of it.
Perhaps I can call Sissy. Sissy Claremont is an heiress to the largest construction company in the country, and a lovely, if dull, companion.
She is hot, fun, and impeccably groomed to become a wife. For some reason, only her dullness comes to mind as I think of our last encounter.
But she lives far enough from here. A long-distance relationship would be the easiest one to win.
But knowing her, if I showed a bit more interest, she would move to Manhattan and start planning our wedding.
I take a nice long shower before I return to the office.
“You need to leave for the luncheon in an hour.” Lindsay, my assistant, looks up and smiles.
Shit. I forgot about the schmoozing event we’re all attending. The networking part is easy—I don’t need to prepare for that—but the plus-one part is something I should have thought about.
Especially since the other three Merged partners will be there with their better halves.
Grabbing a remote, I plop behind my desk and turn on the news. The large screen on the wall across from me comes to life, with the markets’ green and red numbers ticking along.
Mindlessly watching the stocks—and more often than not engaging in the game—has always helped me to problem solve.
Not that there truly is a problem. I can easily call one of my regular hookups. I fish my phone from my pocket and stare.
Perhaps there is a problem.
I haven’t hooked up with anyone for a few weeks now—not that I would openly admit that. I have a reputation to uphold.
Unfortunately, I can pinpoint the exact day when all women on my usual roster paled into the background.
The stupid gala. Where Cora Winslow made it clear she’s not interested, and I decided not to fuck up my non-existent chances by not kissing her.
That was a first for me. A normal, grounded man would just give up. Take a clue.
Me? I haven’t stopped thinking about her.
The way she descended the stairs in her black dress, all curves and grace, completely unaware of her beauty: her wild ginger hair tamed; her face glowing; her green eyes sparkling; and her body cased in black velvet.
That fucking dress… It wasn’t anything special, but its simplicity only added to the allure.
So yeah, it’s safe to say I haven’t stopped thinking about her. Which is annoying, because the only person I’ve ever allowed to have a hold over my thoughts has been my father. And that clusterfuck of dysfunctional is frankly enough for several lifetimes.
Cora Winslow, the temptress. An elegant fox.
Goddammit.
I jump up and rush out of my office, and collide with our office manager, Roxy.
“Who are you chasing?” She smirks.
“I don’t chase, Ro; I attract.” I wink at her.
She hates it when people call her Ro, which we tend to do a lot. Frankly, it may be the only weapon against her because this woman is unflappable, her ability to hold her ground around us admirable.
She glares. “You call me Ro one more time and I swear I’ll forward my file on you to HR.”
I know she is bluffing. Not about having a file on me—I’m pretty sure she could blackmail any of us in the blink of an eye. But she wouldn’t use it uselessly by starting an HR investigation. It wouldn’t lead anywhere, and it would have no impact on us.
She is smarter than that. She would use it wisely.
“What do you need, Roxy?” Without waiting, I start toward the elevators.
“When was the last time you were back home?” She trots beside me, and I slow my gait—the woman is a foot shorter than me—even though I don’t want to have this conversation.
“Why are you asking?” We pass by my team’s cubicles. “Double-check column H,” I tell a junior analyst hunched over a spreadsheet.
He looks up, gaping at me. “How did you even…?”
“I’m sure you would have spotted the error in no time.” I tap on his partition and continue my escape from Roxy.
We reach the reception, and I hit the elevator’s call button.
“I need to go, Roxy, so unless you have something work-related to discuss, I’m stepping out.”
As if on cue, the elevator dings and its doors slide open. I don’t wait for her to explain, but I catch her expression before the door closes. Fuck.
She’s biting her bottom lip, her nose wrinkled. I’m not the best at reading faces, but she is not her usual smug self, so I hit the button to reopen the door.
“What is it, Roxy?” I sigh.
“Your father called.”
Fuck. My. Life.
The Manhattan traffic is at its usual. Loud. Hectic. And slow. So fucking slow, I start to doubt my mission makes any sense.
At the red light, I glance at my phone in the dashboard holder, my dad’s phone number mocking me in my mind’s eye.
Coward. Just call him back. I push the gas as the light changes. Saved by the bell—or rather light in this case. I’m not calling him now.
Talking on the phone while driving is all sorts of ill-advised. Because suddenly I’m obeying the traffic rules.
As I said, coward.
I avoided my father for almost two years. Why would he call now?
For a moment, I consider that something bad must have happened. But I dismiss the thought because Lottie would call. I have been in touch with my sister regularly since I left.
She’s the only family member who saw through my bullshit, and refused to accept my version of the events that forced me to move as far from them as possible.
While I don’t understand her loyalty, I appreciate it. If something bad had happened, Lottie would have made sure I heard about it.
She wouldn’t pressure me. She would accept my decision whether or not to visit. She would just fucking be there for me. No matter what story I would feed her.
And as ashamed as I may be, I would feed her some fabrication, because it’s been easier than facing the past.
But I haven’t heard from my sister, and that begs the question: why is my father making an effort to get in touch with me? And an even bigger one is why I would rather crawl into a box full of vipers than return his call.
I pull my Lambo to the curb in front of the bistro. At least one thing is working in my favor today. I got an extremely convenient parking spot—something unheard of in the middle of Manhattan.
The other Merged partners have drivers and rarely drive in the middle of the day. I guess it allows them to catch up on work while they commute. I like to take my cars for a daily spin. Driving has always calmed me down. It’s my thinking time.
Usually, I don’t even mind the horrendous traffic jams. My best ideas and most prolific phone calls have happened in the midst of a gridlock.