Chapter 12
CHAPTER 12
CHARLOTTE
Ten million.
No. That can’t be enough. I know how expensive this area is, and the kind of houses I’m surrounded by. What I don’t know is who lives in them, but I bet I’d recognize some of their names.
Twenty million? Maybe. I’ve seen those reality shows where they sell houses, and in LA, they’re not cheap. The one I’m standing in front of at 5:50 a.m. on Monday morning is enormous. It’s hidden behind large Bel Air hedges, high on the mountain behind Westwood.
The weather is warm, but there’s a tiny chill that makes my jean jacket entirely worth it. I did not come dressed in workout clothes.
There has to be a limit somewhere, and that’s mine.
It’s been a week since I was first introduced to Aiden as the subject, and I have almost nothing. No direction for this memoir, no list of people in his life I’ll be able to speak to. The man is a vault.
A frustratingly charming, evasive vault.
Ignoring the night in Utah has been easier than ignoring that I’m writing something in favor of Titan Media. Something to clear its name and help rehabilitate its reputation.
That makes me feel dirty.
It’s a profit-driven corporation that produces, among other things, reality shows without any safeguards to protect the young men and women who participate. Anything for the drama. Anything for a good show.
Anything for viewers and money in the bank.
But Vera’s promise is driving me. The promise of if this memoir does well, if I impress her and her team, I’ll get a contract to write something of my own choosing.
Not to mention the contract I signed.
That chafes most of all. Since The Gamble , I’ve made it a priority to always go over every contract with a magnifying glass.
I never want to be trapped by contractual obligations again.
Yet here I am. Standing in front of the black wrought iron gate and peering at a giant, white house. Perfectly manicured gardens. Sharp, modern angles and glass.
Twenty-five million, maybe.
I roll my neck. Push my shoulders back. Take another deep breath and remind myself that I’ve survived far more difficult things than Aiden Hartman. I can handle this. The first week is over. Only one month and three weeks left to go.
I don’t have the code to his gate. It’s too large to scale, and no doubt, I’d be instantly shot down by the security snipers stationed on the roof. For twenty-five million plus, I bet that’s included.
Aiden comes into view.
He’s walking from the side of the house. Black shorts, gray T-shirt. His dark hair is pushed back messily, and the sight sends a jolt through me. I’ve never seen him like that. Here, in his home.
“Hello. Fancy seeing you here.” He pulls the gate open.
“I parked on the street. Is that okay?” I’ve heard how the residents in areas like this one hate when people do that. But Aiden just nods.
“Yes.” He walks over to the large garage beside his house. Two cars are parked outside it, and I add a few more million to my estimate. One’s his Jeep, the one made for off-roading. The other looks smaller and faster, and even more expensive. I haven’t seen that one before.
“In here,” he says and opens yet another door. “I’ll get you a key card for the gate for next time.”
That’s a fairly big step for people with his level of privacy concerns. But he doesn’t seem bothered, walking straight across the large home gym to the bench. It has a weightlifting bar resting above it, and he settles down to start chest presses.
Like I’m not even here.
There’s a lot of him on display. Golden skin, and thick calves, and his arms are bulging as he lifts the barbell. Once. Twice. Damn him for being handsome, too, on top of everything else.
I’ve read all about him these past few days. Combed through the dossier I was given—every word, every number. Read every page on Titan Media’s website. Online articles. The web has been my constant companion these past few days, outside of my twenty-minute meetings with him.
The rubber sole of my shoe makes a screech against the hardwood floor, and I look around for a place to sit. The space is fully stacked. A set of free weights, resistance machines, a treadmill, and a stationary bike. There’s a wall-mounted TV that plays the morning news at a low volume.
“This is fully equipped,” I say.
“Yeah, it’s a good home gym.” His eyes dip down, travel over my body. “You decided not to join me, I see.”
“I’m here to work.”
“Right.” There’s a smile in his voice. “And what’s the plan today? Twenty questions?”
“Would you really answer twenty questions in a row? Because I’d love that, if you’re willing to play ball,” I say.
He motions to one of the benches. “Have a seat. Make yourself at home.”
“So that’s a no,” I say and shrug out of my jean jacket. Hang it on the back of a machine. “You know, I’ve read almost all the interviews you’ve ever given, which haven’t been many. Did you put those interviewers through the ringer, too?”
“Maybe I just test everyone,” he says.
“Maybe you do.” I sit down on a Pilates ball and instantly regret the decision. It’s hard to feel dignified when you’re gently bobbing up and down. “Do you usually get up this early?”
“When I’m working, yeah.”
That makes me perk up. “What do you usually do when you’re not?”
“I travel. With family or with friends.” He pushes off the bench and walks over to where a huge row of dumbbells is perched. He grabs some of the heaviest and starts slow, methodical biceps curls.
I do my best to ignore the display of testosterone.
“Family and friends. Who would you say your closest friends are?” I ask.
He glances at me, wry amusement in his gaze. “We’re doing twenty questions regardless?”
I meet his gaze head-on. “Yes. I was given a thirty-page dossier on you and Titan Media by your assistant, but those are just facts on paper. I want to hear it in your voice.”
“Sure are,” he mutters. His arms are still moving in slow, deliberate bicep curls.
“Do you think there’s any chance I could talk to them, also? Your friends?”
His eyes are on mine. Heavy, as always. “Why?”
“Because they likely have a different perspective on you. We don’t always see ourselves so clearly, you know. But our friends and family usually do.” I shrug, making sure to keep my voice light. “It’s a normal part of the memoir writing process.”
“Hmm,” he hums. There’s a faint sheen along his forehead, and his arm muscles bulge with the movements. “Right. Well, most are busy and working a lot.”
“I know how to work a video call,” I say with a bright smile. “Where do you usually travel when you’re not in the city?”
“Need addresses for the book?”
“No.” I feel like one of his dumbbells. Lifted up and down, up and down. “But your habits are part of you, and you’re the focus of it, after all.”
“I go out of town as often as I can,” he says. “To the ocean, or the mountains. I’m in Europe a few times a year, sometimes on business and sometimes for pleasure.”
“And Utah.” I regret the comment immediately.
He raises an eyebrow, glancing in my direction. “And Utah, yes.” Something in his voice makes the word sound salacious. As if it’s an event rather than just the name of a state.
I look down at my hands instead. “You played a lot of sports in school.”
“I did,” he confirms. “Was that in your dossier?”
“Yeah. You were on the football team in college. That’s not an easy spot to get.”
“I was mostly on the sidelines,” he says. “It was a fun pastime. The other guys played on scholarships, for future careers. Not me.”
My hand itches, wanting to reach for the notepad in my back pocket. But his confessions seem far and few between, and I don’t want to remind him about the process more than I have to.
If only I had his permission to record!
“Because you were always set on this as your career? The family company?”
He lets the silence hang for a moment before responding. “Yes.”
“My guess is the timeline was moved up a fair bit, though. With the succession coming earlier than planned.”
Flashing lights. His father’s trial. The prison sentence.
“Yes,” he grits out. The dumbbells look heavy, and he’s been doing countless reps. “You could say that.”
“Hard times in your life. But you’ve managed to turn things around. Titan Media did record numbers last year.” And The Gamble is still one of their most popular shows. “Do you miss college?”
“It was all right,” he says and sets back the dumbbells. Moves to a machine in the corner instead and notches up the weights while I watch. He notices my gaze and looks back at me. “It was fun. I was a kid in college, legal drinking age. Of course, they were fun years.”
I clear my throat and the Pilates ball bobs gently beneath me. Still such an undignified choice, but now that I’ve made it, I gotta stick with it. “You have one sister, right?”
“Yes.”
“Are you two close?”
“Close enough,” he says. “As most siblings.”
“Many would say that you were raised wealthy. The Business Digest interview you gave a year ago described your family as ‘golden.’” They also proclaimed the golden family’s fall from grace, but I’m not mentioning that. “Is that a description that resonates with you?”
He pauses. “You read the interview.”
“I’ve done a lot of research over the past week, yes.”
“Not everything the papers print is true.”
“I’m sure it isn’t,” I say, trying hard not to sound annoyed. “That’s why I’m asking you about it.”
“I was raised rich, yeah,” he says simply, pushing off the weight machine and moves toward another machine with handles. Must be arms and back day today.
A glance at my watch tells me I’m almost running out of time. Only five minutes left, and there’s almost nothing I’ve gotten out of this. Infuriating man. No one I’ve ever worked with until now has proven to be this hard to get information out of.
Most people who have memoirs written about themselves are eager to tell me as much as possible.
They’ll show up to meetings with lists and lists of anecdotes they want me to include. Family trees. Pictures.
Aiden starts using the machine. His black T-shirt, shorts, and shoes blend in with the gym gear, somehow highlighting the vast expanse of muscle and exposed skin on display.
“What values do you think you got from home? That your parents really fostered in you and your sister?”
The weight plates in the machine drop in a loud crash, the cables and pulleys stopping in their tracks. Aiden leans forward, bracing his arms against his thighs. There’s a challenge in his eyes. “You want to know if they taught me to say my please and thank yous?”
I want to throw my hands up. God, this fucking man. When he’s like this, it’s hard to remember what I had found so irresistibly charming about him out at that resort.
“I want to get to know you, yes. What shaped you. The material I have right now would hardly fill two entire chapters.”
“We’ve only worked together for a week.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Can I give you homework?”
“Homework.” He does another pull-down. “What is it?”
“Think of an anecdote. Just one, that illustrates something about you or your past that you think is relevant.”
“I don’t spend much time sitting and just thinking about myself.”
I push off the Pilates ball as gracefully as possible. “First of all, I don’t think that’s true for a second . And even if it is… just try. Running a company cannot be easier than sharing a little info about yourself.”
A curved smile stretches across his face. “You’re angry.”
“No,” I say, but my clipped voice betrays me. “I’m being professional. Which means that I care about delivering a comprehensive and moving first draft of your story.”
Aiden rises off the bench, and I lose my height advantage. He runs a hand through his mussed hair, and I hate that he looks so much more like the man I met weeks ago and not the tailored suit-clad CEO I’ve been faced with lately.
“The next time slot on our schedule is a car drive tomorrow evening to the fundraising event,” he says in another stunning display of changing the subject.
I want to cross my arms over my chest.
I want to tell him that he’s being obstinate.
“Yes, we have about forty minutes.”
“The invitation includes a plus-one,” he says and takes a step closer. His eyes are locked on mine, and there’s that glint in them again, like he’s setting me up for a challenge. Like he wants to see if I’ll back down. “Come to the event with me.”
It will give me more time with him. And time to observe him in his natural habitat. My teeth dig into my lower lip. Right now, I don’t want to spend any more time with him than I absolutely have to.
But I have a book to finish. And the sooner I get the details I can from him, the sooner I can retreat to my writing cave and just focus on creating output.
“I’ll go.”
His mouth curves. “Need a dress? My assistant can take you to the stores. It’s on me.”
That makes my eyes narrow. “I have dresses. Thank you. And I’m not sure that would be a good use of Eric’s time.”
“Just asking,” he says, still smiling. He walks over to grab his water bottle and runs a white towel over his face. “And Eric wouldn’t be going. It would be my personal assistant.”
“Eric isn’t your personal assistant?”
“He’s my executive assistant, and handles my work engagements.” Aiden hangs the towel around his neck, and the room feels too small, with so much masculinity on display. “Elena is my personal assistant. She takes care of personal travel, household maintenance, that sort of thing.”
Right.
He’s as close to American royalty as they come. This is just another reminder of everything that makes his world different from mine—the helpful hands and money and redirected responsibilities.
I open my mouth to ask if he can get Eric to send me the details for the event.
But Aiden speaks first. “And no, I don’t think Elena or Eric would be good interview subjects.”
My mouth clamps shut. They would be excellent interview subjects.
Why does it feel like he’s sabotaging his own memoir?