Chapter 14
CHAPTER 14
CHARLOTTE
It takes exactly six minutes before the first person asks Aiden to introduce me. “Is this your date?” the interloper asks. He’s in his mid-fifties, and was one of the first to come up to Aiden.
I want to glare at the man beside me. But it’s my own fault for not realizing how things would look. Of course people here would spot a woman on Aiden’s arm. Even though there are plenty of glamorous women here, gliding around in dresses that must cost tenfold of what I’m wearing.
Aiden seems perfectly at ease amid it all, meeting the man’s curious gaze with an almost lazy look of his own. “Unfortunately not. Charlotte here is writing a piece on me and is here for research purposes.”
“Writing a piece? What kind of piece?” The newcomer looks at me with appraising eyes, and damn it, I’ve signed an NDA.
I look over at Aiden. His eyes hold the same spark as earlier. He’s going to let me answer this.
Thread the needle.
I smile at the curious man. “It’s in the early stages so far, and we’ll have to see what it evolves into.”
The man chuckles. “All right, I know evasiveness when I see it. Neither of you have drinks yet—here, let’s fix that.” He raises a hand and motions for one of the neatly clad waiters carrying a tray to approach. “How’s it going then, Hartman? The financial reports your company published back in March looked stellar.”
Aiden smiles. It’s not all together friendly. “Still keeping tabs on us, I see.”
“You know how it is,” the man says. “Everything good at home? The family?”
“Everything’s great,” Aiden says. He looks as unbothered as before, but… his voice sounds harder somehow. The change is barely noticeable.
“Good, good. Well, I know you have plenty of people to chat with before your speech. And hey, don’t forget the fundraising part, yeah?”
“How could I,” Aiden says dryly, and the man—whose name I still don’t know—laughs again. “I’m well aware of the part I need to play.”
“Good man.” He claps Aiden on the shoulder and then moves on toward the next group of people. The waiter he waved over earlier finally makes her way to us with an apologetic smile.
Aiden takes two champagne flutes and hands me one. I grip it tightly and thank the server.
“Although I shouldn’t drink,” I say after she leaves. “I’m on the job.”
Aiden makes a small sound of amusement. “Right. A really demanding job, too.”
Is he being patronizing? I can’t tell, and I meet his serene gaze with one of my own. “Who was that man we just spoke with?”
“Maurice Brown.”
“And he is?”
“He runs an investment firm.”
“He asked about your family,” I say. “You seem well acquainted.”
The tightness around Aiden’s mouth returns. “He knew my father well.”
“Ah. And he… remains a close friend today?”
Aiden’s eyes harden. “He is not someone you’re adding to your list of people to interview.”
“So that’s a no.”
“People are turncoats.” He takes a sip of his champagne and then shakes his head sharply. “We’re not talking about this.”
“Not here,” I say. The conversation in the car still has me revved up. “But we will have to eventually. Won’t we, Aiden?”
His eyes meet mine, and the question hangs in the air between us. For a second, I think he’s going to reply.
And the answer in his eyes is no.
But then he puts his hand on the small of my back and ushers us toward the seats. “We’re definitely not having it here. Not even hints of it.”
I look around. There are people everywhere, dressed in beautiful chiffon and tuxes. The soft melody of a string quartet plays in the background. A flash goes off, and my gaze lands on a photographer bending to get a good shot of a group posing nearby.
“There are photographers everywhere,” I admit. And I need to make sure not a single one gets a good shot of me.
“It’s not the photographers I’m worried about,” Aiden mutters.
“It’s the people?” I ask him. We’ve stopped by a row of seats labeled as VIP and Speaker. Maurice had mentioned that Aiden was going to give a speech.
I hadn’t known that.
Aiden blows out a breath. “What did I just say? We’re not having this conversation here, Chaos.”
“I’m not asking about the past. Just about the present.” I look over his shoulder, at the crowds of people attending the event. There are so many of them.
I haven’t liked being in crowds for years.
There’s often one person who looks at me for a little too long. Who racks their brain, and sometimes it clicks. Who I am. They nudge their friends. Remember that girl who had a freakout on TV? Remember the meme?
Aiden seems so at ease here. He always does, everywhere he goes. But I wonder… He has a reputation, too.
A past.
I did anticipate that being in LA would be hard. This is the epicenter of film and movie production, including a lot of reality TV. There’s probably a higher chance of being recognized here than in Minnesota or in the Alaskan wilderness. But so far, no one at this venue seems to be staring.
I’d forgotten that in a city with so many famous people, my own blip fades in comparison. I’m a speck of dust when matched against the real stars.
The thought is very comforting.
“Do you know many of the people here?” I ask him.
He takes another sip of his champagne. “A fair number. Not all.”
“But they know you,” I guess.
His eyes narrow. “Know of me, most likely. Yes.”
“How does that make you feel?”
“You really are on the job.” He touches his champagne flute to mine. “Take a sip. It’ll help you relax.”
“I am relaxed.”
“Mm-hmm,” he says dryly. “So am I.”
It takes me a moment to realize he’s being sarcastic. So, he’s not relaxed in these environments.
But he’s very good at acting like he is.
Another nugget of information I file away, like an archaeologist unearthing a new find. “Why do you go to these events?” I ask instead. “If you don’t like them?”
“Means to an end,” he says.
“What speech are you giving?”
“I’m donating the largest sum tonight to the charity. That buys you a certain level of visibility.”
“What charity is it?”
“Dementia research,” he says. “Playing twenty questions?”
“Would you rather play ball with me or network with someone out there?” I incline my head toward the masses. A few people are looking his way and it’s likely only a matter of time before he’s approached again. “Why dementia?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “You’d have to ask Maurice about that. He’s on the Board for the event.”
“Why are you donating such a large amount, then?”
His mouth tightens again. But then he shrugs, and his voice is all charm. “For the same reason the Board hired you.”
“Good PR.”
“The very same,” he says.
I hesitate only a second before I ask the next thing. “Does it feel like you’ve been doing damage control since you took over the company? And do you think it’ll ever end?”
“That,” he says sharply, “belongs to the list of things we are not discussing.”