8. Blind Date Bullshit
Chapter eight
Blind Date Bullshit
Haze
“ W hat do we have left?” I ask Martine as I glance at my watch. She’s perched on the end of her chair, the one she bought herself on the company card for the times we convene in my office. It’s an extra piece of furniture, and Martine doesn’t allow her chair to sit across from my desk. Martine’s chair isn’t available to visitors. Hell, I won’t dare defile the damn thing with my own ass, and I paid for it. It’s after seven. I should have let her go after the Harmon Holdings board meeting, but I need to wrap up everything before I leave.
“Just your personal holdings. And they can wait,” she adds gently.
“No,” I grit out through clenched teeth. Martine flinches. I sigh. “I’m sorry. I’d rather work straight through the next forty-eight hours than go to Seattle this weekend. You know, as well as I do, what waits for me.”
“Then don’t go, Mr. Harmon,” she says stiffly. “Here I thought you’d set a hard line at letting anyone in your life tell you what to do.” She sniffs, muttering under her breath as she looks over her legal pad. “Supongo que lo llamé mal… bendejo.”
I bark a laugh as I unbutton my jacket, loosen my tie, and flop back in my chair. All I needed to hear was the last word to catch the drift of what she was saying. “It’s after seven. We’re the last ones here. You might as well call me Haze and curse me out properly.”
“Hombre boho—” She pauses, slapping her pen on the notepad that’s balancing delicately on her lap. “I’ll do no such thing. Let’s get this done so we can both go. I have better things to do tonight than sit here and tell you about projects you know I’ve taken care of.”
One eyebrow jerks up in surprise. “Is that what you really think I’m doing?”
This time Martine sighs. “No. And yes. I know you trust me, and you like to keep close tabs on your personal projects and holdings. But it’s late. You know I would have come to you if anything was off-schedule or delayed. The real reasons we are here are the Crosby Street property and you grasping at straws to avoid going to Seattle with your family for the weekend.”
“I have no problem spending the weekend in Seattle with my family,” I start.
“But your mother is going to invite some single woman she’s vetted for you. A woman that is either too much to your taste or not at all, and you don’t care to meet either.”
“I…exactly.” I falter but swiftly recover, agreeing with her. Then my eyes narrow, nailing her to her seat. “How long have you known, Martine? And who is she?”
“I—”
“Think long and hard about your Christmas bonus,” I threaten, my face as deadly as the corporate knife I’m holding to her income. “I’ll give it to a cocker spaniel rescue.”
“You wouldn’t!” She gasps, lifting a hand to her chest. “In all my years, I’ve never been treated like—”
“Spill. Everything. Now.” I nail her with another glare. Martine hates cocker spaniels. Almost as much as I hate my mother’s meddling and the ease with which she interferes in my personal life.
“She’s tall. Long brown hair. Pretty hazel eyes. Art curator,” Martine holds up a finger when I roll my eyes, “at a financially solvent gallery.”
I lean back and stretch, steeling myself not to insult either my mother or Martine when I reply. “Mother’s outdone herself this time. Someone who probably looks like my late wife’s twin but will have absolutely nothing of interest to say.”
“Haze!” She reaches out and raps my knee with her notepad. “You’re incorrigible. Her father is some kind of big-time lawyer in San Francisco.”
The easy grin that came after the playful slap falls, draining off my face along with any color. “Please tell me it isn’t Kaitlyn Gzernaksi.”
Martine taps her lip with her Montblanc pen. “Is she the one obsessed with playing at the club that drove the pink Porsche?”
I drop my head in my hands and groan. “No. I’m not going. I’ll eat something rancid. I’ll lop off a finger. I’ll do anything not to spend one second in the talons of that ladder-climbing harpy!”
Silence. Then the swish of silk. I peek between my fingers. Martine’s arms are crossed, and her face brooks no sympathy. “Maybe if you had spent five minutes with your mother in the last year, she wouldn’t be using your breakup as a double whammy.”
I leap out of my chair and point a righteous finger at her. “Even you admit the whole setup is a trap!”
She gets up and walks out of my office, leaving the door between our spaces open. Tossing the pen and her notebook on her desk, she walks back to the doorway and leans in, one burgundy tipped hand wrapping around the doorframe. “It is. And you’ve had it coming. Suck it up, be a gentleman, show your mother all your attention, and come home.”
She turns to leave. I swallow my pride and ask, “Martine?”
“As far as I can tell, he hasn’t been there. He’s found his own place.” She sighs. When she speaks, her tone is uncharacteristically hard. “Don’t push me on this one, Haze. If you want information about Sal, I’m going to have to insist you get it yourself.” She turns back around, and I’m taken aback by how stern her expression is. “The right way. By calling and asking him how he’s doing. If I find out you hired anyone…”
“I paid to have his shit moved there for his comfort. If he isn’t going to utilize the property, then…” I pause. I’ve leaned on Martine enough to help me clean up my personal business. “Thank you, Martine. Take Monday off. It’s been a long week.”
She grabs her coat and her purse and leaves without looking back. I settle back in my chair, mulling over my choices for the weekend. It’s been a long while since I’ve spent any time with my brother and his family. I know my mother is desperate for quality time with her sons. She makes plenty of time for her grandkids, always putting them before her social events and outings. I shouldn’t punish her with absence because she deals with her grief by talking frequently about those we’ve lost, but I can’t handle the constant barrage of memories that comes with her reminiscing. While she finds stirring her pot of recollections comforting, the past is a serrated sword that saws at my guts. I used to be able to tolerate listening to her when I had Sal by my side, but alone, while having to deal with one of her setups… I don’t think I have the gumption.
But a polite excuse won’t cut it. With a sigh, I pull out my phone, my finger hovering over one icon before scrolling back through multiple screens to get to my social media apps. If I’m going to make my mother happy and attend her family outing, I’ll have to be armed to stave off her tagalong guest. Kaitlyn Gzernaksi isn’t getting a single, manicured claw within ten feet of my flesh. I’ll use any weapon necessary, even if that means spending an excruciating hour digging through her socials.
Thirty minutes later, I have what I need. Kaitlyn is banging her golf instructor. I can see it in the softness around her eyes as she looks at him. I have no proof, but I’m ninety-eight percent sure. Sure enough to take the gamble. The photo wasn’t posted by her but by the country club. Probably an intern for the media manager who hasn’t yet had his or her face relax into the stupor only the concentrated oxytocin of true love can produce. The way mine did when I looked at Angie.
Of course, Kaitlyn will still marry to please her daddy. She’ll just keep playing golf.
I fucking hate golf. It’s a time waster and an in-your-face metaphor for swinging dicks and small balls.
I smile as I dial Kaitlyn’s number. I’ll be on the phone for longer than I like as she lies, wheedles, cajoles, then calls me names, but she’ll bow out and secretly be grateful.
I’ll owe Martine another basket of pomegranate martini supplies. I chuckle to myself as I try to conjure up an image of her drinking with her sisters. She’s still in Donna Karan.
I’ll do the work necessary to secure my weekend, and then I’ll log back into the app with a black camera and the tiny pink panties hanging off the lens.