Chapter Thirty-One
Asher
It takes every inch of my self-control to do what I’d promised. Eat pizza like I can taste anything other than Victoria , drive her home, and walk her to her apartment with nothing but a chaste good night kiss.
Well, chaste might be a stretch. But still.
It doesn’t work. I’m as restless when I get back to my apartment as I was when I left it, like I’m supposed to be somewhere else, doing something else.
In other words, with Victoria.
I am losing my fucking mind over that woman. I check my phone for the umpteenth time to see if she’s texted me—she hasn’t. I angrily toss it on my kitchen counter, open my fridge, and look for something I can rage-eat.
All that greets me are perfectly portioned meals packaged into neat little boxes that my chef leaves behind a few times a week. He’s a health nut and works closely with Gio, so of course, I never get to eat anything good at home.
If I’d said fuck you to first date manners and brought Victoria here, I’d be feasting like a king.
Fuck.
Why am I doing this? And how do I actually do this? Act like a decent person and be a good person to date?
I pick my phone back up, and call the last person I usually have any desire to speak to. My older brother and once the bane of my existence—now, my uneasy ally. Grant.
“If you’re in jail and need me to bail you out, the answer is no,” he drawls, picking up on the sixth ring.
“Hello to you too, motherfucker.” My jaw clenches. I’m already regretting this, but Grant is infamous for his many relationships, while I’ve just had a long string of one-night-stands. “If I were in jail, you’d get some county memo before hearing—”
“You’re already boring me, and I have shit to do. What do you want?”
To rearrange your face. Being ugly could only do him some good; it’d bring out his true nature splendidly.
“I need…” Screw it, I already made the mistake of calling him. Might as well see this all the way through. “Advice.”
“Obviously.” He murmurs something to someone in the background, then gets back to me. “I will permit you ten minutes of my time before I start charging you. My rate of consultation, when I stoop that low, is 6 grand per hour—and yes, I will count by the minute if my time is being wasted. Go.”
There’s no comradery between me and Grant.
I don’t feel like his brother, mostly because we didn’t grow up together, aside from summers.
But I do know him to be an extremely talented businessman and excellent strategist, which makes him a good candidate for giving advice, even if he’ll be the biggest jerkoff imaginable about it.
“There’s a girl.”
“Obviously,” he intones. “Why the fuck else would you be calling me at 5am?”
Shit, is it already 5? I check the clock on the wall; it is. At least I’ve already gotten my morning workout in.
“If you got an STD, the best I can do is refer you to an excellent and discreet doctor,” he goes on. “I can’t give advice, since I ask for clean bills of health and demand exclusivity during the course of an arrangement rather than sticking my dick into whatever has double-Ds like you.”
People who call me an asshole have never met my older brother.
Since I already have him on the phone, I decide to power through his typical, unbearable bullshit. How he has so many willing women at his beck and call, I’ll never know. My trick has always been not letting them get to know me. Otherwise, who would put up with me?
Victoria. Victoria just might.
“She’s not like the others,” I growl.
“How adorably cliché. Will you be getting to the point any time soon?”
“That is the point!” I roar.
“If you could scale back on your emotional tantrum for thirty seconds, perhaps we can actually hold a conversation.” Grant sighs “How we share the same DNA, I’ll never know.”
On that point, we agree. His DNA is probably more closely matched to an iceberg. Or our grandfather. He used to bully me mercilessly on getting all the emotions in the family, and he’s not wrong. Grant seems not to feel anything. I feel everything, and it pisses me off.
“How do you go about…” I search for the right word. “Wooing.”
“Wooing,” Grant repeats acerbically. “When did you start hitting the regency romance novels?”
“How do you make a woman think you’re not a despicable asshole?” I clarify through gritted teeth.
“Well, first of all, I don’t act like a despicable asshole.” When I snort, he adds on, “Around them or to them.”
My jaw tightens. “It’s a touch late for that.” I was only my usual self to Victoria for a few weeks, but that’s more than enough to leave a lasting impression.
“I see. Are we talking about the girl you decided to name-drop during that ridiculous conference today?”
My head jerks back. “How the hell do you know about that?”
“Grandmother called me to ask if I knew anything about it. I think she’s hoping you’ll settle down.” I can almost hear him roll his eyes. “God knows she’ll only be getting heirs from one of us.”
I don’t touch that issue with a ten-foot pole.
As far as I’m aware, part of the contract that allowed Grant to get control of the family business was that he marry and have children within the next few years.
I wouldn’t put it past the fucker to take that shit to court.
Despite his many, many high-profile relationships, he seems to have no interest in settling or having kids.
That’s probably for the best; the thought of him passing down his genetics is repulsive.
“She watched the press conference? Never mind, of course she did.” Grandma watches my career like a hawk. Grandfather, on the other hand, only looks for the highlights—and he’s almost always disappointed with what he finds.
“Yes, of course she did,” Grant drawls. “You’ll be interested to know that our mother also apparently has alerts set up regarding your little hobby, because I got a text from her.”
My muscles bunch, and I walk from the kitchen to the living room, gazing out the row of windows. It’s still dark out, but the sun will start rising soon. I know something I’d much rather be doing than sulking on my own. Rather, someone.
“I’m impressed she found the time. Or still has your number.” She and Dad are usually far too absorbed in each other to pay us any attention.
“The prospect of grandchildren is the only thing that can catch her attention.”
“First of all, why the fuck is mentioning a girl at a press conference giving everyone the impression that I’ll be marrying and reproducing with her?”
“Because you’ve never spoken highly of anyone before. People will make assumptions. Next?”
That can’t be true. I’m not known for singing people’s praises, but there have been times in my life where I gave credit where credit was due. Right?
Fuck, maybe not.
“Second of all, why would grandchildren excite her?” Heirs being important to my grandparents make sense; they have a multi-billion dollar industry that makes them consider succession very carefully.
Not that I’d ever push any hypothetical children of mine to helm the empire.
But my parents couldn’t spare enough time to raise me and Grant; why would they care about more kids in the family?
“Who the fuck knows, and more importantly, who cares? Your ten minutes are past up, by the way, and we’re now running on…” Grant pauses. “Twenty minutes. That’s a thousand dollars. If you have a point, I suggest you get to it.”
Absolute prick. “How do I make her like me?”
“You don’t make women do anything. At best, you use subtle manipulation—”
“Give me the non-Machiavellian version.”
Grant pauses to think. “Do you care about her?”
I freeze. Every muscle in my body goes stiff as a statue, and an abrupt and startling realization slams into me.
I do. I care about her a lot. I care about her opinion, and her comfort. It shattered something in me to see her frightened expression after I name-dropped her at the conference—that’s why I grilled Oliver to tell me where she lives.
When the hell did that happen? When did she morph from an annoyance to someone who’s emotional state I consider?
“I’ll take your silence as a yes.” Grant pretends to gag.
“Disgustingly sentimental, but that’s your problem, not mine.
If you care about her, then I suppose it’ll be easier.
You don’t have to fake wanting her to be happy.
So, pay attention. Learn what she likes, what she dislikes.
Lean into the likes, avoid the dislikes.
I’ve also found that simply listening makes women feel seen.
Let them rant for a while and they’ll let you fuck them however—”
“You were almost doing well,” I cut in. “So close, Grant.”
“The only thing I’m close to is death by boredom from this insufferable talk. Are you done?”
I’m still too lost in his halfway-decent advice to berate him, even mentally. “Yeah.”
“Let’s not do this again. It was terrible. Your grand total is $2,549. I’ll express the bill to you. Pay at your earliest inconvenience.”
“You’re charging for seconds?”
“2,555, now.” He hangs up on me.
The one perk of running on zero sleep is that I’m one of the first into HQ, which gives me an opportunity to hunt down Ilya.
First, though, I have to make a stop by the analysts cave to deliver a dozen chocolate-chip cookies to Oliver.
When I find him, he’s chugging a thermos of coffee so rapidly it’s amazing he doesn’t choke.
“Enjoy the type-two diabetes,” I say offhandedly. “Oh, and in the future, you do not extort Victoria for cookies. You want something in return for doing a favor for her? I’ll settle the tab.”
Oliver’s eyes narrow. He lifts the pink lid of the takeout box, examines the overdose of sugar, and nods. “I accept your amendment.”
“Have fun giving yourself a stroke, you fucking extortionist.”
Ilya’s office is next, and as luck would have it, I catch him just as he’s unlocking it.
“Asher,” he greets. “To what do I owe such an early-morning displeasure?”