Chapter 6
Six
Zoey
“ Y ou’re off to Vegas?” Zara literally spits out her coffee when I call her bright and early on Thursday morning. I nod as I walk from the kitchen in the condo toward the balcony. Sliding the door open and stepping out in the white robe that came in the closet, I sit in the chair looking over at the houses, and I can hear the soft waves in the distance.
“I’m off to Vegas,” I confirm, sipping the coffee I just made before calling Zara. It’s six o’clock here, and I still haven’t gotten used to the time change. “It’s going to be good for me to find out more about the company. I can network and see what everyone says about the company as well.”
She throws her head back and laughs. “Is that what you’re telling yourself?”
“That’s the truth.”
“How is Josh?” Zara asks, and I shrug.
“No clue,” I answer her honestly. “He texted me the day after I landed here to ask if I was really in LA without telling him.” I laugh bitterly. “Not like, ‘oh, Zoey, I miss you. I need to see you. Maybe we should talk.’ Nope, it was all ‘you left without telling me,’ and then he followed up with ‘how long will you be there?’”
“So he’s texted you, but he hasn’t called you on the telephone?”
“How else would he call me, on the can and string? Why do you say it like that, on the telephone?” I make fun of her. “But to answer your question, negative.”
“He’s not worth it,” Zara says. “If that was Daniel, I would be like fuck this shit.”
“If this was Daniel,” I say of her fiancé, “you would have already burned his clothes while you were live on some social media platform.”
“Word.” She points at the screen. “Don’t fucking piss on my leg and then be like, I think it’s raining on a sunny cloudless day.”
“What is up with you and these sayings today?” I laugh.
“Ugh, I spent two days with Uncle Matthew and Uncle Max. It’s like all their old-time jokes have stuck on me.”
I silently laugh at her. “I have to go and pack my bag to leave. I think I’m going to fly home before we take off on the family vacation.”
“Did you pack any slutty clothes?” Zara winks at me.
“I’m here for business. I’m not going to wear slutty clothes.” I get up, opening the door, and step into the cool living room before walking to the back where the only bathroom is. “It’s strictly professional with Nash.”
“Well, then you’re doing something wrong,” Zara declares.
“Now I have to go and get ready,” I tell her, hanging up the phone before starting the shower. I’m packed and already waiting for him in the lobby when he swings in. I grab my backpack and wheel my luggage to the door. He steps out of his car looking like he just walked off a fashion runway.
He’s wearing dark blue jeans with a white polo shirt, the tattoos on his arms on full display. If he’s wearing a suit, you can’t see them, but the minute he rolls up his sleeves, they come out. I push open the door before he has a chance to pull it open. “Hey,” he says, looking me up and down. “Didn’t I say dress casual?” he asks, and I look down at my outfit.
“This is casual,” I tell him of the light peach wraparound dress with a gray sleeveless tank top. “I’m not even wearing heels.” I point at white wedges. “Besides, this is as casual as it gets.”
“You look fantastic,” he compliments, and I tsk him. “Is that flirting?”
“Do you tell anyone else you work with that they look fantastic?” I watch him as he puts my bag in the trunk next to his.
“Technically, I don’t,” he answers, slamming the trunk, “but that’s only because no one actually looks fantastic.” I gasp at his bluntness. “So I can’t say it.”
I pull open the door, getting in and trying not to think of how much that comment means. I also try to block out how sexy he smells. “Are we flying there commercial or private?”
“Private,” he says, putting his sunglasses on. “They will have your matcha on board.”
“Good.” I pretend it matters. “Or else I wasn’t going.”
“Is that all it takes for you to stay where you are?” He looks over at me for a second with a sly smile. “I’ll learn how to make that green stuff if that’s the case.” This. Fucking. Guy. Again. I ignore the way my heart leaps to my throat and instead push forward.
“Do you even know how matcha is made?” I ask and watch his index finger tap the steering wheel when he stops at a red light.
“I know it’s green, and you add milk to it, and it tastes like shit. But for you, I’ll learn.”
“You have to sift the matcha and then you need to get a bamboo whisk.” I can’t see his eyes because they are covered with his sunglasses, but I can bet they are crystal blue and are lit up with laughter. “Which has to be soaked into hot water before you use it.”
“Then use a wire whisk.” He speaks back at me, and I shake my head.
“It has to be bamboo.” He nods and starts moving the car when the light turns green.
“Noted. Siri,” he speaks to the car, “make a note to order a bamboo whisk.”
Siri answers not too long after. “I made a note to order a bamboo whisk. Would you like to set a reminder?”
“No,” he replies. “Go on, what’s next?”
“You have to sift the matcha in one of those little sifters,” I instruct him. “That way, you don’t have any clumps.”
“Heaven forbid the matcha has clumps. It must ruin the whole taste of it.” He laughs at his own joke. “Then what, you just pour in water?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Then you have to add a bit of water and whisk it until it gets foamy.”
“So it can shake out the taste of grass?” I laugh. “Got it.”
“Then you add some milk.” I skip a couple of steps, but he’s not ever going to make me this, so it’s moot.
“I think I can do that,” he says, pulling into the parking lot I arrived at a couple of days ago. “When we come back, you can come over to the house, and we can do it together.”
“I’m off on vacation after Vegas,” I remind him, “a big family vacation.”
“Oh, that’s right.” He gets out of the car, turning one last time before he shuts the door. “Caine is going also.”
Stepping out of the car, I look over the roof at him. “And you aren’t joining us?”
“I am not,” he states, popping the trunk open, “it’s a family trip.”
“But you came that one year,” I mention to him, and I’m about to grab the luggage when he hands me his own black leather backpack.
“Hold this.” He holds it out for me, and I grab it while he unloads my pink carry-on and his black steel one. “I did, but that was only because he just started dating Grace and he was afraid one of her relatives would try to shoot him.”
“If my cousin Matty didn’t get shot after dating Sofia and then dumping her, and then finding her again when she was going to plan his wedding to another woman.” I shrug. “I think he was safe.”
“Grace broke up with him and went back to the family farm and he had to chase her.”
I hiss, “With Casey there?” I mention her grandfather, who is very, very similar to my Uncle Matthew. Actually, if you put them together, I’m pretty sure they can take over the world. Casey would do it underground. Matthew would do it in your face while you’re watching your life implode, and he’ll do it with a smile as if you guys are having a beer together.
“On his horse and everything.” He shocks me. “Even I thought he would shoot me in the ass, and I wasn’t even the one who Grace was dating.” He slams the trunk closed before he extends his hand for his backpack. Handing it to him, I expect him to give me my luggage, but instead, he slides his backpack over his shoulder and then wheels both the suitcases side by side. “The plane is waiting.” It’s the only thing he says when I try to grab it from him.
I follow him through the gate toward the plane. The male flight attendant stands at the bottom of the stairs with another man, who is wearing shorts and a T-shirt. They smile at us when we arrive. “Good morning,” the flight attendant greets us with a huge smile. “I’m Gerald, and I’ll be your flight attendant this morning,” he says. “Robert will take your bags for you, and we will be off as soon as you are ready.”
I walk up the three steps to the plane, this one smaller than the one I flew here on. This one has just one seat side by side and a couch behind the one seat. “Left or right?” I ask over my shoulder.
“Whichever one you aren’t sitting in,” he replies. “Unless I sit down in the one you want and you sit on top of me.”
I roll my eyes but my head screams that sounds like a great plan . “Rule number, I don’t even remember which number it is, but I do know you are breaking it.”
“Things get boring when everyone plays by the rules,” he scoffs, taking off his sunglasses and folding them. He tucks them into the front of his polo shirt where the buttons are. “Don’t you think?”
“I’ve always played by the rules,” I retort, sitting in the chair on the left, “and I’ve been entertained most of the time.” I am lying through my teeth. I have never, ever gone out of my comfort zone. I have never bent the rules. If there were rules, they were there to make sure and protect everyone from travesty. The only time I’ve bent the rules and gone out of my comfort zone was when I accepted to come here and work with him, and now I'm sitting on a plane with him going to Vegas. I’ve done all of this because my so-called ex-boyfriend had trouble with committing to me, and I wanted him to take a stand. Which, after a week, he still has yet to take. Sure, he said he wanted to be committed, but did he show it? No. Did he do anything to prove it to me? Not one fucking thing. Not even a fucking fruit basket. He has only shown me that I did the right thing.
Nash sits in his chair, taking his phone out of his back pocket before handing his backpack to Gerald, who lets us know he will stow it until after takeoff. I hand him mine also as I buckle my belt.
It takes us no more than seven minutes for us to be airborne. Gerald has enough time to hand me my matcha latte and Nash a bottle of orange juice. “Do you drink coffee?”
“I do,” he says, taking a gulp of his orange juice, “in the morning, right before the gym.”
“You went to the gym?” I ask, almost shocked when he nods.
“I’m usually there at around four thirty. If I don’t, I’m usually on my treadmill at least.”
“Every day?” My mouth hangs open at this knowledge.
“Every day except on Sunday. I try to go easy on Sunday.”
“I mean, it’s the Lord’s day.” I can’t help but laugh at myself, making him laugh at me. The plane ride is so short I don’t even have a chance to get my bag back from Gerald and neither does Nash.
When we land, he hands us both our bags and our luggage is already waiting in the black sedan that has the words Bellagio across the back. “I thought the summit was at Caesars.”
“It is, which is why I’m not staying there. I never stay at the event space. It’s just too much.”
“Is it because if you bring a woman to your room, it’s harder to get rid of her?” I ask, and he chuckles but doesn’t deny it. “Such a guy.”
I get into the back seat, trying not to let the thought of him bringing a girl to his room bother me or the fact that maybe he might be doing this on this trip. “You okay?” he asks when he slides in beside me.
“Yes,” I lie to him, “just hungry.” Which is the furthest thing from the truth. I’m so sick to my stomach that eating will make me yack everywhere.
“We’ll go get a quick lunch before we have to check in at the summit,” he suggests, and I look out the window. Checking in to the hotel goes smoothly. We are both on the same floor, side by side. Great, I think , not only will I have to know if he’s with a girl in his room but I’ll also be able to hear it through the walls.
I stop at my door and see his door is literally right beside mine. “How long will you be?” he asks, and I look back at him. “Until you are ready for lunch.”
“I just have to fish out my purse, and I’ll be ready to go. Should I change? Are you changing?”
“I’m changing after lunch,” he tells me. I nod, scan the card, and hear the click of the lock. “Be out in a minute.” He walks into his room at the same time I walk into mine, and both doors close with a slam after us.
Luckily for me, lunch is interrupted by phone calls from Caine and a couple from his parents, all of whom are not coming to this summit but want to give their input. When we get back to our rooms, he looks over at me. “How long will it take you to change?”
“Ten minutes,” I reply, “maybe twelve if I have to iron my skirt.”
“Whoever is finished first knocks,” he says, “and then waits for them in the other room.”
I roll my eyes and push open the door, making sure I don’t dillydally, just to make sure when he knocks, I’m ready to go. I rush over to my bag, picking it up and tossing it on the bed. My outfit for today is on top as I bend to untie the ankle strap to my wedges before kicking them off. I grab the white linen, wide-legged pants, shaking them out and seeing they didn’t wrinkle, and then the silk top I folded in two also doesn’t look like it needs to be ironed. “Score,” I cheer to myself, going to the bathroom before undressing and then slipping into my outfit. The silk top has long sleeves and big cuffs at the wrists, with two sashes at the neck that tie into a bow before the cleavage starts. I tuck the shirt into the high-waisted linen pants, then turn to grab the shoes out of the other side of the carry-on. The strappy gold heels finish the look, and I’m grabbing my purse when there is a knock on the door. “I win,” he declares with glee in his voice, and his smile turns into a frown when I open the door and he sees me ready. “Fuck, it’s been seven minutes.”
“I got lucky, I guess.” I put my phone in my purse before walking out with him.
“It’s a seven-minute walk.” Nash looks at me and then my shoes. “Do we need to cab it?”
“For seven minutes?” I ask. “You know I live in New York, right? I could run in these shoes and only at the end of the night would I complain.”
“Good to know.” He winks at me, then looks back down at the shoes. “Those should be illegal at work.”
“Umm, your assistant was wearing almost the same thing yesterday,” I point out, and his eyebrows pinch together.
“Okay, I amend my statement. You shouldn’t be wearing those at the office.”
I scoff, walking side by side with him, trying to think of something to say, but all the words are jumbled in my head, along with whether he ever hooked up with his assistant. Do they have the friends-with-benefits deal? The real question is, why do I even fucking care?
I see what he’s talking about the minute we step into Caesars. He’s stopped about five times, and every time, he takes the opportunity to introduce me to whoever stopped him. I smile politely, shaking their hand and listening to their conversations.
Everyone is very respectful as we make our way over to the check-in desk, where they hand him a badge with his name on it and then mine with my name on it, Zoey Richards Cottrell Group.
“There might be something wrong with mine,” I tell him as we walk away, and he looks down to see. “What if they think I work for your firm and ask me banking advice?” He chuckles as he puts on his badge. “The only thing I know is you save your money.”
“Well, at least you’ve got that,” he teases as we make our way to one of the speaking events. “You’re already one foot in the door.”
“Nash, this could embarrass you and your group,” I whisper-yell at him.
“You know I own the group, right? Not one person is going to fire you.” He puts his hands in his pockets, and I notice you can see some of the outline from his chest tattoo through his shirt. “Zoey,” he says my name, “relax.”
“You telling me to relax doesn’t mean I actually relax.” I lean over and whisper in his ear without getting too close.
He puts his hand on the lower part of my back as he ushers me forward into a room where someone is speaking, so I shut up. The rest of the day is filled with speeches about what is new in banking. I literally have no idea at all what they’re saying. I try to keep up and take a couple of pictures of Nash with his clients who have come to meet him. They listen to everything he says, and he points out little things they haven’t even thought of.
The day flies by and into the night. Even the day after, it’s so much on the go I don’t see the hours go by, and finally, on the last night, I’m ready for the long vacation with my family. “Is the gala fancy?” I ask as we walk out of the hotel on the last day after the last speaker just finished presenting.
“Semi-fancy. I know lots of them are bringing their wives and stuff, so they might be dressed up,” he says, stopping when I stop.
“I need you to think back to last year and what people were wearing,” I ask him, and he shrugs. “Okay, what about the hottest girl there? What was she wearing?”
He laughs. “It was semi-formal,” he says. “Why?”
“I don’t have a semi-formal outfit,” I gasp.
“Then go get one,” he states, opening his front jacket pocket and pulling out his credit card. “Here, be ready at seven.”
“It’s four thirty,” I yelp. “And I don’t need your money.” I look around. “I’ll be ready at seven.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
“No, go and gamble,” I say. “Put twenty on red.”
“You lost four hundred dollars doing that,” he reminds me.
“My luck is about to change,” I tell him before I turn and rush into a couple of stores, settling on a strapless, tight-fitting white lace dress. The cutouts of the dress show the white slip under it, and I pick up a pair of crystal slingbacks to complete the look. I’m just putting the finishing touches on my lips when he knocks at the door. I pull it open before I tell him, “I’m almost done.” I turn before I see what he’s wearing, but when I look over my shoulder, I can see from his eyes that he likes my outfit.
“You can’t go like that.” He points at me, and I look down at my chosen dress.
“Why not?” I smooth down the front of the dress. “It’s so pretty.”
“It’s just too much.” I look down at myself as I pick up the little clutch purse that holds my phone and lip gloss. “Ugh, it’s going to be a long night.”
I watch him turn and walk to the door, noticing he’s wearing a black suit with a matching black shirt. “I need a drink,” I finally say, “since this is officially off the clock.”
He laughs as we walk toward the gala. “People are turning their heads looking at you.”
“They are not,” I mumble as we get to the reception, where I snag a glass of champagne and take a sip, the bubbles exploding on my tongue. “Refreshing.”
“Nash.” Our heads both turn when we hear his name and see a man approaching. “I was hoping to catch you here.” He extends his hand. “I loved your speech,” he says to him, and I smile at him proudly. Even though I didn’t know what he meant, his speech was fantastic.
“Thank you,” Nash says. “This is Zoey Richards.” He turns to me, introducing me.
“Your new lady,” he says, and I shake my head.
“Not his new lady. We work together.” I smile, wondering if he’s ever brought a woman to this event.
“That’s a shame,” the man says. “If I was younger…” I can’t help but laugh.
“You are too kind,” I say. “I’m sure you bat away the women with your charm.” I look at him and then at Nash, who looks at me with a smile.
“I wish,” he replies, looking at Nash. “You should fire this woman and then date her.”
“Now, that is a great idea!” he declares. The man smiles at me, giving me a wink, and walks away.
I wait for the man to leave and finish my glass before I get the nerve to ask him, “How many women have you brought to this event? Every single time we meet someone, they ask you if I’m the newer model.”
“One, they have not asked you that every single time.” He turns to look around. “And the answer to your question is not many.” He avoids looking at me. “Some I was dating at the time. Some I was testing the waters with.”
“So you’re a serial dater?” I laugh as a server walks around with another tray of champagne. I put my empty glass on it before taking a full one.
“Not really a serial dater.” He waits for the man to walk away before he speaks. “I just haven’t found the one who I want to spend more time with.” I stare into his eyes. “I need someone who will keep me on my toes. Someone beautiful and kind.” I take a sip of champagne, well, more like half the glass. “Someone who, I don’t know, drinks matcha.”
I about choke on my champagne when he says that before he takes me to our table for the meal. He pulls out the chair for me, and I sit down as he sits beside me. “Would you like white or red?” the server beside me asks.
“White, please,” I say to him and then look over at Nash, who shakes his head. “You aren’t a wine drinker?”
“I don’t mind wine. I’m just not feeling it,” he explains as I lift my glass of wine and take a sip.
“What do you feel like having?” The minute I ask the question, I hold up my hand. “Don’t answer that,” I say, taking another sip of wine.
He leans into me, and I swear I hold my breath when I smell him beside me and then feel his breath on my ear. “You ruin all the fun.” I turn my head, and we are so close to each other it’s making it hard to think.
Two things happen at the same time. Someone calls him away, and my purse buzzes in my lap. He pushes away from the table, walking over to the man. My phone buzzes a second time. I pull it out to see it’s from Josh.
Josh: I miss you.
Josh: When are you getting back? We need to talk.
I’m about to answer him when I see he commented on my Instagram post two hours ago when I took a picture of the fountains. I click on his picture and see he uploaded a story ten minutes ago, where he was in a club between two girls. “Asshole,” I mutter to myself and put my phone away. Yeah, he misses me, my ass. I finish the glass of champagne, turning and seeing Nash coming to me.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, and I just shake my head. “You went from happy to sad in the amount of time I left to say hello to a couple of people and come back.”
I think about lying to him and playing it off, but I’m annoyed and pissed. “Why can’t men who say they want to be in a committed relationship show they want a committed relationship instead of acting like he’s a single man?” I look at him.
“Did you not hear what I said before? I’m searching for that same thing.” He chuckles. “I’m also the last person you should ask that question to.” I take a deep inhale. “But I will say that if I perhaps had someone”—he smirks at me—“someone I’ve wanted for a really long time, there would be no question about how committed I would be.”
I listen to him say the words and feel the back of my neck burn before I laugh nervously, not sure what to say. “That would be one lucky girl.” The words are out of my mouth before I can even stop them. “We should do shots.”
He looks at me, his eyebrows going up. “This could be interesting.”
“We should take a shot every time someone says something about the girls you’ve dated. I’d be drunk for sure.” I laugh, my head feeling a little tipsy.
“What about you and the boyfriend?” he asks, and I reach for my wine. “Is the situation still the same?”
“Not my boyfriend,” I correct him before I take a sip of my wine, “per se. We are on a break.” I smile. “And not like a Rachel and Ross break, a real break.” I put my glass down. “Like you do your thing, let me do mine.”
He watches me, his eyes going dark. “We should take a shot every single time someone says equity.”
“Oh, good one.” I point at him. “Very, very good.” I clap my hands. “This is shaping up to be a really fun night.”
He tilts his head to the side, puts his hand on the back of my chair, and smirks. “The night’s just starting, Zoey.”