Chapter 2 Nico
Nico
Iwatch her disappear from the room, and tell myself that’s the end of it.
The smart play is obvious. Let her go. Forget the whole thing happened.
Except I can’t.
I stand there in the private lounge with my whiskey getting warm and my brain replaying every detail.
The way she barged in looking for a bathroom and ended up triggering my security system.
The complete lack of recognition when I introduced myself.
The fucking audacity of insulting my gala, calling it, and I quote, “corporate savior cosplay.”
I should be offended.
I’m not.
I’m interested, which is infinitely more dangerous.
Callahan appears in the doorway again. “Everything all right, sir?”
“Fine.” I drain the rest of my whiskey. “Just heading back out.”
He doesn’t believe that I’m fine. I can tell by the way he doesn’t quite hide his smirk as he steps aside to let me pass.
The gala will be winding down soon. The crowd has already thinned to the diehards and the truly desperate networkers.
As soon as I step back into the main event space, the familiar pattern begins.
People notice.
People move.
It’s not respect. It’s recognition. Calculation.
Elspeth appears out of nowhere, touching my arm with the kind of casual familiarity that comes from working together four years.
She’s holding court with two men in tuxedos, probably securing another round of investors for the Q4 expansion.
She nods, obviously wanting to draw me into the conversation with the men.
But I simply return her nod and keep moving.
I’m not looking for anyone in particular.
Except I absolutely am.
I find her at the bar. Bree, flushed and slightly disheveled, with her lipstick smudged. She’s holding a glass of champagne, and standing next to a woman in a bright yellow dress who’s gesturing wildly while talking, but Bree hardly seems to be listening.
She’s looking right at me.
I should leave her alone. Let her enjoy the rest of her night. Should turn around and go back to my private lounge.
The friend checks her phone and makes a face. Probably realizing how late it’s gotten. Bree nods, finally breaking eye-contact, and says something I can’t hear from this distance. She finishes her champagne and sets the empty glass down on the counter. They both start moving toward the coat check.
This is where I demonstrate the self-control that’s gotten me through a decade of hostile negotiations and corporate warfare.
This is where I walk away.
My feet carry me toward the coat check instead.
Callahan materializes beside me without being summoned. “Sir?”
“Tell Indira we may have passengers,” I say. She’s my driver.
Callahan nods. “Yes, sir.”
He ducks out of sight.
I reach the coat check just as Bree’s retrieving a jacket that’s seen better days. Not shabby, exactly, but the contrast with the dress is stark.
“Let me give you a ride,” I tell her.
She spins around, and when sees that it’s me, she looks up at my face and her eyes go wide. “What?”
“It’s late... in Tribeca.” I gesture vaguely at the world outside. “Let me give you a ride home.”
The friend looks between us, clearly trying to figure out what she missed. “Do you two know each other?”
“We met earlier,” Bree says quickly. Too quickly. “In the bathroom. I mean... near the bathroom! It’s complicated! Anyway, Nico, this is Sora. Sora, Nico.”
“Nice to meet you,” the friend squeals.
Sora extends a hand, the wrist angled downward in that particular way that suggests she’s either expecting me to kiss it or she’s confused about how handshakes work.
I take her hand in a normal handshake, because I don’t do the whole knuckle-kissing thing.
Then I return my attention to Bree. “My car’s outside. Where are you headed?”
“Park Slope,” Sora volunteers immediately. Then she looks at Bree. “And she’s in Astoria!”
Bree shoots her friend a sharp look. “I can just take the train.”
“At eleven?” I try to keep my tone casual. “That’s a long trip. And hardly the safest.”
She raises her chin. “I’m a big girl. I can handle the subway.”
“I’m sure you can.” I meet her eyes. “But you don’t have to.”
The moment stretches. She’s assessing me, trying to figure out my angle. But there’s something else in her expression.
Interest.
“Okay,” she says finally. “But just to be clear, I have pepper spray and a very loud scream.”
“We both do,” Sora agrees.
I nod. “Noted.”
Sora grins. “This is either the best or worst decision we’ve ever made!” I could swear Bree’s friend is almost ready to jump up and down.
The Mercedes is waiting out front with Indira standing next to it on the curb.
Bree stops when she sees it. “That’s your car?”
“That’s my car,” I agree casually.
“Jesus Christ,” Sora says. “What do you do? Run a hedge fund?”
“Something less morally bankrupt.” I open the door before Indira can. “After you.”
Sora climbs in first, then Bree, moving carefully in her dress. I slide in beside her. Indira shuts the door behind me.
I smell the faint trace of that vanilla jasmine perfume that’s been driving me crazy all night.
Bree.
Callahan takes the front passenger seat. Indira gets behind the wheel.
“Park Slope first,” I tell her. “Then Astoria.”
“Who are they?” Sora asks.
“Indira, my driver,” I reply. “And Callahan, my head of security.”
Indira raises the privacy screen without being asked, because she’s a professional and also probably finds this entire situation hilarious, judging from the barely suppressed grin.
When the screen is up, Sora immediately launches into questions. She leans past Bree and says, “So what do you do, Nico?”
And there it is. The question I’ve been dreading since I offered them a ride. Because there’s no good answer here. If I’m vague, I look like I’m hiding something. If I’m specific, I become “the billionaire” and suddenly everything changes.
Then again, it’s probably already obvious I have money, given the car. My security. My driver.
“Biotech.” I keep my tone flat. Uninviting. Maybe she’ll take the hint and move on.
She doesn’t.
“Like drug dealer, or something?” She’s half joking, half serious, and I can’t tell which part is winning.
Bree makes a strangled noise beside me that might be horror or suppressed laughter.
“Like medical devices,” I say. Technically true.
“Oh cool!” Sora says. “My cousin works in medical device sales. Maybe you know a Brad Henderson?”
Of course I don’t know Brad Henderson. I employ three hundred people and contract with dozens of hospitals and clinics. The chances of me personally knowing some random sales guy in the broader industry are roughly equivalent to zero.
But I can’t say that without sounding like an asshole.
So I just say “No” and pray she drops it.
“But you’re rich, obviously,” Sora replies, still cheerfully destroying any hope of a normal conversation. “Like, rich enough to afford bodyguards and a driver!” She giggles at that like it’s the funniest thing in the world.
I force a smile and agree, “Rich enough.”
Bree makes a small noise that might be agreement or might be a strangled cry for help.
Finally we drop Sora off in Park Slope outside a brownstone that’s probably been subdivided. She gives Bree a long, meaningful look before getting out.
“Text me when you get home,” she says. Then, quieter but not quiet enough, “He’s either a serial killer or a billionaire! Not sure which is worse.”
The door closes.
We’re alone.
The silence stretches. Bree’s staring out the window at the Brooklyn streets.
“Your friend seems nice,” I say.
“She has no filter.” Bree glances at me. “Serial killer seems harsh though.”
“To be fair,” I reply. “I’m the one who let a complete stranger into my car. So which one of us has worse survival instincts now?”
“Touché,” she replies. “But seriously, you’re the one with a bodyguard, remember?”
I nod.
“Speaking of which,” she continues. “Do you always travel with an entourage, or is tonight special?”
“Security comes with the territory.” I lean back against the seat. “When you become successful enough, you start making enemies.”
“Enemies?” She tilts her head. “What kind of biotech work makes enemies?”
“The profitable kind,” I quip.
She laughs. It’s real, not the polite titter women use at galas when wealthy men like me make bad jokes. “That’s so... vague.”
“I contain multitudes,” I reply.
“Of vagueness?”
“Of mystery.” I’m grinning now, which is not something I do often. “Keeps things interesting.”
“Interesting,” she repeats, like she’s testing the word. “Is that what we’re calling this?”
“What would you call it?” I counter.
She considers this, staring out at the Brooklyn streets sliding past. We’re crossing the bridge now, and Manhattan’s lights are reflected on East River. “Statistically improbable?”
I give her an uncertain expression. “How so?”
“Well, let’s see.” She starts counting on her fingers.
“I wander into the wrong room looking for a bathroom. Meet a stranger. Trigger his security system. Get rescued by said stranger’s actual security team.
And now I’m in his mysteriously fancy car being driven home by mysterious professionals while he sits here making terrible jokes about containing multitudes. ”
I shake my head. “That was a good joke.”
“It was a Walt Whitman reference. That’s not the same thing as a good joke.”
“You recognized the reference. That makes you either well-read or a former English major.”
“Communications, actually. But I did minor in destroying my own professional prospects.”
There’s an edge to her voice when she says it. Something raw underneath the humor.
I should probably leave it alone. But I find myself asking anyway. “How so?”
“Let’s just say, I trusted the wrong people and spend two years paying for it.” She shakes her head. “But that’s a terrible second-date story, let alone a first-car-ride story.”
“Second date?” I raise an eyebrow. “Presumptuous.”