Chapter 18
What, No Snacks?
Ryder
Striding toward me, Evan Carver grinned like we were best buddies at a college reunion. Halfway to my chair, he called out, "Ryder Vaughn. Damn. I didn't expect to find you here."
Yeah. Me neither.
But here I was. And there he was, auditioning for jackass of the year.
What was that old saying?
Oh, right. Winner, winner, chicken dinner.
Because yeah – I was already handing him the trophy.
When he reached my side, I didn't bother getting up. "Evan."
He gestured to the empty seat across from me. "You mind?"
I smiled. "That depends. You bring any snacks?"
His eyebrows furrowed like he couldn't decide if I was joking or not. His gaze drifted to the bar as if searching for a bowl of nuts or the odd ham sandwich. Finally, he turned back with a smirk. "Funny."
"Yeah, so are you," I said with a pointed look at his shoes. "So, I'm guessing no snacks?"
Apparently not, because he plopped his ass down, anyway, as if I'd rolled out the welcome mat along with that ham sandwich he'd been missing. With a salesy smile, he said, "So, how's it hanging?"
Smooth, huh? The guy thought he was a swinging dick. Newsflash – he wasn't. But hey, I could swing with the best of them. "To the left, but thanks for asking."
His eyes tightened, but he coughed up a laugh. "Good to know."
What the fuck was that supposed to mean? Like, if I'd said it was hanging to the right, would've that been bad to know?
Eh, something to think about later.
I leaned back, making myself comfortable. "So what are you selling this time?"
Normally, I had more finesse.
But I'd spent the last couple of hours thinking about Tessa Sinclair paired up with the guy sitting across from me. I didn't know him well, and I knew her just barely. But I knew enough to realize something wasn't adding up.
Evan had a reputation – mostly for cutting corners and chasing skirts. For years, he'd been coasting on his daddy's name – an easy thing to do when you're handed the keys to the empire without paying your dues.
And now, he looked insulted. "What, can't a guy say hi?"
Yeah, right. "So, this is a social call?"
"Not just a social call." He spread out his hands. "But hey, if you wanna miss out…" He let the sentence hang, like the offer was so good I'd be stupid not to ask.
I just looked at him. No smile. No frown. No leaning forward to get the inside scoop.
The silence held until Evan did the leaning. His gaze locked on mine as he dropped his voice. "Let's just say… some people would kill for this opportunity."
Now that was funny. "Does it involve a doc-in-a-box?" I was referring, of course, to the chain of urgent care facilities that were the backbone of Carver Health.
He stiffened. "That's not the term we use."
"Yeah, well everyone else does." I laughed. "Why should you be special?"
His jaw flexed. "Because I'm the president."
No shit. It was written in gold ink on his business card. I knew this, because he handed them out like candy at Halloween. Over the past year, he'd given me three at least.
But the title meant nothing. Real decisions came from upstairs – aka, his dad. Evan's job was to smile for the cameras, cut a few ribbons, and distract everyone from the lawsuits piling up behind the scenes.
Yeah, I'd done my homework. Turns out, Carver Health was less "urgent care" and more "urgent cover-your-ass." Overpriced and understaffed, the company was run like a vending machine with a grudge.
Across from me, Evan was still waiting for me to jump up and applaud.
What a tool. By now, the title was old news and hardly worth the mention. And hey, if I hadn't applauded at the first business card, why would I applaud now?
I gave him a look. "President, huh?"
His chin lifted. "Got that right."
"You mean…" I pretended to think. "… of the United States?"
His mouth tightened. "No. Of Carver Health. Obviously."
"Too bad."
"And why's that?"
I smiled. "The Lincoln Bedroom."
He hesitated. "What?"
"I always wanted to stay there."
His left eye ticked, like he was counting to ten before popping. But then, he leaned closer, giving me a shark-like smile. "Fuck Lincoln. If the guy were here, he'd be begging for this opportunity."
I couldn't help myself. "Except he's dead."
"Yeah? Well he'd come back for this. We've got a big expansion coming. California, then Texas. Gimme five years, and we'll have centers in every state."
Sure, Buckaroo. "Then why do you need me?" As if I didn't know.
"Not you specifically." He leaned back, oozing false confidence. "But we're entertaining offers. That's all I'm saying."
"So, you're selling out?"
He looked offended by the mere suggestion. "No. We're partnering. Big difference." He held his arms out wide. "Sharing the profits."
I almost snorted. "And the liability."
And this, sports fans, was the reason he was looking for partners. From what I'd learned during the past few hours, the company was a dumpster fire waiting to happen. Hell, I could already smell the garbage smoldering underneath.
But here and now, Evan shrugged like it was no big deal. "Liability's part of the gig. You know that."
"Do I?"
"Hell yeah."
It was my turn to lean forward. "From what I hear, you've got more liability than most."
And of course, he played dumb. "What do you mean?"
"Oh, come on," I laughed. "You hired a PR firm to clean up the mess."
Something shifted behind his eyes, and he hesitated for a beat too long before asking with feigned confusion, "You mean…Thatcher-Hale?"
"That's the one."
He made a scoffing sound. "They're not a PR firm. They're a consulting group."
He could scoff all he wanted. It didn't change the facts.
I matched his scoff and added a smirk. "Same difference. And I heard how that went." Was I tweaking him? Hell yeah. But I wanted to see how tightly he was cranked.
Sure enough, that vein in his forehead started to throb. Still, he managed an easy smile as he said, "If you're talking about that pitch at the Halstead, that was nothing."
I gave him a dubious look. "Nothing, huh?"
He waved it off like a mosquito. "A joke for a day or two, that's it. And just so we're clear, we fired the firm that same day."
Yup, they had. And the firm had fired Tessa Sinclair. Or she had quit. The details on this remained murky.
But now, we were finally getting to the reason I was here. I leaned back in my seat to ask, "And how about that consultant?"
He frowned like it didn't ring a bell. "What consultant?"
I laughed. "The one who raided the booze."
"Oh, her?" He shrugged like public meltdowns happened every day. "What about her?"
"Is she still working your account?"
"Not even close. Like I said, we fired the agency." He clucked his tongue, all crocodile concern. "So unprofessional."
So far, he'd told me nothing I didn't already know. But then, just as I was starting to wonder if I was wasting my time, he glanced around before leaning in tighter than before. "But listen…just between us?" He paused for effect. "She tried to sleep her way into a promotion."
Bullshit. My jaw didn't twitch, but it wanted to. I didn't know Tessa well, but I knew her type. And more to the point, I knew the type she wasn't. If she were willing to sleep around to make it big, she sure as hell wouldn't be slinging coffee at a small-time java joint.
Asshole.
Not her. Him.
Casually, I said, "Oh, yeah?"
Evan nodded. "Yeah, the guy was pretty shook up, if you want the truth."
I laughed in his face. "Poor guy. Must've been terrifying." I lowered my voice. "Was it you?"
This made him sputter. "What? Me?" He gave a hard scoff. "Hell, no."
"You sure?" I said. "I mean, the two of you dated, right?"
"Me? With that trainwreck? No fucking way." He cleared his throat. "She's not even my type."
More bullshit. Whether they'd been dating or not, that last claim was too ridiculous to be believed. Tessa Sinclair was everyone's type.
Plus I'd seen that other blonde on Evan's arm. From a distance, she could've been Tessa's twin.
I only grinned. "Right."
"She isn't," he insisted. "And why do you care, anyway?"
I shrugged. "Who says I do?"
His lips thinned. "I'm just saying…she's not worth the mention."
And yet, he'd been mentioning her all over town.
By now, the pile of bullshit was so high, his butterscotch shoes were probably screaming in terror.
If Tessa wasn't worth the mention, why was he looking for her?
And why did his story vary from person-to-person? After all, he'd told Jamison this was about missing files, not some poor executive who'd been harassed by a pretty blonde.
I took a leisurely sip of my drink. "Then why'd you bring her up?"
He hadn't.
I had.
But tomorrow, my version would be the one he remembered. The guy wasn't half as smart as he thought he was.
He faltered, then regrouped. "You're right. Let's drop it." He smiled. "She's old news, anyway."
Not to me. Still, I smiled back. "Consider it dropped."
"So…enough foreplay." He licked his lips and gave me a look so hungry, I felt like the last porkchop at a picnic. "About the investment. You interested?"
I only laughed.
He didn't. "I've got a one-pager that'll get you up to speed."
"Nah, keep it."
He eyed me like I was nuts. "Why?"
"Because healthcare's not my thing."
"But it could be."
"Except it won't be."
"But—"
I cut him off. "Too risky." Now, I was the one slinging bullshit. I was fine with risk, but not with Evan Carver, and not with the kind of rumors I'd been hearing about his company – or should I say Daddy's company?
The rumors ran the full gamut – overbilling, underreporting, and even a needle left in someone's ass-cheek.
The dumpster wasn't only on fire. It was soaked in nitrate and ready to blow.
Evan's shoulders sagged, but then he quickly recovered. "Ah, well. I figured I'd give you the chance."
"Hey, don't look so glum," I said. "You had to know I was a longshot."
"I'm not glum. I just feel bad for you, that's all. Trust me, you're gonna regret it."
I reached out and gave him a biz-bro slap on the shoulder. "You know what you need?"
"What?"
"A nice glass of Aristotle."
He blinked. "What?"
"The wine," I said. "Rare vintage. More purple than red."
He hesitated. "Purple?"
I chuckled like I knew something he didn't. "Yeah, you've never had it?"
"Oh, that?" He paused. "Yeah. I've had it." He made a so-so gesture. "It's alright. But honestly, I've had better."
I toasted him with my now-empty glass. What a douche.
Thirty seconds later, he was gone, strolling back to his throne after handing me business-card-number-four. He'd even scribbled something on the back while shoveling more bullshit about me missing out.
I wasn't missing anything.
But I was curious, now more than ever. And later that night, when I should've been sleeping easy in my own bed, I was wide awake, making plans to return to the island I'd just left.
It wasn't personal.
It was smart.
I was doing double-duty, checking on my investment and my friend. But let's be honest here. It was a third thing that had me returning sooner than I'd planned.
No. Not a thing.
A person.
A certain barista whose story I wanted to hear.
Why, I didn't quite know. But my hunches had never steered me wrong.
And Tessa Sinclair?
I had a hunch she mattered.
I didn't know why. But I would be finding out.