Chapter 9
California
“I have seen the full spectrum of human morality today. I earned a drink,” I said to Gemma as I dropped onto the barstool in front of her with a dramatic sigh.
Gemma arched a brow, already reaching for a rocks glass from the rustic shelves behind her. “Long day in the temple of capitalism?”
I shoved my iPhone down the bar as far away from myself as my arm could stretch.
Me and that phone are on a break.
“Simon double-booked his meetings somehow, so I had to smooth that out by attempting to be in two places at once. James tried to take credit for a pitch deck I built. If I have to explain exponential growth curves to one more man who thinks he invented math, I’ll commit a felony.”
Gemma smirked as she poured me a vodka soda. “So…same as yesterday?”
A few times a week, I would finish out my workday on a barstool at Greenleaf and we’d trade war wounds.
She saw Hollywood actors crying into their martinis and venture capitalists forgetting their wives’ names while I got a front-row seat for what happened when those same people tried to run companies.
Sometimes, I’d let her pour me a drink while I answered emails, but most of the time, I came for the noise. The crowd humming with real-life conversation instead of profit and loss assessments. I liked the way the chaos felt like being back in New Orleans, familiar and steadying.
Tonight, though, I was so tired I couldn’t bring myself to open my laptop.
“Distract me,” I pleaded. “How was the rugby club? Please tell me everything about your scrum-loving, oak tree of a future husband.”
Gemma’s love life was so known for its misfires and crash-outs even she found amusement in the casualties.
“Ick.” She recoiled at the memory. “It was a bust. I met this guy named Sebastian, and he spent the entire night talking to himself in the reflection behind my head. It was like performance art. But fear not…” She steepled her fingers.
“I have something better than that. Remember last week when you were trying to run down Beau Walker’s whereabouts? ”
She nodded toward the door, and as if on cue, a dozen guys poured in. Their type was instantly recognizable. Their wardrobes looked effortless—but that was part of the charade.
God forbid they be perceived as interested in something as superficial as clothes when they are busy running the world.
Every piece signaled stealth wealth. Their cashmere hoodies, thousand-dollar plain T-shirts, and designer sneakers that screamed “limited run” had all been curated by bougie stylists.
“That is the leadership team for InfoSynth,” Gemma said under her breath.
“The whole pack of them is scary smart. Did you hear that last week their camp leaked news that they’re in the final stretch of a sale?
” She scanned the raucous crowd. “The net worth of this room just went up by several billion dollars.”
They’re here and they’re shopping around a sale. Simon’s going to be thrilled.
A leak like that wasn’t idle gossip. It was a prod. InfoSynth hinting at a deal could only mean one thing: The holdout of the decade was finally ready to cash in, and best and final offers were due.
I looked across the bar and instantly locked eyes with someone.
Brown hair and a lopsided grin. He was standing in the center of the soon-to-be-moneyed tech bros pack.
They were laughing too loud at his jokes, but he didn’t seem to notice them.
He looked right at me as he lifted his glass in salute, a silent hello from the loudest energy in the room.
He was handsome, and there was an edge of power in his presence—something about the way his clothes fit or the way he seemed so unbothered by the scene around him. While I was playing at control, he had harnessed it.
Beau Walker. In the flesh.
“Holy shit. How did you get them here?” I look back at her.
“I met a bunch of them when I was freelancing behind the bar of InfoSynth’s Christmas party last year. You said you were looking for him and I heard their event person was sniffing around for a place to host a happy hour. I made a few calls, offered them our patio, et voilà.” Her eyebrows wagged.
This was how she slipped past my defenses.
Once, she tipped me off that a competitor of Simon’s was meeting here to discuss a merger.
When I delivered the news to Simon, he squashed the merger by buying up half the tech on offer in a competing bid.
He told me I had killer instincts. Then, he took me home and kissed me like I had won a war.
And I paid Gemma back by giving her Simon’s suite at a Lakers game.
If this deal goes the way Simon hopes it will, Gemma’s getting season tickets.
“Want me to call him over?” she offered.
I looked back in Beau’s direction. He wore jeans and a vintage George Clinton Atomic Dog T-shirt—an outfit that I found vaguely irksome, though I couldn’t decide why.
Maybe it was the obscurity of the musical reference.
Or maybe it was that, dressed as he was, it was hard to know if he was coming from the office or some ocean-side ayahuasca retreat.
Still, he looked good, if a little bit rugged.
But I’m in a situationship with my boss, so I can only admire him from afar.
“You’ve got a little drool. Just there,” Gemma teased, reaching for my cheek.
I batted her hand away. “Shouldn’t he be kayaking in the Baltic Sea or hanging off the side of some glacier on an Alaskan ice-climbing trip?”
The intrepid, modern-day innovator. It’s all so Bruce Wayne–coded I could puke.
“Feel free to thank me at any point,” Gemma persisted. “I mean. One thing could lead to another.”
I wagged a finger. “No. One thing will not lead to another. You said yourself he’s on the verge of being a gazillionaire—the toast of the town. He’s about to be covered in ‘pick me girl’ pheromones. I don’t need to be lumped in with that. I need him to agree to meet with Simon.”
“Oh, come on. This is a work thing?” Gemma frowned. “I thought you wanted to be fixed up. You’ve been on the bench for, like, a year. What is that?”
“I’m not benched. I’m busy,” I said with a roll of my eyes.
Busy, and moving in stealth mode.
I went on, “Maybe when I’m a successful executive there will be time, but I’m in a very committed relationship with PowerPoint at the moment.”
“Gemma, right?” I heard a warm, masculine voice say. “Am I interrupting if I come over to say hi?” Beau was suddenly standing beside Gemma with that boyish smile.
“You’re not interrupting, Beau.” Gemma gave me a side glance, like she couldn’t believe our luck. “This is my friend Este.”
“Charmed.” He nodded in my direction, and the energy I’d felt from across the room was more formidable up close than I had expected. With the slightest gesture, he could have commanded the attention of the entire bar. And the most dangerous part was how much I wanted to see him do it.
It wasn’t fair. Power like that and such a magnetic smile.
“How’ve you been?” Gemma gushed. “Nice shirt, by the way. I’m such a big fan of George Clinton.”
“Really?” Beau looked surprised
“No.” She laughed impishly. “I am pop music to my very core.”
“What about you, Este?” Beau looked at me again, and the spark in his eyes felt somehow both dangerous and familiar.
I searched for a witty comeback but decided on the truth instead.
“I don’t know a lot of George Clinton. My musical library was…
limited when I was a kid, so I’m still getting caught up.
My parents only let me listen to Public Enemy because Chuck D credited Noam Chomsky for ‘Don’t believe the hype. ’ ”
When I’d moved in with Delia, she’d blasted jazz standards through the house—like she was trying to reprogram my childhood with Ella Fitzgerald. It kind of worked.
Beau blinked, as if somehow he was expecting me to say anything but that. “Honestly? Strong start.”
“Tell that to eleven-year-old Este. She had to write a report on the premise of a Faustian bargain before she could watch The Little Mermaid.”
Beau laughed. Not politely, but full out. And the sound was so rich, something inside me loosened, then tightened all at once. Against my better judgment, I reached for my drink and took a sip.
“Faustian bargain?” he repeated, and I waited for him to stumble, to prove his intelligence was the myopic type—useful only for conquering the tech industry.
But instead, he squinted, like he was trying to visualize some textbook.
“What was your thesis? Did she make the wrong trade? Or ask for the wrong thing?”
Oh. Oh, no. He’s successful, handsome, and smart?
And though my logical brain knew he couldn’t be the guy for me—because there was no guy for me, only Simon and PowerPoint—my body hadn’t gotten the memo.
There was something about Beau—something chemical—that made my pulse kick up and my breath feel uneven.
“She blew it,” I said, trying to sound unaffected. “She should have asked for equity. Stock options. Something with appreciating value.”
“You’re funny,” he said, apparently unshaken by the spark of energy that was flattening me.
I can’t be doing this. I can’t be flirting with Beau Walker.
I knew Gemma could feel the buzzy flirtation in the air, too, because she winked at me and took a step back, like she was about to make herself scarce.
“Anyway, I hope I’m not bothering you,” Beau said.
But I was bothered—by the sharp cut of his jaw, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. As he stood there, I wondered what it would feel like to reach out and smooth the soft wrinkle with my thumb.
This is a horror show. I can’t be here.
“I have to go,” I said, almost to myself. And then, “Yep. I’m leaving. I have work to do.”
Beau’s smile faltered.
“You’re leaving? Now?” Gemma’s eyes bounced between Beau and me, scrambling for a reason to get me to stay as I reached for my purse and hopped down from my stool. “Didn’t you have something you wanted to ask Beau?” she called, but I had made it halfway to the door.
Fuck. The whole reason I’ve been trying to reach him. The career-changing thing that evaporated from my mind under the heated stare of Beau Walker.
I stopped to dig a business card out of my bag and doubled back to where Beau was standing. “We should talk,” I said with an outstretched hand. “I heard InfoSynth is looking for a buyer. And I think I have the right opportunity.”
Beau took the card, looking down at the lettering before turning his attention back to me. “Redwood?”
My throat felt dry, but I smoothed my skirt and pressed on. “We’re very interested in what you’ve developed. Could be a great opportunity to scale.”
“I’ll call you,” he said.
And then I practically ran for the door.
But when I made it out to the street, I allowed myself one parting look over my shoulder.
I could say I was trying to make sure Gemma didn’t think me ungrateful for the opportunity, but the uncomfortable truth was I couldn’t resist one more hit of Beau’s easy smile.
Our eyes met. He winked. Fucking winked. Effortless. Certain. Like he already knew I wanted to turn around.
I panicked.
That guy’s a poison pill. He could blow up my entire life if he got too close.
To this day, Beau loves to tell the story of the night he first saw me. He remembers it all. The vintage Chanel shift dress I was wearing. The low ponytail. And the way I looked back—my gaze holding for a beat too long—before I disappeared around the corner.
I might have looked sure of myself when I handed him my business card, but as I waited at the valet station on the other side of the building for my car, I couldn’t shake the flush of red in my cheeks.
I shivered a little in the night breeze as the valet pulled up with my car. But when my phone buzzed in my bag with an incoming text from Simon, I reached for it with shaky hands.
Get it together, Este. Jesus.
I dropped into the car, telling myself I needed a reset. Something to draw a line between the way Beau had just made me feel and my real life, and I knew exactly where to find it.
“Hey,” Simon greeted me at the door of his Bel Air estate. He was wearing dress pants, but his white button-down shirt was partially unbuttoned. He smelled good and his arms felt warm around me.
But as I leaned in for a kiss, my hands moved on impulse, trailing my thumb over to the space between his hairline and the corner of his eye.
Only I knew the touch was betrayal in its quietest form. Because as my thumb brushed Simon’s skin, I wasn’t thinking of Simon at all. I was picturing Beau and that crinkle by his eye when he smiled.