Chapter 13
Artemis
Fourteen days since The Brunch Incident—yes, I’m counting—when Xavier and I consumed substantially more food than is acceptable for two people—even athletic people—then hung out with my siblings for a while before Xavier pecked me on the cheek and drove back to Wisconsin.
Between school, and hockey, running the aviation company and taking over Alonso’s as well, I haven’t had much time to breathe, or think, much less try to plan a real date with Xavier.
It all feels like a nebulous mess right now. Designing, engineering, and building the aircraft other men like my father only know how to charter. Papá never got himself bogged down in the details, but I want to run both companies differently. Better.
While I built the acquisition strategy in the dark, the reality is now a landscape of factories and fuel contracts that require constant, physical oversight.
Thousands of employees answer to my board, teams of engineers, legal advisors, acquisition strategists, financial analysts.
Claudia isn’t my only staff—she’s the one I allow close.
My leg hasn’t stopped bouncing under the table. The sugar packets beside my coffee are lined up in a perfect row—something I only do when my thoughts are chaos.
I want to date him. Xavier’s words made my stomach drop and have echoed in my mind all day, every day, since that morning over eggs with my brothers.
In that moment, I wanted to date him, too, and I hated myself for it. But the more time that passes, the quieter his words get, and the more reality shouts louder. He’s the only thing that’s made my pulse race in longer than I care to think about.
I take a sip of my too-hot coffee and hiss at the scalding pain that sears my tongue.
Shit.
I’d burn my tongue a million times to taste him again. Ugh. I’m a walking contradiction with a death grip on denial. I don’t have space in my skull for this crush or this takeover, and both keep clawing for attention.
Megan, the owner of Get the Fork Out, our local—and hidden behind a secret door in a laundromat—boutique pie shop gives me a strange look as though I’ve made an out-loud noise. I give her my best “I’m not losing my grip on reality,” smile and turn my attention back to the task at hand.
Staring at the real-time feed from the assembly line in Des Moines, where a delay in supplier parts is costing me fifty thousand dollars an hour.
We’re close to having all our ducks in a row to pull the rug out from under Alonso and taking his company along with it, but I’m still having a few issues. Xavier was helpful with my A/B choices a couple weeks ago, but I’m not sure how good he’d be at helping me find staff to fill roles.
A slice of pie appears on the table in front of me along with a dessert fork. When I look up, Megan’s sympathetic gaze meets mine. “You look like you need it.” She gives me a small smile.
“That obvious?”
She nods. “You’ve been scowling over here in the corner for an hour. And.” She cocks a shoulder. “You’d normally be on your second slice by now, and you haven’t even ordered your first.”
She gives my shoulder a squeeze before heading back to the counter.
Saving this place from being levelled and turned into condos was the best thing my brothers and I ever did.
A condition of the sale was that Megan was never to know what ‘angel’ saved her business, but she always has a look in her eyes when she talks to Ares, Apollo, and me that suggests she knows.
And she never charges us for pie. We always get her back on tips though.
I take a mouthful of today’s special, a classic apple pie, grateful she sidestepped giving me a slice of the matcha and lavender that might make me puke. I might try to put cleaner stuff in my body, but matcha comes straight from the devil. And tofu. Even the thought makes me gag.
Been putting less and less healthy stuff in my body lately, but no amount of filling myself with sugar seems to curb my cravings.
I take a huge, slow bite of my pie chewing a few times before my tastebuds kick in and slap me with the reminder that there’s cinnamon in this fucking pie.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and again while I’m taking it out.
Apollo: You can run, but you can’t hide.
Abuelita: Mijo, you came into work while I was off? Are you avoiding me like you’re avoiding your siblings?
Apollo: Still deliberating over staffing when you know you should just pick up the phone and call our brothers?
Apollo: Don’t make me turn up on your doorstep.
Guilt flares, quick and unwelcome, but I bat it down. If I let them in right now, I’ll crack open like an overripe peach.
I’m not going to be able to hide for long, but I need space, just long enough to get my head back on straight, to iron out some kinks at the office, and smooth out the rippling undercurrent under my skin.
He’s not wrong, our three half-brothers, Thiago, Mathias, and Alejandro are all more than qualified for different roles I need to fill, and they’d all more than likely love to stick it to our sperm donor. Sure, they’re a little young, but nothing a couple years in the role wouldn’t fix.
But something in my chest stops me from making the call.
Not something, someone, Mamá. As much as she’s come around a bit to the fact we have siblings she didn’t birth, they’re not her favorite topic.
Despite the fact my siblings and I have hung out with them on occasion, Mamá is proving harder to win over.
I don’t blame her. A constant, living, breathing reminder that her husband cheated on her with numerous women must be a hard pill to swallow. But she’s coming around in her own time.
Abuelita: Come see me, Mijo. I hear you have a new beau in your life.
She’s sent a string of emojis from the fire emoji, to the water emoji after an eggplant. She’s a force to be reckoned with, but I leave her on read for now.
Heat crawls up my neck. Of course she knows. Everyone knows. I’m the only idiot pretending this isn’t spiraling
By the time I’ve finished my slice of pie, I’ve decided to have a discussion with Mamá about the boys, and that I’m going to poke the bear and send Xavier some pie. If I’m going to be driven to distraction by fucking cinnamon, it’s only fair that he is too. Right?
It’s punishment pie.
It’s stupid and reckless and indulgent—exactly the kind of thing I shouldn’t be doing. But I do it anyway.
“Megan?”
She’s by my side in an instant, in spite of the fact the small space is full of patrons. “Another slice?”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “No, but could I send a pie to Wisconsin please?”
She nods. “Give me a sec, and I’ll take the details.”
Ten minutes—and a few broken privacy laws and called in favors to find Xavier’s address—later and a GTFO apple pie has been ordered and will be with him in the next forty-eight hours.
What could possibly go wrong?
One more hour, that’s how long I’m going to give myself before I head home for a cold shower, a date with my hand, and leftovers from the fridge.
But the more I stare at the paperwork in front of me, the more the documents blur. My eyes keep stuttering over the same paragraph. My fingers won’t stop tapping the pen. The models don’t make sense. The numbers won’t add up.
And every time I close my eyes, I see Xavier’s lips saying “date him.”
My phone rings. It’s Apollo. Irritation needles at me like nails down a chalkboard. “What?”
“Hola to you too, Hermano.”
“I don’t have time for chit-chat, Pollo. What do you need?”
“Nothing when you’re like this.” The line goes dead, and I don’t even feel guilty for being a dick. I need time by myself.
I give up on work, and try schoolwork, with similar results, so I go for a brutal workout to punish the feeling off myself. Pain is clean. Wanting him isn’t. It’s been two weeks. How can someone still impact me like this from hundreds of miles away and after fourteen days?
When I’m finally relaxed enough to slide between my Egyptian cotton sheets, my phone buzzes again.
Apollo: Let me know if you need to talk. I’m worried about you.
Goal Daddy: Wanna hook up?
Every piece of me wants to hop in the car and drive to Wisconsin through the night to say yes. My keys are already in my hand before I realize it. But responsibility, the burden of command, the reminder of all the things I want to be and do with my life weigh heavily.
Artemis: No can do.
I don’t hit send. I delete it.
Artemis: We should stop.
Delete that too.
Artemis: Busy.
It’s not a lie, but it feels hollow.
The response is instantaneous.
Goal Daddy: All work and no play, makes the dark destroyer a dull dude, Honey Bun…
Once again, I find myself with a thumb itching to throw caution to the wind and jump into the fire with this man. Instead, I flip the phone face-down, like that could smother the part of me begging to say yes.