Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Chase
It’s been a couple of decades since I felt this need to not be seen by a single soul. I don’t want to be witnessed, I don’t want to have to talk to anyone, and I don’t want to put on pants.
Childish?
Sure, some would say it is, but I think it’s mature to know my needs and limits.
And when I woke up today with the awful realization that what happened in the elevator last night wasn’t a nightmare, I knew what needed to be done.
I texted my housekeeper, my gardener, my driver, and Elsa, so none of them would come by, and since today is the first day in weeks that I don’t have at least five meetings, I also told Elsa I’m not going to the office.
If anything comes up, I can do a virtual meeting with the video turned off.
Unprofessional?
Maybe, but it’s a one time thing, so everyone will have to deal.
Because I have to sit with the memory of Noah pulling away. I’m the one who knows that eventually I’m going to find an answer to all the questions regarding the damn autobiography and will have to face him, ask him for help.
I put him in an impossible situation, and that’s the worst of it all. I’m the one who’s supposed to know better, aren’t I? Older, more experienced in life, yes, but also in business.
Trying to kiss someone you want to do business with is just stupid, and I’m not stupid. I pride myself on my restraint, normally. I enjoy having control of the situation. I’m good at it.
So why is it that with Noah nothing ever goes as planned?
I’m never sharp around him. More than anything, I must seem like a mumbling mess to him.
I push it away after making myself a sad breakfast and get to work on answering a few emails, touching base with our PR department especially to make sure the situations that came up last week are being handled.
Then I decide to get away from my computer and print half a dozen proposals.
People send us offers all the time, wanting us to invest in their start-ups. Ninety percent of the time we send our regrets and move on.
Five percent, I put them in contact with other private investors or VCs.
I work with the rest, or at least approach them to begin negotiating terms. Sometimes it doesn’t go beyond that, but at least I try.
My main passion is finding diamonds in the rough and polishing them until they’re so bright no one can ignore them.
There are few things more satisfying than turning a company around and having it be successful.
The best scenario imaginable for me is a company finding so much success that they stop needing Knight-In.
It’s only happened a handful of times, but that’s still the goal.
But another option that’s also extremely satisfying, and the ones that are always easiest to negotiate, are those companies that have found success all on their own, with their founders working tirelessly to make their passions work.
When those companies come to me, they need capital to push production into the next step, and that means Knight-In doesn’t need to do much for them.
They’ve found their recipe for success, and I’m just a happy observer who reaps some rewards.
In the stack there are three makeup start-ups, and though I do read through them, there’s nothing that jumps out at me as innovative and useful in them—innovation for the sake of innovation isn’t always a good thing—so I discard them and write the emails down on a note so Elsa can send the rejections.
The other three are more varied, a new type of phone case, a valve for home hoses, and a new fabric—patented, which intrigues me—for life rafts and life vests.
I get lost in that proposal, reread it three times before going to my computer to do some rudimentary research.
Midday arrives with a call from Elsa.
We talk through the proposals and then she clues me in to the time of day.
“Would you like me to send lunch to your house?”
I straighten and look at the grandfather clock in the corner of the office, honestly surprised it’s so late already.
“Yes, please.”
I get lost in the SaFab proposal—a name I’m not sold on, but it’s not awful—and again startle in surprise when the doorbell rings.
I take my phone with me to the kitchen, where I eat right from the takeout boxes by the counter, and check my emails.
There’s one from Noah, calling me like a beacon. He must’ve sent it right after I stepped away from my computer.
The subject line is simply “Progress update,” and the humiliation burns bright and hot once more.
And I’d been doing so damn well all morning, not thinking about him.
I stare at that blue unread dot for a ridiculously long time, until I simply swipe up so it’s out of sight and get to work on answering every other email that follows it.
But the existence of the email, the “Progress update,” stays in the back of my mind, mocking me, and it brings out an anger I really wasn’t expecting.
How dare he just email me?
What the hell does he want to update me on?
There’s nothing to rehash. Last night was pretty self-explanatory.
I’m not looking at it, at least for now, because I would certainly only fuck things up further if I write back now.
Yes, later. When I’m calmer and have a clearer head.
I clean up the kitchen and go back to my research. Getting lost in a new project helps me once more push it all away.
But when the workday ends, I can’t ignore it anymore.
I want to.
I really, really do.
And that’s what finally turns on a lightbulb in my head.
The castle.
I’ll go to the castle.
I’m sprinting up the stairs before the thought has fully formed, and pulling down my weekender bag to fill it with some essentials, even though I have a full closet waiting there for me.
Nothing can replace my favorite sweatpants and hoodie, though. They’re both perfectly worn in, softer than a baby’s ass, so I throw them in and go gather my toiletries from the bathroom when my phone starts to ring in my pocket.
For an awfully long second, I imagine it’s Noah, calling to demand an answer, to hash things out, to let me down gently.
Then I shake my head.
He wouldn’t do that, I don’t think.
At least not on the same day he sent the email.
He probably has more self-respect than I do.
I pull it out and sigh in relief at the name on the screen.
There are some people—if you’re lucky enough—who can make you feel better in all ways with a simple call, even before any words are exchanged.
“Gab.” I sigh out the name in greeting.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, not needing more than a second to correctly guess my mood.
“A lot,” I answer truthfully.
“I was only calling to catch up, but now look at that, my morning’s completely free. Tell me.”
It might sound pushy to other people, but to me it sounds like love and home.
Yes, Gab’s a gossip shark, but she cares.
She’s actually the only person in the world who has proved to me how much she loves me, even when I thought I didn’t need proof.
It’s easy to tell her everything, every thought and feeling I’ve had regarding Noah since I met him almost two months ago, and to her credit, she lets me ramble on for as long as I need. Doesn’t even interrupt when I pause for a few seconds to gather my thoughts.
“So now I’m packing to get away to the castle, for a few days at least. I need to get my head on straight, and honestly, I do have a lot of work to do on the whole book thing. I think being out in the country will be good for that.”
Somehow she knows that’s when I’m done talking. Her thoughtful hum comes through the line like yet another balm to my nerves.
“Okay, I’m going to call Harry and force him to leave his life for a week, remind him his presence isn’t detrimental to the survival of the planet.
I’ll call my pilot and will probably be on the plane in an hour, then pick Harry and Tristan up in New York in five hours, so .
. . Yeah, we’ll be there in around twelve hours.
Don’t do anything stupid in the meantime.
Pick us up in one of your big fancy cars and we’ll keep you company and help you figure out this book shit.
“It was hard for me too, when I wrote my autobiography, but I got the hang of it quickly enough, so I’ll be able to help, I think. And we’ll workshop a few ideas to get you your sweet geeky boyfriend, all right?”
I don’t know why I’m always surprised when Gab puts one of her plans together. She’s so . . . efficient.
“Chase?”
I sigh, happy to give myself over into her more capable hands.
“Yeah, okay.”