Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Ru
“So how are you enjoying Sydney?” Clara asks me, passing a glass of wine.
“Well, I haven’t seen much of it outside of the office or my hotel room,” I reply, taking a sip of the crisp riesling, appreciating the taste. “But I like what I’ve experienced so far.”
Especially what I’ve done inside my hotel room and his . I push down the memory of how perfectly Nate filled my arse. This event is no place to get a boner, and as I’ve tried to tell myself a thousand times over the last couple of days, it was a one time occurrence. I’ll never see him again, and he’s probably moved on by now.
If only I could do the same.
It’s Tuesday night and I appreciate the party Cieran and Clara have arranged for me, inviting the senior management and many of our wealthiest clients and portfolio holders, most of whom I’ve met this week in an endless cycle of meetings. Even though this is still work, I appreciate the distraction from spending another evening in my hotel room like last night.
I’ve never had trouble being alone before, but everything in my suite reminds me of him. I considered asking to swap to a different one, or even changing to an alternate hotel, but I don’t have the energy, and honestly, I don’t want to.
I might not like being reminded of him, but it’s all I have left and I’m clinging to it.
It’s pathetic, really. I need to pull myself together.
I’m impressed with how quickly after expressing my wish to meet Clara she’s put this together. Though for me, a small family dinner would have been just as lovely.
I spend far too much of my time as the “face” of Harringtons as it is, but from a young age, the art of socialisation has been ingrained in me. I can plaster on a smile, make small talk, and pretend I’m having a good time with Olympic-level skill.
“This is a magnificent party, though I hope you didn’t put it on just for my sake.” I know she’s an event organiser, and probably has the contacts to be able to arrange for this at short notice, so I don’t feel too bad about it.
I’m sure Cieran is trying to reassure me that the business is in capable hands. That as well as managing the client’s wealth, he can also put on functions for them. I have no doubts on any of those points, but if he feels the need to prove it, I’m not going to argue.
“Of course not,” Clara says casually. “This is a usual Tuesday for us.” Her eyes dance as she takes a sip of her own wine. I like Clara a lot already.
“If this is a Tuesday, what do you do on Fridays?”
“On Fridays we dance round a bonfire and offer our firstborns as sacrifices,” she quips back quickly, and I turn to look at her, my brain taking a second longer to realise she’s joking. She bursts out laughing, no doubt at the expression on my face.
“Surely that would only work the one time.” I join in with her laughter.
“You got me there,” she says, mirth still evident on her face. “This Friday, my parents are visiting, which almost amounts to the same thing. I wouldn’t subject you to their company, but if you’d like to come to dinner on Thursday I promise it will be quieter.”
I reply that I’d like that very much, and thank her before beginning to mingle with the guests. I still have work to do. I know how this works. Never mind the stuffy board meetings, here in the social functions is where you really convince people your company is reputable enough to trust with their money.
My father calls me on Wednesday night. We spend some time catching up with the business, and I fill him in on who I’ve met with so far, who was at the party last night, and the meetings for the rest of the week. I listen to him. He might be a stuffy pain in the arse, but he has successfully created his business and I have a lot to learn from him, especially if I want to take it over when he retires, which I do.
“Don’t forget the Johnsons’ ball in two weeks,” my father says, and I inwardly groan. It’s a charity function. And I have nothing against raising money for charity, nothing at all, but the way it’s done—where the rich and famous pay to be seen at functions, and where there’s likely to be some kind of auction—seems vulgar to me.
We could all just quietly give money to a charity of our choosing whenever we want. Which in fact I do, very quietly, so even my father doesn’t know the causes I support. But for some, being seen to be charitable is more important than the actual act.
He gives me a whole lecture on my duty and my role within the family until I eventually give in. I can almost hear him smile on the other end of the phone.
“You’ll be taking the Marchant girl,” he says as soon as I’ve agreed.
“Father, no!”
“Rupert, we’ve been through this before. I hoped that giving you more responsibility might cure you of this nonsense. She’s a good match. Her father?—”
I tune out at that point. I don’t know what irks me more, that he still calls Jenna the Marchant girl, or that he thinks if I spend enough time with a woman, it will miraculously turn me heterosexual.
It’s my fault for telling him I was bi instead of gay. I chickened out on that one. Eventually, I agree to taking Jenna, but only because if I keep refusing he won’t leave me alone and might even try to pair me up with someone dreadful.
“Good,” he says with a final tone, and rings off. Within minutes, my phone goes again, but I can’t help suppress a smile when I see the caller.
The Marchant girl .
It’s funny when we say it, and I know for a fact I’m saved in her phone as the Cardew boy . Like my father, that’s the way her father refers to me, as if they didn’t know our names.
“Ru!” she exclaims as soon as I pick up. “The olds have been scheming again.”
“I know Jenna, I got the call too.”
“Urgh, do you think they schedule it so they talk to us at the same time? I wouldn’t put it past them. I’ve just received the most almighty lecture over breakfast.”
I’ve known Jenna since I was six years old. As my older sister’s best friend, she’s frequently stayed with us both in London and in Oxfordshire. We practically grew up together. She has no more inclination to marry me than I do her. Not only because she’s like another sister to me, but also because she’s not my type, just like I’m not hers.
We’ve joked that we could have a marriage of convenience, if only to get our families off our backs. Then we could pursue our own relationships peacefully. It’s a loose pact that we’ve agreed to revisit if neither of us have married by the time we’re thirty-five. Which, with the way our families are going, could very well happen.
“I’ve had the lecture too, but it could be worse.”
“Tell me about it. When I refused, I got threatened with Cyril Fotherstone.”
“Well, at least I know I rank higher than him in your affections,” I say.
“With you I know I’m not going to get groped by the moistness of Cyril the slimy.” I almost hear her shudder down the phone and I sympathise—he is a grim option.
“Anyway, tell me all about Sydney. Have you met any Australian hunks?”
I hesitate a beat too long.
“You did!” she screeches down the phone.
“He was American,” I blurt out, giving myself away, and I’m treated to another assault to my ears.
She wheedles, but when I don’t give her any further details, she promises to get them out of me when we meet at the fundraising ball before disconnecting.
She won’t, though. I’m not telling anyone about Nate. But now he’s on my mind and it takes me a long time to fall asleep.
My phone ringing drags me from sleep the next morning. It’s my father again, which is unexpected. I check the time. It’s still early, but at least with the time difference it’s not the middle of the night.
“Rupert, I’ve been talking to Chase Knightly.”
In my still half-asleep state, it takes me a minute to recognise the name. He’s one of my father’s oldest clients. I think he owns a venture capitalist company, but he invests his private wealth with Harringtons.
“He’s in Australia at the moment and has invited you to spend the weekend with him.”
I groan inwardly. I don’t want to socialise with one of my father’s stuffy friends. I plan to spend my last few days in Sydney having fun, and trying to forget a pair of beautiful green eyes and the body they belong to. I don’t have it in me to argue with my father, though. Not before coffee. And I can hardly tell him my reasons for not wanting to stay with Chase. I also know how large the Knightly account is, so I would be a fool to refuse.
I guess I’ll be working this weekend then.
“I’ve had your flights changed, and Alex is emailing through the details now.” He rings off, no goodbye or he’ll see me soon.
Typical.
Did he say the flights have changed? Does that mean Chase isn’t in Sydney?
I pull up my emails and check the changes. I have a flight to Melbourne, and then I’ll be flying home from there on Monday.
Melbourne.
Where Nate is right now.
I fall back in the bed and sigh. This is either a wonderful opportunity to see him again, or a cruel twist of fate by the universe to send me so close to him but also making me work. I can’t help the tiny nugget of hope forming that it’s the first one.