Five
Nathan
Missed calls.
Twelve of them.
I barely register the number as I sit at my desk, fingers skimming the trackpad, scanning through reports I should have stopped reading an hour ago.
The glow of my laptop casts a pale light across my darkened office, the only illumination now that the sun has long since disappeared behind the city skyline.
A quiet knock at my door pulls me from my thoughts. Miriam peeks inside, already bundled in her coat.
“Heading out?”
I ask, rolling stiffness from my shoulders.
She nods, stepping just inside the doorway. “Just wanted to let you know the reports for the Simmons account are finished and in your inbox. Also, the quarterly review from the marketing team is on your desk.”
My gaze flicks to the perfectly stacked folders at the corner of my desk. Miriam is efficient, organized, and punctual. Exactly what I need in an assistant.
“Thanks,”
I say. “I appreciate you staying late.”
She smiles lightly. “Not a problem.”
She turns to leave, then hesitates in the doorway.
“Oh, and—”
She gives me a pointed look “—your mother called again.”
I drag a hand down my face, exhaustion settling into my bones. Of course she did.
“Got it,”
I say, voice tight. “Thanks.”
Miriam lingers a moment longer, clearly debating if she should say something else. Then she offers a sympathetic smile and leaves, the soft click of the door echoing in the quiet room.
I sit for a moment, rubbing the back of my neck, staring at nothing.
I should ignore the calls. I know what she wants—money, favors, another demand cloaked as a request.
My jaw tightens. Memories rise unbidden, sharp and painful. Sixteen and coming home after double shifts to find my tips gone, her apology shallow. Eighteen, learning the hard way that trust was a luxury I couldn’t afford, even from family. Especially from family.
I glance again at the phone, still vibrating face-down on my desk.
I could ignore it. I should. But I also know if I don’t answer, tomorrow there will be twenty missed calls instead of twelve.
With a frustrated groan, I grab my coat and head to the elevator, hitting her number as the doors slide closed.
She answers on the second ring.
“Oh, so you do remember how to use your phone.”
I exhale slowly. Here we go. “Hello to you, too.”
“You think you’re too important for your own mother now?”
“I was working,”
I say flatly.
“Right. Working.”
Her tone drips disdain. “Too busy for me. What else is new?”
My jaw tightens painfully. “What do you want?”
“Simon’s car broke down.”
“Who the hell is Simon?”
“My boyfriend,”
she snaps.
“I thought the last one was Mark?”
“I kicked that piece of shit out months ago.”
Of course. Another temporary man, another fleeting relationship, just like every one of her boyfriends before him. Just like she was with me, holding tight only long enough to get something out of it.
“And?”
I press, already done with this conversation.
“And,”
she says, “it’s going to cost a fortune to fix.”
“Then tell Simon to figure it out himself.”
Silence.
Then, a clipped, “Nathan.”
“There’s money in your account,” I say.
“That’s mine.”
I bark out a harsh laugh. “Right, because I put it there.”
She sighs, her tone shifting to that sickly sweet manipulation I hate most. “Baby, it’s not like I ask you for much.”
Bullshit.
My hand tightens into a fist. “No.”
“No?”
“No,”
I repeat firmly. “Simon sounds like a grown man. He’ll work it out himself.”
“You weren’t always like this, you know,”
she says coldly. “Selfish.”
The elevator doors slide open. I step out into the lobby, gripping the phone so tightly my knuckles ache. “Selfish?”
“You used to be sweet. You used to—”
I hang up.
Not tonight. Not fucking tonight.
Before I shove my phone in my pocket, I see the reminder that Julian sent earlier. One I have yet to reply to.
Julian: Crane wants us to be at the charity gala. Says he’s more inclined to invest in CEOs who have ‘roots.’ Make sure you bring someone.
I let out a slow breath. Great. Another old-school investor who thinks a stable personal life equates to trustworthy business practices. I’d roll my eyes if I weren’t so tired.
If playing respectable family man seals this deal, then I’ll do what I have to do. Even if that means pretending I’m blissfully taken, for one night, at least.
I should head home, pour a stiff drink, and sleep this off, but home feels too quiet, too empty tonight. Instead, I step onto the cold sidewalk and cross the street toward the softly lit bar nearby. A place quiet enough to think but loud enough to drown out the memories.
I settle onto a stool, nodding at the bartender. “Bourbon. Neat.”
He places it down seconds later. No small talk. Exactly what I need right now.
My phone buzzes again, and I glance down at the group chat:
Julian: Boys, I have a business proposition.
Jesus Christ.
Wes: No.
Julian: You haven’t even heard it yet.
Wes: Still no.
I smile. Julian’s always scheming, always chasing the next big high. Wes doesn’t have time for Julian’s bullshit with his own life, business, and unexpected fatherhood keeping him occupied.
Me: I’m with Wes on this one. No.
Julian: You two are boring bastards.
Me: Ignoring you now, Julian. Wes, how’s Rosie?
I get a reply in the form of a picture of Rosie, fast asleep in her cot, clutching a cuddly elephant I bought for her last time I was in California.
Wes: Finally sleeping through the night. A full seven hours has been the highlight of my week. So when you too fucks decide to get your heads out of business and start having a life, let me know how it goes.
I’m halfway through typing a response when the energy in the bar shifts. The air thickens.
I look up, instinctively.
And I see her.
Fuck me.
She steps inside with a friend, immediately commanding the room without realizing it. The satin red dress hugs every curve, drawing attention without effort. She moves through the crowd with grace, but her subtle uncertainty is endearing.
Our eyes meet, holding long enough to feel deliberate. Something tightens low in my stomach.
I’ve seen plenty of beautiful women before. Slept with them and moved on. But there’s something about her. She isn’t just attractive. There’s a quiet determination in her eyes, something that dares me to make a move. And for reasons I can’t explain, I plan to.
She blushes, looking quickly away.
Interesting.
Twenty minutes later, I'm nursing a second bourbon, contemplating leaving, when a group of men enter and approach the women at the bar.
From what I can see, there’s some polite conversation. Friendly. Familiar.
She’s not interested. I see it in her posture, her soft smiles, the stiff line of her shoulders. Her gaze flickers toward me now and then, brief glances she probably hopes I don’t notice. But I do.
One guy—tall, smooth-talking, obviously used to getting his way—leans close. Her smile remains polite but uninterested as her eyes drift back to mine again. There's something almost pleading there, a silent rescue she won't ask for.
Something hot coils low in my stomach. I don't do rescue missions, nor do I engage in emotional entanglements, yet her unspoken request settles deep.
After a while, one by one, the group begins to leave, including her friend, who gives her a questioning glance. She waves them off gently.
Now she's alone, but she doesn’t move toward the exit.
Instead, she turns again, meeting my gaze head-on, lips parted slightly in an uncertain challenge. She swallows, hesitating just enough to show vulnerability beneath the confidence.
My fingers tighten around the glass, my heartbeat kicking up a notch as I watch her internal battle unfold.
Reckless bravery warring against cautious insecurity.
Then she rises, her coat over her arm, the bag gripped tightly. She moves toward me, her steps steady despite her visible nervousness.
Good girl.
My pulse quickens, the thrill of anticipation coursing through my veins.
I take a slow sip of my bourbon and watch her approach, encouraging her forward.
Come on, sweetheart. Show me what you’ve got.