Billionaire CEO’s One Night Stand

1. Last Call in Maui

LAST CALL IN MAUI

Lani

The bartender sets my drink down without asking.

I didn't plan on a third drink, but here we are. He's been watching me the way bartenders watch people who are one pour away from crying, and I hate that he's right.

I'm not going to cry. I'm going to sit here on my last night in Maui, drink this overpriced hibiscus margarita, and pretend my entire life didn't implode three weeks ago.

The startup is gone. The investors pulled out. The team I spent two years building scattered like smoke, and I'm the one who signed the paperwork to close it.

I'm in Hawaii alone. It was supposed to be a victory trip. I don't want to talk about it.

I swivel on the barstool and face the ocean, instead of the room. The air smells like salt and plumeria.

I chose it anyway. Last splurge before I figure out what comes next.

“That seat's taken.”

I turn.

The man standing behind the empty barstool next to me is unfair. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Sharp cheekbones. He's wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and he's looking at me like I'm inconvenient.

I look at the empty seat. Then back at him.

“There's no one in it.”

“There will be.”

“Then they can ask me to move.” I turn back to the ocean.

A beat.

He sits down anyway, two stools over, and signals the bartender with two fingers. No words. The bartender nods like this man is the kind of person bartenders wait for.

“You've been sitting alone for two hours,” he says.

I don't look at him. “You've been watching me for two hours?”

“You're hard to miss.”

“That's not the compliment you think it is.”

He makes a low sound. Not a laugh.

Okay. Now I look at him.

He's staring straight ahead, mouth set, a glass of something dark in his hand. He looks like a man who came here to be left alone and is irritated that he isn't succeeding. I recognize that energy. I came here for the same reason.

“Rough day?” I ask.

“Rough year.”

“Same.” I lift my margarita glass. He doesn't lift his, but his posture shifts. He heard me.

We sit for a minute. Comfortable silence, which I don't expect.

Then he says, “You were staring at the water like it owed you money.”

I laugh before I can stop myself. It comes out real and a little ragged, and I press my lips together after, like I can pull it back.

“My company died,” I say. Why I tell him, I don't know. Maybe because he's a stranger. Maybe because the margaritas have loosened something I've been holding tight for weeks. “Three weeks ago. I built it for two years, and then it stopped existing.”

He turns and looks at me for the first time. His eyes are blue. Sharp.

“What kind of company?”

“Tech. Logistics software. We called it Flowpath.” I wave a hand. “Boring unless you're in it.”

“Were you in it?”

“I was it.” I take a long sip. “Me, a good idea, and a lot of people who believed in it. Until they didn't.”

He's quiet for a moment. Then: “That's not failure. That's a first draft.”

I stare at him.

He looks annoyed that he said it. Like the words came out without permission.

“That's not terrible advice from a man who opened with 'that seat's taken,'“ I say.

“I have range.”

“Apparently.” I study him. He's tense, shoulders set, eyes forward again, but the irritation has softened. “So, what's your rough year?”

“Not talking about it.”

“I told you my company died.”

“You wanted to tell me.” He glances over. “I don't.”

Fair. I can respect that.

“Okay,” I say. “No life talk. No names, no backstories, no problems.”

He says it like he's been wanting someone to offer him this. “Just tonight.”

“Just tonight,” I agree.

He looks at me for a long moment. Ice clinking, music low and tropical, a couple laughing somewhere behind us. But it feels like the noise is getting farther away.

“One drink,” he says.

“One drink,” I echo.

His drink runs out in ten minutes. Mine runs out in eight. We don't leave.

He's guarded and sharp and rude, and it should put me off, but every time I push back, he goes still. Like he likes it more than he wants to.

“Kauai,” I say, setting down my fourth margarita. “Final answer.”

“You're wrong.”

“I'm not wrong. Kauai has the Na Pali Coast. Kauai has actual wilderness. Maui has resorts and tourists taking sunset photos.”

“You're a tourist taking sunset photos.”

“I'm a tourist drowning my sorrows. There's a difference.” I gesture at the view. “Besides, I'm looking at the ocean, not photographing it.”

“Semantics.”

“Accuracy.” I turn to face him. “Have you even been to Kauai?”

He pauses. Long enough.

“You haven't.” I laugh. “You're arguing about an island you've never visited.”

“I've seen photos.”

“Photos. Of a place you're claiming is inferior to this one.” I shake my head. “That's not an opinion. That's a guess.”

He looks at me. With annoyance or respect. Hard to tell with him.

“You argue like a lawyer,” he says.

“I argue like someone who's right.”

His mouth twitches. He fights it back, but I see it.

We argue about the drink menu next. He thinks the hibiscus margarita is an insult to tequila. I tell him his whiskey is a cry for help disguised as sophistication. He orders me another margarita anyway, and when I raise an eyebrow, he shrugs.

“Research,” he says. “I need to understand what I'm criticizing.”

“You could admit you're curious.”

“I'm never curious.”

“You've asked me six questions in the last hour.”

He goes still. I've caught him at something and we both know it.

The next argument is about first-class seats. He thinks they're efficient. I tell him it's a personality flaw.

“It's not a flaw to want legroom,” he says.

“It's a flaw to pay four thousand dollars for it.”

“Some people can afford four thousand dollars.”

“Some people have too much money and not enough perspective.”

He turns, and the almost-smile breaks through. The edge of one, tugging at the corner of his mouth.

My stomach flips.

I look away first.

The bar thins out around us. The bartender stops hovering. The music shifts, slower and lower, and we're leaning toward each other.

His forearm is on the bar, close to mine. I'm aware of the heat of him, the space between us that keeps shrinking without either of us acknowledging it.

“You're leaving tomorrow,” he says.

“First flight out.” I look at the ocean, dark now, moonlight cutting across it. “Back to New York. Back to figuring out what comes next.”

“And tonight?”

I turn. He's watching me with that controlled expression, but there's heat under it. Has been for a while. I'm not imagining it.

“Tonight I'm here,” I say.

He holds my gaze. Then his voice drops, low and close enough that I feel it more than hear it.

“Come upstairs with me.”

My pulse kicks.

I should say no. But I'm tired of being careful. For two years I did everything right, and it crumbled.

He's watching me. Patient. He'll accept whatever answer I give.

That's what decides it. The patience.

I pick up my glass, take the last sip, and set it down.

“Yes.”