Chapter 17 Random Genetic Drift #2
Lawyers. Buffers for the rich. No wonder most ridiculously wealthy people were Libertarians. No taxes, no regulations, no oversight, no consumer or public safety. They could afford to litigate their way through life, railroading everyone in their path, and simply call it “the free market.”
* * *
While stir-frying tofu in a sauce of ginger, garlic, and honey, I decided that I could get used to the domestic life.
Not the long-term, marriage-and-mortgage domestic life.
But this. Right now. Making dinner in a Manhattan kitchen with the din of New York traffic humming through the windows, an overpriced bottle of Malbec breathing on the counter, and a very tall, very sexy chess grand master perched nearby, pretending to scroll on his phone while actually watching me cook, and checking out my ass every time I bent over.
Andreas’s kitchen was perfect. It was spacious and minimalist. Quartz counters, white cabinets, a “statement” faucet that probably cost more than my old couch.
When Andreas wanted food, he made it from scratch, using ingredients that had faces, even if they were only plant faces.
When I wanted eggs Benedict, he made it for me, then watched me eat it with a smile that said, You like it when I spoil you.
Tonight, however, was my night to cook. We’d been alternating ever since I moved in (temporarily), a ritual as new as it was functional.
Mondays were mine. I’d settled on ginger-garlic tofu with bok choy and brown rice, because it was easy, and because I secretly liked the way Andreas’s entire body reacted when he tasted something spicy.
He sat with his elbows on the counter, hands folded, looking up from his phone every few minutes to observe my progress.
Once again, he wore his relaxed attire. A fitted black T-shirt, gray sweatpants, and bare feet, a look that should’ve been illegal for a man with that jawline and . . . other things.
I knew I was being watched, but in a way that made me want to show off. Just a little. I even poured my wine with a flick of the wrist.
Fishing a piece of tofu from the pan, I blew on it, and popped it in my mouth. As the heat hit, I exhaled and said, “So, I had a visit from HR today.”
Andreas glanced up, the blue light from his phone tinting the underside of his jaw. “HR?”
“Human resources.” I jabbed the wooden spoon at the tofu. “He shows up unannounced and starts grilling me about Nieminen. I guess someone put in a formal inquiry.”
Andreas’s eyebrows drew together. “How do you mean?”
“The whole thing was so . . . off.” I dropped the spoon into the pan, switched hands, and sipped my wine while summarizing the early part of the conversation, eventually detailing what I’d shared with Mr. Quinby.
Andreas’s frown grew intense. “You never told me he invited you to a show and dinner.”
“It doesn’t matter now.” I waved the hand holding my wine through the air.
“What matters is that Mr. Quinby kept asking me questions, asking if I’d ever told anyone about it, asking why I didn’t go to HR when my circumstances changed, etcetera.
I got so mad, it’s like—this is why women stay silent, you know?
Don’t give me BS about owing it to all women.
That’s putting the onus on the victim. I don’t owe all women anything.
If I don’t want to bring it up, leave me alone with this malarky.
I have my reasons. James Nieminen’s shitty behavior is not my responsibility.
Stop making men’s shitty behavior the responsibility of women! ”
Andreas had drifted closer during my rant.
I wasn’t finished. “And Quinby came in there and asked me questions—which I answered— and then wanted me to justify my answers? GTFO!”
I liked how “GTFO” sounded in the echoing space of Andreas’s kitchen.
“That’s unbelievable,” Andreas said, voice sharp. “Why ask you if he wasn’t going to believe you?”
“Exactly!” I set down the wineglass a little too hard, wiped my hand on my leggings, and held up my palm for a high five.
Without hesitation, Andreas slapped it, palm to palm, with just enough force to be satisfying. The contact lingered for a fraction of a second longer than strictly necessary. Then he let his hand fall, but he didn’t stop watching me.
“Eventually,” I continued, retrieving my wine and taking another sip, “I told him he’d need to talk to my lawyer if he wanted to discuss the issue with me. For as long as I’m wealthy, I’m so done being forced to have conversations I don’t want to have.”
When I was poor again, I knew I’d have to do it. But not yet. Not yet.
Andreas grinned at me like he thought I was weird but cute. “What do you mean, ‘for as long as I’m wealthy’? Are you planning to donate your shares?”
I bit my bottom lip and shrugged, picking up the spoon and spinning it between my fingers. “What if I did? Would you be mad?”
I could admit it, Andreas’s opinion mattered to me. However, I would still do what I needed to do to prove my parents’ innocence.
He gave me a side-eye that was all affection, a one-corner smile lifting his lips. “Anything else happen today?”
I found those little smiles stupidly sexy and thus tore my eyes away and busied myself with the pan, tossing the tofu cubes so they wouldn’t burn.
“Other than making more progress on my dissertation, not much. How was your day? Any more news about the wolf pups? Did they finally name them?”
For all of his purported introversion, Andreas had spent the last week volunteering more personal trivia than I ever thought possible. His favorite animal, his preferred old movies, tons of details about the exotic animal shelter upstate.
He leaned forward on his forearms, arms corded with muscle, phone forgotten. “If you want to buy naming rights, the bidding is still open.”
I set the spoon on a trivet, wiped my hands, and cocked my hip. “I’ve always been partial to the name Bartholomew. It can have so many shortened nicknames. Bart, of course. Then there is: Theo, Mew, Lomeo, Tholo, Barmew.”
Andreas frowned with his eyes but smiled with his mouth. “Thomeo?”
“Exactly!”
The rice cooker beeped, and I spun as I portioned everything onto two plates.
Handing Andreas his, I said, “How about Roman? Did you two get a chance to do a livestream?”
He accepted the plate with a thank-you nod, then followed me out to the now-iconic large black circular table.
“We did,” he said, setting down his dish. “It was good.”
“Who won?” I asked, settling next to him.
He looked at me, eyes hooded, the tiniest arch to his left brow. The look said, Who do you think won?
I laughed, scooping rice into my mouth and swallowing before speaking again. “Well, this is your first livestream match in months. How was the attendance? Did many people watch?”
Andreas shrugged. “I did not check. I can ask Roman, if you want.”
“You didn’t check?” I shook my head at his nonchalance. “Just give me his number. As my love rival, I should have his phone number.”
Andreas went very still. Too still. I could feel the abrupt change in pressure next to me, like I’d dropped an ice cube down the front of his shirt.
I opened my mouth to explain it was a joke, but he cleared his throat and said, “How is Kaitlyn? Is she home from the hospital finally? It’s been weeks at this point. Over ten days since I saw her last.”
The redirect was so smooth I almost laughed, but I let it go. “Martin paid for the suite for a month, but yes. She returned home yesterday. I think her parents will stay for a few more days, just to help out.”
Andreas nodded. “And how is Diya? It’s been over ten days since you saw her.”
I shot him a confused look, wondering why ten days had now become his metric for the passage of time. “She’s doing well. I texted with her over the weekend. Her family is still in town, so I think that’s been a lot.”
“They’re still in town? It’s been over ten days.”
There he goes again.
I set my fork down and smirked at him. “Yeah. But they keep extending their trip. I think they really like the city.”
He nodded, then, almost as an afterthought, said, “Before I forget, the sanctuary asked me to come up sometime soon for some publicity photos with the wolves. Do you want to come?”
I sat up straighter. “What? Of course! I’d love it. Will we get to pet the wolves? Or, is that safe?”
He tilted his head, maybe weighing the risk. “Yes and no. We will not be able to pet the adults or the puppies, but the teenage wolves can be touched. Do not wear your hair in a bun, though. They like to bite them. I think they believe buns are little hairy animals.”
I nodded, grave and solemn. “Okay. I won’t. Is a braid okay?”
He looked like he fought a smile. “Braids should be fine.”
We finished the meal in companionable conversation, the clink of silverware and the random creaks of the old building filling the space between us. When I was done, I set my fork down, wiped my mouth, and said, “I’ll do the dishes.”
Andreas stood, collected the plates, and said, “I will do the dishes. You made dinner.”
He carried the plates to the sink, and I rotated in my chair so I could watch the way his T-shirt stretched across his back and his backside filled out the gray sweatpants as he walked away. Then, I sighed happily.
As I listened to the sounds of Andreas cleaning, I reflected on how, in less than two weeks, my sense of “normal” had completely reset.
I’d gone from crashing on friends’ couches and sleepwalking through my own apartment, to feeling oddly at home in the lair of my onetime enemy, now—what?
Friend? Ally? Something more? I didn’t know how to label it.
And I didn’t want to. Not without discussing things with Andreas and defining what we were together.
But I did know one thing. I’d miss this when I left.
As soon as the new lock was installed on my apartment door—this Wednesday, if the handyman’s text was to be believed—I’d move back, and our fragile little domestic bubble would pop.
It was funny how quickly I’d acclimated to the luxury of safety and good company. And gray sweatpants.
The fact that Andreas had kept his word, never once making a move or even hinting at wanting more than my friendship, made me like him even more.
He’d proven—over and over—that he could be trusted, at least on matters of personal boundaries.
He did not exploit my vulnerability or the proximity of our situation.
He made room for me, literally and otherwise.
The buzz of my phone broke the reverie. I fished it out of my leggings pocket and saw a call from the head of my legal team. I glanced over at the kitchen, then answered, “Hello?”
“Ms. Jarlston. I have some excellent news.” The voice was clipped, but giddy.
My heart thudded. “What is it?”
“We made two major breakthroughs today thanks in big part to the files you sent us from Genetix.” Without even taking a breath, she continued, “First, we discovered that Henrik Kristiansen—not your father—was the one who sold the Genetix customer data and forged your father’s signature.”
I stood up, energy zapping through my limbs. “Are you serious?”
“Yes. We have definitive proof. Not only do we have a confession from the acquisitions firm that handled the sale, we also have video with audio of the meeting where the sale took place.”
“How is that possible?” I said, genuinely bewildered by this stroke of luck.
“The manager in charge of the acquisition filmed the meeting secretly. He didn’t trust Mr. Kristiansen—Mr. Henrik Kristiansen, to be precise—to keep his word and so he recorded the meeting in order to blackmail Mr. Kristiansen later, if needed. He called it his insurance.”
I nearly collapsed back into the chair. My head spun, every cell buzzing with disbelief and a wild, manic joy. “What’s the second breakthrough?” I managed, voice barely above a whisper.
“You might want to sit down for this.”
I sunk into the chair as instructed. “I’m already sitting down.”
“On the recording,” the lawyer said, “when the manager asked Mr. Kristiansen what would happen if Lawrence Jarlston—that is, if your father—ever traced the sale back to Henrik, Henrik said that the manager didn’t need to worry about that because, and I quote, ‘My father wants him dead.’”
The words hit me like a freight train. My heart pounded so hard I could barely hear what the lawyer said next.
I stared at nothing, at the black table, the surface reflecting the city lights through the window, and I was speechless.
I was everything and nothing at once, my insides stripped to the quick by the possibility—no, the certainty—that everything I’d suspected, everything that had finally fueled me to accept Andreas’s offer last year, was true.
I pressed the phone closer to my ear, holding on for dear life as the lawyer’s voice rattled off the next steps, the possible outcomes, the legal terminology and strategic advantages. But it all blurred together.
I kept hearing the same sentence, over and over, repeated in my head.
My father wants him dead.