3 JANIE
JANIE
This is going to be a long night.
I can’t believe he found me. I mean, with my recent luck, I can. But he wasn’t even supposed to be at this thing. Sure, I figured there was a small chance that a Clark would walk the floor, maybe his dad.
But Benedict? The annoying Clark who doesn’t seem to contain a serious bone in his body? Who’s always joking, always smirking, always…at ease. And why wouldn’t he be? He’s a handsome, powerful billionaire.
Years ago he would have been exactly my type. A magnetic guy who is my opposite, happy to do all the talking and joking. Adventurous, funny, relaxed.
The flirt.
Though, Benedict takes flirting to another level. Always darling this and love that. Ol’ Benny Boy. Or, as the press started calling him, Bunny Boy. Because of his revolving door of playboy-bunny-esque-girls. He’s such a cliché.
I shouldn’t be so irritated. I don’t truly know him beyond observing him, overhearing him, overhearing about him and things I’ve read in random articles that have shown up in my news feed over the years.
He and I…we’re periphery people. We orbit around the others. The successful people who are thriving, changing, hitting milestones. Engagements, weddings, babies. That’s not us. We are the people who cheer on everyone else from the outskirts. Separately. Benedict and I have never actually hung out.
“Right, let’s get pissed, shall we?” The man says as I reach him.
I can see what the, uh, bunnies see in him on the surface.
It’s a really, really handsome surface. Chestnut hair that’s long enough to curl over his forehead.
Those insane eyes, sharp nose, cut jaw and, like, does he even have pores? Not fair.
“Sure, I’ll ditch work and get drunk in public, after I have my boss’s boss pull rank on him and mess up his entire booth. Why not?”
But the billionaire just laughs, “That’s the spirit.”
“Seriously, does nothing matter to you? How do you know I’m not going to catch hell for this back at Mellman’s after the expo?”
“Since I could have Daddy dearest sell Mellman’s off and tank their stock prices with just a wee tap of an email on my phone, I think you’re safe.” I work my jaw, annoyed, so he adds, “But we could get drunk outside the expo if that’d make you feel better?”
“Yes, please,” I mutter, glancing around.
“Right. To the nearest pub we go.”
My brow furrows as I glance over. In my heels, I’m almost eye to eye with him.
His profile is just as stunning as his face.
Skye’s sister, Samantha, always gushes that her husband Emerson, the older brother, looks just like Henry Cavill and I can see it with Benedict too.
He’s the classic younger brother though, a little softer, smoother… more charming and approachable.
And apparently a drinker.
“You always this eager to get drunk?”
He winces, “Been a bit of a shit week.”
I cock my head side to side, “I can relate.”
“I figured,” I glance over again, about to ask what he exactly means by that but he gestures to me and says, “What with the, you know, mayonnaise suit you were forced to wear?”
I almost chuckle, “Fair.”
We make it about two steps from the end of Mellman’s tradeshow exhibit booth before we’re stopped. Mauled, really.
“Mr. Clark! Benedict! Sir! Boss!”
He responds by flashing his perfectly white smile, waving and nodding, saying something about catching everyone tomorrow. We move past the crowd and he puts his hand on the small of my back to lead me out. As soon as we’re away from the throng, I shirk away from his hand.
Being the boss’s friend is bad enough. The absolute last thing I need is that kind of rumor about me and Benedict Clark. Bunny-type rumors. At this point, the man’s proverbial bed post has got to be “notched” down to a nub. A slaughtered little stump.
And, like, good for him.
You do you, man. Just not me.
Ha! Still got my humor at least.
“How about this one?” Benedict asks at the first bar we find outside the conference.
“Okay,” I shrug.
We walk into a sparkling room, dripping in crystals. Instantly, I feel under-dressed. Then I remember I walked in with one of the literal richest men in the world. It’ll be fine.
“What hotel is this?” I ask as I glance at the sparkles surrounding us.
“Cosmopolitan, I think?”
I nod.
The hostess doesn’t recognize him, thankfully, as she attempts to lead us to a booth in the back.
“Bar, please,” I say too quickly. I wince, wondering if Benedict might side-eye me, offended about my rumor mill concerns, but his eyes go to the wall of hard liquor. A man on a mission, then.
We take two stools. I order a mojito because I can sip it slowly, and because I know a swanky place like this will have real, fresh mint. The troubled billionaire to my left gets a double scotch and pounds it down in almost one gulp when it arrives.
“Okay,” my eyes go wide at his apparent desperation. “Listen, my social battery is already in the negative, so what kind of bad week are we talking here, exactly?”
“Let’s not,” he says as he motions the bartender. “Talk about it, I mean. I want to talk about how you ended up secretly working for me and why you did it secretly, which we both know you did.”
“I already answered that. And can we agree work for you is a stretch?”
“No, we cannot.”
“Fine, Boss ,” I roll my eyes but his light up. His smile takes over the whole room in a seriously irritating way and I struggle to ignore it. “I needed a job in Juniper Falls. Mellman’s had the best offer.”
“Why’s that? And what do you do for me at Mellman’s?”
I stare him down about his choice of words but he just sits there, grinning. “Do you even really work for Clark Industries? Aren’t you just sort of a pretty face for the news?”
“You think I’m pretty?”
“Gross.”
He laughs but then his smile shrivels. He stares down into his glass and sighs, “I do have to work a bit actually, yeah.”
His whole body slumps in response to my jab.
Whoops! I actually upset the unupsettable man.
Sometimes I let my inner bitch flag fly a little hard.
“Sorry, I—”
“It’s alright, love, you were just saying what you’ve seen. I’m not exactly CEO material.” I wait, but he doesn’t go on.
I shake my head and straighten up on the stool. “I’m in accounting.”
“Aren’t you a savant of sorts? Like my brother, Emerson, the mighty CFO?”
I hesitate, “No.”
He inches closer to me, “Liar.”
I lift one shoulder, “I’m good with numbers. So are millions of other people.”
He studies me, just staring. Is he even blinking? This is making me feel twitchy. I’m not used to him being…attentive. Normally he’s busy making jokes, working a room, smiling and schmoozing.
“You’re leaving a good bit out,” he finally says. “More than a bit.”
“And you? What’s got a billionaire playboy almost running to the nearest liquor source?”
“I’ll need more of said source before we get into that.” He takes another big sip of scotch. “Why Juniper Falls?”
“My grandmother.”
He turns his body to face me, concerned. “She ill?” I nod. “I’m sorry.” Another sip. “And?”
“And what?”
“And you couldn’t work remotely at any of one of the fancy New York firms that would love to have you? Why are you slumming it at a mayo company?”
“You mean your growing condiments empire?” I smirk.
He laughs. It’s a big, free sound I’ve heard many times from afar.
Still, I like hearing it now up close, especially when he clearly needs it.
He’s acting normal but I can see the fatigue around his eyes, stress in his brow, defeat in his slumped shoulders.
I realize he’s staring again, waiting for my answer.
I lift my glass. “Need more of said source.”
“Then let’s bloody get some! Shots, barkeep!”
Benedict motions to some expensive liquor with two fingers. The bartender doesn’t even hide his surprise at the pricey order, which is saying something in Las Vegas. I’m about to ask what we’re drinking but the Man Made of Money inches closer to me.
“Now, let’s play twenty either-or questions and we drink every time we answer differently, yeah?”
“What!” I squeak, “No. I’ll be wasted in thirty seconds!”
He rolls his eyes, “Firstly, have some faith, woman. We both have impeccable taste. Second, I’ve ordered you another minty thing. We take a sip, not a shot.”
“Then what are the shots for?”
“To loosen you up. Come on!” he says, lifting his tiny glass. I groan but follow his lead, throwing back the fruity yet smooth alcohol. It definitely has a bite to it, but no burn. Interesting.
“Right. Beach or Mountains on the count of three. One, two, three…”
“Beach,” we both say.
He lifts an eyebrow. “See? Your turn.”
“Okay, uh, sweet or salty? One, two, three,”
“Sweet,” we both say again.
“I’ve a good one,” he says. “Movies or books? One, two, three, Movies.”
“Books,” I say. But he smiles wide, knowingly. So I add, “You just wanted us to drink.”
“Guilty,” he says into his beer. “Come, think of a good one now.”
I think for a beat, “Pancakes or waffles?”
“Pass, too easy, everyone likes pancakes better.”
My mouth drops open, “Everyone usually says waffles! But I always say they’re—”
“Too crunchy,” we say in unison.
“I suppose you’re on team undercooked cookie with me rather than overcooked?” he asks.
I snort, “Obviously.”
“Well, bollocks, we’re not drinking nearly fast enough. Big party or small gathering?”
“You’re cheating!” I smirk, “You can’t keep asking things you know my answer to.”
He sighs, “Fine.” He looks outside, then makes a face. “What’s worse, exposed toes or Crocs? One, two, three—”
Neither of us can answer.
He laughs, “Precisely. Too close to call. Just saw someone walk by in Crocs.”
“I mean I think that’s better than seeing someone’s toes? Maybe?”
“Then my answer was Crocs. Drink!”
I look out at the street also as I sip my drink and then ask, “Pick one: car, plane, train, or boat? One, two—”
“You mean to own?”
I glare at him. “You threw the question. No one owns planes, Boss.”
“I own two, but I’ll drink anyway,” he smiles into his drink.
“That’s not impressive to me, you know.”
He snorts, “I’ve gathered that.”
“And are they actually your planes or Daddy’s planes?”
“Dad has a few jets. I have two small planes I can fly myself,” he answers plainly, like that’s a normal sentence people say.
“You’re a pilot?”
His eyes do that twinkly thing, “Impressed now?”
“No,” I try to say but he’s onto me. “Okay, I mean, don’t you have to study for that and take tests and things?”
“And things. You think I can’t study? I did get a degree, you know.”
I lift a shoulder, “It’s hard to picture, you sitting and reading and, I don’t know, being serious.”
“Yes, well, it was a requirement in order to be able to impress women by telling them I’m a pilot.”
“Aaaaand there it is.”
He nudges me with his elbow. “Only joking. Mostly. I love the thrill of flying. My second plane is actually a Gamebird GB1.” I tilt my head, waiting for him to explain.
“A little sport job that flies loops, goes completely vertical, you know, tricks. I can do tricks,” he wags his eyebrows. “Required even more training.”
“Okay. I guess I’m a little impressed.”
“Bloody hell, finally!” He waves to the bartender. “Celebratory shots, please!”
Then he takes over firing off the questions.
We answer most of them the same, which at first I find surprising, but then I realize it’s probably the questions.
Everyone prefers fall over spring, morning over evening, would rather be accurate than fast, but would still pick super speed over other super powers, and would choose vanilla ice cream over chocolate, right?
Right.
I think.
I’m not sure how long we have been drinking.
Or how he is still coming up with questions.
Wait, what time is it?
And when was the last time I lost track of time?