8. Nolan
EIGHT
NOLAN
She was waiting at the door.
I saw her through the glass before I reached the steps — gold fabric, dark curls pinned up with a few left loose at her temples, bare shoulders catching the porch light. She opened the door before I could knock, grabbed my lapel, and pulled me inside.
"You're late."
"I'm three minutes early."
"For normal people, that's late. For my father, that's an insult.
" She adjusted my collar with both hands, smoothed the fabric, and straightened the line where it met my jacket.
Her fingers moved with the ease of a woman who'd decided this man was hers.
She rose on her toes and kissed me. Quick, warm, her lips tasting like champagne and the vanilla lip gloss she wore.
My hand found the small of her back. She took my hand and pulled me down the hallway.
The Lattimore house opened around me. Wide marble foyer, staircase curving to the second level. A hallway to the left — Hugh's private study. The door was closed. An Impressionist original hung above the console table. I squeezed Soleil's hand. Smiled when she looked back.
The living room buzzed with forty-five guests — hardly intimate.
Candles flickered everywhere, a string quartet battling laughter and clinking glasses as waiters threaded through with champagne trays.
Camille held court by the fireplace in white silk, her untouched flute a mere prop.
Bianca leaned in close in emerald, whispering something that made Dominique stifle a laugh.
Sloane scrutinized a distant painting like a critic gearing up for a loud takedown.
Petra stood apart, quietly observing — watching was safer than joining.
Soleil pulled me through the crowd, pausing to accept kisses and birthday wishes, squeezing hands, laughing when someone complimented her dress. A waiter passed, and she snagged two glasses of champagne without breaking stride, handing one to me.
A woman with a dark bob leaned against the bar, watching us approach. Margaux. Her eyes moved from Soleil to me, and she took a slow sip of her drink.
"So you're the one who's been making my boss useless," she said when we stopped in front of her. Her handshake was firm. Her smile didn't reach her eyes.
"Margaux," Soleil warned.
"I'm being friendly." Her gaze held mine. "It's nice to finally meet the man behind the disappearing acts."
I held her grip an extra beat. "Likewise."
She released my hand and picked up her glass. Her eyes followed me as Soleil steered us toward the dining room. I filed her — the one person in the room who wasn't performing.
"Nolan!"
I turned. Rhys was crossing the room toward us, a glass of whiskey in one hand, his other hand already extended. Charcoal suit, tailored to perfection. Hair pushed back. The golden-boy smile was deployed at full wattage.
"So you're the mystery man." His handshake was strong, his eye contact easy. "Rhys Lattimore."
"Nolan Reeves."
His hand went slack. The grip didn't release. It loosened, his fingers going soft for a fraction of a second, like the fist of someone who's just taken a blow they didn't see coming. His smile held, but his eyes emptied. The color drained from his face, the blood moving somewhere else.
"Reeves," he repeated. He said it slowly, like he was turning the word over in his mouth, checking it for edges.
"That's right."
He blinked. Once, twice. His smile reset, but his hand left mine too quickly, and when he reached for his whiskey, his fingers fumbled the glass. A splash of amber hit the tablecloth. He laughed it off, dabbing the spot with his napkin, shaking his head.
"Clumsy tonight." He tossed the napkin on the table. "I should — I need to say hello to Gerald. Excuse me."
He turned and walked toward the bar. Not toward Gerald. Toward the bar. He caught the bartender's eye before he was halfway there, two fingers raised, and a fresh whiskey was in his hand before he'd fully arrived.
Soleil watched him go, a crease forming between her brows. "That was weird."
"Maybe he's just had a long week," I said.
The crease smoothed. She slipped her hand into mine. "Come on. Daddy's been asking about you."
The crowd parted around us as she led me toward the back of the room.
A waiter stepped aside. A woman in pearls touched Soleil's shoulder and wished her happy birthday.
A man I didn't recognize raised his glass in our direction.
The room moved with bodies shifting, laughter swelling, and the quartet switching to a slower piece.
Through it all, Soleil pulled me forward like a current.
Hugh Lattimore stood beside the fireplace with a glass of champagne and the posture of a man who owned the mantel, the fire, and every brick in the chimney.
Silver hair swept back. Navy suit. White shirt.
A pocket square in muted gold. He was shorter than I expected — 5 ft 10 in, maybe — but he filled the space with gravity.
He turned when we approached. His eyes landed on me, and he set his champagne on the mantel.
"So you're the man my daughter's been hiding from me." He extended his hand.
I took it. His grip was firm, dry, measured. His eyes held mine. Warm on the surface. Underneath, machinery.
"It's a pleasure, Mr. Lattimore." My voice was steady. My pulse was not. Fifteen years. This hand. This man.
"Hugh, please." He didn't release immediately. He held an extra beat, his thumb pressing against my knuckle, a gesture that looked like warmth and felt like a weigh-in. "Soleil tells me you're self-made."
"Working class. My mother was a nurse. My father drove a delivery truck."
Hugh nodded. His thumb moved to the stem of his champagne glass, turning it in a slow rotation. "And the Vanguard. You and Declan Hale. How long?"
"Since the beginning."
"Partnerships that last. That's rare." He picked up his glass and sipped. "Reeves." He turned the name over — slowly, testing the weight. "Not a name I come across. Where's your family from?"
Behind my ribs, a twenty-two-year-old was screaming. "Georgia. My father's side."
"Georgia." His eyes crinkled, then narrowed quickly, barely there, before crinkling again. "Who'd you train under? Before Hale?"
The question wore curiosity like a suit. Underneath, a background check. I gave him a legitimate, verifiable name. Hugh filed it behind the smile.
A man appeared at Hugh's elbow — late 60s, silver-haired, the particular bearing of old money and older loyalty. Hugh's hand found my shoulder.
"Gerald, meet Soleil's young man. He's Vanguard." The introduction was casual and warm, like a father showing off his daughter's boyfriend. Gerald Ashworth, a Lattimore Holdings board member and a regulatory connection, had been loyal to Hugh for twenty years.
His handshake was dry, his eyes sharp.
"The Vanguard's acquisition model is impressive," Gerald said. "The Alderton restructuring in particular."
"We believe in precision."
"I can see that." He smiled. Hugh smiled. The three of us stood in a circle of candlelight while I mapped the room over their shoulders.
Hugh squeezed my shoulder. "We should talk properly. Come by the office next week. I'd like to understand what you're building."
The door. Fifteen years. Swinging open because the patriarch's daughter held my hand at her birthday dinner.
"I'd like that," I said.
Dinner filled the long table. White linen, too much silverware, candles reflected in crystal. I sat beside Soleil. Hugh was at the head. Rhys to his right — his third drink in front of him, his collar loosened, his laughter coming louder than the jokes required.
Soleil's hand found my thigh under the table. Her fingers rested there, warm through the fabric. She leaned close. "He likes you." Her breath against my ear. "I can tell."
I turned my head. Her face was inches away. "How?"
"The office invitation. He doesn't do that." Her thumb traced a circle on my thigh. "That's his red carpet."
I covered her hand with mine. Her fingers laced through. We stayed that way beneath the linen while Camille told a story about a yacht in Capri, Bianca interrupted to correct the name of the restaurant, and Dominique reached across Sloane for the bread basket.
Across the table, Rhys refilled his wine. His hand was unsteady on the bottle. A few drops hit the tablecloth. Hugh's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Camille was telling a story about a friend's wedding in Santorini, and the table was laughing, and Rhys was pouring again.
Camille turned to him, her chin resting on her hand. "Rhys, when are we going to see you at one of these things with someone on your arm? You're the most eligible bachelor in this room, and it's honestly a waste."
Rhys lifted his glass. "Still looking. The Lattimore name scares them off."
Laughter. Bianca raised her glass. Dominique shook her head.
I leaned forward, my arm resting on the table. "No one special?" I kept my voice light. Easy. "A man like you — I'd have thought you'd been in love at least once."
His glass stopped halfway to his mouth. The smile held, but the machinery behind his eyes seized. His jaw set for half a second. Then the grin returned, wider than before.
"Once." He took a drink. A long one. "Didn't work out."
He set the glass down and signaled the waiter for another bottle. Soleil laughed and pivoted to the dessert menu. The moment passed. Rhys drank. I filed it.
The clinking came without warning. A spoon against crystal, sharp, uneven. Rhys was on his feet, swaying, one hand white-knuckled on the back of his chair. His wine glass tilted in the other hand, the liquid rocking close to the rim.
"To my little sister." His voice was thick, the consonants blurring. He raised the glass higher. Wine splashed onto his wrist. He didn't notice. "The best person at this table. The best person in any room she walks into."
The table quieted. Camille's smile tightened. Hugh's champagne paused halfway to his lips.