43. Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Four
JULIAN
I’m staring down the center of a long chestnut-colored table as the board members of The Prince Foundation await the final decision.
I’d hired trusted men and women I’d met throughout my years of conducting art deals and attending dull business networking parties.
All except one person—the chairman of my foundation; Elise Bancroft, the second woman in my life who told me to run.
Most of the men were furious when I elected her, but they’re quiet now as she led the meeting with the finesse only a woman can carry.
There’s not a single person in the universe I trust more than her to help me run the foundation.
It takes someone who lived through it to truly understand what changes need to be made.
While this pursuit has helped fill a missing piece inside of me, I’d be lying if I said this is what I enjoyed doing.
I’d do anything to be outside the walls of this boardroom, but the big picture is what keeps me lounged in this stiff chair as I glance down at the open black folder set in front of me.
We’ve gone over the numbers at least twenty times now.
No matter how often they tell me we’re ready to take it to the registering level, I find myself hesitating.
I look at the numbers and I instantly want more.
Perhaps I’ve become greedy, but there’s this gut feeling I have that screams at me to do more—be more.
One state isn’t enough. I need it to be nationwide. Most importantly, I need it to work .
“Mr. Havord?” Elise pries, looking at me expectantly.
I give her a sharp look that has her fighting a smile because I told her to stop calling me that since the moment I hired her, but she refuses.
She tracked me down about seven years ago when she was fighting off a drug addiction.
She had no one else to turn to, and she happened to find me through some sketchy research conducted by a guy on Craigslist for fifty bucks.
She showed up at my door as nothing more than bone and bruised skin.
I helped get her into rehab and found her a place to stay.
She’s been clean ever since and a great friend.
I stare back at her in thought. “What do you think?” I ask, prepared to respect any opinion she shares. We spoke beforehand when she told me that it’s all right to start small and grow from there, but I’m afraid. No, terrified of failing in this.
“I think that the longer we wait, the longer they do, too.”
I glance around the table at each individual who found something in my foundation to believe in. I don’t want to fail them either. I’ve yet to hear anything back from Mr. Danielson, which would have been a game-changer in our funds, but I’m tired of waiting around and playing his game.
Besides, yesterday we received an incredibly generous donation from ballet legends, Adela and Thomas Kline.
It doesn’t take rocket science to know Andrea had something to do with it.
I’d have kissed her for it a hundred times if I wasn’t feeling the weight of a thousand rainstorms inside of me.
All my idiotic self could muster was cooking her dinner followed by a kiss on her head, and a “thank you.” I’m not used to people doing things for me—much less believing in me.
I’d thought my distance had been well played, but I’d begun to latch onto her disappointed silence like a hand caught around a throat.
When I only held her in the night, I knew she waited for me to make a move.
My bones turned to Jello at the thought, which is strange because I’m not someone who’s afraid of sex.
However, I’m beginning to learn that I may have a problem with intimacy and what it would mean if I went there with her.
It’s very different from what it has been for anyone else and my mind, body, and heart are struggling to cope with letting someone in completely.
I don’t know how to explain the war brewing inside of me without scaring her away. I want to love her, but I know I’ll do it wrong.
She’s the most precious thing I’ll ever hold and I’m afraid that if she wants me to let her go someday, I won’t be able to do it gently.
I rip people off like Band-Aids. My fear can cause anger to spew from my gut, leaving her to become nothing more than shattered on the line she’ll wish we never crossed.
And me, a black hole of wishing I would’ve said more but knowing I’ve only ever said enough.
Like a soft wisp of wind on a hot summer day, my mother’s words brush my skin.
You’re a Prince, Julian. Always remember that. It means something.
Sitting up, I close the folder. Dipping my chin, I say, “Set a meeting with the agency for after the new year. I want to begin as soon as possible.”
I POCKET MY PHONE as I walk up the wide cement path to the recreation center's front doors.
Carter tried calling me before my meeting, but I ignored it so I could stay focused.
I planned to call him back afterward, but after listening to his incredibly cryptic voicemail, I decided to track him down in person.
When I enter the building, a mixture of sweat and chlorine from the nearby pool hits my nostrils. He usually comes here to play basketball with a few of the regulars and to keep an eye on the up-and-coming athletes he’ll someday talk into signing with him.
Yells echo behind the gymnasium door as I approach.
“Hi Julian, how are you today?” the small black-haired woman sitting at the information desk asks.
I dip my chin, my steps not faltering. “Leticia,” I say in greeting. “I’m grand. Everything’s well with you?”
She nods quickly, beginning to stand from her chair before sitting back down. “Y-yes. Everything’s wonderful.”
The echoes grow louder as I push open the heavy metal door and enter the gym. Sneakers squeak across the shiny floor as a group of kids run back and forth, fighting over the ball. . .from Carter.
Crossing my arms, I lean against the wall and watch the whole ordeal with peaked amusement.
When Carter holds the ball above his head, the kids crowd around him as they jump and stretch out their arms to attain the unattainable. He even sticks his tongue out at one of them before shaking them off like a dog would mud.
“Open!” a young boy yells, carrying his height awkwardly as if he’s yet to settle into his lengthy limbs. His face tells me he’s no older than fourteen, but he’s got to be nearing six feet.
Carter tosses him the ball and with the ease of a professional player, he dribbles twice before jumping up to dunk it into the basket. He hangs onto the rim for a few seconds before dropping to his feet. Carter hoots his excitement before wandering over to clasp hands with him.
The rest of the kids grumble and kick the air. It was two against five, I slowly realize. My amusement builds as I watch my friend playfully poke fun at the kids by calling them all sore losers before they all attack him at once.
“Bullying children in your free time now, Westwood?” I ask as I approach the rowdy bunch. He looks over and surprise flashes across his face.
“All right, span out, you knuckleheads.” The kids ease off him and depart with smiles now firmly on their faces. Kids have always liked him. I think it’s mostly because he acts like them.
I can be stiff in the playful department and kids notice these things. It feels silly to dream of a day when I could be someone’s dad. It’s why I’ve only ever let it be a dream—nothing more. If I let it be more, then I’ll crack something that’s taken me years to repair.
No matter how many times I tell myself that I’ll never be my father, I can’t help but dismiss the thought that I could be anything but.
After dusting himself off, he scoops up the basketball at his feet and tucks it under his arm. “They sure gave me a run for my money. I think I’m getting old.” He stretches out his neck, wincing.
“You’re twenty-seven, not forty. ”
He nods, the corner of his mouth turning upward. “Yeah, or thirty-two.”
“Fuck off.”
Laughing, he wipes the sweat on his forehead with the hem of his shirt. “I need a favor.”
“No.”
He scowls. “What do you mean no ?”
I shrug. “I’m not helping you.”
“Why not?”
“You know how I feel about old jokes.”
He rolls his eyes. “Fine. I’m sorry. Want to hear a better one?”
I remain silent and give him an expectant look for him to go on, suspecting it’ll be anything but funny.
“A woman and a man step onto a yacht, but they don’t invite the person who loves yachts and a good party.”
“That’s a terrible joke,” I say dryly. “Where’s the punchline?”
He motions between us. “ We were supposed to go together. I’m the goddamn punchline, idiot.”
“That’s what your cryptic as fuck voicemail is about?” I ask in dismay, slightly annoyed for driving all the way here for nothing. Slightly less annoyed because Andrea is working, and I could use a distraction from my internal meltdown.
He scratches his jaw, brows furrowed. “What did it say?”
Sighing, I take out my phone from my pocket and pull up the recording to play on speaker.
Carter’s voice sounds from my phone. “We need to talk. Super important stuff.” There’s a huff.
“As you can probably hear, I’m upset, so if that means something to ya, you’ll be quick to get back to me.
You need to know something.” The sound of typing on a keyboard.
“Oh, and I have a surprise for you, but only if you’re nice to me. ”
The recording ends and I pocket my phone. “See?”
His mouth pulls down as he shakes his head. “Doesn’t sound that cryptic to me.”
“Can you please get to the point?” I ask, checking my watch. “Andrea will be home in two hours, and I’d really prefer this didn’t take that long.”
He scoffs. “There you go picking her over me again.”
Trying to hide both my exhaustion and amusement, I ask, “Where’s my surprise?”
“Uh-uh. I’m going to need a favor first.”
“Seriously?”
“Afraid so.”
Reluctantly, I ask, “Fine, what is it?”
“So—”