Chapter 2
HOW TO WEAR TOMATO JUICE (AND OTHER WARDROBE MALFUNCTIONS)
VICTOR
Three days ago, my lawyer called to inform me that my company’s acquisition terms needed revisiting.
Two days ago, my brother Alexei left me a voicemail. The first time he's attempted contact in three years. I deleted it without listening.
Yesterday, my publicist Rachel threatened to quit unless I "stop being such a colossal asshole to the press."
And today? Today I'm wearing tomato juice.
I rub my temples.
This is what I get for flying commercial.
My buddy Christian offered me the jet. Again. I declined. Again.
Because I am not my father. Or fucking Alexei.
Because though the company I own technically has one, private jets reek of ego and corruption and gold-plated faucets.
And because somewhere in the annals of my moral framework, I decided my company StreamEats would rise without pretense—even if it meant flying on a commercial flight and getting tomato-juiced by a rogue passenger.
My dry-cleaner is going to have questions.
And I decidedly am going to have Scotch as recompense.
"I really am sorry," the brunette sitting beside me says again, fidgeting with the baby wipe in her hand. "I genuinely thought I could catch it. I played volleyball in high school. JV. Obviously not well."
I glance down at my ruined Armani shirt now sporting what looks like a Jackson Pollock interpretation.
"It's fine," I lie.
"It's really not." She's still clutching the baby wipe. "But I appreciate the gentlemanly deflection."
I unbutton my suit jacket and drape it over the seat divider, then start working on my shirt cuffs. The juice has soaked through to my forearms, sticky and uncomfortably warm.
She watches me roll up my sleeves, her eyes tracking the movement.
"So," she exhales. "Business or pleasure?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Vegas. Are you going for business or pleasure?" She pauses. "Please don't say pleasure. You're wearing a suit to Vegas. That screams 'mandatory conference' or 'witness protection.'"
I feel the corner of my mouth twitch, thinking about the company I’ve built—a food media conglomerate, really.
A Harvard MBA project idea, fifteen years in the making, now valued at 8.7 billion dollars. And at my now interesting age of thirty-eight, it’s sure to be the only baby I’ll ever have. Or need.
Business," I confirm at last. "Acquisition meeting."
"Ah. So you're either buying a casino or selling your soul to one."
"The former—and it’s not a casino. Though some would argue there's little difference."
She laughs, an unguarded and slightly too loud sound that reminds me of my Babushka.
It’d be a pleasant comparison—if my Russian grandmother hadn’t been on my case for months about my "frozen heart" and how I need to "stop being stubborn mule like your svoloch father."
"I'm going for pleasure," she volunteers. "Well, 'pleasure' in the sisterly obligation sense. My baby sister's bachelorette party. Which I was supposed to arrive at three hours ago, but…the subway had other plans."
"The subway?”
“Yes. I—There was a naked man situation.”
“Interesting.”
“What do you mean ‘interesting’?”
"It's not every day someone opens with public nudity as a conversation starter."
"Fair point." She finally puts down the baby wipe, tucking it into her tote bag, hazel eyes lifting. "Anyway, Amelia—that's my sister—is getting married in six weeks or so to the world's sweetest Finance Bro. Like, aggressively sweet. He sends her good morning texts with sunrise emojis.”
"Finance bro," I repeat, thinking of my days at Harvard Business School with my best buddies Christian and Roman. Days I wish I could get back on a week like this one.
I raise my hand, and the flight attendant finds me, depositing our orders—a scotch for me. A glass of red wine for my current aisle partner.
“Let me guess.” I reach for the scotch, taking a slow sip. “This fiancé of hers works in private equity, wears Patagonia vests, talks about market disruption?"
"Close. Venture capital. But yes to the vest. Multiple vests. He has a vest collection." She shakes her head, smiling. "But he makes her happy, so I'm legally required to love him."
Makes her happy.
As if that's the only requirement that matters.
As if love isn't something that can be weaponized by the people who are supposed to care about you most.
When the attendant leaves, the tomato juicer herself turns to me. “She hates me.”
“Who?”
“The flight attendant.” She eyes the wine on her seat tray. “She probably spit in my drink.”
“An over exaggeration, I’m sure. If anyone was going to ‘flavor’ your drink, it would be me.”
“Seriously?”
“You tackled me and bathed me in tomato juice. If I were a lesser man, those would be fighting actions.”
"True." She grins. "Though technically you rescued me from the bathroom Gestapo, so maybe we're even?"
"I wouldn't say even. My shirt cost two thousand dollars."
She chokes on air. "Two thousand—Jesus Christ. For a shirt?"
"Custom tailored. Italian cotton. One hundred and eighty thread count."
"That's insane. You know what I could do with two thousand dollars?"
"Enlighten me."
"Pay my student loans for a month. Buy a decent used car. Fund my entire wardrobe for a year." She pauses. "Okay, that last one's an exaggeration. But still. A shirt."
"Would it help if I told you I have twelve of them?"
"Oh my God." She covers her face with her hands. "You're that guy."
"What guy?"
"The guy who has twelve of the same expensive shirt. Like a cartoon character. Do you also have a walk-in closet organized by color?"
I take a sip of my scotch. "By season, actually."
She stares at me, then laughs again—that same unfiltered laugh that does something unfortunate to my pulse.
Something I haven't felt since before Isabelle.
Since before I learned that everyone has an angle, that every genuine moment might be performance.
"You're messing with me,” she adds.
"Am I?"
"I can't tell. You have an excellent poker face." She takes a measured sip of her drink, letting out a small moan that makes my jaw tighten. "Oh. Oh, this is really good."
"Chateau Margaux generally is."
"Okay, Mr. Twelve Expensive Shirts. Since we're apparently seat-mates for the next several hours, maybe we should introduce ourselves? I'm Harper."
She extends her hand—the same hand that recently assaulted me with tomato juice—and I take it.
Her handshake is firm.
"Vic."
"Vic," she repeats. "That's very... distinguished. It fits you.”
“Fits me?”
"You know. The hair. The jaw. The general aura of controlled intensity." She takes another sip of wine, her cheeks flushing slightly. "I'm going to stop talking now before I accidentally compliment you again."
"Too late."
"Dammit."
Before I can respond, my phone vibrates. I pull it from my pocket and see Rachel's name on the screen—my publicist, texting for the third time today.
Rachel Stone: The press release needs your approval before 6 PM. Also, your brother called the office again.
My jaw tightens.
I silence the phone and set it face-down on the armrest.
"Everything okay?" Harper asks.
"Just work."
"On a Saturday?"
"Business doesn't respect weekends." Neither does estranged family, apparently. "Neither do people who refuse to accept that some doors are permanently closed."
She's quiet for a moment, scanning my face. “I know what you mean. I’ve…had to close a door myself this week.”She raises her wine glass. "To us. The formerly optimistic."
I lift my scotch and tap it against her glass. "To surviving."
"And learning better."
"And twelve expensive shirts."
She laughs again, and I realize I've been trying to make her laugh.
When was the last time I tried to make someone laugh?
The next few hours fly by in a blur.
We talk.
About her sister's wedding, mostly, and her sister’s fiancé Declan. About her mother who calls too much with worries about money. About the apartment she can barely afford in Brooklyn.
And I listen. Talking intimately with strangers have never exactly been my strong suit.
But I damn sure know when to shut up and take things in.
"Can I ask you something?" Harper asks suddenly, smoothing hands over hair the color of caramel.
“You've been asking me things for two hours."
“You haven’t answered any of them, but…fair. This one's more... personal."
"Go ahead."
"Why did you let me sit here? You clearly booked both seats to avoid exactly this situation. You could have said no when the flight attendant asked."
I consider the question, consider all the practical answers I could give.
The truth is more complicated.
The truth is that when I looked at her—tomato juice dripping down my chest, this woman apologizing with her whole body, clearly having the worst day—I saw something I recognized.
Someone who needed a win. Any win.
"You looked like you needed some grace today,” I say finally.
Her expression softens. "I did. I really did. Still. Thank you." She reaches out and briefly touches my forearm—just a light pressure of her fingertips, gone before I can fully register it.
But I feel it.
The warmth of her touch. The scent of her skin—white roses and something deeper. Something decadent.
Something that makes my skin heat and slacks tighten.
"This has been the best part of my day," Harper says. "Possibly my week."
"Mine too."
I grit my teeth and try to push away the heat still humming under my skin. But we’re still looking at each other when the pilot's voice crackles over the intercom.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we've begun our descent into Las Vegas. Please return your seats to their upright positions and ensure your seatbelts are fastened."
The spell breaks, and Harper straightens, checking her seatbelt. Through the window, Vegas sprawls below us—a colorful explosion of hotels and clubs and casinos against the desert, even in the late afternoon sun.
My phone buzzes again. This time it's a call.
Rachel Stone. My publicist.
I answer.
"Kade."
"Finally. Jesus, Victor, I've been trying to reach you for hours." Rachel's voice is sharp with stress. "We have a situation."
"What kind of situation?"
Harper glances at me, then politely looks away, suddenly fascinated by the seatback pocket in front of her.
"The Times got wind of the CulinaryVision acquisition. They're running a story tomorrow unless we give them a statement tonight. And your brother called the office again. Alexei. He says it's urgent."
Everything goes cold.
"I don't care what Alexei says. I don't care if the building is on fire. You do not put him through."
"Victor—"
"Ever, Rachel. We've had this conversation."
She’s silent for a beat. “I’ll handle it.”
“Good.” My voice comes out hard. "What time's the call with legal and PR?"
"Five-thirty. Can you make it to your hotel by then?"
I check my watch. "Yes."
"Good. Don't be late. And Victor? Try to sound less like you want to set everything on fire when you talk to the press."
She hangs up, and I lower the phone, jaw tight, finding Harper watching me with careful eyes.
"That sounded intense," she says quietly.
“It was.”
The plane touches down with a slight jolt. Around us, passengers immediately reach for their phones and overhead bins, but Harper stays still.
"I should let you go," she says. "Sounds like you have a lot to deal with."
But the seatbelt sign is already off, and people are flooding the aisles.
I stand, grabbing my briefcase, helping Harper to retrieve her tote bag before we shuffle toward the exit with everyone else.
At the gate, she turns to me—and once again, I’m acutely aware of how gorgeous this woman is. How full her pink mouth is, how silky her skin looks, how bright her hazel eyes are as they scan over me.
"Thanks again. For everything. The seat, the wine, listening to my gripes.” She hesitates. "Good luck with your acquisition. And your... whatever that call was about. I hope it's nothing serious."
My phone buzzes. Another text from Rachel.
I’m distracted from it when Harper’s gaze meets mine again.
"Goodbye, Victor,” she says with a nod.
My heart dances inside my throat. “Just a sec—“
But she’s already turning on her heel. Over her shoulder, she flashes one last shy smile before disappearing into the crowd.
I’d follow. But my phone is already buzzing insanely again.
So, I do what I always do.
My pulse skittering inside my veins, I answer it, slipping back into business mode—the only mode I have these days.