Alex
I have to admit that Eric’s caveman routine was kind of hot. If anyone finds out how much I enjoyed the sight of a man defending me, I’ll have to turn in my lady-boss card.
I’m blaming that on the pregnancy hormones, too, I decide as we maneuver through the crowd. There’s a dance floor in the center of the action, where quite a few couples move together to the music of a four-piece band.
“I thought this would be a sausage fest,” Eric says, his hand still in mine. “Do all tech conferences have dancing?”
“No,” I tell him with a glance over my shoulder. “But most tech conferences are in Vegas. This one is special. The wives and husbands like to come along to this one.”
“Ah. So I’m not the only arm candy here?” He frees his hand from mine, only to place it on the small of my back.
“Nope.” But you’re the hottest, I privately add. My hormones are dancing the foxtrot even before that hand slides to my waist.
“Alex Engels! So nice to see you.”
The executive’s voice lifts me out of my reverie and reminds me that I’m here to network. I stop and turn. It would be rude not to greet the CFO of a gaming company and his golfing buddy, the venture capitalist.
I put on my Corporate Leader face and greet these men by name. “Arnie! Roger. Great to see you.” Names and faces have always come easily to me. “This is my boyfriend, Eric Bayer.”
It’s funny how the lie just rolls off my tongue.
“Are you in tech, Eric?” the head of SumoChip asks him.
“Not a chance,” he says easily. “I’m a forward for the Brooklyn Bruisers hockey team.”
It’s almost ridiculous how quickly their faces light up. “Great season!” Arnie gushes. “Shame about game seven.”
“Wasn’t it, though?” Eric says with a sigh.
Then the three of them pick apart the hockey playoffs season while I sip my drink and plot out what I want to say to the head of this convention.
“We’re boring Alex with this sports talk,” Roger says eventually.
“I do own a basketball team,” I remind him. “But hockey was never my favorite sport.”
Eric grabs his chest in a mock expression of horror.
“Until now, Honeybunch,” I add, to the amusement of the tech executives.
Eric gives me a wry grin and slips his arm around my waist. “Thin ice, cutie.”
The other men think that’s hilarious. But finally, we’re free of them. “You play the boyfriend role well,” I whisper as I lead him across the space.
“Nothing to it,” he says. “You’d almost think I’d been somebody’s boyfriend before.”
“I’m sure you have been.”
He gives his head a single shake. “Not often. Nobody wants a guy who travels as much as I do. Even if they say they do, they don’t.”
“I’m familiar with that problem myself.”
“I’ll bet you are.”
“Now who are we homing in on, here?” he asks quietly.
I glance at the group of men against the windows. Unfortunately, one of my own executives has joined the group. “The guy in the green tie is Trent Trainor. He runs this event, and I have some feedback that will be unwelcome.”
“Oh, brother. Will I need hazard pay for this?”
I pat his arm. “Nope. This time I get to do all the talking. The shorter man standing next to him is Peter Whitbread. He works for me.” He’s the general counsel and an old contemporary of my dad’s. Unfortunately, Peter is still pissed off that I’m CEO and he’s not.
“But you don’t like him,” Eric guesses.
“Is it that obvious? The feeling is mutual, too. Let’s get this over with.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I make my approach. “Evening, gentlemen.”
Four executives—all in their fifties—turn to me with polite smiles, each one a multi-millionaire, but each one slightly over the hill. These are the people who run tech conferences—the aging B team. Because the very sharpest minds in tech don’t have the time.
And now I’ve interrupted whatever boys’ club conversation they were enjoying—favorite golf courses or favorite titty bars. Take your pick.
“Good evening, Alexandra,” Trainor says. “We can’t wait to hear your speech on Friday night.”
“She’s going to knock your socks off, Trent,” Peter Whitbread says. “Such a smart girl.”
Girl! He couldn’t be more condescending even if he pinched me on the cheek. Even worse—it’s all intentional. He hates me, and never misses a chance to demean me.
At least once a week I fantasize about pushing him off the board of my company. But I never follow through because he is, unfortunately, useful. He’s been at Engels Cable Media for so long that he knows where all the bodies are buried.
“The speech is shipshape,” I say, holding my smile. I make eye contact with all the stuffed shirts in the circle. “I do have one question, however.”
“What’s that?” Trainor takes a deep drink of his scotch.
I pass my own glass to Eric, who takes it without comment, and I pull a sheet of paper out of my bag. “I was just looking over the program you put together. Sixteen panels, with fifty experts in total.”
“All the greatest minds in tech,” another man says.
“Don’t worry, I won’t miss your panel,” I say brightly. “But I do wonder how you’ve managed this.”
“Many calls, much begging,” Trainor says with a jowly grin.
“So, I guess all the women turned you down, then?” I pretend to scan the sheet. “All but two. Your panels are four percent women and six percent people of color. Lots of white guys made themselves available, though.”
Eric snorts beside me, but he doesn’t say a word.
Once again, heads are starting to turn. I guess it’s the night for making scenes.
“Mr. Trainor, I’ve been coming to this conference for five years.
But my firm won’t commit a single sponsorship dollar next year until I’ve read the panel lineup.
Peter here won’t be available for your golf foursome unless at least twenty percent of the speakers are women. ”
“Twenty percent?” Whitbread gasps.
“Now, Alex,” Trainor chuckles. “That’s a big number.”
“No, it isn’t.” Even though I’ve rehearsed this speech, my heart still races. “Twenty percent is laughably low. Once you realize that not all experts look exactly like you, I promise you’ll start spotting them everywhere.”
“But, Alex,” he sputters. “What about you? Your picture is on the front of the pamphlet!”
“I saw that. And I’m sure you remembered that I complained last year. You swore you were listening. So you invited me to give one of the keynotes. I get it. That’s a nice job of coopting your loudest critic. But it isn’t enough.”
People are staring now, but I keep my chin high.
“Until you actually change the things that need changing, this will be my last visit to Hawaii. And Peter’s, by the way.
I’ll stay home next year and celebrate your event by writing an Op Ed about your conference in the Wall Street Journal. You gentleman have a fun night.”
My pulse pounds in my ears as I turn. Eric pivots at exactly the same time I do, taking my arm and stepping casually away. I suppose professional athletes all have excellent timing. You’d have to.
It isn’t until we’re several paces away that I see he’s trying not to laugh.
“Shh,” I coach. “It’s not funny.”
“But you are quite funny.” He chuckles. “Kicking ass and taking names.” He puts both our empty glasses down on a high table and leads me a little further away from the men I just savaged.
“They had it coming.”
“I have no doubt.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t introduce you, but—”
“You were too busy swinging.” Eric halts, and I realize we’re right in the middle of the dance floor. Couples move slowly around us to the band’s Hawaiian-tinged jazz.
Smooth as silk, he takes my hand and slips it onto his shoulder. Then he tucks his hand onto my waist. He turns me slowly, stepping in time to the music.
“I’m not really a dancer,” I stammer, the adrenaline still coursing through my body.
“Well, I’m good enough for both of us,” he says in that smug tone that makes me either want to kill him or kiss him. “Besides, there were a couple of dudes making a beeline for you. To your left.”
My eyes dart to the side, and I see exactly who he means. They’re Jared Tatum’s two golf buddies. “Ugh. No. Those are the ex’s friends.”
“They didn’t look like fun to me either,” Eric says, his low voice vibrating in my chest as he turns me around. “So I took evasive maneuvers.”
“You are too slick for your own good.” I’m so close to him now. There was no alcohol in my drink, but I’m high on a blend of my own bravery and Eric’s clean, masculine scent. It’s a potent brew.
“Your ex’s pals are watching,” Eric whispers. He steps in closer and brushes a kiss across my cheek.
“What was that for?”
“So they won’t cut in. I’m not allowed to leave you alone. And three people slow-dancing together is just awkward.”
I laugh suddenly, picturing Eric wrapping his arms around me and another guy.
His response is to kiss me again with soft lips on my cheekbone. But this time, the kiss lingers.
My laughter dies in my throat, and goose bumps rise up on both arms. My bra suddenly feels too tight.
Good lord. My response to a kiss on the cheek is pretty extreme. If he kissed me for real, I’d probably combust.
Eric straightens again, piercing me with those gray eyes. Then they darken, as if he can read my reaction from my face.
I look away. But it’s too late. My cheeks are flushed, and my heart is galloping. Anyone who looks at me right now would know why. “Did they go away?” I croak, as if Jared’s friends are even the least bit interesting to me right now.
Eric doesn’t answer. I can feel the weight of his stare as he turns me in another slow circle.
I’m terribly aware of his hands on my body.
His thumb is stroking my palm, and the sensation makes my whole arm tingle.
And his other hand rides low at the small of my back, his pinky finger sliding down onto my bottom.
And I am made of shivers.
“Alex,” he whispers under his breath.
“Mmm, what?” I breathe.
The next kiss starts at my forehead, makes a brief touchdown on the bridge of my nose, and then slides confidently onto my mouth for a split second.
I whimper like a fool.
He chuckles, which is when I realize I’m being teased.
“What are you doing?” I whisper harshly.