Chapter Eighteen #2
“My father was… controlling. Exacting. Wanted everything his way. And no one and nothing was ever quite good enough. His father was the same.”
“Is that why you won’t let me divorce you? The trust?”
“No.”
“Why should I believe that?”
“Because even if you go through with proceedings, we would be divorced before the next five years. And as I said before, if the goal was simply ‘a wife,’ I’m sure I could find someone who has fewer… reservations.”
Okay.
Fine.
I guess that made sense.
“So, the house is just sitting empty?”
“There’s a fund to maintain it: staff, repairs, taxes. When I reach the parameters of the trust, all that will fall on me. Plus a sizable sum for renovations.”
“It’s not to your taste?”
“My father left it largely how my grandparents decorated it. Which was with a lot of brass and gold, dark woods, heavy drapery, and hideous carpets.”
“Sounds… gaudy.”
“That might be putting it kindly.”
“I don’t hate dark wood, though. I think I’d take that over all-white-everything like I see everywhere now.”
“I agree. It’s a Georgian Colonial mansion, so dark woods fit the original style. Just not so much of it.”
“Why do you want to live there if you were so unhappy there as a kid?”
His knife stilled, and his gaze cut to mine.
“It’s going to sound stupid.”
“Try me.”
“I want to raise a happy family there. It’s been two generations of miserable kids.”
Damn.
That was kind of sweet.
“You’d have to travel for work.”
“The company would be in such a position by then that it won’t need me to be present daily. And I wouldn’t get rid of the apartment. I think there are benefits to kids spending time in a big city: art, culture, walkability that allows for more independence.”
“Yeah, I’m a big fan of cities.”
“You seem to have fond memories of the suburbs too.”
“I did. I love my hometown. I just don’t plan on living on a farm or homestead. I get enough of that visiting family. So, you want kids?”
Why the hell was I asking?
“Yeah. Maybe not the litters that some of your family has, but more than one. Two seems like the right place.”
“They don’t outnumber you then.” I paused, then looked at him. “But they wouldn’t be lonely either.”
“You’re an only child.”
“True, but my family is… unconventional. I practically had two dozen siblings with how close we all were. Are.”
Harrison reached over, filling up the wine I hadn’t realized I’d already drained, then went back to his cooking.
I went back to the couch, opening one of the books I needed to read—a slasher erotica recommended by my crazy aunt—but I couldn’t focus on the words.
Clearly, I hadn’t thought this out as much as I had hoped.
Because, yes, my presence could, over time, start to nettle Harrison.
But proximity to him would also make me know him better. And, probably, like him better.
That wasn’t going to help the situation.
Neither, I decided after stuffing my face, was having him cook for me all the time going to help. Because his cooking was better than most things I’d ever eaten. Which was saying something with how much I’d traveled and sampled food around the world.
“Do you bake too?” I asked, even though I couldn’t fit another bite in if I tried.
“I don’t.”
“Why not?”
“Cooking is an… art. Baking is a science. I prefer being able to improvise and adjust things.”
“Well, you also live in a city with a ton of amazing bakeries, so why bother?”
“You never wanted to learn?”
“Baking? No. I mean, I decorated cookies and stuff when I was younger. And I show up and drink wine while the moms or cousins bake for the holidays. But it never called to me.”
“What did? Aside from cards. And ice skating. Poetry…”
I winced.
“I never really picked up on homey hobbies like cooking or baking. Or gardening. I do like reading. But other than that, I think most of the things I like involve travel. New places, new food, new experiences. I’ve always been… restless.”
“Have you ever considered that you are restless because you don’t have a home base to get comfortable in?”
“Maybe,” I agreed. My own family had been making that argument for years. “But my job also requires… movement.”
“Is it just cards?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you drawn to other high-stakes risk-taking, or is it only the game?”
“Like, what? Skydiving?”
“I was thinking more… stocks and investing.”
“Oh. Well, I mean… I’m invested. But I don’t actually handle that. I have a guy, and he does mostly low-risk investments for me. Building up a retirement kind of thing.”
“Would you be open to an experiment?” he asked, taking the plates and heading toward the kitchen.
“What kind of experiment?”
“I give you a hundred—”
“I don’t need your money.”
To that, he shot me a raised-brow look. “How about you hear me out before you decide?”
“Fine.”
“If I give you a hundred thousand to play with.”
“Play with?”
“In the market.”
“I don’t know anything about the market.”
“You can learn. It’s all just odds and research. With a healthy dose of good instincts. The same kind of thing you picked up on that made you good at poker.”
“You understand that you could be losing a hundred-thousand dollars.”
“Life is risk.”
“Said like someone who never had to worry about money.”
“Let’s not pretend that we are from such different worlds. True, we had very different upbringings, but you grew up with money too.”
He wasn’t wrong.
It wasn’t old, generational wealth. But we’d never struggled. The money was always there.
“I’m not looking at this like you’re throwing away money. I’m looking at it the way my family looked at handing me the business once they were gone. A gamble. Trust. A chance to prove oneself.”
“Why?”
“To humor me.”
“What’s in it for me?”
“Aside from whatever money you make?” he asked as he started to empty the dishwasher.
“Yeah.”
He paused, a mug in his hands, considering.
“If you can grow the initial investment by fifteen to twenty percent in under sixty days, I’ll sign your papers.”
I didn’t know a lot about trading. But fifteen to twenty percent seemed aggressive as hell.
But my poker brain leaned forward, already stacking chips. Because fifteen percent wasn’t impossible. And I was really good at beating odds.
“You’re on.”