Chapter Twenty-One
Max
A TSA line the day before Thanksgiving might be shorter than the one at Hubby & Wifey, a small mom-and-pop café three blocks from the office.
People come here not just for the amazing coffee but for their killer pastries.
Even the air seems full of caffeine and sugar.
My brain perks up a little at the possibility of more caffeine as I suck in the yummy smell and try to count how many people are ahead of me.
Despite the baristas behind the counter zipping back and forth like bees, it’ll be at least half an hour before I can get the coffee and Danish for Rhys.
Not sure why he was so specific. He likes H&W coffee, but usually doesn’t bother in the morning because of the wait time.
Not to mention that RF Investment’s breakroom has an amazing selection of different coffees and snacks.
Rhys and Finn don’t skimp on stimulants for the employees.
“Good morning, Ms. Loomer.”
I freeze, then lift my head for a quick look at the man who just spoke. He was probably talking to somebody else—
Except he’s staring at me, hazel eyes bright and golden hair slicked back, his smile pleasantly confident with just a hint of arrogance.
Probably in his late twenties, he has even features and a trim body.
The thousand-dollar navy suit says a lawyer or an accountant.
Or maybe a stalker with nothing better to do, because he’s holding a cup bearing the H&W logo, so he’s been here for a while.
“Well, well, so it is you. Can’t believe my luck. You’re a difficult woman to track down.”
There’s a zealous gleam in his eyes, and the way he’s staring makes me feel like some kind of prey.
“Today’s your lucky day,” he adds pompously, his eyes searching my face for a reaction.
My ass. If it were, I wouldn’t be referred to as Ms. Loomer. “Who are you and what do you want?” My tone is frosty.
“My name is Don Wellington.” He sticks out a hand, which I ignore. Undeterred, he continues, “An attorney from Highsmith, Dickson and Associates.”
“High-strung Dicks,” I mutter. My wariness goes up another three notches. Highsmith, Dickson is one of the largest and most prestigious law firms in the country.
“What?”
“Nothing. Your mother must be proud,” I say blandly. What does this five-hundred-dollar-an-hour asshole want?
His smile grows brighter. “Yes, she is. Anyway, I’m representing your father, Mr. Trevor Loomer.”
I narrow my eyes. Why is that bottom feeder haunting me still? “Did he die since we ran into each other?”
“What?” An awkward laugh. “Oh, no… No, he didn’t.”
“Too bad.”
Don regards me for a second, maybe trying to figure out if I’m joking. “Ms. Loomer—”
“Not my name. Guess the philandering jerkface you’re representing didn’t tell you that, did he?” This line is way too long. I pull out my phone, not wanting to stay and be harassed by Lucifer’s lawyer. Rhys pays me well, but not well enough to compensate for damage to my soul.
–Me: The line here is ridiculous. It’ll be an hour before I can bring you your coffee. Cappuccino from the breakroom would be faster, and taste almost as good.
I stare at the screen, willing him to respond, but nothing. Should I have embellished a bit? Told him it would be two hours before he gets his precious coffee and Danish? The dark cherry Danishes here are amazing, but not worth two hours of my time.
Don keeps talking, probably to jack up his billable hours. “Your father is planning to name you his heir.”
I look at him like he’s a donkey that happens to speak some English. Is this some weird taunt from Trevor, more along the lines of all those jabs about how I could’ve had a luxe life? “Not interested.” Come on, Rhys.
“His sole heir, Ms. Loomer. We’re talking an estate worth over two billion dollars.”
That makes me lift my eyes from the phone.
Disgust swells in my belly. “The name is Max Norman. You’d know that if you actually did your homework, rather than going by whatever Trevor told you.
As for my being his sole heir—what happened?
Didn’t his home wrecker wife bear him a precious penis-having heir to carry on his legacy? ”
“There was a problem with…the paternity,” Don explains, keeping his tone diplomatic.
I blink, too shocked to come back with something clever. It takes a minute before the gears in my head start turning again. Of all the possibilities, that one never occurred to me.
I let out my first genuine laugh since Tokyo. No wonder Trevor isn’t here in person. He’s too furious and embarrassed to face me. “I always knew I liked that bitch. Karma, I mean. Not the home wrecker.”
Don gives me a baleful look for a moment, then resumes speaking. “Your father is ready to leave you everything so long as you take on his name and acknowledge that the unfortunate separation between your mother and Mr. Loomer was just a misunderstanding.”
That kills my good mood. “You mean he wants me to publicly announce that Mom was too narrow-minded and petty to be magnanimous about ‘a mistake every man makes’?” That was what Trevor told Mom during one of their nastiest arguments.
The words didn’t mean much to a five-year-old child, but now I understand them all too well—and despise him for it.
“He wants me to repudiate Mom? To say that she was wrong to leave a man who later became a huge success over a nothingburger, then act resentful that she ‘denied’ me all the luxuries and advantages I could’ve had? ”
Don looks slightly pained. “Not repudiate. Understand and accept.”
“If you were in my shoes, would you do it?”
“It’s really not for me to say. After all, I’m not in your shoes.”
I make a come on gesture with my fingers. “Use your imagination.”
He sighs. “It’s two billion dollars. And—unfortunate as the fact is—your mother is no longer alive.”
“Uh-huh. Well, nice to know there’s a price tag on your dignity—and you don’t mind disrespecting your mother, especially after she passes away.
But not me. I’m making my own money. And living happily on my own.
He could’ve been a good father and husband—you know, actual family—but he threw it all away because he couldn’t keep his joystick where it belonged. Too late for regrets now.”
“He wants to make amends.” Don makes it sound like I’m being unreasonable.
“With conditions.” I fake-smile. “How sweetly controlling of him. Tell him to donate the money.”
“Do you have any specific charity in mind? Not that it’d stop him from wanting to preserve his legacy and make you his heir—”
“Is there a Fuck Trevor Society around? I’m sure there must be.”
Don shoots me a cold stare. “That’s juvenile.”
I bare my teeth. “So sue me.”
Finally, the guy in front of me places his order.
Ignoring Don, I walk up to the perky barista and smile into her bright brown eyes.
Unlike me, she’s probably had at least seven hours of sleep in her own bed and a great cup of coffee.
And she doesn’t have a stalkerish attorney pestering her.
Or a sperm donor acting like he wants to be more because, in his worldview, money should be enough to compensate for all the pain he’s caused.
“The most expensive and time-consuming coffee you have, in the largest size available,” I say.
The smile on her face falters a little. To ensure she doesn’t think I’m a freak, I add, “Also, a regular iced Americano and two dark cherry Danishes. All to go.” I swipe Rhys’s card.
I take the receipt, then glare at the phone screen. Still no response from Rhys. Not that it matters at this point.
Don, of course, is still right behind me. “You’re a smart woman. Use your imagination. There are so many things you can do with the inheritance.” He throws my words back in my face, speaking faster, since he knows his time’s almost up.
“Do you know why I studied hard and stuck to my plans?”
“I’m sure it’s because you’ve inherited many of the traits that made your father so successful.”
“Man…you really can be bought. Anyway, tell Trevor the answer’s no.
I don’t want to be at somebody’s mercy or suffer disrespect.
Trevor thinks I’ll do anything for material gratification because that’s the kind of person he is.
But I don’t need billions to be happy. My job pays well. I have—and enjoy—a fulfilling career.”
A barista pushes two cups of coffee and a bag of Danishes in my direction.
I nod my thanks, then turn to Don, ready to end this conversation. “Tell Trevor he needs to do better if he wants to ‘make amends.’”
“How?”
“Kneeling in front of Mom’s grave and begging for her forgiveness would be a good start. Make sure he films it and puts it up on YouTube.”
I stride out of the café with my order, leaving the slack-jawed lawyer behind. Guess he couldn’t believe a couple of billion bucks wasn’t persuasive enough. To be honest, even if Trevor did make that video, I still wouldn’t consider him a father. It’s too little—and much, much too late.
Up ahead, a soaring steel-and-glass column glitters.
RF Investment takes up the top two floors.
Some people think the design is a kind of male overcompensation.
But the architect was a woman, and RF Investment doesn’t need to compensate for anything.
Its overwhelming success and track record speak for themselves.
As I step inside the enormous lobby, decked out with polished marble and crystal with an ornate, giant clock in the center, the uniformed security guard nods at me. “Morning, Charlie,” I say with a smile.
“Morning, Max.” As his eyes crinkle, the white scar at his temple stands out more starkly. Some might be self-conscious about it, but not him. He sports a buzzcut, which almost shows off the jagged line. Nothing seems to disturb his calm, which is what makes him good at his job.
As I scan my employee badge at a turnstile, he lowers his voice. “Just so you know, Auric’s here.”
Oh, no. “Seriously?”
“His wife, too,” Charlie adds, like Auric isn’t bad enough. “And they brought a guest.”
“Who?”