Chapter 7
CASH
Icould see the wheels turning in Cleo’s pretty head.
When Austin invited me out for the weekend, I did not anticipate I would be having a brutally honest conversation with Melody’s assistant. All of my interactions with her had been like chewing on sand.
But not tonight. Standing there on the balcony with moonlight washing over her features, she was more than pretty.
She was striking. The kind of beautiful that didn’t fit into conventional boxes.
Her beauty was layered. The more you looked, the more you saw.
She was unpolished and raw and in your face in the best way.
I was surprised by how badly I wanted to know what she was thinking about. How badly I wanted to know what went on inside that head of hers. I just always assumed it was something like dueling natural disasters, but I could see that it was more than that.
“I should probably call it a night,” she murmured.
Cleo the Chaotic was running away. She had gotten real and deep and now she was retreating. I felt like we had just cracked her shell and I wasn’t about to stop now. I hadn’t gotten my fill of her yet.
“Stay,” I heard myself say.
She blinked at me, clearly not expecting that. “What?”
“Stay. Help me finish that bottle.” I gestured back toward the sitting area inside. “Tell me about the storm in your head.”
“There’s no storm.”
“I don’t believe you.”
She scowled. “I’m fine. I’ve already overshared enough for one night. You don’t need to hear more of my existential crisis.”
“What if I want to?”
That stopped her. She stared at me like I’d just spoken in a foreign language, and maybe I had. This wasn’t like me, but she had piqued my curiosity. And my sympathy.
“Why?” she asked, her voice suspicious.
Good question. Why did I care? Why did it matter if Cleo Quinn went back to her room or stayed there with me?
“Because I think you need to talk about it. And I think you need someone who isn’t Melody to hear it.”
She stared at me. I could see her weighing her options. Flight or fight. Retreat or advance. What was my ulterior motive? That was her real concern.
Finally, she sighed. “Fine. Then top me off.”
We moved back inside. I grabbed the bottle from where I’d left it and refilled both our glasses. I settled back into my chair while Cleo curled up in hers, tucking her legs underneath her in a way that should have looked uncomfortable but somehow seemed natural.
“So,” I prompted. “What would you do if you weren’t working with Melody?”
She took a long sip of her drink, clearly gathering courage. “I have big dreams.”
“Obviously.”
“No, I mean big dreams. Like, empire-building dreams. Like Bancroft-empire size dreams. I want to create something that helps women find their ‘thing’ and realize their potential. A platform, maybe. Or working as a consultant. I haven’t figured out the exact structure yet, but the vision is there.”
As she talked, she became more animated, more alive. Her hands started moving, gesturing to emphasize points. Her eyes got wide when she was excited about a particular aspect of her vision. Even her voice changed. It was downright adorable.
“I’m thinking about women who feel stuck,” she continued, the words coming faster now.
“Women who have the talent and the drive but don’t know how to channel it.
Or they’re afraid to try. Or they’ve been told their dreams are too big, too impractical, or just too much.
I want to be the person who tells them fuck that noise. Oops. Sorry. Alcohol. Loose lips.”
“Don’t apologize for cursing. I’ve heard worse.”
She grinned. “My point is, I want to tell people their dreams are valid. Their ambitions matter. And give them a roadmap to help them get there.”
I found myself leaning forward too, caught up in her enthusiasm. “That’s a solid concept. Have you thought about the business model? Subscription-based coaching? One-on-one consulting? Group programs?”
“All of the above, probably. I want multiple tiers so it’s accessible to different income levels. And I want a strong social media presence. Obviously, that’s my wheelhouse. Build a community first, then monetize strategically.”
“Smart.”
She was practically glowing then. I realized this might have been the first time I was seeing the real Cleo.
Not the sarcastic assistant who deflected with humor.
Not the defensive woman who acted like she didn’t care what anyone thought.
This was Cleo with her walls down, talking about something she was genuinely passionate about.
She didn’t hate me. Not right then, at least. She was leaning in, making eye contact. I felt like her friend. So this was what Melody was holding on to so tightly.
I understood it. Cleo in your corner would be like having the entire Avenger squad at your back.
But she still hated me, right? She must. One night with a buzz of prosecco and new baby news wasn’t going to change months of mutual antagonism.
Was it?
“The problem is,” Cleo said with a heavy sigh, “I’m afraid of embarking on my own and letting Melody down.
We have big plans this year for her brand.
And I’m already brainstorming a maternity line for her.
The pregnancy is going to be such great content—bump progression, nursery design, maternity fashion. I’ve got a whole strategy mapped out.”
And there it was. The heart of her conflict.
“That’s exactly the kind of thing you have to stop doing,” I told her.
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Let Melody come up with her own ideas and execute them. She’s capable. She doesn’t need you to do all her thinking for her.”
“I’m not doing all her thinking.”
“Aren’t you?” I kept my voice gentle, but I needed her to hear this. “You just said you’re already brainstorming her maternity line. Did she ask you to? Or did you just automatically start planning her future for her?”
Cleo opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. “She doesn’t have to ask. I know what she needs. I’ve been anticipating her needs for years. She’ll want to do this. I have to be ready when she comes to me.”
“Probably. Maybe. But you don’t know. And more importantly, she may want to take a pause.
She’s got a wedding coming up. Then newlywed life.
Then pregnancy, which, from what I understand from my sisters-in-law, is exhausting.
Then new motherhood. That’s a lot of major life changes in a very short time. ”
I watched as it all sank in. Cleo’s expression shifted from defensive to thoughtful.
“She might not have the bandwidth for a major brand expansion,” I continued. “Or she might want to do it differently than you’re envisioning. But you won’t know unless you stop preemptively solving all her problems.”
Cleo was quiet, staring into her prosecco. “That sounds reasonable.”
I gave her an earnest smile that I didn’t have to force, a rare thing for me. Genuine smiles didn’t come naturally. They were usually calculated, deployed for strategic effect. But this one was real. “See? I can be useful.”
She looked up at me, and something flickered in her dark eyes. Surprise, maybe. Or recognition. Then she extended her champagne glass toward me, eyebrows raised. “Speaking of which, make with the pouring.”
I laughed and topped her off, then refilled my own glass. We were both getting pleasantly buzzed by then, the edges of the world softening into something warmer and easier.
“Can I ask you something?” Cleo said.
“You’re going to whether I give you permission or not.”
“True.” She grinned. “Are you living your best life? Does working for the Bancroft empire fill your cup?”
I actually laughed at that. “Full cups is marketing mumbo-jumbo from social media influencers looking to sell something.”
Cleo slow-blinked at me, and I realized my mistake a second too late.
“My bread and butter is social media influencers selling something.”
“Shit. Sorry.” But then I saw the amusement dancing in her eyes, and I chuckled. “That doesn’t change the fact that I’m right. I don’t derive value from worrying about how full or empty my figurative cup is. Who gives a fuck? Money talks. Numbers matter. No one gives a shit if my cup is full.”
She shrugged, taking another sip. “Sounds like something an unfulfilled person would say.”
“You’re a nightmare,” I told her, but I was laughing.
She gave me a beautiful smile that transformed her entire face. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
“I doubt that.”
“No, really. Most people try to tame me. Make me smaller. More palatable. Or just run away.” She gestured at me with her glass, some of the liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. “You lean into the chaos. It’s refreshing.”
“I’m not sure I’d call it leaning in. More like strategic acceptance of inevitable disruption. Like bracing myself in a doorframe during an earthquake or hiding in a bathtub during a tornado. It’s the only way to survive Cyclone Cleo.”
She giggled. “Cyclone Cleo. I like it.”
We fell into easy banter after that, trading barbs and observations.
She told me about a disastrous photoshoot where the photographer kept trying to make Melody pose in ways that looked “thin” instead of celebrating her body.
I told her about a shareholder meeting where a seventy-year-old board member had asked if we’d considered “making our logo bigger” as a growth strategy.
The prosecco disappeared steadily, and with it, whatever remaining walls had existed between us.
“Okay, but seriously,” Cleo said. “What do you want? Like, for yourself. Not for Bancroft Holdings or Armand or your brothers. What does Cash Bancroft want?”
It was a simple question. Should have been easy to answer. But I found myself staring at her, unable to form words.
Because I didn’t know. When was the last time I had asked myself that question? When was the last time I’d wanted something that wasn’t tied to business objectives or family expectations?
“I don’t know,” I admitted quietly.
She nodded like this made perfect sense. “That’s okay. You can figure it out. One decision at a time, right? That’s what you told me.”
“Right.”
“I should go,” Cleo said, but she didn’t move to stand up. “It’s late. We have a spa day tomorrow. Today? What time is it?”
“Almost two.”
“Shit.” She finally stood, wobbling slightly. “Okay. Going now. Thank you for the therapy session disguised as drinks.”
“Thank you for keeping me company.”
I stood as well, years of gentleman training permanently ingrained.
“I’ll walk you to your room,” I offered.
“I know where my room is.”
“Nevertheless.”
We made our way down the stairs, and I was hyperaware of her presence beside me. When we reached her door, she turned to face me. We were standing in the hallway having what could only be described as a lingering goodbye.
“This was nice,” she said softly. “Unexpected. But nice.”
“Agreed.”
“We should probably never speak of it again. Maintain our mutual antagonism for the sake of consistency.”
“Probably wise.”
But neither of us moved. We just stood there, the air between us charged with something I didn’t quite want to name. Because it kind of felt like I wanted to kiss her.
The realization hit me with surprising force. I wanted to lean down and close the distance between us. Would she melt into me or pull away? What would she taste like?
But I didn’t kiss her. Because she was drunk. We’d barely managed to have one civil conversation, and I wasn’t about to ruin it by pushing too far too fast.
“Goodnight, Cleo.”
“Goodnight, Cash.”
She fumbled with her door handle, finally got it open, and slipped inside. The door closed with a soft click, and I was left standing in the hallway like an idiot.
I made my way back up to my room, my mind spinning with everything that had just happened. Once inside, I changed into sleep pants and fell into bed, but sleep didn’t come. Instead, I lay there with my eyes closed, and my mind wandered to dangerous territory.
I imagined what would have happened if she’d stayed longer. What would have happened if I’d been brave enough to act on that impulse to kiss her?
I imagined her fingers in my hair. Her body pressed against mine. That smart mouth of hers breathless and wanting. The way she would look in my bed, hair spread across my pillows, skin flushed, eyes dark with desire.
I imagined taking my time with her. Learning what made her gasp. What made her arch. What made her say my name like a prayer instead of an insult.
My cock twitched at the thoughts running through my mind.
This was insane. This was Cleo Quinn. The woman who’d spent the last six months finding creative ways to insult me. Who’d called me Captain Crunch and Lurch and a billionaire Neanderthal all in one day.
I was definitely losing my mind.