Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
GATSBY
I scrub my face with both hands. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. “That’s a new one.”
“You didn’t know?”
“Nope,” I say absently as I send a message to Loretta. “I’ve been busy attending a conference, giving a presentation, and trying to fix my reputation because, apparently, over the weekend, I slept with an underage model.”
Once I finish sending the text to Loretta, I look at Maia, who scrunches her nose. “Yvi-T?”
I exhale harshly. “Yep, that’s the one. Did you hear about those lies too?”
She nods a couple of times. “But you didn’t?”
My shoulders loosen when, instead of giving me an accusatory glare, she sounds annoyed.
“It’s always gossip,” I say. “And no, I don’t have a child.”
“Always gossip?” she echoes the words with a suspicious tone.
I nod, telling her about Jerry, the former CTO of Global GAAM and my former friend.
The asshole who’s been screwing with my name for the past few years.
I should’ve fired him a long time ago, but I didn’t see any harm.
After all, it was just gossip. The public relations department is there to clear my name. How much harm can he do?
If that model had been underage, I would face jail time until my lawyer could clear my name. Hence why I pressed charges on him for impersonating me. In that way, there’s an antecedent on file. If he gets to rot in jail for using my name, well, that’s a bonus.
“Yvi-T isn’t underage—she’s twenty-four. So, there weren’t any charges against me, but then I had to clear my name, fire my CTO, and deal with a bunch of people who are trying to apply for the job.”
Maia squeezes my hand. “Sorry.”
It’s a small gesture, but that one simple thing relaxes me. She believes me and understands me. That’s all I need in the world. Her. But how do I fix what I fucked up…and what exactly did I do?
“Is there anything I can do to help?” she offers.
Stay with me all night. Don’t leave me. Kiss me… I can’t ask for any of those, but I can count on her to just listen to me.
“It’s my fault. I should’ve stopped his behavior from the beginning instead of slapping him on the wrist every time I saw my name in a headline.
Because of him, I’m one of the most eligible bad boy billionaires in New York City.
Every time he visited, he’d go out with some socialite, actress, or celebrity who believed he was Gatsby Spearman. ”
“And your dates? Would they be upset at that?”
I give her a jeering laugh. “I don’t date.”
She snorts. “Another thirtysomething-year-old man who likes to sleep around, how innovative.”
I shake my head. This is exactly what Jerry created, rumors and a reputation that, quite frankly, I never cared to defend because it didn’t matter, but seeing Maia’s reaction, I know it does.
“I don’t date. I don’t go out with anyone, nor do I sleep around as the tabloids and the irrefutable media claim.
According to my brothers, I’m a monk—or I only sleep with robots. ”
She gives me a quizzical glance. “That’s crazy. Why would they say that you sleep with robots? Have they watched Star Trek ?” She rolls her eyes. “It’s physically impossible. Unless they’re talking about sex toys.”
For a moment, I stare at Maia. She smiles at me because I think she knows how much what they sayannoys me.
“Why would they say something that stupid?” she dares to ask.
“According to them it’s either because I’m emotionless, a hermit, or an asshole. You pick your poison. Their other theory is that I have a wife and children in New York.”
“Why would you do that?”
“My family is overwhelming and nosy. Sometimes, when I was tired of them, I’d say that if I ever got married, I’d never bring my new family around because I wouldn’t want them to deal with the craziness of the Spearman family.”
She doesn’t say a word. Neither one of us moves or even breathes. I don’t know what I’m waiting for, but Owen interrupts us. “We’re here, sir.”
We’re in front of the skyscraper where I live. It’s a modern building overlooking the Hudson River. Unlike the building in San Francisco that’s only five stories tall, this one is thirty-two, and the top three floors belong to me.
Maia stares at the glass and steel building with admiration. “This is fancy, Spearman.”
I shrug as if saying, it’s just a building. “It’s secluded but within the city. Where did you live when you first set up MarkTech?”
“I used to live in Queens,” she says as we step into the private elevator.
Back in college, we discussed our plans and our dreams. We debated whether we would live in San Francisco or New York. She wanted to be in a big city. Queens doesn’t sound like part of what she wanted.
“Why didn’t you move to Manhattan?”
“I couldn’t afford it, and once the company began to make some serious money, we moved most of the operation to San Jose. Hence why I bought my house in San Francisco.”
“Are we talking about the place that needs an HGTV intervention?”
She goes silent.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“No, it was a weird weekend, and I’ve been asking myself if everything I’ve done has a real purpose—including the house. It’s lovely, and if I fix it, it’ll be just perfect. But…” She goes silent when we reach the top and the elevator doors slide open.
“Care to share more?” I ask as we step outside the elevator and into the foyer. That’s when her face brightens.
“You have a view of the river.” She turns to the other side where the sun is warming the living room.
She walks to the big window and stares at the horizon, mesmerized.
“I knew you’d appreciate it,” I mumble, feeling proud of my purchase.
The day I came to look at this place, she was the one person I thought of, like I always do when I make an important decision, because a part of me still does things with her in mind. How stupid will it sound if I say that our memories and dreams are what kept me going when things looked so dark?
I doubt I’ll ever tell anyone.
She finally looks at me. “You did?”
I shrug. “Is it bad that sometimes I think about you?”
“We’re over.” The sadness in her voice doesn’t go unnoticed and I’m not sure where to go from there.
“Good evening, sir,” Sharon, my housekeeper, greets me, then tilts her head toward Maia. “Welcome, Ms. Ocampo.”
“Maia, this is Sharon. If you need anything, she’s your person. Do you want something to drink?”
Maia looks around and shakes her head. “No, thank you.”
“We have chilled poison.”
“What?” she squeaks.
“According to the note you attached to the wine that you returned to Paradise Bay Winery, it’s poison.”
She laughs. “Sorry, I was upset. I’d like some red wine if you have any.”
“Can you bring a bottle to the balcony, Sharon?”
Sharon nods. “Anything to eat, sir?”
“Maia?”
She’s biting her lip. “I don’t want to impose.”
“You’re not imposing. I invited you so you can relax and maybe share a meal.” I point toward Sharon. “She can prepare something simple or a five-course meal. It’s all up to you.”
“A sandwich?”
I turn to look at Sharon. “With kettle sea salt chips on the side, please.”
“Right away, sir.”
“Why don’t we go to the terrace?”
Maia bites her lip. Her eyes are fixated on the floor. “I shouldn’t be here.”
“Why?”
“I need to avoid you,” she answers honestly. “There’s a lot of mayhem happening in my head.”
There’s a lump growing in my throat. It’s probably the frustration I’ve accumulated for the past couple of weeks that I haven’t been able to release. Do I want to scream at the wind? Yes. Do I want to ask her to just tell me what the fuck I did so I can fix it? Yes.
And I think, at this point, I deserve to know, but I’m not going to force her. Not when she’s this little ball of anxiety.
“If you want, I can ask Owen to drive you back to the hotel,” I offer.
She shakes her head. “You don’t want to be alone.”
“I do, which is why I got out of the hotel and came home. The last thing I want is to exchange pleasantries with people who don’t want to be with me.”
“You need a friend.” She’s tapping the side of her hand.
“But we’re not.” I release the words along with the pain. We’ve become two strangers, and there’s nothing either one of us can do to fix it.
“No. We aren’t,” she mumbles.