Chapter 1 #2
Realizing my hand was shaking, I switched off my phone and slid it into my blazer’s pocket.
Then I gripped my drink with both hands, working to suppress any and all involuntary hormonal shifts and tremors in my system.
I would recover from the surprise of Alaric’s sudden appearance by focusing on the rational and practical.
Our being here at the bar at the same time was simply a coincidence. After several years of attending the same conference, it was bound to happen sooner or later.
Wait a minute . . .
A niggling of suspicion made my chest pinch, and I sent him a furtive glance, my eyes lifting no higher than his neck.
He doesn’t know about my plans for my biological father’s company and our hometown of Alenbach, does he?
After a brief moment of consideration, I gave my head a subtle shake, dismissing the idea.
“Do you have Beauton’s Single Barrel Bourbon?” Alaric’s question for the bartender cut through my musings.
The sound of his voice didn’t elicit any new, odd discomfort in my body. I took this as a good sign. However, even though his question had obviously been for the bartender, I continued to sense the weight of Alaric’s stare pointed at my profile.
I sensed the bartender hesitate before responding, “Yes. But you should know, it’s not covered by the drink vouchers provided by the conference.”
Again, I glanced at Alaric. His gaze was on me. His shoulders rose and fell as his attention—radiating what appeared to be amusement—finally shifted to the bartender. Of course Alaric was amused. What was one bottle of expensive liquor to a billionaire?
Alaric Jordan was not just famous in investment circles.
He was the type of famous that had transcended the borders of our industry and placed him on the actually famous global stage.
He’d been on the covers of mainstream magazines, a genius among venture capitalists and angel investors, with Hollywood good looks and more charms than a witch.
A wunderkind at choosing the right projects with the right teams at the right times, making him billions and launching at least a dozen hugely successful companies in the process.
Then he’d retired a few years ago, publicly pledging to donate all his wealth to charity.
If the bartender recognized Alaric, he probably would’ve offered the bottle of bourbon for free.
The bitter thought soured my tongue. I sipped my vodka, not tasting it but welcoming the burn. Alaric’s knee bumped mine with what I assumed was unintended contact. I shifted an inch to my right, giving him more room.
“That’s fine,” he said. “You can bring a new bottle, we’ll take it with us.”
The word us hung in the air, a minor chord. I didn’t outwardly react, but it did answer several questions I hadn’t given voice to. Furthermore, it settled my nerves back to baseline. As I suspected, the fact that Alaric had stumbled across me here and now was a complete coincidence.
Ostensibly, he was here to procure a bottle of expensive liquor for his entourage. Alaric typically had a crowd of at least thirty around him during this conference, vying for his attention, hoping for his favor.
Why he’d started attending a few years ago, I had no idea. The NA-IEOC was small peanuts compared to the exclusive invites he likely received. He had nothing to gain here, no one to meet, no networking or knowledge he didn’t already have access to at the snap of his fingers.
Perhaps he only attended for social reasons? Maybe he liked all the fawning and attention? I frowned, because that explanation didn’t sit right. Growing up, Alaric had always been popular, and had always been friendly, but he’d never been the type to crave flattery or tolerate sycophants.
“Retrieving the bottle will take a moment, sir,” the bartender said, still sounding uncertain.
“That’s fine. Take your time.”
The man again hesitated, then finally left, presumably to call a manager or a sommelier or whoever authorized the release of what was probably a four- or five-figure bottle of alcohol.
What a ridiculous waste of money.
I felt the exact moment Alaric’s gaze returned to my profile, but I ignored him in favor of inspecting my small serving of vodka.
“What are you drinking?”
Seeing no reason to withhold the information, I said, “Vodka.”
“What brand?”
I shrugged. I didn’t know which bottle the bartender had poured it from, but that didn’t matter to me. I’d never been one of those people who tried to taste notes and hints in liquors and wines.
I lifted the glass to take another sip.
Before the rim touched my lips, Alaric bumped me with his knee again. “So, how have you been?”
My hand stalled halfway to my mouth at this new contact that was unmistakably purposeful.
To cover my surprise, I glared at him from the corners of my eyes.
He’d pivoted in his stool, facing me fully, an elbow resting on the bar top.
At some point while we’d been sitting here, he must’ve removed his jacket and rolled his suit shirtsleeves up. If note, he still wore his tie.
I felt myself frown. “You already asked me that and I said I was fine.”
“No. I asked how you are and you said fine. And then I asked how you’ve been. Those are two different questions.” While he spoke, his pretty eyes traced a slow path from the top of my head to my chin.
Setting my glass down, I faced him, certain I wore a hard look saturated with impatience. “What do you want, Alaric? Why are you even talking to me?”
This question appeared to delight him, and he drew his bottom lip into his mouth, biting it lightly before answering, “I want to talk to you.”
I felt my upper lip curl and hoped the full force of my disbelief and irritation registered on my face. “You want to talk to me? To me?”
He nodded. I scoffed.
The last time we’d spoken had been at our high school graduation ceremony where he’d been valedictorian and I’d been salutatorian. I hadn’t been kind to him that night, but that wasn’t anything unusual.
He’d been raised safe and secure by my biological father and a fleet of nannies in a mansion, while I’d grown up in a rundown mobile home park with a younger sister and a single mother struggling to make ends meet, always one late rent payment away from eviction.
Over the course of our teenage years, growing up in the same small town, when I wasn’t avoiding Alaric, I’d been pointedly rude to him.
And now, after eighteen years of no contact, he wanted to talk to me?
Once more, a niggling sense of doubt had me inspecting him. “What could we possibly have to talk about, Alaric?”
Assuming he somehow miraculously knew about my plans to destroy Weston Industries, nothing would change my mind. Even if Alaric made me an offer to back off his stepfather’s company and our hometown, I’d turn him down.
I waited for Alaric to reveal his hand, give me some hint as to his intentions for approaching me now. But Alaric only watched me, all focus, no trace of insincerity, just guileless warmth.
“Oh, I don’t know. I can think of a few things we could talk about . . .” He propped his chin in his palm, a lazy pose that made his exposed forearm look like a sculpture.
The same unwelcome hiccup of interest bloomed in my stomach at the sight. I sipped my drink to incinerate it. The vodka tasted like nothing, which was the point. I set it back down, carefully, not taking my eyes off him.
Fine. If he wanted to talk at me while I drank my two vouchers’ worth of free liquor, whatever. I wouldn’t ask any follow-up questions. This whole encounter was already strange enough. I didn’t want to be curious about him, so I wouldn’t be.
When I said nothing, he asked, “Do you like vodka?”
I lifted the glass for another sip. “Not particularly.”
He reached out and placed a hand over mine, gentle but with enough force to bring my hand and the vodka back to the bar top. “Then why are you drinking it?”
Again, I was caught off guard. This time, by the warmth of his palm and how his hand held on, his thumb tracing the back of my knuckles. A shock traveled up my arm, warm and lovely and much more intoxicating than the hard liquor I’d been sipping.
Momentarily paralyzed, I tried to recall the last time I’d been touched by another person. Maybe two weeks ago? A client handshake. Before that, a woman bumped into me on the L and patted my shoulder in apology.
I managed a strangled, “It’s cold outside,” pulling my hand and glass away from the confusing contact.
At my statement, his frown was immediate. “Are you leaving tonight?”
I shrugged, mostly because I didn’t trust myself to speak. That hiccup of heat and interest had unexpectedly become something more forceful.
Alaric inched closer. “You won’t be here for the conference tomorrow?”
I shrugged again and lifted the glass for another sip. He didn’t try to stop me this time.
But when I returned the glass to the counter, he plucked it from my grip, picked it up, and swirled it. Alaric’s eyebrows slowly drew together as he studied the liquid.
Then, haltingly, he said, “Before you go . . . you should—you should try some of the bottle I just bought. Upstairs in my suite. With me.”