Chapter 7
SEVEN
brOOKS
“I’m going to head home and change,” I tell Jace. “We drinking at my place or yours?”
“Yours,” Jace says with a smirk. “I’m not risking the wrath of Marie.”
“We’re not college kids on a bender.”
“Those bruises on your face say otherwise.” Before I can retort, someone calls out his name and he turns, lifts a hand in greeting.
Then he glances over at me with a sigh. “I need to make the rounds here for a little while longer, but I’ll meet you at your apartment.
I’ll bring the pizza, you pick up the bourbon. ”
Bender indeed.
It doesn’t get any closer to college blackout antics than pizza and alcohol.
Probably for the best we’re doing this at my place.
Especially since although the food served tonight was delicious, there wasn’t a lot of it to go around. Jean-Michel’s award-winning Oak Ridge Petite Sirah was flowing freely, along with champagne from his vineyard in France and Pinot Grigio from Italy.
Not a surprise.
Tipsy people donate more.
“That’s a deal,” I say, shaking Jace’s hand and hitching my head to the side. “I’ll give Chrissy my regards then I’m out.”
“Try not to fall asleep before I get there, old man.”
“Cute,” I mutter.
“Hey”—a shrug—“I’m not the one who’s a whole year older.”
“For the record, it’s only ten months.”
He grins. “Ten months closer to the end, you mean.”
I roll my eyes. “Why did I come back here again?”
“Because you missed me.” He shoves my shoulder. “Now go home and turn on the hockey game. I’ll be right behind you.”
Right behind me.
Sure.
He’ll probably get distracted and then I won’t get any pizza.
Or bourbon.
That’s why I call an audible. “I’ll pick up the pizza,” I tell him. “You bring the alcohol.”
If worse comes to worst, I have beer in my fridge and my college-esque bender will be covered.
And maybe if I drink the beer and the bourbon I’ll forget about hair the color of moonlight and a boot connecting with my junk and a missing flash drive with information that threatens to undo the very roots of my company.
“Don’t eat it all,” Jace says.
“No promises,” I mutter.
He shoves my shoulder. “Asshole.”
I shrug.
He’s not wrong.
Something he obviously knows because he just snorts and turns away, heading toward the couple who flagged him down a few minutes ago.
He’s quickly drawn into what looks like a pretty serious conversation, and I don’t delay further, just down the rest of my glass of wine, set it on an empty tray, and then head for the exit.
Unfortunately, it’s not a clean getaway.
Though at least this time I’m not waylaid by the perfume cloud known as Bailey.
“Brooks Saxton as I live and breathe.”
Nope.
It’s worse.
Summer Sandringham is about as high society as one gets in the Bay Area filled with tech magnates and Hollywood transplants.
Mrs. Sandringham is, unfortunately, both of those things—her family founded and continues to head one of the biggest film production companies in the world and her husbands (yes, plural husbands because she buried two, divorced one, and is finally quote-unquote happily married to a fourth) all either owned, were on the boards of, or started multi-billion-dollar dot coms.
She’s a force of nature.
And there’s no way I can just brush her off.
Not even if pizza is calling.
“Hi, Mrs. Sandringham, how are you?”
“Summer, please.” She smooths a hand down my chest. “And I’ll call you Brooks.”
I catch her fingers, bring them up to my lips, ignoring the little titter she gives and the fact that the gesture gives me the creeps. I’ve got to give her something.
Otherwise she’ll get even handsier.
And seriously, happily married? Yeah, I’m still waiting for evidence on that front.
“What can I do for you?” I ask, knowing that she hasn’t stopped me to discuss the weather.
“What are you doing Monday morning at ten-thirty?”
“Working,” I reply honestly.
“At your downtown office?”
It’s impossible to miss the calculation in her eyes.
Still, what am I going to say?
“More than likely,” I hedge.
“Great. I’ll see you then.”
“I—” I blink, mouth falling open. Then she’s leaning in, lips parting, getting so close I can see the faint wrinkles at the corners, the way the lipstick’s begun to wear off in the middle, the slightly off color of one of her bottom teeth. “Excuse me?”
She pecks my cheek then pulls back, patting the other one. “You’re excused.” She turns away, tossing over her shoulder, “See you Monday!”
She melts into the crowd and all I can do is stare after her.
“Now if that’s not the look of a man who’s just been befuddled by one Summer Sandringham, I’ll eat my hat.”
Turning, I smile at Chrissy, Jean-Michel’s daughter, and a woman who’s left many a man befuddled herself. “Summer strikes again.”
A wince. “I’m sorry about that. She’s a lot, but she’s supported the charity a lot over the years.”
“A lot is the right description for her.” I touch Chrissy’s shoulder. “And she’s fine. A little handsy but otherwise harmless.”
“Handsy?” Concern ripples across her face.
Shit.
“It’s fine,” I say. “I promise. Look,” I add before she can delve too deep into that, “I wanted to see you before I left. Is there someplace we can talk privately?”
Striking blue eyes on mine—and it has to be said that she has her father’s ability to use those eyes to pierce straight into souls.
Then she inclines her head and leads me from the room, down a corridor, eventually pausing outside a door. “My dad’s office,” she says before adding with a smile, “On the very rare occasions he works inside and not out in the vineyard.”
Jean-Michel Dubois—billionaire, hockey team owner, philanthropist, and complete and utter wine enthusiast, from grape selection to planting all the way up to uncorking the delicious stuff.
Once, I took a meeting with him while he was fixing a tractor…
he talked contract terms and then showed me how to repair a hydraulic leak.
No surprise the office is all but bare.
Except for a laptop, a coat hanging on the back of the door, and what looks like a pair of slippers and pajamas propped on a chair.
“After party comfy clothes,” Chrissy explains, clearly following my gaze. “A must after an event like this.”
My lips twitch. “I bet.” I lean back against the wall. “Speaking of events…”
“It was really nice of you to attend.” Her words come in a rush when I pause, trying to sort how to phrase what I need to say next. “I know you’re busy, but you being so generous with your time—and your silent auction item—really means a lot.”
“About that—”
“We’ve opened a new adoption center and we’re expanding our support services to other counties.” Her eyes light up. “My hope is that we’ll create a system that covers the entire state, and maybe, one day we’ll be able to help animals all across the country and…”
Her passion is a beautiful thing.
So fucking beautiful it takes my breath away, steals my words, reminds me of another time, another woman who wanted to help.
A piece of my soul I tore off and walked away from.
A ghost from my past I couldn’t allow myself to have.
And because of that passion, I can’t turn away.
I can’t do anything but stand here and listen to Chrissy Dawson talk about her plans for the future.
The same as I couldn’t do anything but stand transfixed when Briar first spoke to me all those years before.