Chapter 10 Andrea
Andrea
“Shit, Andy, what are you going to do? We need more espresso martinis.” Kelly waved a waiter over. “Thank God Novexia’s paying for drinks.”
“Fuck,” I said. “How did I not know it was him?”
“More to the point, how did you not tell us you’d slept with him?” asked James.
“I didn’t think I’d see him again.”
“Nothing wrong with a hookup,” said Kelly.
“Just not this one,” I said.
“Is it that bad, though?” mused James. “I mean, on the one hand, you’ve ruined your own life by telling your new boss—who happens to be a billionaire investor—that he’s a giant douchebag and a capitalist pig.”
“Also, a sociopath,” I said wretchedly. Fuck. How could I? To his face? Maybe that was why he’d left?
“Don’t forget pale, stale male swinging his dick around,” added Kelly.
“I bet he loved that,” said James. “You literally discussed the guy’s own dick with him.”
“I think I said something about it twitching, too.” I groaned.
“Was that before or after you sat on it?”
“Fuck off, James.”
“Okay, so a solid list of horrendous insults, the sort of thing that could easily get you removed at the drop of a hat, if not privately ‘erased’ by a contract killer,” said James. “Career suicide, deluxe.”
“I’ll be at the top of the list for any restructure, that’s for sure. Why, James, why?”
“No point crying over spilt milk,” said James briskly. “On the other hand, you just shagged an extremely handsome man who almost certainly owns a private jet.” He raised a brow.
“But he ran off without saying who he was,” I said. “It was clearly just sex to him. As soon as he realized I worked at Novexia, he couldn’t get out of there fast enough.”
That was the part I hated most of all. Had I really been so wrong about him?
“Oh, come on, Andy,” said Kelly. “This could be great for you. It’s clear our new—what did you call him, ‘corporate overlord’?—likes you.”
“Oh, please. I’m going to throw up.”
“But ‘corporate overlord’ is one of the least offensive things you called him, right?” She stopped as I glared at her.
“Just because something started as a hookup doesn’t mean it couldn’t grow into something more,” she said.
Yeah, right. The chances a young, hot billionaire would be interested in me—beyond a quick shag—were basically zero.
He probably dated supermodels called Svetlana or Kira who spoke four languages, had never experienced a carb craving, and possessed the kind of bone structure that made Renaissance sculptors weep.
“Kelly,” I said. “He fucked me and fled. The last thing he wants is to see me at the office every day. Especially after all the things I said.”
God. It was worse than rude. It was mean.
“I really doubt the guy is going to be upset over that,” said James. “If he’s running companies all over the world, it seems unlikely he’s going to be fretting over what some lowly employee called him before she knew who he was. It’s not like it’s going to affect his stock prices, is it?”
“I guess not,” I said. “But why didn’t he tell me who he was? And how did we not know?” I kept replaying the conversation in my mind. Why couldn’t I ever keep my mouth shut?
“That does seem bizarre.” James rubbed his chin. “He really should have stopped you the minute you started going on about Wilhelm von Roth. Not very gentlemanly. What was he doing in sweatpants anyway? No wonder you didn’t pick it.”
“Hadn’t he just flown in from the States?” said Kelly. “Maybe he came straight from the airport.”
“I guess,” I said.
Britney Spears’s “Womanizer” floated over the patio as three chilled espresso martinis and a lemonade for Monish showed up in front of us.
“Oh, I did some more stalking,” said Kelly. “Turns out your mystery dick has a Wikipedia page.”
She opened her phone and turned the screen to face us. A photo of an unsmiling Liam in a gray suit appeared. He looked nothing like the man I’d met. James and I scanned the text.
“Wilhelm von Roth Jr.,” Kelly read. “Born in New York. Studied engineering at Oxford.”
That explained why he sounded British and not German.
“No wonder you said he sounded posh,” said James.
Kelly kept scrolling. “Ooh. Former RAF officer.”
My mind flashed back to yesterday. I was sure I’d seen a scar, but it had been so dark. Was that related?
“Accumulated capital through high-value collectibles,” said Kelly. “Blah blah. Private investor. Tech.”
So that’s what he meant. And I’d called him a comic book guy. He’d even opened up to me about it. I’d thought it was sweet.
I felt my ears get hot.
“Maintains a low profile. Hates publicity. English mother. Son of Wilhelm von Roth Sr., German entrepreneur and real estate investor,” Kelly finished. “Classic nepo baby.”
“Well,” said James. “I reckon your mum would like him better than Rudy.”
We all stared at each other.
“Okay,” he continued. “So he’s rich, clever, private, and has a weird thing about comics. You’ve certainly slept with worse.”
“I’m afraid there’s more.” Kelly flicked open another tab and showed us a photo of Liam stepping out of a black car at night with his jacket open. There was a blond woman in a silver dress laughing against him.
“Oh,” I said. “Not very Oxford.”
“You obviously haven’t been to Oxford.” James raised a brow.
Kelly swiped, and another picture popped up. Liam was outside a club with a different woman on his arm, this one wearing tight black jeans and heels.
“Great,” I said. “So he’s a playboy too.” I felt like I’d been stabbed.
She swiped again. This time, he was on a yacht, sunglasses on, women in bikinis on either arm.
“Maybe a little bit playboy,” said James. “But doesn’t that come with the territory? I mean, the guy’s loaded.”
“If it helps,” said Kelly, “this all stopped about a year ago.”
“Is that meant to make me feel better?”
“It should,” said James. “It means maybe it was a phase and not a personality.”
Monish appeared at the chrome bistro table. He raised his eyebrows at the six empty cocktail glasses and took a seat.
“Hi, Monish,” I said. “Apparently, James and Kelly are trying to convince me to pursue our new boss.”
Monish picked up his lemonade and took a sip, eyeing us in turn. “Pursue?”
James waved a hand dismissively. “Look, maybe not pursue. But assuming he doesn’t want to fire you, and that he might actually fancy you, couldn’t you at least just take one for the team?”
I gaped. “What?”
“Hon, think of your mortgage. And we could all do with a private jet. For fuck’s sake, Andy, I’ll suck his dick if it comes down to it.”
“Um, James, we all know you wouldn’t take much persuading. He’s not exactly a troll,” said Kelly.
“The issue,” I said, “is not whether he’s a playboy. The issue is that he fucked me, then ran out the door like I was nothing. And then I made an idiot of myself in front of the entire company, thinking he’d come back to see me.”
The table went quiet.
“Okay, yeah, that’s pretty bad,” said Kelly, wincing.
“He didn’t even have the decency to tell me who he was before he left. He just … disappeared.”
James exhaled through his teeth. “Right. So he’s officially a prick then.”
“A hot prick,” Kelly added. “But still a prick.”
“Andrea, you do not need yet another prick in your life,” said Monish.
“But … maybe you could see how it plays out?” said Kelly. “You did say he was nice?”
“And he did stop you from, you know, dying?” James muttered. He wasn’t ready to give up on his luxury lifestyle by proxy yet.
Kelly leaned in. “Couldn’t you at least … give him the benefit of the doubt?”
“He might have a private island,” said James.
“Or at least a superyacht,” said Kelly.
“So you’re saying I should ignore the red flags because he’s rich?”
The table fell silent again. James scratched his neck.
“Andy’s right, of course,” said Monish.
“Oh, bollocks,” Kelly said finally. “This is exactly the sort of man you need to stay away from. He’s Rudy on steroids, Andy. Just with money.”
“That makes him even more dangerous,” said Monish.
I looked at my friends. “Right? And anyway. He might not be eighty, but he still sounds like a capitalist arsehole. What kind of man has money like that, at his age?”
“A trust fund wanker,” said Kelly decisively. “What we really need to focus on is making sure Andy doesn’t get fired.”
“Fair enough,” said James, raising his glass. “Fuck him, then. Figuratively, not literally.”
At that moment, a voice boomed across the deck. “Here they are, my sales rock stars.” Gerald was approaching our table with two others, backlit by the low sun.
“Fuck, Andy, it’s him.” Kelly spoke into her own shoulder.
“Well, at least Gerald’s talking us up,” murmured Monish. “I’ve missed my target two months in a row.”
“Liam, Bonnie, allow me to introduce Monish Khan—one of our top sales execs for Traumex.” Gerald beamed proudly and indicated toward Monish, who stood and held out a hand. “Monish, you know Mr. Roth, of course, and this is Bonnie Marchand, Liam’s strategic adviser.”
Shit. So that was Bonnie. The woman blowing up his phone, the same one who’d stared at me like I was insane when I’d embarrassed myself at the company meeting. I felt my stomach twist. Uptight looking, but pretty. Was he shagging her, too?
“It is a pleasure.” Monish nodded lightly in that gracious way he had, and Liam shook his hand warmly. Bonnie leaned over to do the same.
“And Kelly Quinn.”
Kelly tried to stand, but the back of her chair got stuck against the wall. She ended up leaning forward, half bent over, like a pretzel. “Traumex, telesales.” She smiled tightly and stuck out a hand, trying not to tip into the table of espresso martinis.
“Don’t get up, please,” said Liam, looking slightly anxious as she wobbled awkwardly.
He caught her hand and gave it a brief squeeze.
He wasn’t wearing his jacket, and the top button of his black cotton shirt was undone, his hair unruly again like it had been in the lift.
He was even hotter than I remembered, if that was possible.
What an arsehole. What kind of woman could resist that?
Bonnie gave a small wave with the tips of her fingers.