Chapter 17
Garrett
Tonight did not work out the way I thought it would.
After thinking about Angela the entire time I was at Cheers ‘n Beers, I told myself one text conversation would jog my memory on how much she irritates me. But she said what she said, and I did what I did and now here we are.
Whatever the fuck that means.
She’s in the Keys and I’m in Wildrose. In two days, we’ll be in South Carolina and then what? We pretend we don’t know how we sound when we come?
“Yes, asshole,” I murmur. “That’s exactly what we do.”
That’s what I told her would happen.
And that’s what I want to happen.
Listing every reason Angela is a bad idea, I put myself to bed, only to stare at the ceiling for at least an hour, replaying every word she said…
…every sound she made…
The phone rings and I lurch awake, slapping it off the bedside table in my haste to answer. Annoyance has me flopping back on the pillow when I see Branson’s name on the ID.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I answer. “It’s early.”
“Where are you?”
“In bed.”
“Which bed? The one in the city? Where you belong? Or the one in that little town you run to when you need to lick your wounds.”
If he wasn’t my boss, I’d tell him exactly what he could lick for saying something like that. Instead, I push up onto an elbow, rest my head in my hand, and bite my tongue. “I’m in Wildrose.”
“Jesus, Cooper. When are you gonna pull it together? Get your head on right? A man with your talents needs to be where the action is.”
“A man with my talents brings the action to him.” I run a hand over my face. “Is there something you need?”
“Yeah.” Branson clears his throat. “I need an update on the Hutton Hotel. Things good there?”
Angela’s smile. The flash of wit in her eyes. The way she moaned my name.
“When was the last time I didn’t close a deal?” I sit up, wiping the sleep out of my eye.
“Never.”
“I’m glad you remember because, when you’re calling, I’m not making money. Don’t babysit me. Don’t check up on me. I’ve got this.”
Branson sighs. “If anybody else talked to me like that, they’d be gone.”
“Good thing I’m not everyone else.”
“That you’re not. But why don’t you give me an update anyway.”
“Things are moving forward.” I swipe a hand through my hair. “Financials look good. I like their plans and their projections. And, you know, the family seems decent.”
“Why would I care if they’re decent or not? What I want to know is if this investment is going to earn out for Vision Enterprise.”
Of course that’s what he wants to know. How could I forget that all anyone cares about is what’s in it for them?
Not Angela. She wants to expand her business to give back to the community…
I scoff at the thought. That’s what she said to sell me the idea. But underneath?
“They’re gonna make us a shitload of money,” I say. “I’m meeting Angela Hutton in a few days to look at the new site.”
“The daughter.” Branson sounds like he’s smiling. “Now that’s the kind of shit I keep you around for. You’re a good-looking man. She’s young and na?ve. Maybe a little flirting. A little wining and dining. Make her fall in love with you and skew the contract in our favor. I like the way you think.”
And I hate the way he thinks. Toying with someone’s emotions to get what you want? That’s not my way. Though, I definitely got what I wanted last night. And there was a lot of flirting, though I skipped the wining and dining and went straight for the gold.
Fuck.
I feel dirty.
My therapist would have a field day with the story. Tearing it to shreds, looking for hints of mommy issues or counting the echoes of Elizab—
“Keep me in the loop, Cooper,” Branson barks. “I like this deal. Do what you need to do to make me love it.”
He ends the call and I drop the phone on my bed, swinging my legs off the mattress and resting my elbows on my knees.
I scrub my face and stand, making my way to the bathroom with a head full of questions.
Maybe I won’t tell my therapist about this whole situation.
She already wants me to find a new job, preaching I’ve made so much money that I don’t need to work.
She can fuck off very much about that. I don’t care how many millions I have in my account; I still like seeing that number grow.
Besides, she’s my therapist, not my keeper. And I don’t even know if I need her anymore.
I’m fine. I’ve been fine.
No more angry outbursts. I’m spending time with my family, just like she suggested.
And hey, I even made a new friend. Kind of. Can you be friends with someone you don’t like, but ordered to take off her clothes anyway? I splash water on my face then stare at my reflection, droplets running off my nose, my chin.
“Pull yourself together, man.” I grip the porcelain sink and meet my eyes. Dad likes to remind me they’re the same shade as my mother’s. What would she say if she met me now? Would she like who I’ve become?
As much as I want that to be true, something tells me she’d be as disappointed as the rest of my family.