One of the reasons I have some respect and credibility is that he didn’t fire me. That, according to everyone I know, means I’m too good at my job, which means I’m likely to be his first assistant to get the bonus.
But lunch? At a place as fancy as Éternité? It’s the type of place you might take a date or maybe some business associates you want to impress, not your assistant. And it isn’t like today is particularly special—not my birthday or work anniversary or anything.
On the other hand, maybe Salazar thinks I’ve done something to warrant a nice lunch. I shouldn’t question the free meal. Éternité has the most amazing crème brûlée, worth at least an ovary or a kidney.
I check the time. Need to hurry if I want to be there five minutes before noon. I believe in being just slightly earlier than my boss.
Chapter Two
Wyatt
You’d think coming into a billion-plus dollars would make a person’s problems go away.
Fact is, it doesn’t.
People who I didn’t know were my friends are contacting me, and people who I didn’t know were my enemies are hating on me. My social media accounts are so flooded that I’m not even looking at them anymore.
But, most important, all my new money hasn’t found me a suitable date for my ex-wife’s wedding.
Normally I wouldn’t bother, because I don’t particularly wish her well. Not that I wish her ill. I just don’t give a damn.
But my ten-year-old daughter needs closure. The counselor she was seeing back in Corn Meadows mentioned that attending the wedding might do her some good. I’m skeptical, myself…but what do I know about child psychology?
So here I am, my butt planted in a plush booth in a fancy Japanese-French fusion restaurant. Éternité has a waiting list that probably stretches halfway to Kansas, but we got a table immediately because Dane arranged everything. One of his brothers owns the place.
I tap the edge of the cream-colored leather-bound menu and take in my surroundings. The place is airy and bright, with lots of natural light. Translucent hangings with intricate embroidery from the ceiling create an illusion of elegant privacy. Even though it’s not even noon, the place is already buzzing with conversation and the clink of silverware and glass. Probably corporate types with fat expense accounts and people with lots of money.
I don’t like it. Not even a little.
Dane glances in my direction, his blue gaze sharp as a straight razor. “What’s wrong?”
“Not to be ungrateful or anything, but some of this stuff looks a little…iffy.” I gesture at the menu.
Nothing in his expression changes. But that’s him—Mr. Poker Face. “What’s wrong with it?” he asks, his voice cool.
“Just listen to this.” I read off the menu to make sure I get it right. “Seared sashimi-grade otoro drizzled with wasabi-infused citrus sauce. Just what the hell is otoro, and…do people actually eat it?”
“It’s a high-grade cut of tuna. Tasty.”
“So is a bacon cheeseburger with fries.” Probably better for you, too. At least you don’t have to guess what you’re eating, unlike this otoro thing. What’s wrong with just saying “tuna,” anyway?
“My wife likes it,” Dane says, like that explains everything.
I’m happy he found a woman to be with, but there’s a small part of me that feels slightly bad for my own situation. I thought marrying Geneva was the right thing to do, even though a nano-sized doubt was wriggling like a worm in my chest, as if my heart were an apple it was trying to eat its way out of.
That worm turned out be right. Marrying her was the biggest mistake of my life.
“Don’t you think this place is too fancy for a meeting?” I say, looking at my chilled wine. Maybe they have Budweiser here.
“She’s Salazar’s assistant.”
“So?”
“That means she’s pretty enough to not embarrass you, smart enough to take directions and discerning enough to know when you go cheap on her.”
Sounds like the ultimate in high maintenance. And I’m done with high maintenance. Been there and done that with Geneva, and look what I got—over a decade in a shitty marriage, and now a divorce.
What I need is a woman who doesn’t mind bacon cheeseburgers and fries with extra ketchup and an ice-cold beer or two.
“It doesn’t matter what she thinks,” I say with a shrug. “David told me he’s going to set me up with a date this week, depending on how our schedules line up. Someone named Bethany. She’s apparently super smart. Speaks six languages.”
Dane cocks an eyebrow. “Really?”
“French, German, Russian, Spanish and Italian.” Or at least, that’s what I remember from the text. “And English, I guess.”
“French, Spanish and Italian are virtually the same language.”
I’d bet a thousand bucks that Frenchmen, Spaniards and Italians would have something to say about that. Not that I’ll interrupt Dane when he’s riding the Sarcasm Express.
“And David’s taste in women is deplorable,” Dane states firmly. “He disagrees with that assessment, of course, but that’s because he has more money than sense.”
Despite Dane’s less-than-charitable view, he’s speaking without sneering. That means he likes David.
But of course Dane Pryce, David Darling and I are friends. We connected at a tech convention because Dane is in venture capital and David is with Sweet Darlings, which is a popular photo-storing and -sharing app. I happen to love tinkering with programming and own patents to a few security protocols that intrigued and eventually impressed both of them. That’s how Sweet Darlings Inc. ended up paying me a billion and change.
“She’s probably hot enough. David likes them hot.” I don’t even sound convincing to myself. Maybe I’m turning into a cynic like Dane, now that I’m divorced and all. He’s always acerbic, and marriage hasn’t made a bit of difference to him as far as I can tell.
“I thought the goal was to make your ex-wife eat her heart out,” Dane says.
Ha. Never happen, because Geneva doesn’t have a heart. “Something like that,” I say, not willing to go into the whole situation with our daughter, Vi, again. Besides, I already have a course of action. I don’t need to rehash it.
“Then hot isn’t enough.” Dane’s tone is decisive and cool, his gaze calculating. Like a general planning a take-no-prisoners ambush. “You need to look happy. And show up with somebody who can pull that off.”
Not quite believing what I’m hearing, I finish my wine and ask for a beer. It’s that kind of day.
Our server manages a bland smile, but Dane wrinkles his nose. “Beer? Really? With Japanese-French fusion?”
“It’s on the menu, isn’t it? Or are you saying I should’ve ordered sake?”
His expression says I’m beyond help. “You need to spend some time with my brother Mark. He’ll…educate you on this particular subject.”
“I’m already educated. I’m divorced.” Besides, I’m not spending my precious time with Dane’s brother who, according to rumor, can name any wine’s vintage after just a sip. I steer our conversation back to the more important point. “Anyway, you think your dad’s assistant can make me happy? You know, for the wedding?”