Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107262 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 536(@200wpm)___ 429(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107262 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 536(@200wpm)___ 429(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
“Your little brother’s nerding out with his community improvement project,” Maggie says, talking about my brother Mark. He’s a senior in high school and is trying to do community work to improve his college chances. “He’s building computers, which apparently has something to do with rooting through the trash?” I shrug, not knowing on that one. “Your mom said he worked a deal with the garbage pickup guys and some of the schools. According to your mom, he’s got half a dozen done, and he’s going to donate them to a local charity to give to kids who don’t have one. He’s hoping to complete one computer a week between now and when he graduates, maybe more if he starts getting decently good stuff that isn’t too fucked up. My words, not your mom’s.”
I laugh lightly, trying to imagine Diane Hill uttering the words ‘fucked up’ and coming up short.
I pull out the best and sexiest stilettos I own—black, five-inch, red-bottomed ‘So Kate’ Louboutins. They were a gift to myself the first time I had a four-figure day. Even so, I hadn’t eaten for two days in my guilt over the cost. Tonight, I’m glad I have them.
“What do you think?” I ask Maggie, who gives me a full once-over.
“Okay… hair’s good, makeup’s good, dress is hot as hell… You’re good to go. Knock ’em dead.”
“I will,” I promise her. “I’m dressed to grab attention tonight, so everyone can see that I’m fine—better than fine!—without Evan and ready to tackle my next big undertaking. For their firm, because I’m not leaving this fundraiser without a job offer tonight. It’s going to happen,” I say as if I can manifest it.
“That’s the spirit,” Maggie assures me. “And one other thing. Pertaining to Mr. Sharpe?”
“Yeah?” I turn to face her, grateful for whatever advice she has.
Maggie chews on her lip, suddenly hesitant to speak. But finally, she says, “Just be careful. Be smart. But also, spending time with him is a big opportunity, so don’t be too risk-averse. You gotta go big or go home, or something like that.” She takes a deep breath as though she’s going to continue her rambling of cliched idioms, but she stops herself and nods. “Yeah, that’s it.” She smiles as though she imparted the wisdom of the ages despite basically giving the same insight a stack of fortune cookies would.
I shake my head, laughing off her nerves so they don’t become my own. If I’m honest with myself, I’ve already thought tonight through dozens of times, with hundreds of scenarios. My primary mission hasn’t changed—get the job. It just has a little asterisk beside it that if the chance arises to rub Evan’s nose in my greatness a little bit, that a small side step is an acceptable detour, as long as I quickly get back on track to my objective.
CHAPTER 6
DYLAN
“Mr. Sharpe, we may be delayed a minute or two,” my driver, Vince, says from up front. Dressed all in black, he’s a classic chauffeur, minus the cap. “Looks like there’s a traffic accident up ahead.”
I crane my neck, looking through the currently lowered black-tinted separation window in the Mercedes and see a sea of cherry red brake lights, and just beyond that, the swirling blue light of a police car.
“We’ll get there in time, Mr. Sharpe,” he adds, and my gaze finds his in the rearview mirror.
Vince is a quiet man, older and gentleman-like. He’s worked for me for over three years now and mostly keeps to himself. Which I appreciate.
Which means when he says something, he’s got a reason.
I nod, finding his assurance out of character, and vaguely wonder what he thinks of my decision to bring a date tonight. In the time I’ve known him, I’ve never felt compelled to do so. I only attend what I must or what benefits me to do so. Plus-ones aren’t necessary. In fact, they’re usually a danger—highlighting weakness, serving as potential targets, and hindering the business at hand.
Unless the plus-one is the business.
His gaze shifts back to the street, and I let the conversation die. I don’t really need to respond, and I don’t plan to. Vince is my employee because he’s got the class and refinement of a chauffeur, with the pathfinding and driving skills of an experienced taxi driver. The man can practically sniff out the fastest route from anywhere in the city, and I’ve never missed an appointment because of him.
As it should be.
My suit is pressed, black as midnight and sharper than a razor. The champagne that’s chilling to my left is equally high end, ten-year-old Louis Roederer Brut. I picked it out because it reminds me of Raven. To the uneducated masses, they might overlook it because it’s not a trending name like vintage Dom Perignon. But they’d be missing out in doing so.