by B. E. Baker
“Nope,” I say. “He’s older than me, so I was just starting college when he decided to strike out on his own. He had a pretty big ask.”
Rob’s eyebrows go up. “Wait, so, did you actually go to college?”
“I did. He didn’t want me to come on full time, not yet anyway. He proposed that he and I sell a house Mom and Dad had just given us. An amazing house, a beachfront home in Hawaii. We loved that house. It was, hands down, the best present either of us had ever gotten.”
“And you did it?”
I nod. “It was a no brainer. My brother, whom I idolized, needed me to help fund his new enterprise. We’d be fifty-fifty partners, and I’d only be nominally involved. He said he’d send me the paperwork to review whenever I wanted, but he didn’t expect me to do anything else unless I asked.”
“When did you get more involved?” Rob asks.
I shake my head. “I was at Vanderbilt when Trig started, a starry eyed freshman. I was skiing every day.” I suppress the pang of regret and continue on. “I spent every moment I wasn’t studying or dating on the slopes.”
“I bet you went on a lot of dates.”
I giggle. “I did. So many dates with so many spoiled, entitled brats.”
“Which means I’m not your typical date.”
I shake my head. No one is my typical date, not anymore.
“And now you’re heavily involved in Nometry, connecting the dots for your brother.”
I tilt my head. “I am heavily involved now, yes.” Because it was the only thing I had to do.
“Trig’s glad you’re involved. He talks about you constantly.”
Luckily our food arrives to cover my embarrassment at knowing Trig talks about me to strangers. And even luckier, it looks as amazing as Rob said it would. Rob must notice that I’m eyeing his steaming bowl of ramen, because he catches the waitress’s eye. “Can you bring an extra bowl so we can split this? I think my stunning date would like a little, but I can’t very well have her hogging the whole thing.” He holds his hand up and mock whispers the last part. “I hear she’s a bit of an overeater.”
“Thanks for keeping that under wraps for me,” I say. “But for the record, it’s polite not to draw attention to it.”
Rob’s grin at my dumb copycat joke melts my insides into a gooey mess. I focus on eating a few rolls, and I’m happy to find he’s right. Their sushi might not put New York sushi to shame, but for the South, it’s pretty impressive.
“You never finished the story,” Rob complains. “How did you end up running the whole company while Trig goofs off and flits around in a jet all the time?”
I shake my head. “Oh it’s a far cry from that. Trig still does the heavy lifting.”
“That’s not what Trig says. He told me he’s able to move out to Atlanta because his sister runs Nometry almost entirely alone. He says you turned Nometry into a well-oiled machine.”
It’s always nice to hear good things someone says about me, but that’s a little overstated. “I followed along during college with what our company was doing, but I largely let Trig handle things. Shortly after I graduated, we were driving home and. . .”
“Trig told Geo it’s his fault you broke your back.”
I swallow hard. “It wasn’t, not at all. He harped on me every day of our lives, from the time I was little. I used to claw my arms out of my car seat. And once I was old enough, I’d unclick my seatbelt the first chance I got. It was an ongoing battle between me and everyone I rode in a car with, practically. I was that stupid.”
Rob’s eyes fill with sadness. “You weren’t buckled?”
I shake my head. “Trig came through the whole thing completely fine. He told me to buckle. He badgered me, actually, but I ignored him. I’ve always been small, so seat belts hit me in a weird place and that was my excuse not to use them. He didn’t force me to wear it that day, the day of the accident, and I went through the windshield.”
Rob closes his eyes and compresses his lips.
This I’m familiar with, other people’s pity. “Trig blames himself when clearly it’s not his fault. But after that, I sort of gave up.”
“On what?” Rob’s eyes open and when I meet them, they burn into mine.
“On everything, other than Nometry.”
He doesn’t look surprised. It’s like he understands. He can’t possibly, but it feels almost like he does anyway.
“That’s when you started oiling the machine for him?” he asks.
I nod. “We found out that I have a knack for sniffing out deals where the math doesn’t reflect the whole story. Deals other people ruled out when they shouldn’t have. Trig was already doing really well, and he gets people. He sees patterns but sometimes he misses the bigger patterns. The entire market.”
“Which is what you see.”
I shrug. “He started with Luke and Paul’s company. You’ve met them, I assume?”
Rob groans. “Geo and Trig make me come to game nights. They invite all their friends, and they don’t have very many. It’s pitiful, really, that I get stuck going.”
I chuckle. “Oh, the horror. Monopoly and Yahtzee and charades, oh my.”
“Yep, Lions and Tigers and Bears.” He chuckles. “I stink at charades, so I know they’re desperate to keep inviting me. I didn’t realize Trig bankrolled their company, though. That’s kind of cool.”
“I told you Trig has a good eye for stuff. He did way before I came along.”
“I’m still not clear on what exactly do you do. I mean, how do you find these miraculous companies?”
“It’s less about finding the companies, and more about seeing what holes exist in the market,” I say. “Wait.” I pin him with a severe look. “Are you prying to get me to divulge trade secrets right now? Are you some kind of corporate spy playing a long game?”
Rob splutters. “What? Not at all.”
I smile. “Gotcha.”
He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. I lose my train of thought entirely.
“You aren’t going to tell me?” he asks.
Right. I was supposed to say how I find the groups we invest in. “Basically I read every market magazine I can, as well as lots of others. Vogue, People, anything that shows me what consumers are thinking about, and what’s trending.”
Rob frowns. “How does reading gossip magazines help you?”
“Economists frequently overlook the importance of pop culture. If you keep your ear to the ground, you can figure out when a train is coming. It’s as important as economic news, knowing what people want in life. Trig loves puzzles, but I kind of step back a level from that. I look at the puzzle of the world and try and figure out things that are lacking, or things that people might love if only they were available. Then I try and figure out what’s available.”
“Like what?” he asks.
“Okay, for instance, a few years ago I realized that wires that connected runners to their tech bothered active people. I pushed Trig to bankroll one of the first wireless earbud companies. The numbers didn’t add up, but I knew there was a need in the market. We turned the economics around, which is sort of our specialty, and then we sold that wireless tech to Apple for a bundle.”
“So you’re a prophetess,” Rob says.
I roll my eyes. “Nothing that dramatic, and sometimes my ideas don’t pan out.”
“Then you’re like a human eight ball, only, one that usually works instead of never.”
“A what?”
“Oh come on, tell me you had one of those. It was a little toy that told you what to do.”
I nod. “Mine gave me the worst advice in the world.”
“Really?” Rob mutters under his breath. “That’s not promising. My eight ball is what told me to ask you out earlier. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.”
“Thankfully for you, we’re nearly done eating,” I say, too much truth clinging to my words for comfort. “Which means the ramifications of that bad advice are nea
rly concluded.”
“Wait, you’re not even going to consider hanging out with me afterward?” Rob glances at his watch. “It’s only six-forty. You can’t end a first date before the nursing homes tuck in their residents. Think what that would do to my male ego.”
I pick up my phone and wave it at him. “Trig knows I’m here. He ordered me to come over to his place as soon as dinner’s done.”
“He knows you’re here… with me?” Rob’s lips twist with what I’m guessing is humor.
“He does. Why?”
He shrugs. “No reason other than he’s maybe not my biggest fan. I wonder how he reacted to me taking you out.”
“Oh you don’t need to worry about that. I told him it was to smooth over me yelling at you. He knows it’s not a real date.”
Rob leans toward me, shifting plates aside to put his forearms down on the table. “Oh, this is a real date alright, as real a date as I’ve ever had. You disagree?”
My heart races and my right hand shakes under the table. “No, I mean yes. I know you asked me out because you thought you needed to, since I’m Trig’s sister.”
Rob leans closer still. I notice his eyes are sky blue, and his hair really is perfect, even up close. “I shouldn’t have asked you out, because you’re Trig’s sister. I did it anyway. You dazzle me, Brekka. You brightened my abysmal office in the same way that you improved my entire evening. You should believe me when I tell you that I hope you’ll come with me to my appointment at seven.”
No one has ever said that I dazzle them, not once. Not even when I was at the top of my game. Not when I was the best skier in America.
“What exactly is this mystery appointment?”
“What would you want to do?” Rob asks. “What might convince you to come with me?”
“Do you not really have anything else planned?” I ask. “Because you could just admit that.”
He shakes his head. “I do have plans, unfortunately, but I may need ideas of things you’d say yes to in the future.”
“Tell me your plans,” I say. “And I’ll let you know whether I’m interested. But if I go, you’ll have to help me explain why I’m not headed directly to Trig’s house.”
He holds out his hand. “I can handle Mr. Crabby. Give me your phone.”
I laugh. “Absolutely not. What would you say, though?”
“I’d tell him you’re too busy swooning over Rob’s body to make it over to his place tonight. Then I’d wish I had some kind of camera on location to watch the aneurism burst in his brain.”
I roll my eyes. “Out with it. What are you doing next? Fertilizing your urban garden share? Running a poker match? Meeting for a back alley drug deal?”
“Do I look like a back alley kind of guy?” he asks. “If I had to move some cocaine, I’d at least set up the swap at a country club or in a nice restaurant. Give me a little credit.”
“Spit it out, goofball.”
“Fine, so there’s kind of a story behind tonight.”
“Okay,” I say. “Hit me with it.”
“I’m guessing you broke something below T7 in your accident, based on what I’ve observed of your mobility level.”
“Excuse me,” I say. “What in the world—”
“Don’t get upset,” he says. “The thing is, I know a little bit about spinal cord injuries. See, I broke T3 overseas, as an active duty Marine. The doctors told me it was a complete break.”
My brain scrambles to process his words. This tall, strong man in front of me broke his spine?
4
Rob
“I don’t talk about it much,” I say.
The waitress approaches. “Would either of you like dessert?”
Sometimes the restaurant industry professionals have such bad timing it feels intentional. “We’ll have one of everything,” I say. “Thanks.”
“One of everything?” Brekka asks.
“I didn’t want to deal with her,” I confess. “Plus, this way you have to stay for a little longer, and you can make sure you get something you like.”
She grins. “Plus my aforementioned overeating problem.”
“Right, that too.” I’ve never seen anyone who looked less like an overeater in my entire life. Brekka can’t weigh more than a hundred pounds. “But getting back to my point. I was in a Humvee with my best friend a few years ago in Syria. We were attacked and thrown from the vehicle. I was stuck under debris, which is why the rebels didn’t kill me. My broken back saved my life.”
“You seem. . . healthy.”
“That’s the most unfair part of all this, isn’t it? My fracture turned out to be an incomplete break, and over the course of several months and four major surgeries, I regained function, more and more. The metal they shoved into my spine to stabilize it allowed the bones to refuse, and now.” I spread my arms out. “I’m cleared to do most anything except contact sports.”
“Whereas I’m stuck in this chair.”
He nods. “It’s entirely unfair, and I’m sorry.”
“What does that have to do with tonight?” Brekka’s voice sounds wobbly, but maybe I’m imagining that.
“I joined a group in the hospital and kept going during recovery. When I moved back to Atlanta, I found a group here. Most of the people in those groups didn’t recover, or at least, not like I did.”
She closes her eyes.
“My friend Clive suffered a complete break of T7. He can’t afford a nice place on his pension, and now he can’t even cook in his own kitchen without difficulty.”
“The counters are too high.”
I nod. “He saved for years before he could buy a place. I’m redoing his kitchen cabinets so he can use them. I’m nearly done, if that helps. I told him I’d go every single Friday night until it’s finished.”
“Okay, I’ll do that,” she says. “If you think there will be anything for me to do.”
“I think I can find something to keep you busy, but there’s something else.”
“What?”
“You have to promise me something, and I’m serious about this. No matter how tempted you are, you won’t ever date Clive.”
Brekka blushes. It’s cuter than a baby giraffe taking its first steps. “I think I can promise you that.”
“Because I happen to know that he has dreamy chocolate brown eyes, and I don’t think I could handle watching you flirting with him. Not in front of me.”
She blushes again and I grin.
Our waitress brings us a tray full of dessert and sets the check on the corner of the table. I hand her a credit card, but Brekka objects.
“I don’t mind paying,” she says.
“No, I insist. I always pay when I take a girl on a date. Call me old fashioned.”
I try the cheesecake, the apple pie, and the chocolate cake. “I think the cheesecake is the best. What about you?”
Brekka won’t meet my eye, and she hasn’t tried a bite. She’s clearly uneasy about something.
“You can pay next time if it’s that big of a deal.”
“No, it’s fine.” She doesn’t even make a joke about how there won’t be a next time since she lives in Colorado. I’d take that as promising if she didn’t look like she was about to vomit up all the sushi she just ate.
“Hey, are you okay?”
“No, I’m fine,” she says. “But I may need to go to the restroom.”
“Are you sick?” I ask it bluntly this time.
“Just text me the address, and I’ll meet you at Clive’s.”
“I’m happy to give you a ride. Unless you’re worried about your rental car.”
She shakes her head. “It’s sweet you think I might have a rental car. I have some sensation in my feet, but I can’t use them to drive. Or really to do anything.”
I smack my head. I can be a real idiot. “Duh, you said you had a driver. Sorry.” Because she’s a gazillionaire, so of course she has a driver. “Or you can send him home, and I’ll take you over and then d
rop you at Trig’s. I know exactly where his house is, you know.”
“I think I’ll keep my driver,” she says.
“Why?” I ask.
“You don’t let things go, do you?” Brekka glares up at me.
“Not until I know the reason I should let it go.”
“I don’t transport gracefully in cars I’m unaccustomed to using.”
“I can help,” I say. “I’m happy to do whatever you need.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t want help.”
Ah, she’s embarrassed.
“I’ll meet you there,” I say. “But you should know, I think you’re amazing, whether you’re transferring to a car, or wheeling from one place to the next, or sitting and stuffing huge sushi rolls in your mouth.”
She doesn’t blush this time. She still won’t even meet my eyes. I text her the address.
“I’ll see you in a bit.”
She nods.
I walk alongside her on the way out the door, but I don’t try to push her, or open her door. I’ve learned the hard way around friends in my group. Gallantry isn’t appreciated unless you’ve gotten close enough they trust your motivation and don’t mind feeling indebted to you.
The tightness in Brekka’s shoulders has eased a bit by the time we reach the parking lot. “I’ll head for my car. Text or call if you need anything.”
She nods and I walk across the parking lot toward my truck.
“Wait,” Brekka calls out.
When I turn around, she’s already wheeling toward me. “Is that your truck?”
I glance at my cherry red 1951 Chevrolet truck. “It is.”
“I figured you’d drive a Honda.”
I shrug. “I like classics. I told you I’m old fashioned. What can I say?”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Thanks.”
“Maybe … maybe you can give me a ride.”
I hide my smile. I don’t offer to help her disassemble her wheelchair, but she hands me the pieces one at a time so I can stow the wheels behind the seat and the body in the truck bed.
“What’s your wheelchair made of?”
“Gladys is made of titanium,” she says.
