Egan: A Cryptocurrency Billionaire Romance (Bitcoin Billionaires Book 3)

by Sara Forbes

  "I'm expecting that you will try your best or call in advance if you can't make it."

  She takes a moment to digest this. "Sure. You're still not going to tell me the nature of your business?"

  "Finance," I say with a tight smile. "That's what I do."

  "Doesn't everyone?" she mutters. I detect a wryness there that's interesting. But she doesn't follow it up.

  "Very good, Ms. Wilkes. Then I'll see you Monday. And thank you for your time too, Mr. Peters."

  She nods, backs off and strolls toward the exit alongside her old sidekick.

  Am I losing my touch? Because usually, conversations with women end in smiles all round. Jess Wilkes is as hard as nails—at least on the outside.

  And I'm not even going to think about the inside.

  7

  JESS

  "OKAY, SO YOU'RE GOING TO LAUGH," I tell Martha on the phone on the way home stuck in traffic, "but Harwood gave me the job back."

  "Serious?" she squeals. "Glory be, we're saved!"

  "For now," I say with a cautionary laugh. I proceed to tell her the rest of it—all the rules and regulations. Traffic is slow so I get to tell her every detail of my conversation with Egan Harwood even before I turn at the lights into my little street.

  "Absolute control freak," Martha concludes when I'm done with my story. "I might've guessed."

  "As long as he pays."

  "Yeah, double pay, that's amazing."

  "You sure you don't mind being cut out of the picture?" I ask her. "I mean, I'll make enough that we don't even have to seek a new position for you."

  "Are you kidding? I hate the Platinum Star as much as you do," she says. "Well, I can relax this weekend which is great. I have the in-laws over."

  I groan for her benefit. The parents of her dead husband visit Martha about four times a year—it's a character-bashing fest for them, even now with Simon dead in his grave four years. You'd think they'd let up and act like human beings toward her. I don't know why she puts up with it. They're never going to contribute to the upbringing of the twins even though they're rolling in it. They'd prefer to sit around eating her food and criticizing the way she's doing things.

  "What are you up to?" Martha asks.

  "I have a date later."

  "Tinder?"

  "Um, yeah. But this one seems legit. He's a primary school teacher and seems really nice."

  "Yeah, good. Hope he's better than the last...four?"

  "Six," I groan.

  Since I joined Tinder last January, it's been six dates, none of whom stuck for more than a second date. Two of them I refused to see again on account of their not being entirely single—which transpired after questioning on my part. The other four were okay, I suppose, but there were no sparks. Anyone who boasts about his job is an instant turn off for me especially if they rattle on and expect me to be impressed, which most of them did. One of them, an accountant from Leeds actually told me to my face what my problem was: I'm too "alpha." At least I got a laugh from that. Afterward, not at the time. A little part of me worries that I am too bossy, too anxious to get things in order and sorted, too pushy for guys to truly like me.

  "It doesn't much matter what he's like. The problem is me," I say.

  "Or you're projecting Jake onto them without giving them a chance?" she says. This is her latest Jungian, Jake-shadow theory. And I'm not buying it.

  "Well, this guy's a teacher and so far removed from the banking scene, he can't possibly be tainted by Jake's characteristics, can he?"

  "I don't know but good luck. I just want to see you happy, girl."

  "Ditto. If this works out, you're going to ask Dr. James out," I say.

  "Uh, yeah. Sure. But you have to get to the third date with Teacher Guy. That's the deal."

  We're laughing as we call off.

  ***

  Five minutes into my date in the Lambada bar, I know there won't be a second date with Teacher Guy, let alone a third. And I'm definitely not laughing.

  Brett Fletcher is a nice man, I can't deny that, but for someone else. He's tall, wiry, and not that wildly different to his profile picture though his curly hair is thinning on top more than the photo suggested. No biggie, most guys do that. But what the photos didn't capture was his goofy smile—very gummy with small teeth. Call me superficial, but it's off-putting. As is his high-pitched laugh. But I tell myself to stop being so critical and to give the guy a chance.

  The candlelight flickers on his long, thin nose as he relates a tale about his previous girlfriend—a fellow teacher—whom he's clearly still somewhat obsessed with—about how she organized a trip to the Isle of Man that went awry when a group of students got lost down by the harbor.

  I'm nodding and smiling at all the right places, I hope. At least he's not talking about how fabulous he is, and how powerful his company or bank or stock portfolio is and I should be glad of that. He's a beta, and isn't that what I'm looking for?

  "What was her name again?" I ask as the waiter brings my glass of wine spritzer. Brett ordered a soda so I didn't feel I should order a big old glass of red as I would normally. "The teacher?"

  "Elizabeth," he says, his voice softening at the edges. "Doesn't like being called Liz."

  Maybe she wouldn't mind you calling her that, I want to suggest. But I don't.

  A waiter comes by to inquire if we're okay. I'm actually grateful for the interruption as it gives me a chance to think of a next question.

  "Teaching is an interesting career, isn't it?" I say. "Do you find it fulfilling?"

  He straightens. "Oh yes. We can make a difference to kids' lives if we get them at the right point, and get them interested in something constructive. I can't think of a better profession."

  "Well, that's good." I search around for something to say. The background music is grunge. I could remark on that. Or the clientèle, which seems to be made up of awkward pairs just like us. It's too early, alas, to remark on the time.

  "And you?" he asks. "Um...I-I know you're a cleaner, but do you like what you do?"

  I laugh politely because his tone suggests I'd be crazy if I did, but I appreciate that's he's making the effort to be non-judgmental. "Yeah, it's good. I love making an environment nice and putting things in order." It's my standard answer and the way people react to it says a lot about them. I smile at him and wait.

  "Hah. I wish the cleaning ladies at my school were like that," he says, getting animated again. "They just moan all the time and smoke outside when their shift isn't even over. Such a bad example to the kids." He looks at me and his expression gets warmer. "I'm glad you're not like that."

  "Mm, yes," I say, taking another sip of my drink

  It's in that silence that I realize my phone is buzzing in my purse by my feet. What? I didn't ask Martha to do the fake call thing to give me a handy way out. But hey, she must have worked it out using extra sensory perception. Good for her.

  "I'm sorry, Brett," I say. I bend down from my bar stool and fish the buzzing phone out of my purse.

  But it's not her. I don't recognize the number. "Hello?" I say, flashing Brett an apologetic look. He pretends to be interested in a rock band poster on the wall.

  "Yes, Ms. Wilkes? This is Egan Harwood," rumbles the male voice, ten times more masculine than the voice I've just been subjected to for the past half hour.

  My stomach gives an involuntary clench. "Yes?"

  "Is it a bad time?" He's obviously heard the grunge music.

  "Uh, it...depends," I say.

  "Then it probably is, and I do apologize, but this counts as somewhat of an emergency and I need your help. It's the thermostat—it's gone crazy, my servers are overheating, the building is sweating on the inside. I—I think it's getting worse too. I'm afraid something'll blow."

  "O-kay," I say carefully. He does sound distraught, but polite, so I'll cut him some slack. Who'm I kidding? I just want out of here.

  "Condensation is dripping down, the humidifiers are clearly not working
either. I tried tweaking then, but it only seems to have made it worse. What kind of hellhole is this anyway?"

  "I'm coming over," I say, trying not to chuckle or say I told you so.

  I look up into Brett's mildly curious face. I slap down a ten-pound note on the counter in front of him. "Sorry, Brett. Emergency. I have to run."

  He's open-mouthed as I whisk up my purse and slide my bar-stool back into the bar. "We'll be in touch," I say with as much conviction as I can. "I'm really sorry."

  He nods. I know what this looks like—an orchestrated escape. But it's not.

  Five minutes later I've forgotten Brett as I plunge into London traffic, heading south.

  8

  EGAN

  THIS IS A TRAVESTY and I don't know who to blame.

  The report from Ms. Wilkes on how to set the thermometers and the humidifiers was thorough and well-explained and I thought I'd done it right. But now the temperature on the third floor where Natasha has her makeshift bedroom is unbearably hot. I've been tempted to simply break the windows to let in some fresh air...but that would be admitting defeat. Not to mention advertising to the local gangs—assuming there are any—that there's a problem in the building.

  I stayed in the office last night as well, sleeping on the couch in the kitchen area on the second floor. Not even slightly comfortable. I have a crick in my neck that won't go away. I had meant to go and buy some proper bedding but every spare moment when I wasn't trying to talk to Natasha, I was trying to get the temperature controls to work properly. I haven't been successful at either task.

  Which is why I stooped to calling Ms. Wilkes on a Tuesday evening, not even one of her designated work days. It's a low point in my career, but Natasha's comfort is more important than my pride.

  The buzzer goes. I go downstairs to let Jess Wilkes in.

  "Okay, hold the door open I gotta get the trolley," she says by way of greeting.

  "Trolley?"

  "Cleaning trolley."

  "You brought a cleaning trolley?" I say faintly. I'm feeling bad enough hauling her out here on a Tuesday night, but this makes it worse.

  "Uh, yes."

  With practiced efficiency, she lowers a ramp from the back of the van and wheels out this massive contraption on wheels. I've seen people with these trolleys in corridors of banks after late night meetings, in airport lounges, but I suppose I've never noticed them. Part of me wants to take the handles and take it for a spin.

  "You can wheel it over to the elevator if you like," she says with a knowing smile.

  I stiffen. "Of course not. Please, take it up to the second floor so we can go over the routine and solve as many issues as possible straight off. I—I didn't expect you to actually clean tonight or anything. In fact, I'm grateful you came and I certainly don't want to make a habit of calling you outside of working hours."

  "You never know what'll be needed," she says, strutting off confidently, as if taking this trolley in here has secured her place above me on some hierarchy. Certainly, the ease with which she navigates the hallway and slaps the elevator button without looking, makes her seem the more rightful occupant and me the trespasser.

  I slip into the elevator after her and only realize too late that there's little room to maneuver between the trolley, her, and me. At first, I squash up against the wall so as to leave a sliver of personal space between us. Then I change my mind and relax, recklessly allowing my arm to press against hers which is much more comfortable. She doesn't back off so there's the warming pressure of her arm against mine. I lower my gaze but she's not peering up at me. She's looking at the steel wall.

  Without warning, she pulls out a cloth and starts wiping the wall. Her vigorous rubbing sends vibrations through my body.

  "What are you doing?" I ask.

  "Fingerprints." She jabs her forefinger at a spot on the wall where I don't see anything. "Must be from the moving company's cleaning firm. They always leave the elevators in a bit of a mess after they're done." She bends to peer closer. "Small hands."

  Natasha's hand-prints, I'll bet.

  "Child labor?" I suggest.

  She straightens, grinning. "Yeah, wouldn't put it past that last lot."

  I'm watching her closely. Finally, our gazes lock. The moment is long, way too long. Long enough to decipher the star-like pattern of her irises. An amazing color, teal mixed with brown in random patterns, not the green I'd originally thought. It's hard to say what color her eyes actually are. I wonder what she puts on her passport and if she even has a passport.

  She stirs and the moment is broken. Hastily, she stows the cloth again and moves her gaze to the opposite wall. Her breathing has accelerated. I can't help but notice the swell of her breasts in her blouse. The blouse is ironed and spotless and classy-looking. So, this is what she looks like on a Tuesday night out. A little on the severe side for someone her age. I wonder who she was meeting.

  The elevator door opens with a ping and warm air blasts in.

  "Good God, you were right about it being warm up here," she says. "I feel like I just stepped out in Thailand."

  "See?" Walking beside her as she wheels her trolley, my hand itches to rest on the small of her back but I don't do it. I also, for some dumb reason, want to ask her about Thailand. Who brought her there? What did she do there? Does she take vacations often?

  "Oh yeah, word of caution," she says. "If you press two and three together, the elevator gets stuck."

  Now all I can think of is a scenario where we're stuck together in there. "Any other dangerous combinations I should know about?" I ask.

  "Haven't tied all other five combinations, no." She shrugs. "But of course, you're welcome to try, if you want."

  "I might. If I get bored enough."

  She chuckles. "Yeah and then you have to call the elevator repair company to come and get you out. Be warned—it takes them bloody ages."

  "And don't tell me, you have a magic way of rescuing people from stuck elevators?" I ask. I've decided to never use the contraption again and definitely never to let Natasha step inside.

  "Uh, no, sorry. But I did put up a poster to warn people. The moving company's cleaners must have taken it down."

  I nod.

  "I can put it up again," she says.

  "What?"

  "The sign."

  "No, no, it's fine," I say. "I'll remember just fine."

  "I'm thinking about your employees, Mr. Harwood."

  I turn to face her. "It's fine, Ms. Wilkes. Really. You don't have to worry about my employees. Don't expect to become an honorary member of my team or to be collecting employee of the month accolades or to be invited to the Christmas party while you're working for me."

  Her face clouds over. "All right. I get it."

  From her clenched jaw, she wants to say more, but her professionalism doesn't allow it. I suppose I was kind of sharp with her. There was no call for that.

  Turning away, she gets busy with bottles and myriad objects on her cart that I have no understanding of.

  I go to the printer and grab a printed-out list of all the things I need her to look at. "How about you show me how the thermostats work. That's prio one."

  "Sure, I'll just leave this trolley here and we'll head down to the thermostats."

  "Good. And while you're here, you should know about the door security." I give her my number on a slip of paper. "Don't give that to anyone, not even Larry Peters? Okay? You'll use it to come back in tomorrow morning between seven and seven-thirty. It'll only work for that period, not a second beyond."

  "You're very careful, aren't you?" she remarks, her teal-brown eyes dancing.

  "Call it old habits."

  We go downstairs to the thermostats. She opens up the outer glass box and fiddles with the dials.

  "Hmm, what have we here?" She's frowning, reading the gauges for each level. She straightens and taps one of the dials with her fingernail. "Part of the problem is the heat difference, you know, between the floors? It's getting c
onfused. The basement's so warm and the top floor was so cool to begin with that it seems to have gone into hyperdrive to compensate. This is not a super intelligent thermostat. It's 1990s technology."

  "Can you fix it or not, Ms. Wilkes?"

  "I can try." She flexes her fingers and I watch as she fiddles, totally concentrated. It gives me an opportunity to study her—the arch of her neck, the round of her cheek, how her hair slides artfully over her face like a chocolate fondue. I'm starting to feel warm and I don't think it's the room temperature.

  "So, why are those servers generating so much heat anyway?" she asks, straightening up. "Are they 1990s technology?"

  "Top of the range. They're running highly complex algorithms."

  "Are you some kind of computer wizard?"

  "No, I'm just the housekeeper for those that are."

  "That makes sense." She shoots me an appraising look. "Well, I've put the sensors and thermostats on new settings. If this fixes the issue, I'll write down for you exactly what I did."

  "No need. I was watching."

  "No kidding," she mutters. She smooths down her blouse and pats her hair back into place behind her ear. To my trained eye, she looks a little flustered and I can't help smiling.

  "Could you possibly fix the bathrooms upstairs now?" I ask. "I know it's a reprehensible thing to ask of a woman on a Tuesday night. I mean, I don't even know what I was interrupting."

  "Nothing much," she says so quickly that I suspect it was something. So I let the pause drag out.

  "A date..." She laughs and blushes ever so slightly. "A bad date."

  "I'm sorry," I lie. This tells me two things. She's single, and she wants to date badly enough to take a chance on a Tuesday night. Things are looking up.

  "Right," she says, her mouth twitching. "I'm going up to tackle the bathrooms. But you really don't need to come up and watch."

  "I'll come up anyway," I say quickly.

  "Okay." She shrugs. "Suit yourself."