Behind us, a waiter in a tux swivels with a tray of sparkling champagne glasses. I feel like I’m in some rich dream, and then I feel sick to my stomach. Maxwell is testing us—me, Boston. He wants to see if we’re savvy and smart enough to qualify for his financial approval, and it pisses me off that the quality of our work isn’t enough, that we have to suck up and prove our worthiness to this posing windbag. But the truth is that his approval and endorsement of our book could be huge for our next project, and so I summon all of my charm and quick thinking.
Boston starts to say something and I panic and interrupt. “China? Well, I studied about international finance in senior year—”
“I want to know what Parker thinks.” Maxwell’s voice is smooth.
Boston hesitates and I interrupt again. “I think—”
Maxwell frowns, and Boston clears his throat. “Uh, my nephew goes to a local public school and they got grant money from the Chinese government to teach a Chinese language immersion class to the grade school kids in the district. It’s called a Confucius Classroom.”
Maxwell raises one eyebrow. “I think I’ve heard of that, peripherally.”
Boston turns to look at me and Maxwell. “It’s a classroom style that’s standardized by the Asia Foundation to teach Chinese with native-born speakers, using grants from the Chinese government. My sister thinks it great, her son learning another language. A lot of people are sayin’ that Mandarin is going to be the business language of the future and it makes sense to get our kids a head start.”
“Yes,” Maxwell interjects, “but don’t a lot of other people object to the Sinification of America? Conservative writers say that China’s engaged in a stealthy takeover. They’re buying American debt, American property, and they want to replace English with Chinese as the language of business.”
Boston tilts his head. “Honestly? I still see English being the global language of the future. Even if American kids study it for a few years, we as a country just don’t have the ambition and drive to learn Chinese as well as the Chinese learn English. And that fact alone makes me think it’s a wise decision to teach it in schools.” He raises one eyebrow and crosses his arms.
I wish I could give Boston a high five. Instead, I give him my brightest, best smile. Boston knows about Chinese finance! Who could have ever guessed? This is awesome.
“But are you worried at all about the Chinese buying our debt?” Maxwell has a small smug smile on his lips.
Boston shakes his head. “I’m not. China buying our debt is good for international trade and for keeping the cost of Chinese imports down.” My eyes go big with surprise, and Boston’s narrow for a second before he continues talking. The words fade into a blur. How does Boston know about this stuff?
I may be surprised, but I’m even more grateful that he’s got this. I can relax. This is good, because honestly? I hate international finance and find it hard to discuss. I can already feel my eyes glazing like donuts.
Donuts! I would kill for a Krispy Kreme right now.
Erik gets excited. “Yes! That’s what I’ve been saying for years. China has been accumulating U.S. treasury securities since 1985. They also sell way more goods and services to the U.S. than we sell to them.”
Someone adds, “Blah blah blah blah paid in U.S. dollars but pay their own workers in RMB.”
It’s ironic that I have a degree in accounting and yet I find this stuff so tedious that I could just die.
Woody Allen put the funniest thing in one of his books, Side Effects—a robber disabled a dog in his target home by mixing up equal parts of chopped meat and a novel by Theodore Dreiser. I imagine making myself fall asleep by eating a donut with little shreds of financial paperwork blended into the dough.
Maxwell cocks his head. “It sounds like you’ve given this some thought.”
Boston ignores that and adds, “And if the Chinese banking system stopped intervening this way, it would lead to a self-correction to the RMB, which would appreciate in value and make Chinese exports more expensive for U.S. buyers. And that might lead to unemployment.“
Erik agrees. “Due to loss of exports due to the higher prices.” He beams at Boston. Is he going to cry with joy? For a second I worry that he’s going to grab Boston and hug him—that’s how excited he looks to have found someone who likes to talk about the same boring shit he does. OMG.
Maxwell uncrosses his arms, takes a glass of champagne from a tray, and raises it. “But on the topic of American debt and profit, I’d like to talk about investing in our own local resources.” He winks and I feel a huge relief. That means he’s in. He’ll work with us.
Then Maxwell wrinkles his brow. “Parker Minelli. I feel like I’ve heard your name before. Oh, did I read about you in last month’s local Mensa newsletter?”
Boston shifts and doesn’t look at me. “Yeah, maybe,” he admits, crossing his arms. “I was in that article.”
I feel my mouth drop open.
“Yes.” Maxwell smiles, taps his glass. “Now it comes back to me. The follow-up on local children with genius IQs to see where they are today. Well, I’m glad you’re here today. I feel this is going to be a profitable arrangement for all of us. Cheers.”
He raises his glass, we all clink, and there are smiles and laughs. I’m blown away. Parker? Genius IQ? The most surprising part is that it’s not all that surprising. I’ve figured out just how clever he is, these past few months. And then I realize—I had no part of this. Me, the Harvard-degreed economics major… I had zero part in convincing Maxwell Arlington to take us on. It was all Boston. And while that’s awesome, it also makes me nervous.
Boston’s supposed to be the pretty one, and I’m supposed to be the smart one. If he’s smart, too, now, all of a sudden—or all along, as the case may be—what does that make me? It’s what I’ve dreamed of forever: a man who’s sexy and smart. But it makes me irrelevant. I feel like a wadded-up tissue, or garbage. My brain is the thing I have going for me and it’s supposed to set me apart. Am I jealous?
“I’ll be right back,” I say, making a gesture with my hand toward the back of the room where the bathrooms are. But instead of the bathrooms, I made a run for the empty patio and stand in a corner looking over the railing into the garden, trying not to start sobbing.
I don’t know how long I stay there, alone, but eventually I’m no longer alone. I feel a presence behind me and Boston comes up and stands beside me.
“Maxwell wants to fund us,” he says, touching my shoulder. “He says that we can meet when we’re ready, whether it’s next week or in three months, and he’ll be happy to finance travel for us.”
I smile and wipe at my eye. “That’s great.”
“It is. So why are you out here by yourself?” His voice holds a challenge, disappointment.
I shake my head. “I don’t even know.”
He swallows. “Abby. Did you think I’d mess things up back there?”
I shake my head again. “Boston, honestly, I’m really proud that you pulled it off. I sort of thought I’d be the one—I mean, economics was my major! I think it’s amazing that you know so much about finance and stuff. I didn’t expect it but I’m glad you did it. I just. I guess right now I feel sort of, you know, never mind.” I give a deep sigh and try to smile. “You did great with him, and he’s not easy to impress.”
“I do a lot of research on my own.” Boston’s voice is terse. “Things I never told you, Abby. I do a little day trading now and then and I have to learn about foreign markets to figure out how to invest.”
“Boston.” My voice cracks. “I’m just really impressed. That’s so cool.”
“Yeah.” His voice is proud. “You know something, Abby?”
He waits until I look at him, and then I see that his face is serious. He touches mine and says, “I figured something out tonight.”
“What’s that?”
“That I’m just as good as the rest of these guys, no matter what my background is.” He looks at me
evenly, and his voice is calm—not combative, not challenging, just very matter-of-fact. “Abby, for the longest time, I felt like I couldn’t match up to people like your ex, Erik. Or guys like Maxwell. But tonight I saw it for the first time—I can do this thing just as well as anyone can.”
He smiles, and I smile back. “Of course you can,” I tell him, and my voice is fierce. “You are just as good as anyone, no matter what. I have confidence in you, too. Please, believe me.” And I do; after seeing tonight, I really truly do.
He smiles at me, and it’s such a tender smile, full of hope. “That stuff Maxwell was talking about, that article? I had the test done when I was a kid. I never thought it meant much, especially since I never ended up goin’ to college. And, I mean, you see how bad my spelling is, and all.” His face is a little red. “But I always had confidence in myself to get things done.”
“But that doesn’t matter, “ I rush to point out. “I mean, that’s what spell check is for! Boston, it matters what you think, and how you plan. Your actions. That’s what’s important.”
He frowns. “And you usually have confidence as well.” Now I hear concern. “But you’re out here cryin’. So do you mind telling me what’s going on? What’s bothering you?” His voice is intense, and he rubs a tear at the side of my eye. “I told you I don’t like to see girls cry.”
“I cry a lot,” I admit. “When I’m sad, when I’m happy, when I’m nervous. It’s sort of normal for me. It’s not a big deal.”
“Sure, I get that. But crying at a party can’t be a good thing.” His voice is soft, cajoling. “Tell me, and maybe I can help make it better.”
But can he? What should I say? Oh, Boston, in a sick way, I liked feeling smarter than you because that’s the only advantage I have, and now that you’re smart AND hot, I don’t deserve you and I know you won’t want me because I’m not perfect like you are?
So I shake my head. “Just emotions, you know. Stuff. But I’m good now. Let’s go back in!”
And he looks unconvinced, but follows me in, and we spend the evening talking with Erik and Maxwell, and I learn more about Chinese trade policy than I wanted to ever learn in a million years, and it occurs to me more than once that there’s a reason I turned to writing, and that’s because I find money things completely fucking boring.
My mom always said to “get a skill.” It was her big advice to me and my brother, and we both did it—me in accounting, him in engineering. But now that I have that skill, I hate it, and I am so crazy happy that I can do something creative and different for my real job.
When I’m yawning and ready to leave, Maxwell grabs Erik and Boston and takes them away to smoke cigars and talk more business, and even though I’m invited, I decline. I hate cigars. And right now, I just need to get out of my heels and deal with my weird emotions.
Chapter Ten
Another week goes by in a rush—we spend our time shooting like crazy, trying to get most of the pictures done, and the days are full of Chelle and Annalise, and now I’m the one who leaves early while Chelle stays late to help edit and discuss plans. I want to spend alone time with Boston, but it’s not working right now because of the work crunch.
We still lock eyes, though. The tension between us is still there, and I know he wants me, even though I don’t know how much or for how long. The things he said to me at Maxwell’s party ring in my mind, and I keep examining them from all angles, to understand.
You shine no matter what. It’s fucking true.
Because I need to be careful here. If I let myself believe he’s saying those things because his heart is seeking mine, I could be so lost. But how could it be just “stuff”? He must mean it! Right?
One day we’re alone: Annalise has a doctor’s appointment, and Chelle is doing something with her girlfriend. If anything is going to get resolved, now is the time. It’s been dragging on too long, and we need to figure this thing out.
“Hey, Boston.” I’m all casual, but a muscle in his jaw clenches as he looks me up and down, because I’ve dressed a little more provocatively than usual. Okay, a lot more. I’ve got on a tiny skirt, black tights, and black heels, and my top shows off my generous cleavage. I wouldn’t have worn this a few months ago, I think, but I’ve lost that extra ten pounds of fast food from eating Boston’s healthy meals, and I feel confident in my own skin these days.
“Abby.” He crosses his arms and looks at me. “You got special plans today?” He raises one eyebrow.
I consider this and suck my lower lip between my teeth. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?” He approaches, predatory. “With Cliff?” He scowls.
“Cliff? What?” I frown, confused.
“He said you were hot. He wanted to ask you out.” Red stains his jaw. “I thought maybe he did.”
“Oh, really?” A sly smile steals over my face. “He’s cute.”
“He’s a player, Abby.” Boston looks mad. “He’s not cute. He’s a dick.”
“He’s your friend, though?”
“He’s a good guy buddy. He’s a shitty boyfriend.” He swallows.
“Who said I wanted a boyfriend?” I shift my weight to one leg and thrust out my boobs.
“Are you seeing him or not?” His voice is short.
“I’m not. Jesus. Calm down.”
“I’m—he’s just not good for you, Abby. I know him, and how he usually operates. That’s all.”
I blow out my breath. “Aw, are you jealous?”
He looks away and doesn’t speak.
My heart lurches. “Boston…?”
“I just don’t want you to get hurt, that’s all,” he says finally, looking up at me.
“I’m not even interested in Cliff,” I say softly, meeting his eyes.
“No?” His voice is low.
“No.” I lick my lip and his chest rises. “Not Cliff.”
“Not Cliff,” he muses, coming a little closer.
I shake my head, unable to look away from his eyes. “No.”
“No?” He’s right in front of me, so close I could reach out and touch his face. I want to.
“Uh-uh.” My voice comes out sultry.
“That’s good.” His is hoarse. He clears his throat.
“Yeah.” Come closer, please. Closer. I want to feel his breath on my mouth, on my neck, on my face. I want to bury my nose in his neck and breathe in his scent. I want to grab his biceps and squeeze until he grabs me and shows me his real strength.
“Mmm.” He leans in, and I can feel the warmth of his body mingling with mine, so subtle, so barely there it’s driving me insane. My neck starts to tingle in anticipation. Please, please, kiss me, kiss me, take me, hold me, devour me, drink me up, let me drink you in, like a never-ending ocean of fresh clean taste, an infinite waterfall of pleasure.
This crazy up and down we have is insane. The flirting is going to be the end of me! He doesn’t want me with Cliff, but does he want me for himself? He says Cliff is a shitty boyfriend. But is Boston interested in being any kind of boyfriend, shitty or not? Does he just want a fling? Does he even know what he wants?
The not knowing flips me over into a different mindset. Now I want the upper hand, even if it’s mine only for a fleeting second. Those stolen moments of victory fill me with a wild exuberant confidence that can fuel me for days afterwards. It’s like a Vitamin B shot straight to the soul.
I smile at him and say, “My plan today involves writing a dom/sub scene. Stuff you don’t know much about. Want me to tell you about it?”
I trail one hand down my neck. He gives a harsh chuckle and shakes his head. “Sure, Abs. Tell me.”
“Well, Boston, today my hero is going to give my heroine a spanking. Right on her ass.”
Boston is looking right at me again, his eyes locked onto mine. “Does she like it?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No.”
Boston steps closer, then stops. My heart beats frantically as I lower my voice and say, “She dreams about it, Boston. She c
raves it. Some days? It’s all she can think about, and it drives her insane, wanting his harsh touch, his rough love. And when he gives it to her, she hates it and loves it and it makes her explode with passion.”
I can hear him breathe in when I say that.
“But I’m stuck again,” I say, faux innocent. “And I need your help. Since last time you were so… useful.” I sashay over to the couch. “Boston? Come here, please.”
Mesmerized, he approaches me, all intent. “Yes, Ma’am,” he says, but his voice is insolent, all contained power.
I turn my back to him, then look back over my shoulder as I spread my legs. His eyes widen. “I’m going to bend over, Boston, and I want you to come up right behind me and see where you’d have to stand to slap my ass with your right hand.”
He doesn’t move, so I croon, “Don’t be shy, Boston. My ass doesn’t bite. Are you afraid to spank a girl? I know you’ve never done it, but I promise, it’s not so scary.”
And suddenly he’s behind me and his hand is on my neck, pushing me down into the couch, and his other hand is on the small of my back, and he growls, “Fuck, Abby, you’re playing with fire. You keep teasing this way, you’re going to get burned.” He kicks at the inside of my foot with his and snaps, “Wider. As wide as you can get.” I gulp and try to twist, but he’s got me in a firm grip. “Do it, Abby. Now. And say Sir.”
Fuck! I almost lose my balance at the sound of those words coming from Boston’s mouth and without thinking I whisper, “Yes, Sir,” and spread my legs wider.
He keeps one hand firm on my neck but runs the other one over my ass, stroking through the thin fabric, kneading with his fingers. “Oh, Abby,” he murmurs. “You have no idea how good you look right now, this sexy ass all spread for me. Fuck, but I want to spank you, just like you said. Jesus.”
I don’t answer because my mouth has stopped working, and he muses, “You keep taunting me. What do you think I’m going to do when I finally give in?”
Boston Page 13
