by Louise Bay
But all the distance disappeared as soon as we were back in her apartment—for some reason she refused to come up to my place, even though it was bigger.
“Hey, Dad,” Amanda said, interrupting the silence.
“Hey, beautiful,” I replied, bending to kiss my daughter hello. I wondered how soon she’d no longer want to kiss me. Parents kept warning me about the teenage years, assuring me our disagreement over her dress was only the tip of a very large iceberg.
“You going to text Harper back?” Scarlett asked, grinning at me. If the Pinot Noir hadn’t been so good, I’d have tipped the rest of the bottle over her head. My daughter wouldn’t miss the reference and Scarlett knew it.
“Harper texted?” Amanda asked predictably. “Can you ask her if she’ll come help me get ready for the dance? I want her to do my eyeliner just like hers.”
I put my phone back on the counter. “No, I’m not asking Harper to come out to Connecticut to help you get ready. She’s not your personal stylist.”
“She’s too busy attending to someone else’s needs in this family, isn’t she?” Scarlett joked and I shot her a dirty look.
“What?” Amanda asked.
“Let’s talk about your dating life, shall we, Scarlett?” I asked.
She tilted her head. “Oh, so you admit Harper’s part of your dating life then?”
Shit. I was usually better at avoiding Scarlett’s interrogations. I turned toward the refrigerator. “Have you eaten?” I asked Amanda, trying to ignore my sister.
“Tell me more about Harper, Amanda.”
Inwardly I groaned.
“I want to be just like her when I’m older. You’ve seen her, right?” Amanda babbled on about how great Harper was, how wise she was about boys and what a great fashion sense she had. It sounded like Amanda’d known her for years rather than only spent time with her twice.
“So, dinner?” I asked, hoping to get them to change the subject.
“Can I have the cold lasagna in there?” Amanda asked, gesturing to the fridge.
Sounded like a great idea. Marion had even left a salad, too.
“Harper’s great, isn’t she?” Amanda asked.
I glanced at my sister, who held my gaze and asked Amanda, “Do you think she likes your dad?”
“Scarlett,” I warned.
“Does she have a boyfriend?” Scarlett asked, which was a question I had a little more interest in. Had Harper talked to Amanda about anyone?
“No, she says she’s too focused on work,” Amanda replied. “When I talked to her, she pretty much agreed boys were douchebags who should be avoided at all costs.”
I couldn’t hold back a chuckle, which won me a suspicious glance from my sister. “She’s a very sensible woman.”
I put the salad on the counter. “Can you get plates?” I asked Amanda. She hopped off her stool and began to set things out as I dished up the lasagna.
“You know we just want you to be happy,” my sister said, lowering her voice. “And from what I can remember, Harper is beautiful.” She clinked her glass against mine before taking another sip. “Amanda clearly likes her.”
I handed her a plate of food, pretending I wasn’t listening.
“Have you thought about asking her out?”
Ignoring Scarlett, I spooned pasta onto mine and Amanda’s plates, then placed the dish back in the refrigerator. My sister bugged me about getting a girlfriend almost as much as Amanda did, but why were they fixating on Harper? That was my job. When I turned back to the counter, Amanda and Scarlett were both staring at me as if waiting for me to say something.
“What?” I asked, grabbing the seat next to them and taking a forkful of food.
“Have you thought about asking Harper out on a date, Dad?” Amanda asked, as if I were the most ludicrous person she’d ever had to deal with.
I swallowed and put some salad on my plate. “What is with you two? I’ve told you, Harper works for me. What is your obsession with her?”
“I like her.” Amanda shrugged.
Scarlett grinned. “And that should be reason enough. Why don’t you take her to dinner? What could one evening hurt?”
Little did they know trying to keep time spent with Harper limited to just one evening would be impossible. Whatever boundaries I set with her got torn down and overrun. We’d never really been in Vegas. Well, I hadn’t managed it anyway. Even here, with my sister and daughter, a situation that had only ever been completely consuming, I was wondering what Harper was doing, who she was spending time with. Did she feel the same? And if she did, then what? Would she come out here to Connecticut? Meet my family?
Did I want her to?
“You think I should date, huh?” I asked. Scarlett was right; it was good that Amanda seemed to like Harper. If my daughter was open to it, maybe I should ask Harper out. Officially.
Amanda tapped on my head with her fist. “Come on, Dad, duh. I’ve only been saying this my whole life.”
“Okay,” I said.
“What does okay mean?” Amanda said.
“It means please don’t speak with your mouth full,” I said, glaring at my daughter.
She giggled and swallowed. “Sorry. But what does ‘okay’ mean?”
“It means, okay, I’ll think about asking her out.” The situation with Harper felt like a jigsaw puzzle with too many pieces. Harper working for me complicated things, and her father was the founder of JD Stanley. We also lived in the same building. I’d never really dated before—I was bound to fuck things up. There were a lot of downsides. One of Scarlett’s friends would probably be less complicated to date. There would be fewer aftershocks if it didn’t work out.
But she wouldn’t be Harper.
“You will?” Amanda squealed. “Does that mean she can come help me get ready for the dance? Can I call her now to ask?”
“I said I’d think about asking her to dinner, not employ her to do your makeup. Jeez.”
Amanda paused, which meant she was thinking, which could only be bad. “You could make her dinner, here. After I leave for the dance.”
I could. It would be nice to see Harper in Connecticut. It wasn’t the worst idea Amanda had ever had.
“I’ll think about it,” I said and Amanda squealed again.
I glanced across at Scarlett, who beamed at me. “What?” I asked her.
She shrugged. “Nothing.”
Amanda abandoned her plate of food and headed toward the den, no doubt to find her phone. “Can I call her now? Check if she’s free? This is going to be so much fun. It will be like, the best night ever!”
“You need to lower your expectations,” I told my daughter. “And prepare yourself for the fact that she might say no.”
She paused and spun around to face me. “So what if she does? You’ve always told me that you don’t take no for an answer.”
I couldn’t argue with that. I was used to getting what I wanted. And right now, I wanted Harper.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Harper
I couldn’t ever remember being so nervous. I’d rehearsed and prepared for the Goldman’s pitch and thirty minutes ago I was feeling pretty confident. But as the appointment grew closer, my heartrate had started to speed as if I were sprinting across hot coals.
“So, you’ll handle any questions about the process?” Max asked.
I nodded, picking at the hem of my skirt as we sat in the back of the cab to Midtown. I wished I’d brought some water. My throat was dry and tight. They’d have water when we arrived, wouldn’t they?
It was the questions I was most worried about. I’d been practicing my ass off for this presentation. It might be a warm-up to the JD Stanley pitch, but it was still important. There was six figures in profit to be lost if I fucked this up. That might be a drop in Wall Street’s ocean, but it seemed like a lot of money to me.
My parts of the presentation? Those I’d own. Unlike Max, who appeared to speak off the cuff, I’d written myself a script and mem
orized it. I’d practiced out loud at home over and over. I knew exactly when to pause, when to ask people to turn the pages in their slide deck, and when to draw emphasis. As long as I hadn’t forgotten the printouts, I’d be fine. I scrambled at my feet, reaching into my business carryall to make sure the papers were all there. They were. Just like the last thirty-six times I’d checked.
“Don’t be nervous,” Max said, smoothing down his tie. “It will be fine. The rehearsal was good.”
How would he know if this was going to be fine? Sure, he’d seen the rehearsal, but when the pressure was on, no one knew how things would turn out. I overcame nerves and pressure by being over-prepared—but I couldn’t prepare for questions, at least not all of them.
“Easy for you to say,” I replied.
“I mean it,” he said, placing his hand on my knee.
I pushed it off. The last thing I needed was to be thinking about him naked. “Sorry, I need to …” I wasn’t sure what I needed.
He glanced out the window. “Okay, I get it. What if I was to ask you a favor? Would that help take your mind off things?” he asked.
I didn’t respond, unsure of everything other than my script.
“Amanda wants you to help her get ready for the dance. I said I’d ask.”
That wasn’t what I’d expected at all. “In Connecticut?” I asked.
He nodded. “You don’t have to come, but I know Amanda would like you to. She suggested you and I have dinner together when she left.”
“Is she trying to set us up?” I laughed.
“I think so. She’s a big fan of yours.” Max smiled. “Runs in the family, apparently.”
I grinned. Max and I hadn’t talked about how we felt about each other, so his comment was unexpected. I wanted to reach for him, kiss him, but I didn’t. I needed to keep my head in the game.
“I’d like you to come,” he said.
I liked Amanda, but I didn’t know how I felt about her setting me and Max up on a date. “Is that weird, having your daughter set you up?”
Max tilted his head. “It should be, I guess. But she goes on and on about me getting marrie—dating. I’m used to it.”
“Have you told her that we’re …”
“Fucking like bunnies? Funnily enough, no,” he said, chuckling.
Was that what we were doing? Just fucking? I wasn’t sure. I liked the guy, really liked him, but he was my boss and he had a daughter and this whole secret life in Connecticut I’d never seen.
“I think maybe she’s picked up on the fact that I like you,” he said. Butterflies in my stomach took my mind off my quickening pulse. “I know my sister has.”
Liked me? Did that mean it wasn’t just fucking for him? I wasn’t sure it was for me anymore either.
“Scarlett?” I asked.
“Yeah, she’s made a few comments when your name’s come up.” He slung his arm across the back of the seat. “Look, don’t feel any pressure, but I’d like it if you came up, even if it isn’t for the dance—it’s only three weeks away. You might have plans.”
“I don’t.”
He raised an eyebrow at me. “You don’t have plans?” he asked. I shook my head.
“So? Does that mean you’ll come?”
“Sure.” I grinned and the corner of his mouth turned up. I could tell we both wanted to touch each other, lean in for a kiss, but there was some kind of imaginary force field that existed when we were in work clothes.
The cab pulled to a halt on Fifth Avenue. Shit, we were here.
“Max King for Peter Jones,” he said when we reached the receptionist.
As we made our way up in the elevators, he said, “I’ve done this a million times, Harper. I’ll step in if it gets too much.”
He meant to be reassuring, but I didn’t want him to step in. I wanted to nail this so the presentation to JD Stanley would be easy. Or easier. I really wanted my father to see what I’d been able to do despite him. Maybe then he’d wonder if he’d missed out, realize just throwing money at a situation didn’t mean you knew a person, influenced or inspired them.
“I’m good,” I said with an open, professional smile. “Everything’s fine.”
As we entered the conference room, three men stood from their chairs across the oval mahogany table to greet us. All white, all balding, all slightly overweight. In fact, I could have interchanged any parts of them and I was pretty sure no one would notice.
After the introductions, we took our seats across the table.
“Gentleman, we have some slides we’d like to pass round,” Max said as I slid three copies of our presentation across the table.
Not one of them made a move to take the papers.
The man in a gray suit steepled his fingers in front of him. “Why don’t you just talk to us about the experience you have in Asia. Most of your competitors have local offices, and I’d like to understand a little more about how you’ll be able to provide any real value from your desks here in Manhattan.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
This wasn’t going as planned. The presentation was where I felt safe.
I glanced across at Max, who looked as relaxed as if he’d just been asked his mother’s maiden name. He sat back in his chair and nodded. “Sure. I’m very happy to talk about our strategic choices in terms of international reach.”
He went on to explain how his low overheads meant he could spend money employing experts on the ground, which could be different project to project, where his competitors had to use the people they’d employed in their local office regardless of whether or not they were qualified. “You see someone at their desk in Kuala Lumpur is still at their desk—they’re not out meeting people, finding out what’s happening on the ground. My network of contacts are the people living the day-to-day reality of the geopolitical situations across many industries.” Max sat forward as he spoke, looking at his audience as if they were the most important people in the world and he had precious information to share with them. They seemed to find him as compelling as I did.
Max batted away each of the questions as if he were Nadal returning serve, and as the meeting progressed, the suits visibly relaxed, even chuckling at a few of Max’s wry comments.
“Do you think the actual process produces anything we’ve not seen before?” The middle man tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair. “You clearly see it as part of your competitive advantage.”
Max turned to me. This was the part of the presentation I’d prepared. “Harper, did you want to add anything here?”
I lifted the corner of my mouth, trying to fake a smile, wanting to cover the fact my mind had gone blank. Completely blank.
“Yes, well.” I flicked through my copy of the presentation that had gone unopened. “As you said, we see this is as a key competitive advantage over others in the marketplace …” I glanced up and scanned the three sets of eyes all staring at me. I reached for my glass of water and took a sip. My mind was blank. I’d been over this hundreds of times, but I needed a prompt. “We like to conclude things,” I blurted. That was one of my key points, wasn’t it? I didn’t know what I was saying. I started flicking through my presentation manically. “I … If I could just …”
Max placed his hand on my forearm. “Harper’s quite right. One of the key things that differentiates us from others in the marketplace is the conclusions we are able to draw.” Several times Max paused and turned to me, which would have allowed me to step in and say something if only I could have thought of a single thing to say.
Eventually I tuned out and slumped back in my seat.
I’d been given this huge opportunity and I’d totally bombed. What the hell was the matter with me? I’d been well prepared for today. I couldn’t have done more. Did I subconsciously not think I deserved to be here? Had my father’s comments at lunch last week burrowed deeper than I realized? I was trying so hard to prove to my father I was worthy of this job, but I wasn’t sure I really believed it.
*
I tried to wash away the awful meeting at Goldman Sachs but my bath wasn’t helping. Nor was the Jo Malone bath oil or the so-called soothing music filtering through from my bedroom. I was trying to relax, calm down. Nothing was working. All I could do was replay the disastrous meeting earlier in the day over and over again.
I slid under the water, submerging my entire head in the vain hope it would cleanse away the embarrassment.
I came up for air. Nope, I still wanted to die.
Max must think I’m an idiot.
My breath caught at the sharp knock at the door. Perfect timing. Here he was to tell me so. Well, I didn’t have to answer the door. I ignored him.
“Harper, I know you’re in there. Answer the door.”
I shouldn’t have put that music on. I stood up and wrapped a towel around me.
Max started pounding on the door.
“I’m coming,” I shouted. I threw it open, then immediately turned around and headed back to the bathroom.
“Nice to see you, too,” he mumbled. I dropped my towel and slid back into the bath.
I expected him to follow me, but instead I heard cabinet doors opening in the kitchen. What was he doing?
He appeared, barefoot, his jacket and tie gone, holding two glasses of wine. Right then he might just have been the perfect man.
“You have a nice, tight ass,” I said. He grinned. “And I’m really sorry I fucked up.”
He handed me a glass, which I took gratefully. He’d definitely brought the bottle with him—I didn’t own anything this good. It tasted like it cost a month’s salary.
He sighed, closed the bathroom door, and began unbuttoning his shirt. When he undid the last one, he took a swig of his wine and placed it on the side of the bath and stripped off the rest of his clothes.
“What are you doing?” I asked as he stepped into the bath.
