The truth, then. I took a deep breath. “I was afraid that you were avoiding me, after what happened. First the trip, and then you were sick…”
“I wasn’t. Not everything this week revolved around us. The trip was a last-minute thing, but for a long-term client who had sudden needs.”
Us. He’d called us an us. “Of course. It was a silly fear, but not one I could entirely get rid of.”
He leaned back against the couch, both hands in the pockets of his slacks. No one should be allowed to be that handsome while sick. “I can get that. Nothing to fear, though. We’re good, just as we discussed earlier.”
“We’re good,” I echoed, thinking of how his mouth had felt on mine only a week earlier. On me. This had been a bad, bad idea for my self-control.
Perhaps he realized what I'd been thinking, because Grant's eyes suddenly trailed down to my lips and my neck.
“Thanks for the cookies,” he said.
“Don’t mention it.”
“I’ll see you on Monday.”
"Yes. If you're you’re feeling well enough to come to work."
“I will be.”
“I’m sure. Now that you have a miracle cure.”
His brow furrowed for a moment before it suddenly cleared. "Ah. The home baked goods. Yes, of course."
“Apply hourly,” I said sternly. “On the infected area.”
Grant gave a crooked smile, holding the door for me as I pulled on my coat. “As the doctor prescribes.”
“Bye, Grant.”
“Bye, Ada.”
14
Grant
I spent the following week focused on my job.
Or rather, focusing. Because to my great frustration, it was a struggle to bring my mind back to whatever task at hand and away from silk skirts and quivering legs and rosy kisses. Or worst yet, flushed cheeks and shy smiles and offerings of home-baked fucking cookies.
What made matters worse? That she was sitting in the room outside of my office.
What made them truly awful? That she was Ada Hathaway, and off-limits in about a thousand, a million different ways. Seeing her in my apartment shouldn't have been arousing or moving, and it turned out to be both. Despite all reason, I wanted her there again.
And while it had never been a particularly homey place, it had been mine - and now it was forever changed by her short visit there and the impossible-to-forget information that she lived about five minutes away.
She had baked for me. I couldn't remember a time when anyone had done that before. It had been very tasty and very physical proof that whatever attraction there was between us was definitely both-sided, and that she had hoped to continue with our friendship. But Ada's friendship was like a fuse, and either way, I knew I would end up burning. We couldn't be romantically linked. And even as friends, she'd want more. More personal details, more emotions, more sharing.
I sighed and looked at the open file on my desk. Pictures and records from social services, my birth certificate, the few remaining legal documents my mother had once signed. The statement from the first foster home. I’d only skimmed through it. It’s not like I hadn’t known what they had thought about me anyway.
The PI I'd hired to track down any information about my mother had found very little, so far. With each new update, I knew it was time to shut it down. It’d yield nothing of value, and I had no real use for the information anyway. But there was something unfinished about it, and that wasn’t something I preferred to leave be.
"Mr. Wood? The event committee is here for your final approval for the Charity Auction ball."
“Send them in.”
The annual ball was one of Hathaway’s longest standing traditions. The waiting list was long, the families who want to attend many, and the expectations mile-high.
“We’ve chosen a silver theme this year. It’s more of a winter-wonderland look - classy.” The outside hire we’d chosen for the job looks very pleased, a pencil behind her ear.
“Right,” I said. “Terrific. And Sarah? The auction items?”
Sarah leaned forward - thank God for my own staff - and began listing the top ten. “So as you see, the contributions have been very generous, both from private donors and the company. There is no doubt that we’ll manage to raise at the very least the same amount as last year.”
“I want to surpass it.”
“I know. And I think we have a few surprises up our sleeves for that. A few journalists will be there, covering the event as usual. We’ll have the red carpet and the photography done in the hallway.”
“Sounds good. I’ll leave it in your capable hands. Nothing left for me to approve?”
“No, sir.”
They left me to my own thinking, which tended to stray these days. Victoria had accompanied me to these things before, but that was months ago. I hadn’t asked a woman out or flirted with one since… since Ada started her internship here. Somehow everything circled back to her, like she was the Rome all roads lead to.
Perhaps I should see if Ada was going with anyone. If she was going with a date, there was no way I could show up without one.
I was returning to the executive floor after having lunch with a client (a long, tedious affair, but she’d finally agreed to list with us) when I shared the elevator with the receptionist.
“Sir,” she nodded, a large bouquet of white roses in her arms. She had to use both hands to hold the bouquet. She pressed the button for the executive floor.
"Where are you heading?" As far as I knew, nobody had a meeting with administration or reception today. She looked slightly nervous and I felt bad for having phrased it that way.
"These were delivered to Ada Hathaway. Because of security, the deliveryman isn't allowed inside, of course. So I took it upon myself to deliver them."
“Ah.” Anger flared through me, sharp and acidic. She was getting flowers. A week after she stood demurely on my doorstep with still-warm chocolate cookies and a face free of makeup.
The receptionist looked frightened by my curt response. I swallowed back my anger and tried a neutral tone.
“Did he say who they were from?”
She shook her head, so I reached across and found the small note attached to one of the roses. Invasions of privacy be damned.
Ada,
You’re the greatest treasure at Hathaway’s.
Ben.
The card was made out of thick, beige paper and stamped with the gold logo of Jack and Thorn's.
Fury and fear chased one another inside of me, obscuring all rational thought. The door opened and the receptionist exited first, hurrying across the hallway to the open cubicles where Ada’s desk was. I followed her closely.
Everyone looked up when we entered and the tapping of fingers against keys stopped.
“For Ada Hathaway,” the receptionist squeaked, offered the flowers to Ada and hurried away.
“Thank you!” Ada called after her. Her hair was swept back and she looked young and surprised, nothing like the arrogant socialite who had burst in here on her first day. She looked up at me, and for a moment, she seemed surprised. Did she think they were from me?
Then she registered the look on my face.
“Check who it’s from,” I told her.
She flipped the card over and I saw her lip curl. Jealousy, acidic in nature, nearly took my breath away. Was she pleased?
“Wow. The nerve.”
"Who is it?" Sarah bent over Ada's shoulder and read the card before giving an indignant scoff.
"How dare he?"
“Why is he sending flowers to you?” I asked.
Ada shrugged. "I assume it's for the same reason he antagonized you at the event two weeks ago. He's new, he's hungry, and he's eager to make sure we know who he is and that he means business."
“Plus he has a death wish,” Linda murmured from her corner.
“I think it’s clearly meant as a joke,” Ada said. “’You’re Hathaway’s greatest treasure.’ I’m clearly
not, so it’s a play on words in several ways. He must know that we’ve overtaken them in Old Masters sales again.”
To psych us out, in other words. If I’d disliked him before, it was nothing like what I felt for the man now.
“He’s always been flirty, in that combative way. It’s clear he thinks it fun because of who I am.”
It struck me first then that Ada might find this all awkward, or worse, mortifying. He was essentially picking on her for the sole reason of her last name in the office space where she was trying to make a name for herself.
I cleared my throat. “He’s a prick. And if he tries to intimidate or antagonize you in any way, you let me know, okay?”
Ada gave a small nod. “I will.”
I turned to leave, but not before I saw the hesitation as she looked around, bouquet in hand.
“What should I do with these?”
“Do you want them?” I asked her.
“No, not particularly.”
I held out my hand and she gave them to me with a small smile. “Thanks, Grant.”
“Don’t mention it.”
They made a satisfying sound as they hit the bottom of my wastebasket.
* * *
It wasn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility that Ada would bring someone to the party.
The more the thought struck me, the more of a potential it became. I'd told her that we couldn't continue whatever we had begun in the storage room, and didn't expect her to wait or try to ask me again. At best, it had been somewhat of an aberration on her part. A desire for the unknown.
I swore and called in Linda, who came faster and with a larger smile than I deserved. “What do you need, sir?”
“I’m heading out to my four o’clock in a moment, but before I do, would you mind telling me who from the office will have a plus-one for the Charity Auction?”
She raised her eyebrows. “From the entire company?”
“No. Only executive branch.”
“Sarah is bringing her husband, but as far as I know neither Adam nor Ada are bringing anyone along. Nor am I, as you know. Benny is out on his fishing trip.”
I gave a nod. “Very well. Thanks, Linda.”
“Don’t mention it. Why, sir? Shouldn’t we?”
"No, I was merely curious. I'm not this bringing anyone this year and was wondering in what company I'd be in. Thank you for confirming."
Linda left with a small, secretive smile that lead me to believe she might not have bought my perfectly adequate explanation. But I knew she had an active imagination.
And very well-tuned intuition.
* * *
I tugged at the sleeve of my tux and wondered, not for the first time, when the first charity auction would end. First and second courses had been finished, and the properties section of the evening was taking forever. I'd been seated between Elizabeth, our head of European marketing and Eugene Bilt on my right. It was a place of honor, and one specifically designed because of his very generous donation tonight. But it didn't mean I liked the man.
"We're more than halfway to the goal," Elizabeth said, indicating the ticking screen behind the tux-clad auctioneer on the stage. "A lofty goal, sir, but I believe we'll reach it."
“We will,” I replied and slid a sideways glance to the table beside mine. Ada had arrived without a date, which I was endlessly thankful for, but in a shimmering black sheath that hugged every curve. Her hair was a gleaming wave of gold that made her impossible to ignore.
She was seated between two gentlemen, who by all accounts looked smitten by their beautiful and well-connected table partner.
"A ski-lodge in Aspen. Five bedrooms, four baths, designed as a classic Swiss chalet!" The auctioneer called out. Nearly a dozen paddles went up straight away.
“You’ve been good for the firm,” Bilt said to my right. “An industrious influence.”
It was difficult to hear him over the excited bidding, so I merely gave him a nod. His patronizing words had been with me since I began.
“The firm is currently in its strongest quarter in nearly eighteen years. It’s positive to see that art and culture continue to be seen as valuable.”
“Well,” Bilt said, raising his glass to mine. “For some, at least.”
I didn’t toast him. “Nearly a third of all of our auctions are won by museums and public art collections around the world.”
“Of course, of course. Didn’t mean to offend.” He laughed faintly, nonplussed by my response. I took a sip of my champagne. I knew I didn’t quite fit their expectations, hadn’t since I began. It was fine. They didn’t need to understand my motives, they just needed to continue supporting the firm.
“Sold! To the woman in silver. A fine purchase, madame. I’m sure you will enjoy many lovely winter weekends in the accompanying hot tub. And that concludes the property section of this annual Charity Gala. We’ll return shortly for our final, super secret, super scandalous auction. Be sure to bring out the checkbooks ladies and gentlemen, because this one is a good one.”
Waiters came to clear the dessert and the soft sound of jazz resumed from the onsite band.
"Excuse me, gentlemen, ladies. I'll return shortly." I rose from my table, several others following suit and angling towards the open-bar.
Arthur was standing by a table to the side, a forgotten martini in his hand. He nodded when he saw me approach.
“Grant.”
“Hello, Arthur.”
“Is it just me or do these parties get bigger and bigger every year?”
“It’s not just you,” I snorted. “They do.”
He looked off into the distance, not seeing the crowds. Arthur was usually well-liked and a sought after dinner companion at these events, much like me, except people generally enjoyed talking to him. He'd been the board member, CEO and major shareholder for over forty years, when push came to shove. This was his world and the clientele had known him for years, both professionally and privately.
“I used to love these events,” he said quietly.
I knew what he meant. Before. Arthur had changed after Max’s death. I took a sip of my drink and considered how to best respond to my former mentor.
I cleared my throat. “Have you spoken to anyone? You know, about Max?”
He turned to me. “What, you mean a therapist?”
“Yes.”
Whatever reaction I was fearing didn’t come. He looked up at me with tired eyes, almost as if he had taken off a mask. “No. But maybe I should.”
“Maybe so.”
He shot me an amused sideways glance. “Would you ever?”
I tugged at my collar. He knew me well, after all. “If I felt I needed it, I would.”
“Liar,” He said, but he took a sip of his martini and didn’t say anything else.
"Ada is here tonight," I said, changing the topic to one that would be welcome for the both of us.
“Yes, I spoke with her earlier. She was excited about the secret auction.”
“Was she?”
“Yes. Tell me, there’s a month left, but how is she handling the internship?”
“Very well,” I replied honestly. “She’s hard-working.”
“I knew she could be,” Arthur replied. “Look, I-“
“Ladies and gentlemen! It is now time for the final auction! For those of you who came without a guest or partner tonight, this is your chance. Let’s give a round of applause as we welcome out our first round of goods!”
“Oh dear,” Arthur said, clutching his martini. "We better return to our seats.”
I did just that, watching in silence as nearly thirty people stepped onto the stage. The secret auction was people, then. Mildly tasteless, but if it helped us reach the charity goal, then so much the better.
Both women and men stood shoulder to shoulder in beautiful clothing and giggled amongst themselves, elbowing and pointing at the wide crowd.
"Can you believe it?" Bilt hissed to my right. "What scandalous fun!"
The rest of the guests at my table were similarly engaged. Somewhere across the room a guest gave a loud hoot of excitement.
“We will start this auction off with the delectable Miss. Daisy Rowman. A dance with her this evening will start at a hundred dollars.” An elderly woman with coiffed hair, one of the long-standing customers of the firm, stepped forth. She wore a wide smile and gave a wave to the audience, most of whom she was well-acquainted with personally.
“A hundred dollars. Do we have that?”
“A thousand dollars!” Mr. Rowman stood up at his table and waved his paddle high. Nearly in their seventies, they’d been married for over thirty years. Mrs. Rowman pretended to swoon on stage and the crowd let out a laugh.
I smiled. This might actually help us reach the goal.
“Two-thousand!” A woman called from the back.
“Two-thousand-three-hundred!”
“Two thousand-five-hundred!” Mr. Rowman called again, good-naturedly. Everyone was in on it; the rich people in this room all planning on giving sizable donations. But there many ways to do it, some arguably more fun than others. Sarah and the event planning committee had tapped into something genius here.
“Sold for two-thousand-five-hundred to the gentlemen in the third row back! Brilliant purchase, Mr. Rowman.”
“And there is no money-back guarantee,” Mrs. Rowman quipped from her position on the stage. Laughter rippled through the room as her husband approached and offered her his arm.
“Next up we have a real catch - Mr. Miles Davis. He works here at Hathaway’s as a matter of fact, one of our resident experts on vintage wine and whiskey.”
Miles looked slightly uncomfortable but flushed, and I smiled wide. He was a reclusive fellow who spent most of his time studying wine labels. I had begged and bribed him with a six-figure salary for him to leave his flat in the Loire Valley and make his way back across the Atlantic to join Hathaway’s. He’d been worth every cent, however.
I was pleased when several women, and quite a few men, bid on him too. No doubt hoping to pick his mind.
My smile died instantly. Next up was Ada.
Look But Don't Touch: Enemies to Lovers Page 10
