Meghan pushes past me to go into my bedroom and begins rummaging through my closet and drawers. “You wear granny panties?” she says as she flings a pair of my underwear across the room. “And what’s this? A muumuu?”
She holds up an orange-flowered frock that belonged to my grandmother. I had meant to donate it to charity, but the damn thing has some kind of invisible cloak, evading me each time I thinned out my wardrobe.
“You’re wearing it.” She throws the muumuu at me, and I immediately toss it to the floor.
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. Audiences love seeing shit like that.” Meghan shuffles the muumuu around with her foot.
I take a sip of wine and say, “I thought people liked sexy. That—is not sexy.”
“Okay, then let’s film in our underwear.”
I cringe, the memory of last night’s fumble still fresh in my mind. “You think they’ll like my granny panties?”
Meghan sighs, rolling her eyes. “I get free shit all the time. I’ll be right back.”
She comes back a minute later with bags and bags of clothes, all holding lingerie.
We look at each of the garments, some of the things I can’t even figure out how someone would wear them, let alone why.
“You really are cute, ya know,” Meghan says.
I snort, taking another drink while holding up a lacy number with no crotch.
“Seriously, Remi, I never see you with a guy. With anyone. You come home and turtle in your apartment.”
“Turtle in my apartment?” I feign offense.
“What the hell else do you call it? Do you have any friends?”
“I’ve never had many friends. My mother died when I was seven, and my grandmother hated noise. I spent most of my time mulling over books.”
“Gosh, that’s terrible.”
“My grandma died last year and couldn’t even leave me in peace beyond the grave. That monster over there was hers.” I gesture to Kibbles, whose massive body is eyeing us from her cat tower.
“Were your high school years good? I mean, you could at least go out with friends, right?”
“When everyone else was enrolling in high school, I enrolled in college. Bachelor’s by nineteen. Master’s by twenty-two.”
A look of astonishment crosses Meg’s face, and I begin to feel self-conscious, so I take another sip of wine.
“You’ve never had any kind of fun, have you?”
“Well, last night was my first date if that tells you anything.”
“Oh my gosh. You can’t be serious?”
“My grandmother hated me. When I tested out of high school and into Cornell, it was the best thing that had ever happened to me.”
“Why did she hate you?”
A stab of guilt swells in my gut. I look down at my glass, tracing my finger around the rim.
“She had my mother young, and she really didn’t want her. She treated my mother like shit, and my mom fell for the first guy that came her way. Then she kept falling for every guy thereafter. When she was seventeen, she got pregnant with me, no man in the picture.” I begin the choke, and tears travel down my face. “She was the best mom, so kind. She loved me so much, no matter how little we had.”
“What happened to her?”
“She died. She grew sick when I started kindergarten. By the time cancer took her, she was a shell of herself.”
Suddenly, I am wrapped in a hug, unable to escape.
“Oh, Remi. I’m so sorry! I’ll be your mother!”
“Honey, I think you’re younger than me,” I say, maneuvering my glass around her to take another sip.
We throw on lingerie, snapping pictures of each other, then we each don our own muumuus. As it turns out, I have three stowed away.
Meghan sets the lights on us, and we begin filming, full muumuu. It’s as if I get to live my childhood all over again, though this time, with a friend and terrible fashion. We talk about our favorite television shows, don fake accents, and drink way too much wine.
Sometime during the evening, pizza is ordered, and Meghan is wielding a microphone.
“Tell me, Girl Genius, what is the best part of working for Icor Tech?”
“Well, Might Be Meghan, I have to say it’s the analytics.”
“Did you say anal? I only got as far as anal. That’s a big word.”
We burst out laughing, and before I know what we’re doing, Meghan pulls me up, and we’re dancing, twirling, and spilling copious amounts of wine. Two empty bottles are on the floor, a third is in Meghan’s hand.
“Oh! We can use your cat tower as a pole?”
“But…it’s boxy?”
“Oh, girl, it’ll work. We’ll make it work.”
Meghan drags over the cat tower, and I see that Kibble is huddled in a corner, seemingly having met her match. The cat tower extends seven feet high, and while there is a pole running its length, several boxes are running up it for the cat.
We’re giggling, and Meghan begins prancing around the tower, then sits seductively on a box, bringing the muumuu up her legs that are clothed in thigh-high stockings.
She crosses and uncrosses her legs in burlesque fashion, and beckons me over.
Now, I’m prancing around the tower, rolling my hips under the tent-like muumuu. Meghan is hootin’ and hollerin’ me on. As I pass her, she reaches out, grabbing my muumuu, and pulls it over her head.
I’m shimmying to get away. She begins tickling me, and we’re soon on the floor with our muumuus in disarray.
“I like you, Remi.”
“I like you too, Meghan.”
“I want to show the world what good friends we are!”
“Go ahead! Show everyone!” I say.
“Why didn’t we ever talk until now?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” I say as I roll onto my side. She puts her head on my thigh, and I’m too tired to do anything but sleep.
CHAPTER 16
Gabriel the stalker…
The scene of Remi stumbling out of the elevator after our first meeting is played on repeat as I stare at a spreadsheet telling me how much money we’re wasting.
She’s such a klutz. How could anyone be such a klutz?
I reread the texts from her, and it provides me with a measure of comfort. She’s seeing exactly what I had expected her to see. What any intelligent person would see.
The picture on her Match profile stares at me from a different screen. It’s ridiculous but speaks volumes. After some digging, I found out quite a bit about Ms. Remi Stone.
After her mother died at seven, she was sent to live with her grandmother, and unfortunately, Child Protective Services had been called on the woman several times.
Her grandmother was a tyrant, impressing nothing but hatred and distaste on young Remi. In the interviews conducted by CPS, she’d flat out say things like, “If it weren’t for her, I could keep a man around,” and, “Ain’t nobody wants her. I’m doing the best I can.”
Despite her hateful caregiver, though, Remi went on to achieve great things, or maybe because of her. If I were Remi, I’d do anything I could to get out of that trailer too.
She has no other relatives, meaning holidays must be lonely for her. It hurts to think of her alone, on Christmas, no one to celebrate with.
I don’t care what I have to do. She’ll never have to spend another holiday alone again.
I take all images of Remi off the screen and focus on the numbers, the only company I’m allowed to have right now.
My phone buzzes, and I see a text from my friend Zev pop up.
Zev: Bad news.
Gabriel: What’s that?
Zev: My father passed.
Gabriel: I’m sorry to hear that. Do you need anything?
Zev: You know what a dick he was. Now, I have to make sense of all the crap he left behind.
Gabriel: I know how that goes. Tell me if you need anything.
Zev: Will do.
Zev is one of his oldest friends and underst
ood all too well what it was like to have a difficult father.
He hails from a long line of architects, and they made a killing in real estate investments. I dated his sister Sari for a hot minute, but she proved to be too spoiled for my taste.
The intercom light flashes, my assistant is trying to get through to me. I hit the ‘answer’ button and clear my throat.
Gabriel: Yeah, Stace?
Stace: Sir, you were pinged on Social Media. Instagram, to be exact.
Gabriel: So what? I must get pinged a thousand times a day. That’s what you’re for, to like, smile, and say thank you.
Stace: This is different, Sir. Just look on your phone.
I pull up Instagram, and I immediately see what Stace is talking about. It’s from some Instagram influencer named Might Be Meghan, and I’m tagged in it. The message reads:
What better thing to do on a Wednesday night than help my neighbor pack for her move to Icor Towers!
The video shows two women wearing god awful muumuus dancing around cat furniture, a bottle of wine in one of their hands. One sits, the other looks like she’s doing some type of tribal dance.
Oh, God! Remi is doing some type of tribal dance.
Gabriel: Thanks Stace, I’ll handle it.
Now, I see a flash of underwear, and the duo falls to the floor in a fit of laughter. I’m laughing too as I bring up my phone to text Analise. As funny as this might be, it can spell disaster with the fallout.
Gabriel: Look at this on insta. What the hell am I supposed to do about it?
I send her a link, and less than a minute later, my phone vibrates.
Analise: First, I’m in love. How did you find this gem? Second, turn it into lemonade.
Gabriel: How the fuck am I going to do that? The board is going to go crazy.
Analise: Fuck the board. They are crusty souls, even my dad. This Might Be Meghan has over 100k Instagram followers, and her YouTube platform is huge. You may run a tech company, but you’re more popular among the older crowd than the millennials and younger demographic. Let people laugh and see that people in your company don’t have sticks up their asses. Also, bring Meghan in.
Gabriel: I really need you on my board. You just have this way of thinking that I need casting a vote.
Analise: I know, and one day…if we’re lucky.
Gabriel: I wanna hold off on bringing Meghan in. Maybe next week. I have too much to think about.
Analise: Fine, are we done?
Gabriel: Sorry, you in the middle of something?
Analise: Having Starbucks caramel licked out of my belly button, so I would say…YEAH!
Gabriel: Jeez, I’ll go away now.
I know I should put my phone down and get back to work, but the call of Instagram is strong, and I go back into the haphazardly created video done by my newest director, or rather her popular friend.
It’s obvious Remi is drunk and having a good time, and getting to see this little glimpse into her life makes me like her even more. The muumuu she’s wearing is ridiculous, and I want to assume it’s a joke, but with a woman like Remi, you just never know. She doesn’t put a lot of effort into her appearance, not that she needs to. She’s enchanting just as she is.
I watch the video again. The brief glimpse I get of Remi’s lacy bottom doesn’t fail to send my mind racing. I can’t work knowing I could be looking at a dancing Remi, so I do the only thing that might bring me relief.
Images of Remi shedding her muumuu and standing in sexy lace come to the forefront of my imagination, and it doesn’t take long until a familiar rush comes.
I’m done, and more than a little tired, but I have to go back to work—but I can’t. Now that I’ve relieved my tension, I should be able to focus, that’s how this sort of thing works.
Except this time, I can’t help but stare at Remi’s face, at her lips, at her cute, button nose, at her doe eyes.
Fuck! Not this again.
I’m mad at myself for letting this happen. I should be focusing on Icor Tech and my upcoming marriage, not some woman I’ve just met. If the parade of roses is any indication, Tom’s actually really into this one. Maybe I should give him more credit. Maybe he will be good for Remi.
Without anyone else to talk to, I pull up Analise’s contact info once again.
Gabriel: Are you done fucking yet?
Analise: Are you kidding me?
Gabriel: I really need to talk.
Analise: Give me twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes pass, and Analise walks through my door, coffee in hand.
“What’s this about?” she asks, taking a seat in a nearby chair.
“I think I might be having a meltdown or something.”
Her mouth twitches to the side as her brows shoots downward. “Why?”
“I don’t really know what’s causing it. Possibly marrying Sayo. Or maybe it’s just financials. Before, I used to throw myself into my work for days at a time. Now, I can barely concentrate for ten minutes straight.”
“Are you tired or distracted?”
“Well, I can tell you that I’m definitely getting distracted.”
“What’s distracting you?”
“A little chaos ball named Remi Stone.”
A look of surprise lights her face. “Remi? I mean, I can tell you think she’s cute, but is she really distracting you? Her?”
“Badly. I can’t tell you the number of times I pull up her picture throughout the day.”
“Ahem, have you thought of…you know…of taking matters into your ‘own hands’?”
“It’s been done. It’s not enough.”
“Jeez.”
“Yeah, it’s bad.”
“Well, what is it about the girl?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. There are so many things I like about her. I like how smart she is. I like how she doesn’t wear a lot of makeup. I like how damn clumsy she is. I think I really fell, though, when I learned her history. She’s had it rough, yet she’s doing amazing things.”
Analise brings her cup to her mouth, takes a sip, and shrugs her shoulders. “Tell her how you feel.”
My gut twists with anxiety. “Are you mad?”
“This may be exactly what she needs. Offer to relieve her tension, if ya know what I mean.”
“That would be highly improper and insulting.”
“Why do you assume she’d be insulted? She’s a career woman. From what I gather, she probably doesn’t have the time or energy to dedicate to proper dating. Lay out some ground rules.”
“This is all crazy talk.”
“Is it, though? Would you rather she fall head over heels for Tom only to be dumped when he gets bored of her? At least with this, she knows what she’s getting in for.”
“But I’m getting married.”
“To a lesbian. A lesbian that does not, I repeat, does not want to fuck you. You managed to get engaged to one of the .009% of women that does not want to rip off your clothes and rub against your junk. I also happen to be a member of that club.”
“Do you really think this is a good idea?”
“She’s a twenty-three-year-old virgin—she’s got to be frustrated. We actually talked about friends with benefits situations today. She seemed conflicted.”
It’s getting hot in my office, and I unbutton the top button of my shirt.
“Are you sure…she’s a virgin?”
“Pretty damn sure.”
“Then I can’t! What if she gets attached?”
“Good. I mean, you’re going to need someone consistent that’s not into muff diving. It’s not like Remi’s out searching for a husband. This thing can last for decades if you’re discreet enough. It could be perfect for her. Better you than some creep she meets at a bar because she’s fucking tired of being a virgin.”
The thought of Remi meeting up with a man at a bar fills me with dread.
“I just don’t know,” I finally say.
“Get out your damn phone.�
��
“Get out my phone?”
“Yeah, you’re going to invite her to dinner.”
“No—”
“Save it. Now, you’re going to do what I say so you can save the damn company. Pull out your phone.”
I pull it out.
“Bring up her contact and text message box.”
I pull it up, excited butterflies aflutter in my stomach.
“Invite her to dinner.”
“But it’s 1:30. She’ll be asleep.”
“If you don’t do it now, you’ll never do it. Invite her to dinner. You can feel out the situation over carbs.”
I suck in a breath and let my thumbs do the work.
CHAPTER 17
Remi did a bad bad thing…
“What the hell is going on?” I mumble, my body against the hard floor.
I look down at a weight on my leg and see Meghan sleeping.
Bright lights hurt my eyes. I blink and see ring lights set up in the corner of the room.
I pull my leg out from under Meg, and her head drops to the floor, but she doesn’t wake. I look around and find Kibbles’ cat tower in the middle of the room, and three empty bottles of wine cluttered nearby. My phone is buzzing.
The Billionaire's Board Page 11
