by Score, Lucy
I swallowed hard. He was so fucking good at the spin that even I couldn’t tell if it was a lie, a line.
He released me and ran a hand through his hair, a nervous tic I hadn’t seen before. “Tell me things didn’t change this weekend. Tell me you didn’t feel it,” he challenged.
I crossed my arms over my chest. Things had changed. I had felt it. “Maybe.” I shrugged. He’d taken that tenuous trust I’d given him and damaged it.
“I’m not letting you walk away, Emily,” he said. He reached for me again, trying to pull me closer. I pushed back harder.
“You don’t get a say in the matter,” I said. My arms were shaking with the effort.
“Check your email,” he said. “Please.”
The please was an afterthought tacked on to a command he knew I wouldn’t follow.
“I don’t think you have the right to tell me what to do anymore.”
“Goddamn it, Emily. Check your email.” The command stood alone this time.
With an extravagant eye roll, I fished my phone out of my bag and opened my email account.
To: Emily Stanton
From: Derek Price
Subject: I’m an unconscionable moron
Emily,
I just tried to call but couldn’t get through. I’ve forgotten to tell you something important that you’ll hate. I’m truly sorry, and you can categorically destroy me later. But first let me tell you that a journalist will be in your office any second now. I have a conference call, but I’ll be there immediately after…
It had been sent twenty minutes before I stormed into his office. I took my time looking up from the screen.
“Do not use this honest mistake as an excuse to stop trusting me,” he said softly. His blue eyes earnest. “I couldn’t take it. And I’m guaranteed to do something ridiculous.”
Damn it.
The anger drained out of me as if someone had pulled a plug. No one had ever fought for me like this before. They cracked and splintered like ice chips at my disapproval. Or, in the case of my family, they just didn’t care.
“More ridiculous than breaking into my house and taking a bath?” I asked quietly.
Relief and hope warred fiercely on his face, and I felt that shift again. This time I didn’t fight him when he pulled me into his arms.
“You scared the hell out of me,” he breathed against my hair.
“You pissed me off.”
“Darling, it’s not going to be the last time. So we’re going to need to work on some ground rules for fighting.”
“Ground rules? For what?”
“For the future,” he said, stroking his quick, talented hands down my back to cup my ass.
“Derek Price is not discussing the future,” I argued.
“Ah, sweet, stubborn Emily. You haven’t come to terms with it yet.” His voice was a caress, and I had trouble remembering why I’d been so furious only moments ago.
“Come to terms with what?” I asked. My heart rate sped up again, but this time it had nothing to do with temper.
“You’re my match, love. Things will never be dull or normal. But I promise you that adventure you deserve.”
“You can’t be serious, Derek. We had sex. We didn’t pledge our undying love to each other!” I felt the licks of panic in my intestinal region. “You know I don’t have time.”
“That’s not an ‘I don’t like you because you’re a hideous beast who makes me want to vomit,’” he pointed out. He brushed my hair back from my forehead.
“We already discussed the ‘we aren’t willing to make time for a relationship’ agenda item,” I reminded him, feeling breathless.
His gaze penetrated me, shooting daggers into my heart. “I will accept whatever you’re willing to give. That’s what you mean to me.”
“Are you drunk?” I demanded.
“Are you scared?” he retorted.
Yes! My intestines were tying themselves in knots, and I wasn’t keen on the idea of not having access to a private restroom.
“I’m not scared,” I lied. “I’m appalled. We had one weekend together, and you’re changing everything.”
“This weekend changed everything,” he corrected. “I’m just trying to keep up. Tell me you don’t want more. Tell me you don’t want more nights like last. Tell me you don’t want more dinners with a man who not just tolerates your drive but worships it.”
“You’re spinning me,” I accused.
He didn’t even look guilty. “I’m painting a picture. I want more of you, Emily. Let me earn you.”
My digestive system let out a mournful gurgle.
“Are you hungry?” he asked, amused.
“Not exactly,” I said evasively.
“Are you still angry?”
We were standing in the middle of his glass-walled office wrapped around each other in full view of Jane and the entire Alpha Group staff.
“Not exactly.”
“I know how difficult it is for you to trust,” he said quietly. “I don’t take that lightly. This was an honest mistake, and I’m sincerely sorry.”
“So I get a veto?”
His smile was lethal. “Not on your life, love. This is the whipped cream and cherry on top of a full week of positive press. I’m afraid you’re going to have to kiss your dreams of owning half my firm goodbye.”
Derek traced his fingertips down the line of my jaw.
“We’ll see about that,” I said lightly. The tide turned quickly, and who knew what an all-access interview would do? It could instigate a tsunami. “You’re awfully confident that the real me is likable.”
“You’re more than likable, darling. You’re admirable. Formidable. Fascinating. Real.”
“I’m afraid.” Admitting it out loud made some of the weight on my chest lighten.
“Of what?” he asked gently.
“Of letting someone into my life so they can judge me or hate me or use me. So they can find out I’m not perfect.”
“Perfect is boring and unlikable. You’re far from it,” he said.
I tried to take a step back, but he held me closer. My mother would argue that the illusion of perfection was the only thing that mattered.
“You’re better than perfect. You’re intimidatingly brilliant and frustratingly dedicated. This is our chance to show the real you to the world. And I’m very sorry I sprung it on you like this.”
I sighed out a breath. “I’ll forgive you on one condition.”
“Anything. Name it.”
“I want burgers for dinner.”
“I will get you burgers for dinner,” he promised. “Are you all right?”
Was I?
I did a scan. Mentally: Steeled. Physically: Hungry. Emotionally: A little rocky.
“I’m fine,” I decided.
“Good. Then let’s take our journalist friend out for lunch.”
“May I use your bathroom first?”
38
Derek
Lona Geiser was a formidable interviewer. I’d chosen Tia’s, a cozy Cuban cafe with bohemian flair, because of the friendly atmosphere. However, my lunch guests were squaring off, bowls of innocent fresh-baked tortilla chips and salsa between them.
I wanted some salsa, but I was afraid to reach in lest I get bitten.
“What do you see your duty as a business leader when it comes to setting an example for young girls?” Lona asked. Her digital recorder was pointed in Emily’s direction like a gun.
“Do you ask your male CEO interviewees that question?” Emily shot back.
I should have ordered tequila.
“Men aren’t often held to the same exacting standards as women in power,” Lona recited, her gaze skimming to me.
I felt unfairly judged.
“It’s not my job to explore the unfairness of existing double standards,” she continued. “It’s my job to paint an accurate picture of the woman who barely a month ago narrowly avoided arrest in connection to a drug stop.”
&
nbsp; I leaned forward, ready to interject a defense. Lona Geiser was known to be tough but fair. However, my source at Building Fortunes had failed to mention that much more of the interview energy trended toward tough.
Emily’s very sharp stiletto met my foot under the table.
“Some may see a woman who wasn’t arrested because she had done nothing wrong,” Emily corrected smoothly. “When I get up in the morning, I’m a CEO who has hundreds of employees and their families counting on me to make good decisions. I have millions of customers worldwide who hold me accountable when it comes to the products I develop and sell. I take that very seriously. More seriously than baseless accusations and gossip-mongering. If you’re not in the arena with me, I don’t have time to listen to your criticisms. Metaphorically, of course.”
“Of course,” Lona said with what could be an approving nod.
“Lona, let’s get this out of the way,” Emily said, liberating her utensils from the napkin as two servers approached with our meals. “I don’t need you to like me.”
“I’m not required to like you,” Lona responded calmly.
She reminded me of my implacable seventh grade English teacher, a woman I’d thought hated me until the last day of school when she coolly told me I had potential if I were smart enough not to ruin it.
“You’re also not required to paint a pretty picture of me. I’m not nice. I’m not a friendly boss. I’m tough. I’m smart. I’m busy. But I am also very, very fair. And I care deeply for my employees and my customers. Not every billionaire, female or otherwise, can say that. I’ve earned my place here, and I’m not going to allow anyone to question my accomplishments.”
“Your company has certainly revolutionized wrinkle treatment,” Lona said. I detected a distinct jab. The implication was clear: Wrinkles weren’t cancer.
Emily smiled dangerously, and I debated texting Jane to be ready for a hasty departure with a shovel and a tarp.
“My company has donated tens of millions of dollars to girls’ STEM programs, university science departments, and environmental sustainability programs. Our new scar treatment will give tens of thousands of people—including wounded veterans and domestic violence survivors—a chance to be seen for something other than their past.”
“Some would wonder if that’s enough,” Lona said, ignoring the steak fajitas that sizzled in front of her. “Especially with an initial public offering that could earn you even more money.”
Emily folded her hands neatly in front of her plate. “Some don’t get to have opinions on how I spend my money and what causes I support. Your purpose for being here—”
“Is to write an unbiased profile on the woman who single-handedly built an empire and didn’t allow a scandal to slow her down, much less knock her off course,” Lona said, picking up her fork. A genuine smile hovered over her lips.
“Then we have an understanding,” Emily said, smiling over her arroz con camerones.
I sat back in my chair, certain that I’d missed a vital piece of the conversation. I flagged down a member of the waitstaff. “Yes, I’d like to order three tequilas please.”
Emily’s eyebrows shot up. “Did you learn nothing from last time?”
I held up my hands. “I’m not sure what just happened, but I feel like it requires tequila.”
“Let’s talk about your college years,” Lona said, consulting her notebook. “You were a biology and chemistry dual major at Johns Hopkins University, and that’s where you met your chief marketing officer, Lita Smith.”
“I was practically a lab rat. We met in a biophysics class,” Emily recalled fondly. “Lita is responsible for dragging me out of the lab every once in a while.”
“Do you still enjoy spending time in the lab?” Lona asked.
“Every chance I get.”
I sipped tequila while they discussed education and the early discoveries that led to the humble beginnings of Flawless. With the terrifying female posturing over, Emily seemed relaxed. At least until Lona surprised us both by snapping a photo from her phone. “For the article,” she explained. “It will be a combination of candid photos and, of course, the photo shoot.”
“Photo shoot?” Emily repeated. Her heel dug into the Italian leather of my loafer. My shoe guy was going to have a hell of a time buffing that out. I sat still and took my medicine.
“I get the impression that this interview was sprung on you,” Lona guessed.
I cleared my throat. “There was a slight miscommunication with Emily’s calendar,” I said.
“Which is why, after this lovely lunch is over, you’ll both be joining me for five hours of rescheduled meetings and conference calls,” Emily said pleasantly.
My punishment for dropping the ball: Spending more time with Emily. I found it completely acceptable.
We ate in silence for a few moments. And then Lona flipped to the next page in her notebook.
“Let’s talk about the speculation surrounding your relationship with Mr. Price,” she said, spearing a piece of steak with her fork. The fixer in me wanted to mediate the question. The man in me wanted Emily’s brutal honesty.
“Derek was hired by my board to help manage the press surrounding my recent situation,” Emily said.
Lona and I both waited expectantly.
“As it turns out, he’s not only a consummate professional and as dedicated to his work as I am to mine, but he’s also rather…” Those blue-gray eyes skimmed me, warming significantly. “Irresistible.”
“Hmm,” Lona mused.
“As a rule, I don’t comment on my personal life,” Emily explained. “Those I share my life with shouldn’t be required to make the same privacy sacrifices that I have.”
“Irresistible. Personal life. Privacy. Got it,” Lona said, weighing the non-confession. “Off the record, I’d question your intelligence if you two weren’t enjoying your off hours together. On the record, my research for this article freshened up my knowledge of chemistry, and you two have enough of it for a significant laboratory accident.”
“Off the record, we keep eyewash handy at all times,” Emily quipped and picked up her tequila.
* * *
Verita: Soooo, have we waited long enough before we demand wedding bells from Derek?
Liz: *checks watch* It’s been more than twelve hours. Let the demands begin!
Will: Lock that girl down, bro. She’s got great taste in wheels and mediocre taste in men. BURN!
Berto: Unrelated, if you two crazy kids get married, does that mean you get a set of spare keys?
Me: Very funny, family. None of you are invited to the wedding.
Tanya: I KNEW IT! YOU TWO WERE SO SMOLDERY! When can I get a peek in her closet? Her taste is perfection.
Dad: Guys, have some chill will you? So Mr. Bachelor is all heart eyes over a beautiful genius with truly excellent taste in cars. Big deal. This happens all the time.
Mom: Michael! I told you sarcasm doesn’t translate in text!
Mom: Derek, if you don’t make a serious move on that woman I will be deeply disappointed in you.
Me: I’d like to point out that none of this is any of your business.
Verita: It’s adorable that Derek thinks his love life is off-limits.
Dad: Are you new here, Derek?
Berto: Back to the Porsche…
Tanya: Back to the closet…
Liz: I vote we start picking out engagement rings and texting them to Derek. #helpful
Mom: What do you all think of this one? The emerald cut is very dignified.
Will: Mom, that’s a clown GIF.
Mom: What’s a GIF?
Dad: Jesus H. Christ! You know I hate clowns!
Me: I’m disowning all of you.
Mom: Fine. But we’ve taking a family vote and we’re keeping Emily.
Berto: And her Porsche.
Dad: Good luck, Orphan Derek.
39
Emily
Mom: What have you done to your beautiful hair??? You l
ook so aggressive.
I’d dragged both Derek and my new journalist shadow through my afternoon from one conference room to the next. One call to the next. I’d instituted thirty minutes of quiet time in my office just so all three of us could catch up on email.
Somewhere in between a manager’s passive-aggressive complaint about next week’s market update meeting and a timeline of events “should the IPO go forward,” my phone signaled a text.
Derek: She likes you.
I glanced up and found him frowning over his phone and laptop on the couch. Lona was typing away like a machine in one of the armchairs.
Me: Is this the executive equivalent of passing notes in class?
His lips quirked.
Derek: You were magnificent today.
Me: You’re not flattering me to get out of buying me burgers tonight, are you?
Derek: Darling, I’m not buying you burgers. I’m making you burgers. Jane is shopping for ingredients as we speak.
Me: I approve.
Me: Your butt looks great in those pants, by the way.
His shoulders shook with quiet laughter.
Derek: It’s time to go. I’d like to see you in an inappropriately small bikini while I fire up your behemoth grill that I suspect has never been used.
