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He continued to watch me with an expression that was almost pleading, and instead of forcing him to explain any further, I forced myself to think about what he was offering me: ownership of Larkspur.
“I want seventy-five percent,” I stated with a tone firm enough to knock Leo back in his chair.
His mouth parted in surprise, his eyes glinting in what might have been awe or utter shock at the demand. “Seventy-five percent?”
I nodded as I stood up from my own chair. “Yes. And I want a contract with the terms outlined, which will include that your ownership is of an absentee nature. I want to run my own club, Leo. No disrespect.”
Leo frowned. “Mara, they’re coming tomorrow. We don’t have time for?—”
“I suggest you draw something up quickly then,” I retorted as I turned to walk toward the door. “I’ll see you tonight.”
Even though I wanted to—it nearly killed me not to—I didn’t turn to look at him as I walked out.
Chapter Eleven
“You’re a billionaire?”
Leo whipped his head around from where he sat in the office chair to look at me, frowning. His eyes cascaded down my frame, taking in my oversized Larkspur T-shirt that fell mid-thigh and the black fishnet stockings I had on underneath. The sleeves almost reached my elbows and the neckline was higher than any of my tank tops—all things considered, this was one of my more conservative outfit choices for a shift. But as his gaze dropped lower to the combat boots on my feet, his frown deepened.
I’d gotten to Larkspur a few minutes ago, walking through the backdoor to find things were already pretty busy. I made my usual rounds to check in on everyone and then circled back to find Leo and discuss our absurd conversation this morning. After said absurd conversation, I’d spent the early afternoon executing some mild sleuthing on the internet to see what I could find out about Leo’s family. It was there that I’d seen his father listed on Forbes’s list of self-made billionaires.
Leo’s eyes were still scrutinizing as they rose up to my face. On the desk in front of him was a silver laptop with various spreadsheets and bar graphs displayed on the screen, demonstrating what I guessed was some sort of financial report for Larkspur. I didn’t even need to get a closer look to know that whatever reporting tools he was using were much snazzier than anything I’d worked with over the last couple of years. In the last two days of Leo being here, I’d come to realize he was organized to the point of obsession.
Forcing my eyes away from the computer screen and back to Leo, I allowed myself a single moment to take in the crisp black button-down shirt he was wearing and had to shake off a surge of lust that had no business presenting itself. “My father is,” he confirmed, suave and serious. And then his annoyingly gorgeous blue eyes narrowed. “Wait, how do you know that?”
I pressed a hand to my hip over the army green cotton of my shirt. “Google,” I replied, a bit smug.
His eyes widened, the smallest trace of panic seeping into them. “What else did you find?”
I narrowed my own gaze. “What do you mean what else did I find? What else is there, Leopold?”
He shook his head defensively, and I watched his waves sway with the movement. “Nothing. Just . . .” He hesitated, running his palms over his thighs. “Do me a favor and don’t go digging for any more information about me. If you want to know something, I’ll happily tell you myself.”
I grunted. “As if that isn’t the most red-flag request to come out of a man’s mouth.”
He pressed his lips together into a firm line. “I’m serious, Mara.” His wide chest expanded and contracted beneath his pressed shirt. “There are things in the media that are, quite frankly, pure fiction . . . Narratives involving my family that couldn’t be further from the truth.” He looked thoughtfully at the floor. “Some things are true, I suppose. But not everything.”
Hm. Color me intrigued. I simply stared back at him, unwilling to agree to his ask. His nervousness only made me want to google him more.
Aside from the Forbes issue, I’d found a few other blogs and articles that were interesting, to say the least. Apparently, Callahan Enterprises had a less-than-stellar reputation despite their incredible revenue reporting. Most of the negative rumblings had been in regards to Leo’s father himself—Alaric Callahan—but Leo had been implicated in a few accusations, too, like undermining board authority and the misappropriation of funds.
Scrubbing a hand over his face at my silence, he sighed. And then he locked his eyes on me. “Mara,” he nearly whispered. “Please.”
For the second time today, something about his expression made me falter. It was like he was letting his veil drop to reveal an all-encompassing exhaustion, and I didn’t like it. So, I decided to steer the conversation toward a subject that felt safer. “Do you have a contract for me?” I wagged my eyebrows at him, as if the question weren’t completely insane.
Leo stumbled at the subject change, mumbling something under his breath that I didn’t catch, but relented as he picked up a sheet from the pile on his desk. “Right here,” he indicated, holding it out for me as his eyes once again fell to my legs.
I snatched the paper out of his hands and began to read it, swallowing down a sudden bout of nerves.
RELATIONSHIP CONTRACT
My stomach flipped at the sight of the bold title printed at the top of the page.
What the hell was I getting myself into?
This agreement (“Agreement”) serves to establish a consensual relationship (“Relationship”) between the following undersigned parties:
Mara Roberts
