Okay. Okay, maybe these things aren’t instant. Maybe Ineed to stick with it, keep sending her photos so it seems like a serious relationship. We have technically only been dating for less than forty-eight hours.
My head flops back against the couch, and I glance around the room. On the coffee table in front of me are some navy folders withWinterson Capitalembossed in gold. And I notice other objects around the room with the same logo: a baseball cap on the counter, a fleece draped over a chair, a tote bag tucked in a corner.
Mark Winterson comes back down the stairs, balancing carefully because he has a champagne flute in either hand.
“Sorry about that.” He hands me one as he settles next to me, and we clink glasses. “Glad you’re here.”
I’m still on edge, between everything with Mom, and the opulent setting—not exactly in my element, here—and how prickly he was a moment ago. But now he’s giving me that old soft smile.
I sip the champagne and realize I probably haven’t eaten enough today, but I don’t quite feel comfortable asking for a snack. Mark Winterson puts a hand on my knee and gives it an affectionate squeeze.
“Do I antagonize you too much?” I ask, giving him my best Bugs Bunny grin.
He smiles wider. “No, I like it. It gets boring, being placated all the time.”
A reassuring warmth spreads in my chest. He likes my bad personality, and theprobing, slightly inappropriatequestions I ask. I guess I’ll keep going.
“You gave me the basics of your résumé, but…tell me something I can’t find out by googling you.”
“Do you spend much time googling me?”
“A totally normal amount.”
He seems to enjoy that idea. Maybe being googled is his love language. “What do you want to know?”
“Tell me…something you’re insecure about?”
Mark Winterson laughs thinly. “You can’t just come out and ask stuff like that. You’ll never get a straight answer.”
“Even if I signed alight NDA?” I set my champagne glass on a side table. “If you can’t tell me now, when can you tell me?”
It takes me by surprise when he reaches for me and pulls me into his lap. “You’ve got me there.”
He’s quiet for a bit, head resting on my shoulder, arms around my waist. “This is going to sound pathetic,” he starts.
“Try me.”
“When I was growing up, I was just ‘Grant’s son’ to everyone.”
“Grant Winterson of Winterson Capital, I presume?”
He barely chuckles. “Yeah. My dad’s this larger-than-life guy, for everyone in our social world. And in college, my cousin Zack—you’ll meet him at some point—”
My cheeks warm at the way he’s talking, like this is actually serious.
“Everyone was obsessed with him. And I was just ‘that guy who tags along with Zack.’ And now I’m…the guy who looks like some more famous, slightly taller guy?”
That makes me snort, and his chest shakes, too, reassuring me that I’m laughing with him.
“I’d love to break this streak,” he says quietly into my ear. “Be known for something that’s actually about me. Leave an impression that isn’t secondhand.”
“You want to make your mark,” I say, and his laugh jostles me again. “Sorry, I’m terrible.”
Mark Winterson plants a kiss on my neck. “No, uh, you’re not wrong.”
“So you’ll turn TKCORP around, save this storied institution, be remembered for that?”
“More or less.” He kisses the shell of my ear. “If I can provemyself to Erickson, secure my place here—maybe I can.” Then he stands suddenly, scooping me up in his arms, and I shriek.
