Page 9 of Wine & Dine

5

Stunned

[Garrett]

“Incredible,” she mutters under her breath as I pause next to my car. I’m not certain if she means me, my snarky comments, or my vehicle, a 2019 Porsche 911 Limited Edition Early Release convertible. Either way, I open the door for her and hold it as she folds herself into the leather seat. Even covered in jeans, I have a sense of how long her legs are, and I imagine them shapely and sleek beneath the denim.

I close her door and round to the driver’s side. Slipping in, I fire up my little piece of pride. The sweet purr always excites me, but for some reason, the excitement intensifies with Dolores next to me. She’s a captive audience in my sports car as we drive down Highway 1 to the city. There’s no escaping me like she did a week ago.

I’ve been busy this week and haven’t had the chance to cross paths with her. I’d almost missed Denton’s phone call this morning. If Dolores saw last night’s visitor, she hasn’t mentioned anything. I had to practically force Alicia out my door.

We need to talk, Alicia pouted. Her presence on my doorstep was unprecedented, and a further reminder the previous weekend had been a mistake. Alcohol was involved then. Alcohol was involved last night. Alicia was drunk. A longtime friend, we’d already shared the benefits thing years ago, but when Alicia grew too clingy, I had to cut her loose. I wasn’t marriage material. It’s why I’m still single at fifty.

After I was raised by a mother and three sisters, a woman fussing over me full time is the last thing I want. Freedom rings in my ears. That’s what I took when I left River City, Missouri. With a small inheritance from my granddad, I built the empire I now run—Fox Investors. I don’t invest in emotions. I invest in things. Things that make me money. Lots of money. The thought shifts my eyes to the woman next to me.

Clearly, Dolores doesn’t care about money. She hasn’t said anything about my Porsche, the Italian leather seats, or the high-tech surround sound stereo system. Her request for a Target has me doing a second take at her clothing. Are those Chucks a knock-off? Is her sweater a brand of anything?

“Why don’t you have a jacket?”

“Uhm…” Those pink lips open and then twist like she’s locking in a secret. “I forgot one. It’s California. It’s not supposed to be cold here.”

I scoff. “It’s not Hawaii.”

“Aren’t they practically the same?”

My head swivels in surprise. Her brother’s a former rock star, how does she not know the difference?

“Prefer the East Coast, huh?” Easterners can be snobs like that, with their loyalty to the original colonies. Those people love their ocean, thinking it’s better than the one out west. Patriots, I inwardly chuckle with sarcasm.

“I’ve never been to the coast.”

My head twists again, but her eyes stay focused on the houses we pass, those that line the very coast we are discussing.

“Well, I went once,” she corrects. “But I try not to think of that time.”

Huh. There’s a story there, but I don’t ask. I don’t need her sad history. I’m giving her a ride because I’m trying to be a nice guy, and Denton asked me to. He’s gotten me out of more than a few binds with women at the condo. We aren’t best friends, but I like to think we understand each other. We’ve watched a game or two together. Gone to a bar or three. Thankfully, we’ve never shared a woman. The thought draws my eyes back to the one next to me. His sister.

She still looks like a wreck even without a damp T-shirt, sand in her hair, or the scent of wet dog permeating from her. Her dried out hair is pulled up in a messy bun. She wears no makeup and a sweater that looks two sizes too big for her. She needs a personal shopper and spa treatment, and even that might not wipe the sorrow off her cheeks. I should offer condolences for her mother, but if she cries, I’m a goner. It’s my one weakness. I’m a sap in that area, and as soon as a woman knows this secret—that I’m defenseless against tears—the challenge is on. Alicia pulled it on me, and it’s how she ended up in my apartment. Twice.

Dolores and I ride in silence for a bit, but as we near the city, the traffic pulls us to a halt. I press five on my touchscreen speed dial. My mother and three sisters take up the first four numbers.

“Nora, it’s Garrett. Can you set up a personal shopper at Nordstrom for me and then make an appointment at Beverly’s around one?”

“Sure thing, Mr. Fox.”

I sense Dolores’s eyes on me as the phone disconnects.

“Mr. Fox? You sound important.”

“I think incredible is the word you mean.” Her arms cross, and her lip pouts.

“Impossible,” she grunts under her breath, and I scoff.

“I run Fox Investors.”

“Never heard of it,” she says, not judging but not impressed either. Just making a statement.

“Think Shark Tank. Ever see that show? I’m a behind-the-scenes guy. Invest in things to be bought and sold. The money man.” She nods like she understands but doesn’t probe me for more information. I’m taken aback as most women start questioning me, sniffing around for my net worth, which can easily be found in Forbes. I was once entrepreneur of the year and earned the decree of the most successful man under fifty.