Page 2 of The Beat Match

Jesus. This was like some kind of villainous matchmaking, with Weston’s father pimping his son out to secure their financial future and market share.

Weston stalked to his chair and gripped the back of it, digging his fingers into the leather. His desk was tidy, papers neatly stacked, pens tucked into unobtrusive holders, keyboard and cell phone parallel with the dark mahogany edge. Everything organized and uncluttered, exactly like his apartment and daily life. Only two framed photos suggested Weston had a beating heart inside his chest: his best friend, Leo, who died nearly thirteen years ago, and his mother, who died a year later.

Weston had no intention of ever marrying. Losing the people closest to him had taught him one paramount lesson: love always ended in pain. He’d been forced to attend therapy. He knew the drill, why he still kept people at arm’s length. Emotional distance, fear of abandonment. He was so textbook the textbooks were jealous of him.

Label him whatever you wanted, Weston planned on a long life of bachelorhood, most of it spent in this towering office. But dating wasn’t marriage, and Karim couldn’t force the couple into a union that would end in divorce. Sealing this deal was Weston’s chance to make his mark on Aldrich Pharma. Prove he deserved to take over the family business and appease shareholders who worried he was being gifted the reins.

“Fine,” he told his father, still angry about this change in circumstance. Business should be business. Dating to secure a merger made this personal. “Tell Karim I’ll try—”

His cell phone rang, cutting him short. The number wasn’t familiar, but it was an excuse to kick his father out and seethe in private. “I need to take this. I’ll ask Rosanna out in the next couple of weeks, once I get my head around it all.”

“See to it that you do, and that you do it soon.” Victor’s heavy jaw clamped shut.

Weston didn’t bother replying or watching him leave. He picked up his phone. “Hello?”

“Hey, Wes. It’s Annie.”

He frowned. It was definitely Annie, but her name should’ve flashed on his screen. “Why aren’t you using your phone?”

“There’s been an incident, and I need a favor.”

“What kind of incident, Anthea?” If she lost her phone, he’d have to get her a new one. He didn’t like the idea of her being without that safety net.

She made an annoyed growly sound. “How many times do I have to tell you to stop calling me Anthea?”

“Sorry, Anthea, but it’s hard to hear you over the whine in your voice.”

“God, you’re annoying.”

He chuckled at her irritation. Needling Annie with her full name was the only thing that could amuse him on a day like today. “Well then, Squirrel, do fill me in on this favor.”

Another growl. Something snarky under her breath. She enjoyed his nickname for her as much as her given name. Instead of biting back, she said, “I need a lift.”

“Did you forget how to use the subway? Are you allergic to taxis? Did your Uber app malfunction?”

An exasperated sigh slipped through the line. “I lost my keys and my purse is locked in my apartment.”

“So ask your landlord to let you in.”

“It’s more complicated than that, and I need to get to work. So can you pick me up or not? This is an emergency.”

Everything with Annie was an emergency. The night she ran out of glue for her obsessive scrapbooking hobby and dialed 9-1-1 had been a special level of absurd. The time she spotted a vintage purse she just had to have and bolted from his still-moving car had been stroke inducing. Anthea—Annie—Ward had the attention span of a fruit fly and was as organized as a Black Friday sale. He had no clue how she made it through each day. “Tell me where you are and I’ll rescue you before the sky falls.”

He felt her trademark evil stare as she barked out the address and hung up.

He shook his head at Leo’s photo. “When you told me to look out for your little sister, you didn’t tell me she’d be this big of a pain in my ass.”

He smiled sadly, wishing Leo could bust his gut laughing, or punch Weston’s arm and tell him to suck it up. He wished Annie had more people to rely on. As it stood, he barely had time to sleep, let alone nag her to stick with a job longer than a month, or go back to school for a useful degree.

Weston snatched his keys and wallet from his desk drawer and left his office. After quick instructions to his secretary to divert his calls, he cracked his neck and jabbed the elevator button twice. Go on a date to secure a merger. Be a son-in-law for hire. It was unprofessional. Exploitative. His vision turned spotty as he marched into the opening elevator.

Duncan Ruffolo slipped in before the doors slid shut and nodded at Weston. “Hey.”

Weston grunted.

Duncan rocked back on his heels, hands clasped over a new, astronomically expensive suit. Weston of all people would know. Where some fathers played ball with their sons or shared laughs and shouts over a sport telecast, Victor S. Aldrich dragged Weston to his tailor to be poked and measured and told to stand straighter. “The suit doesn’t make the man,” his father would say. “The suit reinforces the man’s greatness.”

If Weston didn’t know better, he’d say Duncan was wearing a Guanashina suit, the luxurious fabric exceeding greatness. The blend of guanaco, baby cashmere, and kid pashmina was so fine it felt like silk against the skin. At fifteen thousand dollars a pop, it sure as hell better feel like heaven.