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“Is that truly the reason?” He stands up, too.
“It is. I mean, there’s also the fact that I want to get rid of the photographers following me every day. But I…when I decide to date again, it’ll be someone like a poet. Or a musician. Maybe a guy who works for Doctors Without Borders. I’m just not meant to go out with a billionaire.”
He narrows his eyes, the corners of his lips twitching with a smile. “I didn’t think you were the type of woman to judge people by how much money they have.”
“That’s…you’re ridiculous,” I say, flustered. “And I really do have to go so I can get back before dark.”
“Take my security guy with you. You won’t even know he’s there and he’ll carry the pack.”
“It’s okay. I’m fine.” I walk out of my office, my heart still pounding. I turn to look at him over my shoulder. “Do you want the donation back?”
He scoffs. “No.”
“Thank you again,” I say, the awkwardness so real I want to crawl under a chair. “For the donation.”
“It was my pleasure. Take care, Daphne.”
“Bye.”
He buttons his coat, puts on his gloves and leaves. I bury my face in my hands, wishing I could text Julia about what just happened. I have to get this stuff delivered, though, so I put the heavy backpack back on, waiting a couple minutes to leave so I don’t have to face Olivier again.
When I walk out the door, the icy Chicago wind whips against my face. A big guy in a dark coat is tailing me, and I know it’s Olivier’s security guy.
Stubborn ass. He’s right, though, we are a lot alike. Which is why, other than the fact that he’s a billionaire, nothing could ever work between us.
Chapter Seven
Olivier
“Is everyone in the conference room?” I ask Hassan, glancing at my watch.
“All but one of the in-person attendees are there and we’re still waiting on two of the video attendees.”
I narrow my eyes, aggravated. “So three people are late.”
“Well, not really.”
“If the meeting starts in one minute and they aren’t here, they’re late,” I snap.
I hate it when people are late. It shows disrespect for my time. There are plenty of people who do respect my time, and I prefer to do business with them.
“Well, not really,” Hassan says.
“You mean they’re not late until 10:01?” I scoff. “That’s bullshit logic. If you’re not in your chair with the meeting details in front of you at start time, you’re late.”
“But remember, I bumped the meeting back fifteen minutes so you could talk to Char Morris privately before it started. And then you and Char ended up talking yesterday so you didn’t need to do it today.”
He’s right. And while I usually would admit it, I don’t today because I’m in a foul mood and I’m looking for reasons to be pissed off. Hassan is used to this, and he’s also used to getting a very large bonus at the end of every year for dealing with my surliness.
I still can’t believe Daphne turned me down yesterday. I haven’t asked a woman out in a long time, but it’s like riding a bike. The donation to Safe Harbor should have softened her up.
Too rich. Not a poet. I can’t believe those are her reasons for saying no. I’m not used to that word, and I don’t fucking like it. Not when it comes to women, and not when it comes to business.
“Looks like Larry Knowles is signing on. I need to go make sure his video connection is good,” Hassan says after reading a message on his computer screen.
The kid’s the best assistant I’ve ever had. He’s a twenty-seven-year-old who agreed to work for me when I recruited him if I gave him stock options in my companies and mentored him. He keeps up with everything in my Chicago and New York offices without missing a beat. These meetings with lots of people appearing by video are a pain in the ass to set up, but he makes it look easy.
While he’s in the conference room, I grab a piece of notepaper with the Durand Enterprises name and logo on top and write out a note.
“All set,” Hassan says when he walks back into his office. “Maureen called in when I was in there, and Shane texted that he’s on the elevator.”
I pass him the folded note I wrote. “I need this delivered to Daphne Barrington at Safe Harbor today with flowers. Not red roses. Send something that’s nice, but not over the top. And I want you to deliver it yourself.”
“No problem.”
“Thanks.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket with a text and I check it.
Giselle: Thanks for getting me Starbucks this morning and letting me drive my car today.
I write back.
Me: You’re welcome. Have a good day, love you.
