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Hell, it wouldn’t take much for Destiny to spot us and start asking questions.
Then my life goes up in a puff of doubts and lies that can’t possibly fit together.
Then I remember how stupidly reckless I am.
The next morning, I wake up at five to a blaring Taylor Swift song.
Eliza is dressed and moving to the door, her hair shining and freshly brushed.
“Sneaking out on me again?” I say, bolting up.
She turns and grins at me. I wait with my arms crossed while she prances back to the bed, leans over it, and kisses me passionately.
“You’re not that lucky, lunk. Today’s the big day and I have four drinks to prep for the big meeting,” she says.
“Otherwise, we’d be waking up together in an hour?”
Her smile shouts yes.
I pull her face back down for another devilish kiss.
“Should I expect to wake up to Taylor Swift every damn time your alarm goes off?”
She laughs, smacking my shoulder playfully.
“Any chance I can convert you to Metallica—or at least Green Day?” I try again.
“None. And unless you want to look bad in front of your billionaire buddy, I’d better get these drinks—and myself—ready.”
“You’re dedicated. I like it.”
“See ya soon.” Eliza slips out of my room.
Once I’m up, showered, and dressed, I find Destiny lounging around at the massive dining table on the second floor that overlooks a dreamy sunrise stolen from a Monet painting.
“Hey, I know my work bores you to tears, but I need you to come to a meeting with me today.”
“Why?” she asks, tilting her head like I just asked for her wisdom teeth.
“It’s with Brock Winthrope, and it’s an important negotiation,” I tell her.
“Oh.” She plunks her juice glass down. “He’s really hot.”
“And far too old for you,” I growl.
“Just sayin’. Lighten up, Daddykins.”
“Since he has an Instagram and I can barely use it, will you come?”
“Yeah. But are you gonna let me talk?”
“You’re fifteen. I’m not sure you’re ready to hold your own in meetings yet. However, negotiating skills will always serve you well. Even if you do most of your talking with sea lions.”
“What-ever. You just can’t use Instagram and your big client man has his own hashtag. He’s got like, whole fan accounts that post pictures of him in his suit with messy hair... Doesn’t he run hotels or something?”
I almost facepalm. “I see his social media presence serves his brand well. Regardless, I’d like you to come. Preferably without drooling at his 'messy hair.'”
“Dad, I’m not a prop. If you just want me to stand in the background, what’s the point?”
“You’re not a prop. You’re my daughter. This company will still be yours one day, whether you’re running it or leaving it to your managers while you write a book on talking to whales. You have a vested interest in its success and your continuing education.”
She huffs the purest teenage indignation I’ve ever heard.
“Start acting the part,” I say. “By the time I was your age, I’d spent three summers in the office. I never even had time for movies.”
I turn away when I realize how fucked up my youth sounds.
She puts down her phone with another huff and stares at me like I’m the unreasonable one.
“I’ve been to the office every summer, too. Checkmate,” she says matter-of-factly.
“Except I was actually working.”
“...it still counts. God, Dad.”
“You’re coming to the damn meeting.”
“I’m talking then if Mr. Brock has a question.”
“If he has a question for you,” I grind out.
“Uh, okay. By the way, your crusty vibe died in like 1849.”
“If he asks you to weigh in on the coffee, you can give the keynote speech,” I snarl. It’s weird how much you can love your own blood when they also piss you off at every turn. “Any chance you brought something professional to wear?”
“Yep! Because I planned on making a board presentation for a gazillion dollars.” She rolls her eyes. “Can I wear my bikini? That’s formal, right? I mean, it’s black.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, hoping for a full dose of that peaberry brew and not one of those little tasting cups. I’ll need it to chase back this headache.
Still, after I lunge and tickle her until she laughs, I hug her for a solid minute.
My little smartass is growing up.
15
Taste Test (Eliza)
Later that day, everyone piles into the impressive-looking conference room with Brock and his team seated at the long table.
The moment of truth has arrived.
It’s a stark contrast between the two sides.
Besides Destiny and I, everyone from Wired Cup is pushing forty, if not older.
Brock Winthrope himself is closer to my age than Cole’s—and probably the oldest person on his team of hawk-eyed, stylishly dressed twenty-somethings.
Cole insisted on looking sharp, and now I see why.
Even Destiny shows up in a nice blouse and skirt that makes her look ten years older.
Brock wears a light blue suit, but the rest of his people are more casual. There’s a woman in a three-quarter sleeve tee and a mini skirt, and a guy in a blue-and-gold Versace button-down shirt.
