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She suspected it would be the latter and she wholeheartedly resented the idea that either A, she was in denial, or B, something was wrong with her.
“Let’s get a second opinion,” Carter said, and before August could protest, he’d flagged down a young waitress. “What do you think? Would she and I make attractive children?”
He pointed to August. The waitress looked like a deer in headlights, and August wanted to sink into the earth. The people at the tables around them weredefinitelywatching. God, knowing her luck there was probably someone live tweeting it!
Or worse, filming it for TikTok.
“Stop it,” she hissed at Carter, but he waved her away as if she were a fly.
“Come on, you can be honest.” He laughed, as though he wasn’t making everyone around him cringe. “I mean, she’s a little solid, but she has a pretty face, right?”
August’s mouth popped open. The guy was lucky there was a table between them and that she wasn’t the type to throw a drink in someone’s face, because right now she wasverytempted.
You donotneed to put up with this.
August happened to like the fact that she was “solid.” She was strong! Her muscles helped her in her job grooming animals, and it was very physical work, especially with the bigger clients. And yes, she shopped in the plus-size section and her thighs rubbed together when she walked and she jiggled in places. So what? Was a little chub rub the end of the world? Hell, no.
And it certainly didn’t give anyone the right to make her feel lesser.
August pushed her chair back and stood up. “Congratulations, Carter. You are, without a doubt, the worst jerk I’ve ever swiped right on. Gold star for you.”
He looked at her pityingly. “Is this because I called you solid? I didn’t mean it as a bad thing. I happen to like—”
“I don’t care what you like, and I’m perfectly comfortable in my body. Butyouare arrogant beyond belief. I pity any woman who’s fooled long enough to marry you.” She grabbed her purse and fished out enough money to cover the food they’d ordered. Carter looked at her incredulously as the bills fluttered onto the table. “I hope you remain single for a long,longtime. Like, forever.”
Slinging her purse over one shoulder, she stalked toward the front of the restaurant, aware several phones were raised in her direction. One woman yelled, “You go, girl,” at her as she walked past. What a disaster! But August had more self-esteem than to let someone treat her like that. Fury bubbled in her veins.
At the last minute, fueled by frustration, she turned around to face the people sitting at the artfully decorated tables and along the opulent bar.
“That’s Carter Edward Driscoll III, ladies. Make sure you swipe left!”
Turning on her heel, she walked past the head server, whose hand was clamped over her mouth, and out of the restaurant, the sound of applause and cheering fading as the door swung shut behind her.
It was official. Despite being a badass business owner, respected animal wrangler, and—she liked to think—decent human being, it was clear that August Merriweather could not tell the good guys from the dickwads.
Maybe she was going about this all wrong. Maybe looking for love on dating apps and in crowded bars was like trying to find quality in a discount store bargain bin. Hell, maybe looking for love full stop was putting her focus on a fantasy.
Perhaps what she needed was a more measured and practical approach: someone who had the same goals as her, where love might grow over time. A partnership, rather than a romance.
It was time to engage professional help.
Keaton Sax stared out of the expansive window of his office—a large space, though not yet the corner office he coveted—and admired the view. Facing east, Manhattan’s Financial District and Brooklyn sat glittering and pretty on the other side of the East River. It was nearing 10:00 p.m. and the sky was inky dark, yet the brightened windows of the towers around him showed plenty of worker bees busily tapping away at their computers or talking into their cell phones. Such was life on Wall Street.
Sleep was for the unmotivated.
A knock at his office door startled him and he swung his chair around to see who’d dared to interrupt his thinking time. Keaton’s boss, Thomas Fairchild, stood in the doorway, his lean marathon runner frame encased in a dark suit and his shirt without a single crease even though the man had almost certainly arrived in the office before 5:00 a.m.
“Thomas. What can I do for you?” Keaton asked, gesturing for the older man to come in.
Thomas had bright blue eyes and thick silver hair—which had led to someone at their old firm nicknaming him the “White Walker” a few years ago behind his back. His reputation for ruthlessness and rigid adherence to his plans certainly fit theGame of Thrones–inspired moniker.
Bankers came in two forms, Keaton had discovered. There was the gluttonous type, who thrived on the glitzy dinners and wore diamond-adorned Rolexes and whose attitude of “more, more, more” permeated all areas of their work and personal life. These were the guys who inevitably ended up divorced because they got caught with a drug habit or a gambling addiction or a mistress or four on the side.
And then there was the fiercely ambitious win-at-all-costs high-achiever type, who didn’t have an off switch. They were lean and hungry, and in their eyes you were only as good as your last deal. Whereas the first group were whales, these guys were sharks. Faster and way more dangerous.
Thomas was, without a doubt, king of the sharks.
“What’s the update on the Waterline Press acquisition?” Thomas asked.
