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Sebastian’s trying hard not to smirk. “It's my job to know things,” I tell him, sounding defensive. “Besides, most of this was just Google.”
“Someone's very interested,” he chuckles. “It’s good to see you focus on something that isn’t work.”
I grimace. We both have our flaws. Sebastian can’t let his past go. I have an all-consuming focus on the family firm, leaving me no time for women or relationships or anything else.
“What are you going to do about our bet if Bailey doesn’t show up this week? Clark was a douchebag to her. Maybe she doesn’t want to play anymore.”
“My bet,” I correct him. “I believe it was me that put forward the number.” I shrug. “It’s fifty grand. I’m not going to get bent out of shape about it.”
Sebastian gives me a shit-eating grin. “If she shows, I’m totally going to enjoy coaching her. I think I caught a vibe from her.”
I roll my eyes and refuse to rise to the bait. “Please. You think you are going to score all the fucking time.” I lift my head and I see that Bailey’s walked in while I was taking my shot. She’s at the bar, laughing and saying something to the bartender as he hands her a shot of vodka. She’s wearing black again today - black pants and a black shirt, but unlike last week, her hair isn’t pulled back into a ponytail. It cascades in lush waves over her shoulders and down her back. She looks softer this way. Prettier.
She downs the drink before she turns and heads our way. “She’s here now, hot-shot,” I tell Sebastian. “Let’s see what you can do.”
* * *
She looks wary as she approaches us. “Hey,” she says, and there’s a definite note of unease in her voice. “You guys are here.”
“Is something wrong?” I ask her.
“I didn’t realize who you were when you offered to teach me how to play pool,” she says, making a face. “Daniel Hartman - billionaire CEO of a Fortune 500 company. Sebastian Ardalan, the youngest chef to earn two Michelin stars. Shouldn’t you be too busy to tutor me?”
Sebastian chuckles. “You googled us,” he teases. “I’m flattered.”
She flushes, and I interject before her embarrassment worsens. “We googled you too,” I reassure her. “You’re a cultural anthropologist at NYU, right? What brings you to our team?”
She grimaces ruefully. “My ex-boyfriend thinks I’m hopeless at pool. I want to prove him wrong. You didn’t answer my question, by the way. Why are you helping me?”
I bite back my smile, and Sebastian laughs aloud. I should have guessed she would be smart enough to notice the half-answer. I’ve been reading the blog she kept when she was in Russia in my spare time, and her entries reveal a bright, curious, enthusiastic woman. Already, I’m fascinated by her. There’s not a single woman in my social circle who would voluntarily spend a month in the wilderness of Siberia, let alone a year.
“Daniel bet Clark fifty grand you’d win in July.” Sebastian tells her with a grin, ignoring the withering look I send him.
I expect her to yell or rant, but she surprises me by bursting out laughing. “That is such a cliché,” she says, her eyes sparkling with mirth. “Bored billionaires betting on the lives of mere mortals like myself.”
“Daniel’s the only billionaire,” Sebastian corrects her. “I’m just a cook.”
She rolls her eyes. “Of course, Chef Ardalan. So let me see if I get this straight. The two of you are going to teach me how to play pool so Daniel won’t lose fifty thousand dollars.” She’s still amused. “Will you even miss the money?” she asks me.
I’m more intrigued by her with each passing second. “That’s not the point,” I reply. “I don’t like to lose. So what do you say, Bailey? Are you in? Do you want us to coach you?”
She gives me a challenging look. “Will I get good enough to beat Trevor?”
“If you follow directions.” There’s definitely innuendo in my phrasing.
“Directions.” She tests that phrase out on her tongue with an arch of her eyebrow.
