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Although managing his investment portfolio was a nice upgrade, given the circumstances.
As he tapped his tablet and pulled up scribbled notes, she could see he was focused on the matter at hand and she was in absolutely no danger of being discovered, until he looked up, quirked his head to the side, studied her across the table, and said, “Mena, I have the strangest feeling we’ve met before.”
TWO
Mena Grady blushed and that made Grip smile. She’d been pale and shaky after tripping and dropping her stuff when she arrived in the room, as if she was the one expecting contractions instead of her boss. Now she looked like her blood was pumping again.
Her arrival sure broke the ice. Just what he needed, a crack in the perfect glass and steel corporate facade of Swire and Yallop. He was fucking nervous. A fish out of water in this formal setting, underdressed; his lucky jeans and the only shirt he owned without artwork splashed over it, and already embarrassed about his lack of financial nous. And that was before these two brainy women knew about all the ludicrous things he’d done with his newfound wealth.
That blush did pretty things to Mena’s face. She was one of those ice-cool blondes with a prim hairstyle and the tastefully bland tailoring. Not so tasteful that he hadn’t gotten an eye-load of cleavage and lace when they were both under the table.
He shouldn’t have looked down her shirt. He’d wanted this meeting. Had required an introduction to get it. He needed S&Y’s expertise and he couldn’t fuck it up by eye-groping his account manager under a table on day one.
There was something weirdly familiar about her. Fuck knows why he thought that. She was way out of his league, educated, classy, knew how to use money wisely. There is no way they’d ever moved in the same circles. This woman was a top-shelf tipple, a copy of The Economist that she read for funsies, an early night followed by a ketonic breakfast and the 6 a.m. yoga class. He was a what you see is what you get, basic-burger-and-fries kind of guy.
She’d subscribe to the theater and go to the opera and drive something understated and European. The truck he’d driven today was so ridiculously big, it didn’t fit in the building’s car park and had likely already been towed from the loading zone he’d left it in, and tomorrow he was playing paintball with the guys.
Mena would never have to worry about industrial deafness or arthritis in her hands wrecking her life. She probably didn’t tear an ACL from jumping around on stage, and he hoped she’d had no reason to attract dipstick, fair-weather friend rip-off artists.
Maybe they could bond over potential carpal tunnel syndrome. Nah, she’d have an assistant to wrangle her keyboard. They had nothing in common and he felt bad for embarrassing her.
Still, for kicks he’d like to see if that pink gin blush advancing across her cheeks, and down her neck, met the edge of the lace of her shelf bra. And the feeling of having met her before persisted.
“So we haven’t met before?” he said.
Mena shook her head, not a hair moved. “No.” She gave a tiny laugh that might be what, relief, yeah, that she’d never had to tangle with an unwashed muso before. “I know, of course, who you are.” Her perfect arched brows went up. “I was a bit of a fan in my young and silly days.”
“Silly?” She might be a little flustered, my fault, but this woman, despite the near pratfall, wasn’t the silly type. Hell, wait till she learned about the nonexistent tea-tree plantation he’d invested in, that’d show her silly.
“I don’t mean you were, you know.” That dismissive laugh again. “I mean, I was young and silly.”
Decent attempt at a save but better to focus on the other thing she said and build up to the silly stuff. “You were a fan?” And pigs manned space missions. That had to be for the suck-up. No way had this woman ever been to a Lost Property gig or spent a dollar on a download.
“Oh, I’m a fan right now,” said Caroline, laughing, her belly bumping on the table as she leant forward enthusiastically.
Now that was a sound Grip could recognize. Caroline Swire was excited. “I didn’t want to sound unprofessional off the bat, but if I don’t get your autograph for my stepson,” she winked, “I am dead to him.” She stroked a hand over her bump. “You don’t have any need to worry about S&Y keeping your business confidential. Our clients are famous in all kinds of areas, sport, art, business and entertainment. Our specialization is managing bespoke investment decisions and blah blah, blah . . .”
He tuned out on Caroline because yeah, yeah, he got it. Jay Endicott’s mum had set him up with these guys and Janina was the best manager in the business and Jay was going to win another Grammy this year, so if Janina said S&Y would straighten Grip’s life out, then he trusted the two women in front of him would get it done regardless of how they felt about him personally. Quit looking down shirts and making people blush, you dickhead. And he was paying them a hefty fee to ensure that.
Didn’t mean he was looking forward to confessing he had no idea h
ow to be wealthy and not be a jackass with the never-ending stream of money he was making from performing, touring, recording, and royalties, even from his own line of drum-kit accessories and sneakers.
Probably a good thing there were two of them. By the time Caroline was ready to come back to work, Mena would be over and done with him. He had a way of wearing people down. It was part of his charm in most circumstances, except the circumstances where he was way out of his depth, and right now, watching Mena avoid making eye contact, he was already drowning, and he hadn’t flashed a spreadsheet at them yet.
He blew out a breath. Here we go. Time to start being fiscally responsible before it was too late. You never knew when your luck was going to run out in this game. He could bottom out tomorrow.
“You need to know the only notes I’m good with are musical ones. I’m doing a really shit job of having money. Being suddenly rich is a total mindfuck.” He clamped his jaw shut. Bet that was the first time that four-letter word had been said in this room. Wonder the windows didn’t rattle. Well shit, he might be embarrassed about his money management but not about who he was and since neither of them flinched, he guessed he was paying them the right kind of fee to mask their feelings.
“The amount of money I’m making now is a whole other world of responsibility and I can’t catch its rhythm. I’ve made some bad decisions, taken some idiot advice, been too good a friend, been ripped off. I’m basically fucking it up and I figure there has to be a better way, because one,” he tapped the tabletop, “I don’t want to screw up so badly I’ve got nothing to show for this wild ride when it ends, and, two,” another tap, “there is something obscene about the money I’m making, and frankly, trying not to be a fuckwit with it is keeping me up at night.”
He paused, took in the expressions on their faces. Caroline’s was warm, accepting. Mena’s said, I’ve been trained to smile through adversity, I am dying inside, and you will never know how close to being a corpse I am.
“You asked me my priorities and they are one, don’t fuck this up, and two,” he drummed his index fingers on the tabletop, “see one.”
“Oh, that’s clear. Clarity. Good to have clarity.” Caroline said, her eyes going wide. “We’ll need to, ah, drill down on what you ah, mean by, ah, don’t. Fuck.”
Oh shit. He said, “Are you okay?” at the same time as Mena, said, “Caroline?” and Caroline said, “Oh motherfuck, not now.”
