“You didn’t say it was from me, did you?” I’m still watching Sabrina push through the doors into the hotel.
“Nah.” He shakes his head. “I said he won the Young Scribes contest and this was the grand prize.”
“You couldn’t come up with something better? The literary event was awhile ago and I already hired editors for the kids.”
“Hey, you’re lucky I came up with that much. This ought to be a Bristol job,” he says glumly. “I think she’d be better equipped to handle it than your driver.”
I shake my head.
“Wrong. She doesn’t need to know—”
“Boss, relax. I’m joking, man. Will you calm down?”
I blow out a long hot breath between my teeth. “You’re right.”
“That’s a first!” Armstrong chuckles, his eyes snapping to me in the mirror. “You okay back there?”
I ignore the quip, not wanting to analyze it any deeper than necessary.
“I just wish I could do more for him.” I lean back into the leather seat, rubbing at my neck.
Armstrong’s face grows serious and his eyes flick away.
“You’re serious? With all due respect, sir—”
It’s my turn to cut him off now. “This isn’t the military. You don’t have to address me like I’m some kind of commander.”
“You kind of are,” he says quietly.
Obviously, he’s right.
I discipline this whole machine. I am the company. I’ve made myself its beating heart.
Sadly, right now, I don’t feel like I’m in control of anything.
“Go ahead,” I urge him, tapping my fingers against my thigh impatiently. “Tell me what you’re getting at.”
“You’re Magnus Heron. You could probably do anything you want for this kid.”
I shake my head. “I promised Marissa I wouldn’t spoil him. Those are the ground rules. We made an agreement.”
Armstrong shrugs. “You’re pretty good at sending anonymous gifts. So come up with another fake contest and send whatever you want.”
“Nah. I don’t want to go behind her back,” I remind him, a chill in my tone.
He nods, picking up on my boundaries like always.
“Well, the young man’s getting a private education. A good one. I don’t think he’s lacking in anything. You’ve done him right,” Armstrong says, his trademark warmth in his voice.
I wish I believed him.
I wish to hell anything in my power could ever “do him right” after what happened.
Maybe I’ll set up a college fund. I’m sure Marissa will allow it. What mother wouldn’t want to save her only son from the menace of student loans?
“You’re off for the rest of the night,” I say.
“I am?” He looks at me in the rearview mirror again.
“Don’t get used to it. Tonight’s the formal and we’ll all be busy. I’ll rent a stretch so the whole team can go together with another driver. Enjoy Phoenix, Armstrong.”
“Aw, sweet. Thanks, Mr. Heron!” he belts out. “You’re a nice guy. I think it’s good for you to get away from Chicago.”
I glare at him. “You know better than to call me nice.”* * *A couple hours later, most of the team is gathered in the hotel foyer, ready to leave.
I’m decked out in a full suit, bow tie, the works. All the tailor-fit sartorial armor any knight with a tie needs to ride into battle.
The limo driver comes to the door.
“Transport is here for the Heron party,” he says.
Dave the Sales Director looks at me. “I think we’re good to go, boss.”
“Not yet. We’re waiting on Miss Bristol,” I say, watching the elevator for her arrival.
“Angie hasn’t come down yet either,” Hugo says, wearing a sweater vest that makes him look like a professor.
“Angie?” I repeat.
“Angelica Raynette,” Ruby says. “My lead designer?”
Shit. I should know my employees’ names.
“I thought Hugo was the lead,” I whisper.
“Hugo’s your creative director, Mag. Angie’s the lead on his team. Don’t worry. We’re used to you not knowing the names of the people who work for you,” Ruby says with a flippant hand wave.
Her eyes stay on mine.
“Why are you still staring?” I snap.
“No reason.” But her tone says there’s definitely a reason, even if I can’t pull it out of her.
Hugo points to the staircase. “There they are!”
Sabrina looks like a sugarplum fairy coming down the stairs. The dress hugs her body like a Siren and it sparkles in the low evening light. I wonder if she skipped the elevator on purpose to make a grander entrance.
Goddamn.
It works.
She looks so delectable my appetite surges back from taco time, but it’s nothing that can be quenched with unpronounceable, fancy snacks.
“You’re late,” I say.
She bites her bottom lip. “Sorry. Angie had to help me with my hair.”
My gaze follows the dip in her neckline. I hadn’t noticed her hair yet.
It’s carefully braided, and those braids are twisted into a neat bun with two tendrils hanging down in front of her face. How did I not notice?
It’s only after her statement when I see another woman behind her. Angie—I recognize her now from meetings—and make a note of her name.