Dad speaks like I should know that name. Except…nothing pops into my head. Court is definitely not a key client at the firm, either, because I make it my business to know all the top ones.
Dad sighs. The sound says I’m beyond help.
My mouth dries. I clench and unclench my hands and shift in my seat, trying to regain the calm I need to navigate this minefield.
“Is he somebody you know?”
I ask tentatively.
“You should look him up. Google has plenty of data. Even your mother recognized him.”
Yeah, but so what? Mom recognizes a hell of a lot more people than me all the time. She’s extroverted, loves to host parties and social gatherings and reads society gossips and tabloids with the zeal of a devout Christian studying the Bible.
I refrain from pointing this out to Dad. Then I realize he said Google, not Facebook or other social media sites. Is Court famous enough to have stuff written about him? “Got it. Do you need anything else?”
“No.”
Pasting on a smile, I return to my desk. It’s so weird that Dad’s showing this much interest in some guy I picked up at a bar. Actually, his interest isn’t the strange part. There’s this faint undertone of approval that’s bugging me. It’s like…he likes Court or something. But why?
I immediately Google Harcourt Blackwood. The next time Dad quizzes me, I’m going to be ready.
Google returns hundreds of hits. Harcourt Roderick Blackwood, a.k.a. Court, is the youngest of the Blackwood brothers. His family is royalty in Tempérane, Louisiana, where Blackwood Energy is headquartered. And within the week, he’s set to control a billion-plus-dollar trust and a huge block of voting shares in Blackwood Energy.
Wow. I stare in shock. I had no idea he was a…somebody. He even has a Wikipedia page with sections. I’m not famous enough to warrant a Google hit. When you look up my name, the search engine returns results on Blaise Pascal, the French mathematician.
It explains so much—the VIP treatment at the club, the easy way he got the suite and the free time to look me up and follow me to Maui. And the jet. I bet he never flies commercial.
I return to Google and skim the search results. There are some articles about him and his family. They’re mostly of the scandal-rag variety, about how his mother covered up some crime against his brother’s wife. Somehow what his mom did wasn’t technically illegal, but his dad is divorcing her anyway. Sympathy stirs. That must be awful. I can’t imagine being in the center of something like that, knowing someone close to you did something reprehensible.
I scroll down some. There’s a snapshot of his mom, taken earlier last year. Margot Blackwood is a beautiful blonde, her chin angled in a proud tilt. Her skin is smoother than some of my college friends’, and she’s slim and fashionable. There’s nothing about her that says she’s a mother to three fully grown adult men. But something about the shot is…slightly off-putting.
I bite the tip of my left thumb, wondering why. I’ve never even met the woman, and you don’t know how much of what the “news” is saying is real. And her mouth is curved in a small smile. Then I finally lock in on the steady coldness in her gaze. That’s what it is.
An article with a particularly lurid headline about the family pops up next. Coincidentally enough, it has Tom’s byline on it. My lip curls in distaste. Just like him to sniff around someone else’s misfortune. I click on it out of morbid curiosity, then roll my eyes at the ridiculously sensational lead. Killer matriarch—really?
I close the browser and get ready for the morning meeting. I have this new financial product I want to propose to expand our private wealth management client base. Even if we don’t implement it immediately, I want to be recognized for thinking big about our future and growth. It’s my attempt at getting some bonus points before the promotion decision is made.
Excitement lightens my steps as I go toward the conference room.
Rodney, a fellow analyst, falls into step with me. “Hey,” he says with a bright smile.
“Hey.” I smile back at him.
He started a year after me and got promoted last year. But it’s impossible to be upset about that. He’s one of the nicest and most genuine guys at the firm. His large, square glasses sit on a sharp Roman nose. Dork potential is high with those specs, but actually they balance out his narrow face. His brown eyes are always so earnest, and I swear clients love that about him.
A lot of women at the firm love that about him, too. Unfortunately, he’s taken. After his promotion, he found the man of his destiny. From what I understand, they’re head over heels about each other.
“I heard that Curie almost got kidnapped at her wedding. Is she okay?” he asks.
I cringe, wishing I could teleport to a place where people don’t gossip. Like Mars. Hard to talk without air. “You heard that already?”
“Everyone probably has. She’s the big boss’s daughter.” He scratches the tip of his nose. “I mean, you are too, but you know what I mean.”
Yeah, I do. I was hoping the crappy market movements would be the main topic around the water cooler, but an almost-kidnapped bride is so much more interesting, especially when she’s the founder and managing director’s daughter. Maybe I should’ve just called in sick today. Or became an astronaut. “It was just a case of mistaken identity.”
“So, the guy wasn’t a psycho or anything?”
“Nope.” Just a super-rich guy with no sense of proportion , who my dad seems to like for some bizarre reason.