CHAPTER NINETEEN
EVAN
BECCA RELENTS, BUT SHE’LL ONLY drink a single glass of wine. Two is my max; I never did eat lunch and am a lighter-weight than most people imagine, so I don’t drink more because I don’t want to get sloppy around Becca. But the Lafite is such a fine wine that the glass left in the bottle bothers me. What am I going to do — cork it and stick it in the fridge? What the hell; I invite Jolene to drink it.
I don’t care that Becca won’t drink more, that’s her business. But the unspoken reason bothers me. I thought we had a connection the first time we met in the restaurant, and we sure as hell connected in my conference room. But since then, Becca’s been distant. It’s like she’s afraid of me — or more likely, of herself. Afraid of losing control, then doing the wrong thing.
Does she think I’ll take advantage of her?
Does she think she’ll do something after two glasses of wine that she wouldn’t do after one?
She’s a strange and wonderful woman. By the time we land, that single glass of wine must be out of her system, but she’s still much friendlier than she was on boarding. There’s a new openness. Tentative at first, as if she’s still shy — afraid of saying too much. But as we get into the waiting limo and start to drive, she’s moving closer.
And as we snake down the California coastline toward Cielo Del Mar, she doesn’t pull away when I touch her hand, her knee. There’s a bubbly energy just below her surface.
We are alone in one of the world’s best restaurants, Bella by the Sea. The loudest sound is the waves slapping the shore.
Appetizer. First course. Second course. The most charming old Italian man, telling us in wonderful detail about every single dish, oozing pride as he does.
More wine, but again, only a glass.
We talk more about my idea, this time at a less frenzied clip.
She leans in. Touches me. Lowers her guard.
I tell her about my discussions with other members of the Syndicate, though I don’t mention the group’s name, or even that there is a group.
I tell her about what Caspian White got into around the time he married Aurora — the Einstein module he’d developed and that we’d secretly discussed, as a portal into my vision for a revised LiveLyfe.
Rebecca has ideas. She articulates some of them. She’s not just doing what I suggest, and I’m not remotely trying to sell her. Sometime during dinner, the AI-mentorship education platform I mentioned stops becoming “one of Evan’s ideas” and starts being “the thing we’re doing.”
Becca keeps saying how much development it will take, how much money it would cost to build. I tell her I’ll figure out how to fund it, but I already have ideas there, too. The Trillionaire Boys’ Club has been looking for something to throw its cash at since the Eros deal with Anthony Ross fell through, and I’ll bet that the right profit model could sell them on this.
Dessert.
A digestif.
We’re back in the limo when Rebecca looks out the window and says, “Isn’t the airport that way?”
I laugh. I don’t need to explain, though, because we pull up to the hotel’s awning before I can speak. A white-gloved attendant opens Rebecca’s door; after giving me a look that’s half-confused, half-something-else, she steps out. I do the same, and sixty seconds later we’re outside the hotel’s big doors, the doormen both seeming to wonder if we’re going inside or not.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “You thought we were flying back tonight. I should have been clearer.”
She doesn’t say anything. I can’t read her. She marches into the lobby, and I follow. She almost looks angry. But it’s hard to say.
“Do you need to get back?”
Furrowing eyebrows. She’s again unreadable. Deadpan, she says, “No. It’s fine.”
But as I check in, I realize I’ve made a mistake. I’ve pissed her off. Now she’s probably reframing all that’s happened tonight as one big player’s seduction. Second-guessing it all. Assuming I did this all just to get her back into bed.
“Everything okay?” I ask when I return.
Becca hasn’t moved. She’s right in the middle of the lobby, stunning. I feel myself wanting to take another step, to take her hand. When we left the restaurant, she took my arm as I had my hand in my pocket, like genuine arm candy. Back when she was still smiling.
“Fine.”
“You seem strange.”
“I am strange.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, Evan. I don’t.”
I reach into my pocket and hand her a key card.
“I got us separate rooms.”
But dammit, I didn’t say that right. I realize it as she walks ahead of me again, headed for the elevator. I meant to say that the plan from the beginning was to have separate rooms. I don’t like to presume, and wouldn’t. I had Sam book us two rooms from the start, but the way I just said it, she probably thinks I made the switch just now, adding a second room when it became clear that she was angry.
Unsure what else to do or say, I follow Becca. Her demeanor is flat and featureless. Icy cold or something worse. I don’t know. It’s enough that I’m slightly surprised when she lets me board the elevator with her. I half-expect her to close the doors and leave me to take the next one.
We ride in silence, side by side.
Down the hall, we stop at 1102. Becca’s room.
She turns to the lock, getting the key. The door unlatches. She pushes it open and is about to enter when I say, “I guess I’ll see you in the morning.”
Becca turns with the door still open behind her. Her eyes are hard on me.
“No, Evan. I will not see you in the morning.”
“Oh. Well, okay.” I feel stupid. So damn stupid. It’s not even a sensible response. How the hell will she get home, if not with me? Maybe she’ll buy a commercial ticket, using some of that million dollars she must feel I’m using to buy her.
She comes a step closer. Her eyes haven’t changed. Haven’t softened a whit. She holds my stare without blinking.
My heart hammers. She’s so close to me that I can feel her warmth.
Her hand comes up. Her fingers slide through my hair, around the back of my head. And she pulls us together, forehead to forehead. Our noses touch. And now, finally, I can see what I’ve missed. It wasn’t ice in her eyes. It was fire.
“You will see me right now,” she says.
Then Becca pulls me into the room, walking backward, flicking on the lights and kicking the door closed behind us.