Page 19 of Broken Brothers

Worse, had what had happened screwed me over, the gears moving a bit too slowly for me to notice but inevitably leading to my firing? I couldn’t imagine that it was a great look for me to be hooking up with the CEO’s daughter of a company we had interest in investing in. The only thing that kept me slightly sanein this regard was the idea that it would be a really bad look for Layla too, and that self-preservation would win out.

Of course, that self-preservation also might have meant that she would never speak to me again in any context except around family.

God, how I hated being back in this spot again. Ten years had passed since Sarah Hill, and I’d done so damn well at keeping my distance from girls, not allowing myself to have that heartbreak…

And now Layla Taylor had laid that to waste. As flawed as my plan might have been for both shooting for business success with this deal and sexual success with Layla, I could not help myself. I wanted it all. And I wanted it now.

But I didn’t get it now, or for that whole week that followed our initial near hookup in the office. I threw myself into the work, running papers, organizing conference calls, sending emails that were ignored by Mr. Burnson, collaborating with other staff members, going out to dinner with employees at Craig’s company, all things that I knew had to be done for the sake of the deal.

And, if I was being very honest, thing I had picked up on from Mr. Hunt and Morgan in closing the deal. I had learned that direct demands did not work, often compelling people to push them away; but indirect deals, third party opinions, that sort of thing had a way of making it all come together.

When speaking to Craig, I never demanded he acquiesce to any of the particulars of the deal; those would come together in due time. Besides, if one of his VPs recommended that they give in to a certain request because of what I had told that VP over dinner, it would become a lot more authentic.

The work provided a decent distraction in that when I was in the moment, typing that email out, analyzing the file, or havingdinner with a middle manager, I stayed in the moment. I only thought of Layla in spurts, and my mind quickly refocused.

But when it didn’t? When I had nothing to do but toss that balled up piece of paper in the air? When I had finally headed home for the night and had nothing but my Manhattan studio apartment to occupy me as sirens blared outside the window and taxis honked incessantly?

Layla. Layla. Layla.

I tried pushing her out, but it seemed to go to no avail. Fucking Layla. If only she were fucking, then maybe my mind would slow down a bit. Maybe…

In any case, though, I arranged to have dinner with Craig Taylor that Friday evening, hoping that seeing the name “Taylor” attached to an older man who looked more interested in getting out and retiring than being a vibrant, model businessman would somehow diminish the feelings that I had. We arranged to meet at Giordano’s, a nice Italian restaurant on the upper east side of Manhattan.

I made sure I dressed up especially sharp that day, even though Friday most of the employees came in with jeans and casual wear on. I walked out and called a taxi immediately, refusing to risk scuffing my shoes or anything I wore on the subway or on a long walk. I got to the restaurant without incident and stepped inside to see Craig sitting at a table slightly obscured by a wall. I waved, he stood up, and I walked over and shook his hand.

And, out of the corner of my eye, Miss Layla Taylor also stood to shake my hand.

“You remember my daughter, Layla, right Chance?”

“Oh, yes, of course, it is good to see you again,” I said.

I spoke with aplomb and with such ease that Mr. Taylor would never suspect anything had happened between us. Layla did not have quite as good a poker face as I did, but then again,I don’t think her father was on the lookout for her daughter flirting with the representative from Burnson Investments closing the deal.

We ordered our food and our wine and, without even a transitional word, Craig looked at me.

“I have to be honest, it is a little out of character for a firm to have an intern do all this work, as adept as you are,” he said. “I wonder if Mr. Burnson might have… well, how should we say this, experienced a little bit of slippage in business?”

I took no offense to what was said, because it was beyond “a little out of character.” I also really didn’t care for Mr. Burnson, as he struck me as dismissive at best and lazy and inefficient at worst. But I knew I could not actually say that for my future goals.

“Well, Mr. Burnson still has the skills that make his firm one of the best in the world, let alone the New York area,” I said. “He knew that I come from a family that has a reputation in business like no others.”

“The Hunts,” Layla said, a glimmer in her eye.

“Precisely,” I said as I took a sip of my just-placed wine. “I may only be an intern, but that is only because it is a temporary title. Burnson Investments, seeing the chance to get a Hunt on staff, brought me on as soon as they could.”

That wasn’t entirely true, but it wasn’t technically a lie. It just didn’t mention the fact that I largely suspected that Mr. Burnson did it as a favor to Mr. Hunt for some reason from the distant past, and that while I did have assignments beyond the typical intern, I had only assumed control of this case on a dare.

It was a dare that could have gotten me fired, I had to admit. But Mr. Burnson’s sharp mind proved itself by not firing me when I had gotten more out of the deal than perhaps even he would have. Mr. Burnson was lazy, but he valued results over the process, no matter how bizarre the process was.

“Well, titles and custom aside, I feel we are having a wonderful experience with your firm and am confident that with your investment, we will grow and dominate our industry even more.”

Very easily and very quickly, the conversation shifted from a potentially awkward topic to a free-flowing, easy one. The food came out and we ate and spoke like an old professor and graduate student combo. Layla didn’t say a word the entire dinner beyond thanking the waiter for her food and drink, but she didn’t seem to mind one bit. In fact, she seemed to relish the opportunity to silently observe what was going on between the two of us.

Mr. Taylor and I became so at ease with each other, in fact, that we started trading stories of our favorite European travel locations. I kept it business appropriate, of course, but Mr. Taylor was willing to discuss the time he got more drunk than he should have in Slovenia, a rather amusing experience for how few people spoke English there.

What I did not say—and what I tried not to dwell on for too long—was while I enjoyed the trips as a chance to learn about foreign cultures, I never felt perfectly involved with the family. The photos would show it, too—I smiled a fake smile whenever I had a family shot unless I was only with Morgan. If I was in a shot with Mr. Hunt, forget about it. It was clear no matter where in the world we were what our family status was.

At one point, finally, the request for dessert came in. Mr. Taylor suggested that such an event require such a celebration, and so we put our orders in.