Page 4 of Van Cort

EVERETT

Devon did her best to reschedule or push back meetings so I could get to dinner, but the inevitability of this five-thirty dragging on continues.

“You’re almost getting it for free, Everett,” Richard Carlise says. “Just sign the damn thing. I’m not trying to screw you.”

I keep looking at documents slowly, rather than rush the signature. “Twelve million dollars is hardly free, Richard.”

“No, but you expect-”

“A good deal. You’re the one in trouble, not me.

” He quietens as I look up at him briefly and leaves me to make my decision.

It is a good deal, and my lawyers have been over this contract, but I won’t be hurried or forced in any negotiation, regardless of the constant thought of sex interfering with that process.

Twelve million for a portfolio of abandoned warehousing that should be worth at least fifteen? Fine.

I sign and stand, pushing my pen into my inside pocket. “The lawyers will deal with the rest.” He stands, too, and approaches me to offer his hand whilst looking relieved. I shake, but there’s little else to say on the matter, and I need to get to dinner.

“Everett?” I look back as I get to the door. “Thank you.”

“Hmm.”

Devon hurries alongside me as I head for the elevator, handing me more documents I need to sign before the end of the day.

“Are you alright, Sir?” I sign without looking at anything, too preoccupied with the thought of a fuck waiting for me.

“You’ve seemed distracted today.” My brow arches at her.

We’re discussing my personal thoughts now?

Although she’s right. I’m overly distracted. She looks away. “Sorry, Sir.”

I press the button on the elevator to get me out of here.

The doors close.

The walk over to the restaurant goes quickly enough.

It’s far away enough that there’s no real chance of anyone I know being there, and also not trendy enough for the current wealth set to be bothering with anymore.

The food’s good, and it's too expensive for trash to get into. Frankly, it’s exactly what I need to get into her underwear and never have to see her again.

Andre and the car are idling by the entrance when I turn the corner. I reach for the door handle as I get to it, opening it for her. The first thing I see of her are her legs and heels in the footwell, which jump slightly at the abrupt shock.

Her head cranes around to look up at me, a near-fearful look in her gaze. “Oh, it’s you,” she says. I offer my hand to her, helping her get out. “You gave me a fright.”

“Not the reaction I was aiming for.”

She smiles and lets go of my hand, looking at the restaurant and brushing her dress down. “Well, this looks very nice.” It is. It will get me fucked quicker.

I look in the car. “Andre? Be back in two hours.” He nods at me as I close the door.

“Two hours? We have a time limit?” she asks.

I walk for the door. “I generally find that two hours is a good amount of time for dinner and drinks, and if it’s not enough time, then he’ll wait until I’m ready.”

“Oh, sure. Of course. Okay.”

She follows me into the restaurant, where we’re seated swiftly at one of the better tables in the back, away from the window.

I look to her for information on her choice of food. She’s scrutinising the menu still.

“What would you like to eat?”

She looks up at me as the waiter approaches. “I’m… not sure. What would you suggest?”

“Me? I’m not eating your food.” What a ludicrous question.

“No, but I’ve never been here before, and perhaps you have? What’s good?”

I look at the waiter, then choose for her, deciding on foie gras for starters and the chicken for mains. We’ll see about the dessert depending on how bored I am or how frisky she is.

“Drink? I ask.

“White wine, please. Anything but chardonnay.”

I order her a Chablis and a club soda for me.

“Not drinking again?”

“I don’t.”

“Not ever?”

“Not anymore. We don’t mix particularly well together.”

“Alcohol? And you?” I nod. “I’m not sure it mixes well with anyone, does it?” I don’t elaborate. “Right. Well, thank you,” she says, handing the menu over.

“That’s the second time someone said that to me today. I didn’t deserve it the first time, and I’m doubtful ordering your food deserves it either. I appreciate the manners, though.”

“Why didn’t you deserve the first one?”

“He should have got another three or four million out of me. The deal was worth more.”

“That’s a lot of money to lose. What was it for?”

“Warehousing and land. He got himself into trouble. You’ll take what you can get when you’re in trouble.” The waiter arrives with our drinks, quietly placing them down before disappearing again.

“You don’t seem like the type to have ever gotten yourself into enough trouble to know that,” she says, looking at me as she picks up her wine.

I snort, amused at her quick comeback. “Not recently, at least.” She flicks her hair over her shoulder and fidgets, looking around the room rather than at me.

“Everyone gets into trouble early on. You screw up, get something wrong, do something you regret. It’s what teaches you how to not get into trouble again.

” She stares at me, still sipping her wine with those rather luscious lips.

“Anyway, how was your day? Crashed any weddings lately?” She smiles and laughs.

“Not today, no. And nowhere near as exciting as yours, I would think. Just work.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a financial analyst. I study market data and trends to advise my clients. Some are more complex than others, especially if they have an investment portfolio.”

I listen, unusually interested given her actual work ethic.

She’s animated as she talks, as if this topic of analytics is riveting to her.

Too many of these kinds of preludes to fucking end up with the woman having no work ethic at all.

They shop, or they spend their hours with beauty appointments and pointless meanderings.

My gaze drops to her calf as the napkin falls from the table, lapping its way along her skin.

Lean, taut. Elegant. It’ll feel smooth over my shoulder.

The food arrives, and we both carry on conversing cordially.

It’s becoming more like a business meeting than a date, considering our aligned financial mentality.

Not that it is a date, but I do like to try differentiating.

She’s smart, which makes for a dynamic change in my life when it comes to this sort of thing.

She asks questions of me, interesting ones, and she listens intently as though she’s trying to learn.

I’m unsure whether that's about me or my company, given her profession.

At some point, the starters are cleared, and the mains arrive. I’ve been too talkative to notice, which is unusual for me. It could be that this business conversation makes her more relevant to me.

But now she seems to be attempting to prove herself in some way, as if my stature demands some try on her part.

She really doesn’t need to. It’s not her mind I’m interested in, despite her continued impressive mental behaviour.

One night. One fuck. Maybe a blow job if she’s not too prim to get on her knees for it.

“Have you always lived in Seattle?” she asks, in an abrupt change of direction.

I close my cutlery, having finished my food. “No. The main company structure has always been here, though.”

“Why did you start it here?” I look at her mouth, more interested than ever in putting something in it.

My lips twitch. “I didn’t. My great-great-great-grandfather did. Actually, maybe his before him.”

“Ah. Generational wealth.”

“Yes.”

“That must be nice. My parents are lovely, but they don’t have much. I expect we had very different upbringings.” Yes. But at least she has parents. Both of mine are dead. “Although I was fortunate to go to Berkeley. Where did you go?”

“Harvard.”

I put my napkin on the table and lean back in the chair, smiling at her. She’s charmed me tonight, absorbed me. Beauty and brains - a dangerously tempting combination, maybe, but still not a combination I’m prepared to commit to past a single night.

She blushes slightly, as if something has changed in her thoughts, and picks up her wine again. It was probably my darkening gaze, or the third glass of wine tempting her past sense.

“Are you ready to leave?” I ask.

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” She puts the wine down and grabs for her bag, looking in it for some reason. “Dutch?” She holds up her card, as if she’s attempting to offer me money. “We’ll split the check? Is that okay?”

I stand. “Don’t be ridiculous, Andie. Put it away.” She frowns and fidgets, picking up her bag and jacket. “Do men often ask you to split the bill?”

“Well. Yes. And I’m more than comfortable paying for myself.” I’m not in that new age when it comes to money and women. I have always wondered if I’m just buying a fuck by doing this sort of thing. I suppose I am. It’s cheaper than a divorce, though.

I look at her beginning to fidget with her dress, smoothing it down again.

“Why are you nervous?”

Her head shoots up. “I’m not.” Yes, she is, and I’m enjoying it far too much.

“Are you offended that I’m not allowing a split bill?”

“Well, no, but I wouldn’t assume. Assumption is the enemy of progression.” I smirk.

“Whose quote is that?” I walk for the bar, offering my hand out to her for her to pass.

“I don’t know. Someone’s. I’m sure I’ve heard it somewhere.”

“Hmm. Someone is profoundly intelligent, then.” She smiles shyly and straightens herself a little.

“Assumption is the enemy of progression. We know nothing if we only assume.” Which makes me consider the assumption that I’m about to get laid, as I reach the bar to pay for the meal.

She might say no. Unlikely but a possibility.

For once, I’m unsure. There’s been nothing in the way of usual flirtation from her.

A few batted lashes and the occasional blush, but she’s different from the others.

I hold my card out to the server, and she instantly puts hers beside my hand.

“Split the check, please,” she says.

The server looks at me.

And I look at her.

“Andie, put it away.”

“No.” She looks at the server again. “Split it.”

Unsure how pissed I am, I allow a small smile to form on my mouth. “Is this your way of showing me guile?”

“It’s my way. I appreciate the offer, Everett, but I like to pay my own way.”

“Hmm.”

Allowing the split, I find myself staring at her as she fidgets with her dress. If there was another date in our future, I’d change her behaviour on this front. There won’t be, though, and an argument now about chivalry diminishes any chance of the fuck I’m after.

I watch her walk through the restaurant in front of me, part wondering what it’ll be like to wrap that long hair around my fist and part fascinated with the swing of her gait as her ass moves.

“Thank you for dinner. This has been lovely,” she says.

“I didn't buy you dinner.”

“Well, no, but you invited me. And I’ve enjoyed myself.”

“Good. I’m glad.”

Andre pulls up at that exact same moment as she walks to the road and raises her hand.

“What are you doing?”

She looks back at me. “Hailing a cab to go home.”

My brow arches. She pays for herself and is now leaving me on the sidewalk?

I walk backwards until I’m at the car door and open it for her, waving my hand. “Get in, Andie, I’ll get you home.” There’s little to no hope of fucking if she goes now. I might even have to arrange another date.

“You’re sure?” What the hell does she mean by that?

“I invited you out. I’m damn sure if I can’t pay for the food you ate, then I’ll get you home.” She frowns a little at my tone and looks at the road again. “Andie. Car.” She swings her head back to me.

“Okay. Well, thank you.”

The drive is quiet. Anticipation perhaps.

Or, given the constant fidgeting next to me and my earlier tone, apprehension.

I chuckle lightly, amusing myself with her nerves.

I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it. Maybe this one is a little more of a feminist than I’m used to, possibly because she’s come from nothing, but these genes and looks, along with the money I could provide, are too good to turn down. I know it, as does she.

“Everett?” she says, as we pull up at her address.

“Yes.”

“Do you mind staying in the car?”

“What?” She clicks the door handle, half opening it.

“Well, I’ve had a great night, and you are wonderful, but I think we both know what might happen if you get to my door, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that.

” My back goes rigid, frown dropping. “Don’t take it as an insult.

It isn’t meant as one. The opposite, actually.

” Andre opens his own door and goes around the car, reaching his hand in for her.

“You’re turning me down?”

She takes his hand and gets out, peering back in at me. “Tonight, I am, yes.”

“Fascinating.”

And fucking annoying.

She smirks and fiddles with her bag, and somehow, with those words alone, she’s piqued an interest far past sense in me. “I hope so. Thank you. Again.”

She’s gone before I get a chance to talk her out of her decision, and Andre is back in the car and ready to get me home the moment she’s safely in the apartment. I stare at the large, blue door for a few more minutes, remembering the last time I got turned down.

I was eighteen then, and this is the first time since that point in my life.