Page 6 of Van Cort

I run the figures through the software, and, on a very brief overview, they’re fine.

“Don’t spring work on me that requires more attention to detail and time to complete.

It makes you look incompetent, and I won’t sign off officially on this, but the figures should hold up.

I would advise not sending this through to the client, though. ”

I stand and leave, nearly running from the office and out of the building.

Late. I’m now late, and I hate that.

The commute home is still tolerable because it’s still early, but everything is at a run now.

I chuck my bag to the side as I open the door, and my clothes stay where they land as I shed them with each step.

Shower.

Detangle my hair.

Re-apply makeup.

Dress.

Which dress?

Fuck. I grab my phone and prop it on the counter after hitting the video call button.

“April. What dress? The black one?” I hold up the two options I can’t decide between. And I have no time to be indecisive.

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know.” I turn back to the mirror and switch the two in front of me. The black is a little more formal, so I know it will go with Everett. It’s a safe bet he’ll be in a suit again.

“Why don’t you know where you’re going?”

“I don’t have time for that. Blue or black.” I stand in front of the phone and show her the options.

“Blue looks great with your hair down. You’re keeping your hair down, right?”

“Yes. There’s no time to try anything with it.”

“Blue. Come on. Let me see.”

I take the robe off and slip the dress on. It’s ruched at the back before my ass and slinky, cut to the knee. It’s nothing too sexy, but it’s very much a date-date dress.

“Perfect. I expect to hear an update soon. Be safe.” She hangs up, and I rush out of the room, pulling the strap of my heels on as I head for the door.

Six-thirty on the dot.

Andre is outside when I hit fresh air, and he opens the door as I approach, allowing me to easily slide into the seat.

Yet again, Everett isn’t in the car.

“Will you tell me where we’re going?” I ask as the engine starts.

“I’m taking you to see Mr Van Cort. It shouldn’t take too long.”

He’s not in the car. Again.

I send the text to April, put my phone down and search for the excitement a second date should bring with a handsome guy. A handsome guy who saved me from the letch at the bar.

A while later, he pulls up in a busier part of downtown than we last visited and gets the door. Again, I take the offer of his hand and slip out.

Everett’s on the sidewalk next to what looks like a jazz bar.

He approaches, and I fight the smile on my lips at seeing him again.

“Andie. You look lovely. Shall we?” He offers the crook of his arm, and I feel sorry seeing the creases he makes in his suit.

“Thank you.” He escorts me into the bar, which looks much more sophisticated than it did outside.

There’s a stage at the far end with a piano and a band, and I’m secretly glad of picking the blue dress.

He nods to the ma?tre d’ who walks three steps in front of us to our table.

We’re seated at the side of the venue with a good view.

The lighting is soft, with a speakeasy feel, and the music provides a relaxed atmosphere.

Much more relaxed than the last restaurant.

Although Everett’s attire looks straight out of the boardroom, complete with the top button perilously close to his Adam’s apple.

“This looks nice,” I break the silence as we take our seats.

“I hope so.” He takes the menus offered by the waitress and hands one to me. “The piano needs tuning, so let’s just go with it for a while.” It does?

I wonder if he’ll choose for me like last time, but as I run my eyes down the choices, I know I’ll want to order. It feels less like I’m at a business meeting here.

“The salmon sounds good. And the beef.”

“And to drink? Wine again, but not a chardonnay.”

I look up, smiling. “You remembered.”

“It was only the evening before last. So yes, I remembered.”

He lessens the disappointment of the first part of his sentence. Has he thought about me like I have him?

He signals for the waitress and orders, opting for the scallops but also choosing the beef. A club soda again for him.

“So, I have to ask, what’s with Andre?”

“What do you mean?”

“You gave me his number, not yours? Is he your secretary as well as your driver?”

“No, I have a personal assistant, though.”

“So, why not her number? And why can’t I have yours?”

“My assistant is for my business dealings. This is strictly personal.” He dips his eyes to my chest as he says the word, and it’s like he’s brushing my skin with his gaze, even while being buttoned up. “And Andre is both.”

“Okay, but can I have your number? It might be nice to message.” Or to have you invite me on a date rather than relay a message from your driver. That makes me sound like a bitch, so I keep that thought in my head.

“I don’t give my number out,” he states.

“Ever?”

“I’m rich. Giving my number out has caused issues in the past.” It seems a logical response. Maybe.

Our drinks arrive, and we chink glasses, but I’m still running over his response.

His eyes narrow at me. “You’re sceptical?”

“Maybe a little. I’ve never come across someone as guarded as you.”

“You’ve dated wealthy men before?”

“Maybe one or two.” It’s my turn not to elaborate. At university, it felt like everyone was wealthy, but there’s a whole other world of wealth from them, and I don’t want to guess at Everett’s.

“Interesting. And you’re betting we’re all the same.”

“I don’t tend to bet. I arrive at an answer after considering the evidence that I have.” I take a gulp of my wine.

“You’re analysing me. That’s an interesting date technique.” His eyes narrow again. I wish he wouldn’t do that, because he looks too stern. Intimidating even. “Conclusions?”

“I don’t have a huge amount of data to go on just yet. Other than you’re far more wealthy than I’d have initially guessed, you like to get your own way and like to be in ultimate control.” All quite obvious facts. But I’m not giving away everything.

“And is all of that acceptable for you?”

“So far.” I sweep my hair back to the side and look over at the band playing.

I need a distraction because the wine is going to my head, and talking with Everett is fun.

Our entrees arrive, and we both fall into a period of quiet as we focus on the food. And as we finish, the conversation stills, and I automatically feel the need to fill it. “Have you helped any more companies out of trouble this week?”

“No. Not yet. But there’s still time.”

“You like to help people.”

“And you conclude that because?”

“You helped me at the bar when we first met. You helped that company.”

“I wouldn’t call paying under the odds helping.”

“Something is only ever worth the price someone’s willing to pay for it. Did he have any other offers on the table?”

“No. That’s an interesting perspective from a financial analyst.”

“It’s what can make it so much fun. Sometimes, all the figures can stack up, align, and give you the perfect information to form an airtight conclusion.

But there are still variables. Still curveballs.

Some in your favour. Some not. Finding the right match at the right moment can give everyone what they need.

” I stop talking, not wanting to get carried away.

We’ve diverted from my first point about him wanting to help. He didn’t agree. Nor did he disagree.

“And what do you do for fun? Not including work.” He switches the subject.

“I’m not sure you can strictly classify it as fun, but I like to run. And a glass of wine is my reward. You?”

“Currently, getting to know the financial analyst I rescued at the bar she crashed is my fun.”

I smirk. There he goes. Keeping everything to himself. But there’s something irritatingly charming about him.

“Considering you mentioned the piano being out of tune, can I conclude you play?” I ask.

“I used to.”

“Why did you stop?”

“Life happened. There was no space for music anymore.”

Another glass of wine and more food, and our conversation balances the cordial and flirty lines for the rest of the night.

The time vanishes and we pass the allocated two hours this time, and despite the lockdown of his personal details, it’s much more relaxed.

When the bill arrives, I lift my brow in question. “Are we splitting again?” I ask, tilting my head to the side.

His lips curve at the corners, as he sits back and signals for the server.

The card he pulls from his jacket gets handed over to the waiter who arrives, and all the while he never moves his eyes from mine.

There’s heat there, despite the cool colour of green.

He embodies control; it’s in his every move, his every word.

And it’s stupidly hot. I already know that I won’t be asking him to wait in the car again tonight.

If for no other reason than wanting to get my hands on his crisp shirt and find out what’s underneath.