Page 8 of Van Cort

RIVER

I should have known better.

I sigh for the dozenth time and put my phone away.

Still nothing. Six days later.

It’s clear now that the second date was only so he could sleep with me.

I told him no after the first, and it dented his ego.

I bet nobody tells him no. Not in the usual course of his life.

The shame of it is, I thought we got on well, despite everything, but it turns out he’s just an arrogant bastard.

Now, all I need is for my mind to stop thinking about him.

Especially what he looks like out of that shirt, because that was even better than him in the shirt.

And I swear, even days later, I can still feel him inside of me.

Or at least I can still remember just how good he felt – how good he made me feel.

The command in his voice, the insistence in his tone, was mortifyingly sexy.

And while I normally hate my hair being held, he did it, and it made me…

No.

I chastise myself. I’m not going to fall for a guy simply because he can make me orgasm. Multiple times.

At least tomorrow is the weekend. Mom has insisted I go over on Sunday, and it has been a while since I’ve visited her and Dad.

Pizza, wine and a good film are sounding pretty good for a Saturday night.

It would be better with April, but she lives in Sacramento, so we don’t get to see each other as often as we like, but maybe a visit is overdue.

I could fly down and spend the weekend. Just this afternoon to work through, and then I can reset, hopefully putting Everett Van Cort out of my mind for good.

I’ve googled him, done a little snooping and pulled up the financials that his company has filed over the last year.

He is rich. But the company isn’t where the wealth sits.

I’d love to get my hands on his records and the others, which I assume will be linked to his listed company, and run a full analysis, but I’m betting it’s easier for me to put my hands back on him rather than his filings.

And I shouldn’t waste any more of my time on him.

“Andie, have you got a minute? There’s a meeting on the Swanson account, and we have some questions.” Antony’s face is blank, but his hands are in his pockets, and his eyes skip over me, avoiding eye contact.

“Sure,” I reply politely, already feeling the drop of my stomach.

He escorts me in, and I see it’s a bigger meeting than he’s let on, with the head of section and Mr Whitham, who oversees this office, also in the room.

My hands brush the front of my skirt as Antony shows me to a seat.

“Thank you, Miss Anderson. Now, we have a few questions based on the report that was resubmitted. Antony.”

“Right, thanks. Yes, Miss Anderson. Can you explain what the cause of the discrepancies is on the two reports here?” He slides two folders over, but I already know what will be in them. My report that I ran. And the one that he asked me to look over.

“Um, I’m not sure.”

“Your name is on both,” the head of section states.

“I don’t believe the initial report was mine.” I close the file and sit back, my stomach churning and my heart racing.

“But it is your work? Excuse me, Miss Anderson, but I’d expect a financial analyst at this company to be more diligent than this,” Mr Whitham joins in my criticism.

“May I ask who submitted the final filing? And may I also ask to review the investment portfolio against this? It may be able to highlight the discrepancies you’re concerned with.”

“The investments have nothing to do with this report, Miss Anderson,” Antony states. I know why he doesn’t want to look there, and I will not take the fall for him.

“I disagree.” I shoot daggers at him. It’s enough of a pushback to have the others at the table looking to Antony for a response.

I should never have agreed to help him. But I always do because if you work hard, you should be rewarded.

That was ground into me as a child. Always strive for more, push myself for more, and it worked.

I was rewarded with a full-ride scholarship.

But in the real world, I’m realising, frustratingly slowly, that isn’t always the case, and the nicest don’t finish first.

I still don’t throw Antony under the bus. Not completely.

“You do have a point, Miss Anderson. Lines 67 through 89 are the ones in question. They have the biggest variable, and against the income line. Antony?”

“I can certainly pull that for you for review,” he snivels.

“Thank you, Miss Anderson.” The section head seems less interested in me now.

“Am I free to go?” I look around at the men at the table, determined to steel my spine.

“You are.” Mr Whitham waves me off.

I stand and leave without looking back.

Never again will I say yes under duress, I vow, as I leave the conference room.

I head straight for my desk, pack up and leave the office, not caring that it’s early. I’m fuming. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever been angrier at work. How dare he? How dare he pass off his sub-par work and mistake, and put my name to it after I told him explicitly not to?

This week really is not working out.

***

My head feels thick, as if it’s stuffed with cotton wool, as I come round.

There was wine.

Most of the bottle, if I remember rightly.

I lean over, pick up my phone and read the last few messages from April that I didn’t read last night.

“Ughhh.” I drop my head back to the pillow and contemplate the day.

Run. Reset. I’ll forego any more wine.

Crawling out of bed and going for a run seems like a step too far, so I detour and shower first. And thank God, I feel more alive after being pelted with hot water.

My hair is damp from the steam, so I plait it to keep it from flying everywhere on the run. Next is the sports bra and leggings before heading out.

And as I open the door, I nearly run into Everett.

“Oh, hi.” My throat constricts in shock.

He looks deep in thought, like I’ve caught him off-guard. It’s an odd look on him. But then, seeing him in an open-collared shirt and chinos isn’t what I’d imagine Everett to ever dress in either.

I blink a few times.

“These are for you.” He presents a bouquet of lilacs and cream roses, all long stems and tied with silk ribbon. They are exquisite and spear right to my heart. As I take them from him, I feel the anger and irritation drain away.

And then I remember that he snuck out on me and hasn’t made any attempt to contact me for days.

I stare at him, waiting for more than those four words.

The heat in his eyes is there again, but I don’t fold. He’s in the wrong. He knows it, or he wouldn’t be here with flowers as an apology.

“You’re angry,” he offers. Yes, but it doesn’t stop the corner of his mouth from tipping up. “You must have missed me for that.”

“Your arrogance isn’t helping your cause, Everett.”

“Not even a little? I like this look on you.”

“Thank you for the flowers, but I’m heading out.”

He stares, spending far too much time on my legs and ass. “Running, I assume. Could you make time for a coffee first? It’s a beautiful day.” Screw the beautiful weather.

“You think that showing up here with flowers as an apology will make up for ghosting me for days? Tell me, was your plan just to get me to sleep with you from the start, and when I turned you down, it was just a challenge?”

“Perhaps.” I cross my arms. I knew it. “Listen, if you take the flowers inside and put them in water, we can talk over a coffee. If you’re not satisfied with the end result, I’ll leave you in peace to get hot and sweaty on your own. If you’d prefer that.”

God, he needs to stop speaking because everything out of his mouth sounds far too good. I was meant to be forgetting all about Mr Van Cort, not struggling and facing a total abandonment of my willpower.

“Wait here,” I snap.

I go back inside and take a deep breath, holding it for three seconds before exhaling. Why am I even thinking of saying yes? It’s his voice. Or his way with it. It could have something to do with the way his hands felt on my body, too.

I place the flowers in the sink with some water and go back out to face him. “This better be good, Everett.”

He crooks his arm like he did on our date, although I don’t feel sorry for the suit this time, because instead, I get to admire his forearm.

“Come on. I know a place.”

“There are plenty of places around Green Lake.”

“It won’t be far.” He leads me to his car and opens my door, and then his, and gets in behind the wheel. I look over the plush interior of the black Range Rover, unsure if this is what I thought he’d drive. Seems too big and brash for his style, despite his wealth.

“No Andre, today?”

“It’s Saturday. I’m not a complete megalomaniac.”

“Right, sorry.”

He looks at me, and I almost expect him to say something, but he smiles and starts the engine.

I let him drive, and he heads straight for the I-5. I don’t ask where we’re going. He's never told me beforehand previously, so why should that change now? I do expect us to head south, though, but he takes us north.

“You know, I’m still in my running gear,” I remind him as he follows the traffic on our way towards Ballinger Park.

“It’s hard to forget that, considering the fit of it against your skin.” I smile, pleased he’s noticed. It’s a flash of something intimate and shows he’s still interested.

“We’re just going to grab a coffee with a view,” I remind him.

“Right.”

He turns off the highway and heads west, all the way to Marina Beach Point, where he parks up and jumps from the car, making sure he opens my door and takes my hand.

“Coffee.”

“Coffee.”

“This place has a great view, especially if the weather is in our favour.”

“You brought me here to show me the view?”

“And to have coffee.”