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Two: I doubt a man has ever given her guidelines around how to fuck him.
Three: I doubt anyone has ever told her to go to Montana.
Julia’s jaw lowers slightly. “I don’t—”
“Then don’t,” I continue, shoving my finger back into her—fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, Julia. “Nobody is forcing you to.”
“We have a deal,” she gasps, fighting to not enjoy my touch, but her legs squirm and press together like she’s desperately seeking release.
“Break it. Now, do you want to call Davis and tell him the acquisition is off, or should I?”
Exasperated, Julia reaches between us and yanks my hand right out from between her legs.
“Jesus, August. I hope you get fucked in the face with your own ego,” she snaps before she shoves me away from her entirely.
Indignantly, she refastens and straightens her dress, glaring at me with pure vitriol like I’ve never seen from a woman before.
I’m obsessed with it.
Just to make her angrier, I take my middle finger and insert it into my mouth, tasting her—reminding her that a moment ago, she spread her legs for me.
“Fuck you.” Her tone is ice—all hints of a moan long gone.
“That’s your job,” I remind her airily, enjoying myself so much, I could smile. “I’ll see you in Montana.”
Without another word, I breeze past her and open the door to reveal the blaring sounds of the club once more.
Chapter 9: Julia
The massive mirror-lined elevator chimes at the top floor, but I don’t exit when the doors open. Immobile, I stare at the enormous Davenport-Ridgeway logo decorating the wall opposite the elevator. The thing must be eight feet tall at least, illuminated with white lights that accentuate the lines of the design.
Nice, dad. Real subtle.
I exit the elevator and pass a row of C-suite offices until I reach my father’s in the corner. The walls are glass, so he sees me coming long before I get there. Still, he doesn’t end his call until I’ve been in the waiting area for ten minutes.
My father is a parent to two twenty-eight-year-olds and a thirty-year-old, but he tries his damnedest not to let it show. Even in his sixties, he’s still well dressed, lean, and has evaded male pattern baldness impressively well (but then again, a billionaire can avoid anything).
From my father, both of my brothers inherited strong jaws, great posture, and enviable height. But I’m the only one who inherited his complete and utter steeliness, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. While I wait, smatterings of his conversation resonate through the glass. Whoever he’s speaking to should be bawling because my father is casually rattling off a barrage of insults so cruel, so cutting, it has to be illegal.
Like any good professional jackass, my father ends his call, inhales before plastering a maniacally fake smile on his face, and greets me.
In his office, there are two cloches on the table adjacent to a floor-to-ceiling window. Once we’re seated and I remove the cloche, I’m not at all surprised to find a kale salad. Ugh. I ordered a kale salad one time when I visited my father at work nine years ago. Ever since then, the man has associated me with this nauseating salad. I stare down at it and consider coming clean and telling him I would rather eat my own hand than eat this salad one more time. But he gives me a knowing smile and I just can’t bring myself to take him down a peg. After all, he only offers to have lunch with me once every two years or so. This kale salad is about the closest thing he and I have to an inside joke.
“Good of you to stop by.” He picks up the club sandwich he ordered for himself. Three layers with bacon and a fat slice of beefsteak tomato—it looks divine. “When was the last time we saw each other?”
“Your birthday,” I remind him, glancing up to meet his eyes. “Remember?”
He doesn’t, but he nods like he does. “That was a great evening. Your brothers did a wonderful job with their toasts.”
My father clearly doesn’t remember that Davis—his pride, his joy, his most prized possession—didn’t give a toast this year. My father is also clearly unaware that his birthday was the night his daughter pissed off the wrong billionaire and nearly torpedoed an acquisition. But again, call me a closet softie because I can’t bring myself to take this old man down a peg—no matter how much of a jackass he is.
“Well, thank you for joining me on short notice. I heard you were in town for once, so I jumped at the chance to see my only daughter,” he goes on while he frowns, puzzling over how to lift his big, overflowing sandwich without any of the three layers falling out. Champagne problems as usual.
“No problem.” I stake a bite of my salad and force it down.
“I talked to Davis.”
I freeze with my hand gripping my fork, focusing on a leaf of kale to avoid looking at my father. Mortification flows through me like it has replaced the blood in my veins. Suddenly, it occurs to me that this random invitation to lunch may not be so random…
