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Because of her.
Zoey.
She’s funny, disarming, and she’s been telling me colorful stories of growing up in her part of Bushwick.
Zoey dips a fry in hot sauce and frowns at me. “What?”
“Nothing at all. You. I like you, Zoey,” I say quietly.
“I like you.” And her smile is worth a million dollars. “So, what about you? What’s your story?”
Fuck, I need to come up with something that she’d like. Because even without all the subterfuge and my ulterior motive, she doesn’t want to hear about the rich kid who knows more about hard work and the ins and outs of board meetings, take overs, and running a business than he does about the playground and neighborhood hopscotch tournaments, like she had.
Because we went to boarding school, we learned about the business from the crib and fun was allotted on my father’s terms. My mother’s attempts weren’t met with much luck. Fun was making money. Beating out others. One upping and being the best, the brightest, and the strongest where it counts. Power. Money. More.
Fun now is the same, but I’ve added sex with the right women because the wrong ones waste time.
I went to Harvard, but not like so many moneyed people do. I got in, like my brothers, through hard work and on our own merit, but I’m also aware we had the safety net of money. Our father wouldn’t have saved us or boosted us up, but we had money. And Zoey…she went to college, owes tuition fees, even with a scholarship she got—she didn’t tell me this, I went over her finances. It was a good school, here in New York, but she attended parties, had a boyfriend, probably boyfriends, and wouldn’t see my world as something good.
Even without her experience with Bronn, I can’t ever seeing her wanting what I do.
Which is good. It’s fine. This is nothing more than a game, no matter how much I find myself liking her.
This is also business. And business is cutthroat. Dog eat dog and whatever other cliché you want to throw and have stick.
It’s why I’ll always be rich and Zoey will always scrape by.
She’s collateral damage and nothing more.
Pretty as she is.
“Magnus?”
“Sorry, just thinking about my gran.” I’m beginning to sound like the worst sort of sap out there. A mama’s boy, or in this case, grandmama’s boy.
Which, I remind myself, she loves.
“She’d like you,” I say.
“You know, I’m not trying to pry, but if your mom is here, can she help out?”
“My life isn’t like yours,” I say, skirting along the truth. “Mom’s not the kind of person to do that. And she’s heading out of town.”
“Why was she there? Did you invite her tonight?” She blushes hard when I take my time answering. “It’s not my business.”
Zoey takes a swallow of her beer.
“Hey, ask.” Because if I was the Magnus she likes, not the bastard she hates, then I’d tell her all about my mother. Who is actually a good person. “My parents split up when I was young and she drops in to see gran—dad’s mom—when she can. She told me about the event, actually. I thought she was heading out of town. Ready?”
She nods.
“I’ll walk you home.”
It’s not drizzling anymore as we make our way through the streets. People are about. Young thugs hang on street corners and drink from brown paper bags. But weirdly, many of them nod at Zoey.
I don’t even know why I’m saying weirdly. It’s Zoey. She’s no doubt made friends with the local serial killer.
I take her hand as we walk because Magnus Simpson would, and I like the feel of her fingers wrapped about mine, the warmth of her flowing into me. The sweetness of the connection.
