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“A long time.” Her dark lashes flutter with unease, not flattery. Good.

“Must be, what? Seven, eight years?”

“Something like that.”

Nine. Not that I’m counting or anything. “I almost didn’t recognize you.” A lie.

“Same.” Those dark-blue eyes flick behind me. “It looked like you were being nice to people over there.”

I smile. Reluctantly. This is more like it. Here’s the Clara Forbes I know and . . . don’t love.

“Cute.” Two can play at that game as my eyes skate over the tray. The uniform.

I guess the shock of seeing her must’ve made my brain a little slow. Nine fucking years, and it looks like things haven’t changed. Attention seeking must still be her raison d’être, her reason for being. Shameful at her age. I guess Daddy’s money just fucks some girls up for good.

Clara never did do a thing without an audience. She liked her rebellions theatrical and the noise loud enough to stun. Usually her parents. She never seemed to need a reason, either, not as I recall. But this is not playing out her way this time.

“It’s so good to see you,” I begin, reaching for her elbow. “You don’t mind if I steal Clara away, do you?”

“S-sure,” says the blonde, seeming to come back to herself.

“No!” Clara jerks away as my fingers make contact, but the tray is another matter as it rains down canapés, making an almighty racket as it meets the concrete floor.

Talk about a needle-scratch moment. The room has gone so quiet, you could hear a pin drop, and I can feel eyes literally poking at the back of my head. Fuck.

“Now look what you’ve done,” Clara mutters, making to drop to her knees. Though my cock seems to like the idea of that, the fucking ingrate, I tighten my grip on her.

“Leave it,” I command through clenched teeth.

Her head whips up, and she pins me with a glare. “It’s my mess.”

“Usually is.” Are they fuckin’ Tater Tots? At the top of my game, and I still can’t escape poor-people food? I guess I should be grateful they’re not in a casserole.

Just what I need: people saying Troy Templeton, Table’s CEO and fintech’s newest billionaire, serves GMO slop while harassing waitstaff. Billionaire on paper, given we’re only days post the year’s biggest IPO. My stock is locked up for months, my wealth largely illiquid. Not that it makes any difference as I have no intention of selling. Table is my baby, born of my experience. I guess I’d better clear this mess up if I want to keep it.

I paste on a gosh-darn-it expression as I address the crowd over my shoulder, thickening my accent to something a little more Southern. “And that’s why we can’t have nice things.”

There follows a collective chuckle, though Hannah gives a narrowing of her too-perceptive gaze. Tennessee? it seems to say.

I lived there less than a year, not that Hannah knows about my life back then. But we moved so often that one accent didn’t really stick. A year in Virginia followed by another in Long Island as we tried to stay ahead of my no-good dad. When we got to the Hamptons, we were able to stay, thanks to a little trouble the old man got himself into.

I turn away from Table’s chief of strategy and fellow founder, and my longtime pain-in-the-ass friend, unwilling to give her further cause for questions.

“Please just go away.” Clara screws her eyes tight like a toddler on the verge of a tantrum, her companion having melted away.

“Not this time, darlin’.” Because this time, you’re on my turf.

Fuck being here. I should’ve listened to my body and gone home to sleep for a week. Tonight was Max’s idea, a little thank-you to the crew. Another thank-you. It’s mostly Table staffers and a few of our early investors. Wasn’t Max being interviewed by a journalist from Bloomberg this afternoon? Shit. That’s all I need.

It’s hard to keep track because the last few weeks have been manic. Two grueling weeks for the pre-IPO road show—Boston, Hong Kong, London—then back for the stock launch. More prep. Then the ceremony, the absolute fucking highs of the day as we surpassed the heights we’d set ourselves. Company-wide celebrations across the globe. Champagne and more champagne. Hangovers and headaches on private flights home.

Going public only happens once in a company’s life, and it should be celebrated, but I’m bone tired. Bone tired and now fucking tense because of the woman in front of me.

“Get up.” I take a firm grip of her upper arm.

“Leave me alone, Troy.”

“If you don’t get up off this floor, I swear . . .” I pull her up anyway and turn us in the direction of the door, making a mental note to ensure the blonde gets a decent tip. It’s always the poor who get fucked over, I think as I practically drag Clara along with me.