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I take that as a compliment. “Thanks.”
“Hayden Tanner. Dad is Harold Tanner. Mom, Nancy Tanner.”
She says that like it’s supposed to mean something to me.
“Old, old money, billionaire level. Connecticut born and bred, New York transplants but from like thirty years ago. They’re as society as society gets.”
“Which explains the entitlement. He nearly had a conniption fit over the transition delay.”
“I’ll bet. But I also saw the way he looked at you.”
I pretend my lady parts don’t clench up at that proclamation.
“Whatever.”
Surprisingly, Karlene takes my dismissal at face value and drops it. Maybe she knows any type of personal relationship with a sponsor is so far off-limits that Damon Salvatore himself couldn’t tempt me.
The rest of our party joins us and plans the next stop.
“You’re coming, right?” Stacey asks with those same puppy dog eyes.
It’s not a question anymore. I’m in it until last call tonight.
“Damn straight.”
Amidst a chorus of whoops and cheers, we leave the dance club to find our limo waiting out front. Next up, Finnegan’s Pub. An odd choice, but hey, not my party. I’m just along for the ride.
6
Hayden
“Ah, shit.”
For a city with over eight million people, it’s surprisingly small. Then again, I went back to the scene of the crime . . . is it really all that surprising that I’d see her here?
“Let me guess.” Enzo looks across the bar and figures it out pretty quickly. “The redhead from last week?”
Man, he’s good. That’s what four years of college and five years of post-college friendship will do. At this point, Enzo is more like a brother than a friend and business partner.
“Why are you hiding?”
There’s no point in denying that’s exactly what I’m doing. I slid my barstool to move out of range.
“Because I want to marry her and have her children. Why do you think I’m hiding?”
Thankfully, my redheaded bombshell moves away.
“I can see why you were late,” Enzo says appreciatively.
“Good. Glad we’re on the same page.”
As bottles clink and conversation buzzes around us, I avoid looking at Enzo, knowing he’s still kind of pissed. That he doesn’t get why I make the decisions I do. Neither do I, really.
I tilt my beer bottle to look at the label.
“By this time next year, we’ll be drinking our own.”
It’s a discussion we’ve had countless times over the last year. In his second year at Cornell, Enzo discovered a mostly tasteless formula that could be added to alcohol that in conjunction with a pill antidote takes away the negative effects. He initially thought to sell the patent on it, but I convinced him not to do that. To work with brewers and wine makers, and until deals could be struck, manufacture both ourselves. We met well before that, in a communications class the first semester of our freshman year. On the surface, we didn’t have much in common.
