Can't Get Enough (Skyland, #3)(22)

“You’re probably right.”

His lips twitch, reminding me that I hired him not only for his brilliant mind, but for the fact that he, despite first impressions, knows how to laugh. He knows when to work and when to ease up and make sure I blow off steam. He’s my assistant, but he’s probably the most essential person on my team. I stole him from a company I was considering buying. I didn’t buy the company, but I did hire Roy Sires. Bolt to his friends, so named because he’s such a fast runner. That speed earned him a track scholarship to Harvard and could’ve taken him to the Olympics had it not been for a torn ACL.

I gulp the smoothie obediently, rinse the glass, and place it in the dishwasher. My housekeeper doesn’t expect me to clean up after myself, but my mama did, and it’s a hard habit to break.

“Lemme make myself respectable,” I say, exiting the kitchen. “I’ll meet you in the office in fifteen minutes.”

“The Realtor called,” Bolt says, standing in the living room, eyes glued to his iPad. “We already have a bite on the Miami property.”

That stops me at the foot of the stairs. Selling the house Zere loved so much, even more than today’s announcement, feels like the final call on our relationship.

“Did you hear me?” Bolt glances up. He’s not a tall man, standing at around five foot seven, but he is powerfully built, and his body always gives him away. Jaw clenched when he’s annoyed. Shoulders tensing when he’s angry. Brows knitted when he’s concerned, as they are now. “Are you having second thoughts?”

“About selling the house?” I ask, one foot poised on the bottom step.

“I guess about…” He gestures vaguely with the iPad. “About everything. About the breakup?”

“No,” I answer without hesitation. “Zee and I don’t belong together. I’m wondering if I should offer her the house instead of selling it.”

“Sir, that’s millions of dollars. Maybe a bracelet or a bag or… something that isn’t eight figures would be a better parting gift.”

I laugh outright at his incredulous expression. “Cheaper for sure. Just hold off till I have the chance to discuss it with Zere.”

His lips purse in exasperation, but he lets it go. “Will do. And Ralph called this morning. Said you told him to reach out after the party.”

I start up the stairs and roll my eyes. “He was all up in my grill Saturday night. No rush to get back to him. Always somebody trying to get in my pockets.”

He was the exact opposite of Hendrix, who seemed almost reluctant to pursue the idea of me investing in her venture capital fund. A smile quirks my lips at the memory of her leading the electric slide, head thrown back, laughter floating over the crowd. A stark contrast to how upset she was not even an hour later after the call with her mother.

This isn’t the first time I’ve thought of her since the party. She’s vibrant and smart and bold and… soft. There’s a softness to her that’s easy to overlook because of all that strength. I can’t get that bright smile and smooth brown skin out of my mind. Keep hearing her voice singing that hymn as she tried to soothe her mom.

It’s much too soon to consider asking her out. That’s ridiculous. I’m just ending a long-term relationship. And she’s Zere’s production partner. I’m not ready for another relationship right now, much less one that would be that complicated and wrong on so many levels.

Still I don’t stop myself from uttering the next words as I climb the stairs toward my bedroom.

“Hey, Bolt, find out all you can about the Aspire Fund out of Atlanta.”





CHAPTER 8





HENDRIX


I’ve got Zere on Zoom,” Skipper calls from the outer office. “Okay to pipe her in?”

“Sure.” I tweak the last sentence in my email to one of the Aspire Fund’s limited partners. “I’m ready.”

The large plasma screen mounted on the wall to my right lights up with Zere’s face. I know her well enough by now that the stunning smile doesn’t completely disguise the new sadness in her eyes.

“Morning, partner,” she says, tucking one long copper strand of hair behind her ear. “Have you recovered from Saturday night?”

“You could say that.” I swing my chair around to face the screen and stretch my back dramatically. “But this forty-year-old booty don’t twerk like it used to. I think I dislocated something popping on that last set.”

She laughs and I’m glad to see it chases away some of the sadness even if only for a moment. “Girl, same.”

“You’re forty?” I ask, lifting my brows.

“My next birthday.” She slides her gaze away. “It’s gonna be a tough one.”

“Forty’s not bad. Actually I’m having the time of my life. My career is on fire. I know myself better than I ever have. In my twenties, I was just running. Always in the streets and for what? In my thirties, I started asking big questions and looking for answers. Now I know exactly who I am and what I want. And I can finally afford myself.”

We both laugh, but the humor dwindles on her face quickly. “What about kids? A husband? Do you start to worry that maybe you won’t ever have those things?”