“I think it would mean more if you were there yourself.” I don’t want Barrett there anymore than he wants to be there, but the idea of Barrett reading a book to children is so out of his norm that I can’t help but want to see it.
Barrett hands me the check, his signature lining the bottom in black ink.
“Find someone else,” he says with finality before he turns toward his computer. Apparently, I’ve been dismissed.
I’m halfway to the door when I remember the note in my pocket. The lunch reservation that JoAnna had me make for Barrett and his date. I’d intended to pass it along to Bea, but with my anxiety about running into Barrett, I’d forgotten. I pull it out and march back toward Barrett’s desk. With a thud, I smack the note down onto the glass then leave.
CHAPTER 3
Barrett
The familiar sounds of tennis shoes squeaking against the waxed wood floor, and the smack of the rubber ball against the wall take me back to the countless number of times I would come to the racquet club with my dad. Carl, a friend and in-house counsel at St. Clair Media, banks a shot off the right wall and I scramble to make contact before the ball flies past me.
“Jesus, St. Clair, where the fuck is your head at today?” Carl taunts. “That ball couldn’t have been an easier hit if I put it in a box and shipped it directly to you.”
Ignoring his prodding, I make my way over to the side of the court with my water and towel. I let my racquet clatter against the wood floor before sliding the protective eyeglasses to the top of my head to towel the sweat off my brow.
It’s Friday morning. It’s been nearly a week since Fred invited me to dinner with our girlfriends and I am no closer to having one today than I was last week. That doesn’t mean I haven’t tried. Leaning into my mother’s desire to play matchmaker, I let her arrange a lunch with Tessa Green. Tessa, an accomplished lawyer and activist, and I had some things in common, mostly our summers spent in the Hamptons and our busy work schedules, yet I spent the majority of our one-hour lunch date thinking about another woman. The one who had delivered the news of the date via post-it note on my desk.
When Tessa started talking about her two-year plan for marriage and babies, I knew there was no need to reveal my two-day plan to find a fake girlfriend for a business meeting. After lunch, we parted ways, both knowing nothing would come of it.
This dinner with Fred Hinkle is imperative to my business, I can’t ask any random woman off the street. I need discretion. If Fred found out that I lied, not only would any hope of a business deal with him be ruined, but my reputation could be tarnished. The walls of the corner I’ve backed myself into are closing in.
Carl is a mediocre racquetball player, he’s even worse at tennis. He does more shit talking than actual playing, so the fact that my shirt is drenched from my efforts is a telling sign to us both. He wanders over to where I’m standing and uncaps his water bottle.
“I’ve never seen you suck this bad.” He takes a swig of his water, while I run the towel behind my neck. “Normally when a guy’s game is off, I’d say there’s a woman involved, but since you live like a monk, it’s got to be about business.”
“I don’t live like a monk. Unlike some people, I prefer to keep my personal life off Page Six.”
“Man, you must forget who you are. If there was anything to report, you’d be front and center with the rest of us.”
I’ve known Carl since our days at Hawthorne Prep. After undergrad at Columbia, I got my MBA from Wharton while Carl went to Harvard for his law degree. When I took over SCM from my uncle, Carl was an easy choice for in-house counsel. I trust him and he’s a far better lawyer than a racquetball player.
I hesitate to tell Carl about my predicament. I pride myself on being a problem solver. In the seven years since I took over running SCM, there’s never been an issue I couldn’t resolve. I love a good challenge. The fact that I’ve put myself in a position with Fred Hinkle that I’m not clear on the path forward has kept me up the past two nights.
“It is about a woman,” I grumble, before taking a drink of my water.
Carl’s eyebrows shoot up.
“Or lack thereof.”
“Oh, shit. You can’t get laid?”
“I’m fine,” I practically growl, not because I need to get laid but because I need Carl to not think with his dick for a moment. “That’s not what it’s about. You know I’m determined to land the deal with Voltaire Telecom, but Fred Hinkle is prideful.”