Which leaves me with Hugh, who offers a friendly smile. “That was nice of you,” he says. “I hope it wasn’t a bother.”
“Not at all. Kids are always fun to take pictures with. They don’t generally have all that internalized self-loathing adults do, so they aren’t harsh critics of what I show them.”
“In that case,” he says, “if you really don’t mind sending that photo, can I give you my email?”
“Absolutely.” I pull out my phone and start an email that I’ll save as a draft, then send when I can upload my photos from my camera to my laptop. “Ready when you are.”
“It’s ‘Hugh Lang’—all one word—‘at Verona Capital dot com.’？”
I drop my phone. It lands with an ominous thwack. Verona Capital is Christopher’s company. “Sorry.” I stoop to pick it up, not the least surprised to see a big, fresh crack across the screen. “Did you say Verona Capital?”
“I did. Best place to work in the city. Your phone going to make it?” Hugh asks.
I blink at him. “Uh. Yeah. Wait, so you . . .” I bite my lip. “Would you mind explaining exactly what you do there? It’s a hedge fund, right?”
Hugh smiles. “Not your typical hedge fund, but yes. It’s ethical investing. Putting my clients’ money into avenues that promote social equity, environmental responsibility, and the like, while ensuring my clients see a healthy return.”
“And that’s . . . possible.”
He laughs. “It is. But it’s not easy. Or I should say it’s not as easy as dumping money anywhere the market indicates will make the highest profit for you, ethics be damned. But that’s why I like it—the challenge of finding initiatives and companies that not only fit our ethical requirements but promise excellent returns. It’s stressful, and it’s a high like no other, when you do it well. The higher-ups are adamant about work-life balance, so we don’t burn out. That’s why I’m here on a weekday with my family rather than at the office. I took a personal day that I really needed, and it was granted, no questions asked.”
I swallow roughly. Okay. So, fine. Christopher isn’t a completely evil capitalist. But he’s still definitely a capitalist.
With an amazing chest.
Who tangos like a fucking god.
And smells so damn good.
Gah, the inside of my brain is bumper cars this morning.
“Well, that’s great,” I force out. “I’ll be sure to send you this photo soon as I’m off work.”
“Look at those flowers,” Tia says, as she and Jack rejoin us, Jack bringing himself to a bouncing stop beside me. “Such a gorgeous bouquet.”
I glance over my shoulder, my stomach knotting. Velvety peach ranunculus stand tall, wedged against sunbursts of yellow dahlias. Tall, willowy delphinium petals spill down their stalks in a violet-blue waterfall. Scattered throughout are splashes of blush-pink roses and lacelike baby’s breath. It is a beautiful bouquet.
“Who’s Katerina?” Jack says, pointing to the card I set against it when they entered the store.
“That’s me,” I admit. “My full name.”
Jack frowns. “Do you like it?”
I bite my cheek, hearing in my head Christopher’s deep voice, the way he says Katerina that makes the hairs on my neck stand on end, that sends heat searing through my veins. “It’s complicated.”
“Well,” Tia says on a smile, “whoever sent them must be quite the admirer.”
“Or they’ve got quite the apology to make.” Hugh throws his wife a look. “Not that I have any experience needing a bouquet like that to make amends, right, baby?”
“Bleh,” Jack says as his parents link their fingers together and Hugh kisses Tia’s hand.
“When you have,” she says, “it always worked.”
“Think it’ll work for you?” Jack asks.
I peer at the bouquet, a weird, woozy feeling in my limbs that has nothing to do with last night’s poor decisions lingering in my system.
I don’t begin to know how to answer his question.
? TWELVE ?
Christopher
I’m tired, on edge, and shaky, after riding a rough migraine through most of the night and suffering through what little sleep I did get, which was tortured by dreams I can’t admit or let myself dwell on.
Because they were straight from hell.
A long, willowy body pressed against mine. None of the curves my hands typically seek, nothing soft or yielding—just sharp angles, blissful bite marks, ruthless nails scraping down my back. A hoarse, smoky voice crying my name while I sucked and licked, dragged her legs wide open and—