yells from the lobby.
Crap. I type out a quick reply to Olivier.
Me: Sounds good, see you Saturday night.
I jump up from my office chair and run into the lobby just in time to see Ray, naked as the day he was born, dripping all over the floor as he runs across it. He stops, grins at me and shakes his hips, making his penis flop from thigh to thigh while spraying more water across the floor, and then keeps running toward the door.
“Ray, no! You can’t go outside, it’s freezing!” I say.
Ty comes running from the back room, a couple of clean towels tucked under one arm.
“Nina, stay here. Daphne and I will get him!” he says.
And then we race out the front door and chase Ray down the icy sidewalk, pedestrians parting to make way for him, and then us.
Just another day at the office.
Chapter Nine
Olivier
I’m yelling as loud as anyone in the stands at the Carson Center when Luca Campbell slides the puck into the net and ties the game at 2–2. From the owner’s box or the nosebleed seats, the excitement is the same.
It’s a Friday night home game, and even though I’m wearing a charcoal suit and white dress shirt, I have my Chicago Blaze red tie on to show my spirit. I wear Blaze hoodies and T-shirts at home, but when I’m here, I always have a suit on.
“Hell yeah!” Corey Zimmerman says, fist pumping.
He’s an investor I work with, and a big Blaze fan. I always fill up my box with friends and colleagues, or I host families who have seriously ill children. There’s nothing like sharing the game I love with people who are seeing it live for the first time or simply enjoy it as much as I do. The excitement in the Carson Center—both the excitement and the red sea of shirts in the stands—is incomparable.
These days, there’s often an empty seat in my box—the one right beside me. It’s reserved for Giselle, who comes to about half of the home games with me. When she was younger, she wouldn’t have dreamed of missing a Blaze game. Now she prefers to be with friends or alone in her room.
We had a good time in Paris. Despite missing the text from Daphne, I know leaving our phones behind was the right choice. I took her for a quick tour of Sorbonne University while we were there, and she loved it. It’s still a bit early for college campus visits, but I wanted to show her that there’s a big world outside of Chicago, where she can do and be anything she wants.
Corey leans over to say something in my ear. “Hey, I saw that you’re not trending on Twitter anymore. What’s up with that?”
I smile and shrug. “I guess everyone figured out I’m not all that exciting.”
“Do you ever talk to the woman you rescued? Was that all just a bunch of bullshit about you guys getting together, or is it a thing?”
I’m doing my damnedest to make it a thing, but I don’t let Corey know. I only share my private life with my closest friends.
“You know how Twitter is,” I say dismissively.
“Yeah.” He takes a long drink of his beer. “She’s hot, though, from the pictures I saw. You should at least get some action out of the whole thing.”
I ignore his comment, because that’s actually the last thing I want. I hit my stride with my first business when I was twenty-four, and every woman I’ve been with since has been attracted to my money. They don’t have to say it for me to know. Renee spent money like it was her job when we were together. She wanted it all—vacation homes in exotic places, a yacht, and of course, chefs, housekeepers and other staff at her disposal no matter which property she was staying at.
I’m intrigued by Daphne for many reasons, and her disdain for my money is actually one of them. But even though she’s not after my money, I don’t want her to give me a chance just because I saved her life.
I want Daphne to see who I am, not what I did or how much I have. How do I accomplish that, though? I’ve racked my brain trying to decide where to take her for dinner tomorrow night. Hassan made reservations at five places and I’m going to cancel four of them when I make up my mind.
The place needs to be nice, but