Fairchild scowled with all the petulance of a spoiled kid. “I thought I said you were sitting with me, Rhys. Ms. Brown, change seats.”
Parker paled, her pink lips parting and working like a confused fish, and I already knew, from the fire she spit at me earlier, she was battling between telling him to piss off and doing the thing that would earn her greater job security.
I was almost willing to let her suffer, but my mom didn’t raise me that way. Besides, Fairchild was an asshole. I might have needed his money, but if I lay down like a mat for him to walk on, he’d have zero respect for me.
Leaning forward, I pinned him with a stare even though my smile was easy. “I can converse with you just fine where I am, Fairchild. Besides, I like having my honey close to me.”
I slung my arm over Parker’s slim shoulders and gave her a loving squeeze. A gurgle escaped her. She covered it up by smiling wide and pained as she leaned into my embrace, the picture of a loving girlfriend. But under the table, a spiked heel pressed down on the toe of my boot. Hard.
When I didn’t wince or move away, her brown gaze flicked to mine.
I grinned at her. Steeled-toed boots, honey. That’s what you get for tussling with a blue collar. Her sidelong glare promised retribution later. I was looking forward to it. Far too much. She was fun to rile. But it was a mistake touching her; the scent of roses and something richly smoky floated from silky soft skin. Some twisted part of me wanted to lean closer and take a deep breath, fill my lungs with that strange mix of innocence and sin.
What the hell was I going on about? Innocence and sin? Who the fuck said that? God, this chick was messing with my mind. I dropped my arm and sat back in my seat. Jackson took the chair opposite.
The waitress arrived to take drink orders—I was the only one who asked for a beer, something that had Parker’s lips compressing. It wasn’t as though I was dipping into the hard stuff like Fairchild, who had asked for a Macallan 25, neat. I might not know much, but I knew a glass of that would set him back at least two hundred dollars here. She should have been happy I’d stuck to my five-dollar draft beer.
As soon as the waitress left, Franklin was at it again. “Still can’t believe you quit, Morgan. Oh, I understand about losing your father.” He waved a hand as if to bat that inconvenience away. “But you could have simply taken a mourning break.”
The official story I’d given the world—and Dean—was that when Dad died, I’d lost heart and had decided to focus on my family. It was true for the most part, and it seemed like the best reason to give, because I would be damned if I brought Jake into the mix. No one would get anymore of him at my expense.
Now, Fairchild was in my face, demanding more. I grinned with teeth that wanted to take a bite. “I don’t regret my decision. I’ve moved on to better things.”
“Better things?” He scoffed. “Nothing could beat stepping into the ring and annihilating your opponent.”
I was pretty sure punching this guy in the mouth would beat that. But I gave him an idle shrug in response and said nothing more.
Thankfully, Jackson became Mr. Manners—probably trying to cover for my refusal to bend to Fairchild’s will—and changed the subject.
“Franklin,” he said, “I’m so glad you’re finally meeting Parker. Her suggestions for our forecast model have made significant improvements to it, which has led to interest from a huge client in the European market—”
Fairchild made a derisive noise and waved a hand, cutting Jackson off. “In my day, you played the field based on your gut, not fancy computer software.”
Parker recoiled at his verbal hit. And I had the impulse to throw a punch for her. But like any good fighter, she took the strike, then pushed back, tensing and straightening her spine.
Her smile was cool water. “I agree, Mr. Fairchild. Nothing tops the power of well-honed instincts.” She kept her voice carefully modulated, totally unrattled. “The true purpose of my job is to provide information to back up that instinctual drive by taking numerous factors—hourly energy demands, wholesale power prices, generation mix,”—she waved an elegant hand as if to say this was all elementary shit—“and