Paris Is Always a Good Idea - Jenn McKinlay Page 0,99

think we need to go over it,” he said. “We’re professionals. We know how to chat up a potential donor. As for my eye, he probably won’t ask.”

His tone was abrupt, and I was surprised by how much it smarted. I missed the rapport we’d begun to share, the teasing, the laughter, and the camaraderie. I knew I could never go back to thinking of him as just an overgrown frat boy. Not now. He’d become more than that to me.

“All right,” I said. I didn’t pursue any more conversation. I hoped he could unbend enough at dinner with Severin to give the appearance of unity. It wouldn’t help our cause to have Severin think we were at odds. I felt my anxiety spike.

One of the ways I controlled my nerves before big meetings was to run scenarios through my head. I envisioned everything from the initial greeting to the casual small talk to the pitch I planned to make. Sometimes one run-through was enough, but other times, like right now, I had to go over and over the meeting, assessing it from every angle, looking for any possible catastrophes.

I closed my eyes and began working through my initial greeting with Severin. I pictured the handshake, what to say, how to maintain eye contact and ask a personal question that was more in depth than the weather but not overly familiar. I figured I’d ask how he was enjoying Paris. I was just getting to the part where I would say something witty when a low voice interrupted my meditation.

“What are you doing, Martin?” Jason asked.

So, I was Martin again. I sighed and opened my eyes.

“I’m mentally running through all of the possible scenarios that could happen tonight and practicing my responses to them.”

He lifted one eyebrow as he studied me. “Do you do that for every meeting?”

I could feel my face get warm with embarrassment. “No,” I said. I sounded defensive. “Just the really important ones.”

“Huh.”

I had no idea what he meant by that. Was he impressed? Probably not. Did he think I was mental? Probably. I couldn’t fault him. With everything that was happening, I was beginning to wonder if I was mental myself.

Before I could spiral deeper into self-doubt, the taxi pulled up at the curb, and a doorman from the Four Seasons, who was wearing a long dark coat and a short-brimmed cap, opened the door. I stepped out while Jason paid for the cab with his company card. I waited on the curb, and together we entered the hotel through the revolving door.

Flowers. That was my first impression of the posh art deco hotel. Huge clear glass vases of all sizes and shapes filled the center and the perimeter of the lobby, and each one was stuffed to bursting with irises. I gawked as the chandelier above lit the purple flowers to their best advantage. I got the feeling they’d been arranged with the lighting in mind, as each bouquet seemed to glow from within. Truly, it was breathtaking.

We were meeting Robbie Severin at Le Cinq, the swank restaurant known for its three Michelin stars and its chef’s famous French cuisine. Together we walked through the beautiful hotel, turning right at the hallway that ran along the courtyard, which led to the entrance of the restaurant. Aidan had said to treat Severin like royalty. Given that he was considering a major gift of $10 million, in my mind he was royalty, and I was happy to do the requisite bowing and scraping.

At the entrance to the restaurant, Jason paused. He looked around, searching for Robbie Severin, whose face was as well known as those of the other celebrity billionaires, like Jeff Bezos, Bill Gates, and Mark Zuckerberg. There was no sign of him. Jason checked his watch.

“We’re a few minutes early,” he said. “I’ll just check with the maître d’.”

“Sure.” I watched him walk away. The line of his shoulders was tight, and I could feel the tension pouring off him. Was this because we were at odds? Or was he nervous about meeting Severin, or both? Either way, it did not bode well for the dinner. I turned and looked out at the marble courtyard with its precisely sculpted shrubbery and lone black fountain.

“Chelsea Martin.” A voice called my name, and I turned around to find a man about the same age as my father approaching with a woman beside him. He was dressed impeccably in a navy-blue suit, and his companion, who was