Hardwired Page 8

  “Not really. If I need to be wired in, I go to my office.”

  “That surprises me.”

  “Why?”

  “Well you can probably orchestrate a small conference from your car’s touch screen. I didn’t figure your living space would be any different.”

  “I’ve been staring at screens for fifteen years. Eventually it occurred to me that I get some of my best ideas when I’m offline for extended periods of time.”

  “I guess I can see that,” I said, not quite able to come to grips with my own technology obsession. I needed to be accessible at all times, just in case. The thought of being off the grid for more than an hour, especially for someone like Blake who must be in much higher demand, was unthinkable.

  “Wine?”

  Today had been hot, exhausting, and stressful. I wanted nothing more than to end it with a cool glass of white wine, but that was a one-track journey into Blake’s bedroom—a place I was determined to avoid, especially under these new living circumstances. Now that we were neighbors, thanks to the one-year lease I’d very recently signed, I had to enforce new boundaries.

  “Water,” I said. “So what’s for dinner? Can I help with anything?”

  “Uh—” He hesitated, and then opened a drawer and pulled out a stack of take out menus. “Take your pick. I highly recommend the Thai place down the street. The best you’ll ever have.”

  I shook my head, a little amazed that he’d made such an effort to invite me up for dinner without having a game plan. For him, that seemed unusual. He was always five steps ahead of me, a quality I’d never underestimate again.

  “Let me guess. You don’t cook?”

  “I have many talents, but cooking isn’t one of them, no.”

  “Have you ever tried?”

  “Not really.” He shrugged.

  “Okay, where’s the nearest market?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “A couple blocks away.”

  “Okay, I’ve got an empty fridge and I’m guessing you do too. How about we go pick up some things, and I’ll show you how to make a proper meal for the next time you invite a girl over to your place.”

  He paused. I wasn’t sure if he was annoyed or considering my offer. Regardless, he’d crossed the line with me too many times. I refused to walk on eggshells around Blake, billionaire or not.

  “Fine, let’s go,” he finally said.

  Blake was completely out of his element in the market. I felt him out for likes and dislikes, and then collected all the ingredients for one of my specialties, linguine and clams, one of the first dishes my mother had taught me to make.

  Since I still lacked basic household items, like pots and pans, I set to work preparing the meal in Blake’s gourmet kitchen, while he stood on the sidelines. I felt out of practice, but gradually I found my bearings. After four years of communal living with bare bones kitchenettes, I missed being in a real kitchen, and Blake’s lacked for nothing.

  “Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to help me?” I asked, only half serious.

  He joined me at the counter, and I gave him his first task.

  “Here, dice this.” I handed him an onion. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, pretending not to notice as he blinked away the tears.

  I made myself at home, narrating along the way for his sake. Though mostly silent, Blake was an attentive student. A little too attentive at times—I caught him staring at my ass when I went hunting for a strainer in his cabinets. I took full advantage of the power swap, schooling him on a few pasta cooking basics, like identifying al dente pasta and the critical difference between freshly grated versus jarred parmesan cheese.

  Once finished, I prepared two plates, and Blake carried them into the dining area. We sat at the distressed wood farmhouse table, a beautiful and expensive piece of furniture. Admittedly, I was beginning to get used to the finer things when in Blake’s presence.

  We dove in and were silent for a few moments.

  “I approve.” He nodded and twisted some more pasta onto his fork.

  “Thanks. The good news is that the leftovers will be even better.”

  “How can leftovers be better than this?”

  “The pasta absorbs all the clam juice. It’s divine.”

  He moaned an affirmative as he finished another mouthful.

  I smiled, content and maybe a little empowered.

  “Are you all set for your meeting with Max?” he asked. His plate was nearly clear while I had barely made a dent in mine.

  “Not entirely. I’ve been running around with the move and tying up loose ends. I plan to work through the details this week though.”

  “He’ll want to know more about your conversion statistics.”

  “Okay.” I nodded, making a mental note to try to flesh that out more.

  “And you’ll need a specific breakdown of your expenses now, and what you expect them to be after funding. With Alli out of the picture and your personal expenses changing, you need to start thinking about what the financial landscape will look like if you get funding.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “Do you have any stats on your marketing efforts? What’s working, what’s not?”

  “Um, a little bit,” I said. “I have analytics, but I haven’t really crunched those numbers in a while.”

  He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

  “Sounds like I’ll be doing my homework.”

  “Why don’t you stop by my office for a bit, and I can help you break down some of this. You’ll get funding faster if you can answer all of these questions right off the bat. Otherwise it’ll just lead to more meetings. There are only a few questions you need to answer to get a deal, but you need to know every angle of the answer.”

  If anyone could nurse me through this process, Blake could. Turning him down would be rude, not to mention downright foolish. Still, I was dubious about further involving him in my affairs, not that he’d given me much choice.

  “Is that a conflict of interest?” I asked, trying to think of any legitimate reason to refuse his help. I hated that I needed him right now.

  “No, Erica. I already told you, I’m not investing in your project.”

  “I appreciate the offer, Blake. I really do, but I don’t want to put you out.”

  “You won’t. My office is right across from the clock tower.” He pulled his card out of his wallet. “Meet me there after lunch and we can go over figures.” He picked up his empty plate and headed into the kitchen.

  “When’s the last time you ate?” I asked when he returned with another heaping plate and a frosty bottle of a local microbrew.

  “I’m a sucker for a home cooked meal.” He grinned and took a swig from the bottle. “What’s on the menu for tomorrow night? Let me know and I’ll stock the kitchen.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I didn’t realize I’d need to subsidize my rent with cooking services.”

  “I think I’d be content to let you live here rent free if you fed me like this every night.”

  “Tempting,” I teased, though I would never consider it. Blake had obviously taken extreme measures to position me here in his building, available at his leisure so it would seem. Sweetening the deal with gourmet cooking was probably counter-intuitive. Perhaps I could stave him off with food in lieu of sex though. Could be a good plan, though I had an even better one.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  We cleaned up from dinner and settled next to each other on the couch facing out the bay windows, much the same way we had in Vegas. Committed to a very different outcome for the evening, I was not so subtle when I shimmied away a few inches, making his physical proximity slightly more bearable.

  “Where did you learn to cook like that?” Blake asked.

  I paused before answering to carefully consider how much of my personal life I really wished to share. Talking about my mother invariably introduced the mystery of my father, a difficult concept for pe
ople to grasp. The fact that I didn’t know my father’s identity elicited a range of reactions from others, from shock to judgment to pity. Despite my misgivings about bearing all to Blake, dodging his questions would only delay the truth. No doubt he would pester and pry it out of me, bit by bit.

  “My mother was a phenomenal cook. She taught me everything I know about food.”

  “Was?” he said gently.

  “She passed away when I was twelve.” I swallowed against the twinge of sadness that surfaced every time I spoke of her. “She started getting sick, and by the time they found out what it was, the cancer had spread aggressively. She was gone a few months later.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Thank you.” Saddened by the memory, I picked at the rip in my jeans. “So much time has passed, I have a hard time remembering everything about her. I feel like food is one of the ways I can keep her memory alive. That sounds strange, doesn’t it?”

  “I don’t think so.” He turned toward me and took my free hand. “So your father raised you?”

  He drew slow circles into the back of my hand, simultaneously distracting and calming me.

  “My stepfather did for about a year. When I was thirteen, I came east for boarding school. I spent one summer back in Chicago, and the rest with my mother’s best friend, Marie, who lives just outside the city. I’ve pretty much been on my own since then though.”

  “That’s a long time to be on your own.”

  I nodded slowly. “That’s true, but I don’t really have anything else to compare it to. It is what it is, I suppose.”

  “You must miss them.”

  I hardly knew what it was like to have a father, but I’m sure I would have enjoyed having one under the right circumstances.

  “I miss my mother every day,” I said. “But this is my life and everything that has made me who I am, so I can’t dwell on what might have been.”

  I’d always be out of step with most people my age who’d been given many more chances to get it right, whose parents were there to scoop them up when they faltered and to point them in the right direction when indecisions were met.

  I had quickly learned that my own safety net had sizeable gaping holes in it, which likely explained why lately I felt like I was at sea without a life preserver. Now my new weakness for Blake added a level of difficulty to the already risky endeavor of taking on the business full time. Yet here I was, giving him another opportunity to wear me down.

  “It’s late. I should go.”

  “You don’t have to.” His voice was serious, but not suggestive.

  I searched his eyes for clues, hoping what I saw in them wasn’t pity. Mine wasn’t the happiest of stories, but feeling sorry for myself had gotten me nowhere.

  “I know, but I have a million things to do before we meet up tomorrow.” I stood. “Enjoy the leftovers.”

  He rose. “I eagerly await the hour when I can consider them leftovers.”

  He was close enough that his breath drifted across my lips. The sexual tension crackled between us. A couple hours ago I was piping mad, but since then he’d devoured my favorite pasta and had been incredibly sweet. Still, being neighbors now required careful consideration about how best to move forward. Unfortunately he hadn’t given me much of a chance to consider anything, and my emotions were jumbled and confused.

  I stuffed my hands in my pockets, resisting the urge to touch him. I looked down, wondering if this was the right time to talk about it.

  “What’s wrong?” Concern etched the sharp lines of his face and he cupped my cheek in his palm. I leaned into the simple touch.

  “Well for one, I’m still mad at you.”

  A hint of a smile curved his mouth as he traced my lip with the pad of his thumb. He licked his lips, and mine parted at the gesture, tingling with the promise of his kiss.

  “I like when you’re mad,” he murmured.

  “Are you always this persistent?”

  “Only when I see something I want.”

  “How did I get so lucky?” I couldn’t hide my smile.

  “Are you fishing for compliments?”

  “No, but I’m hoping you have a good reason for turning my life upside down.”

  He stepped back and ran a hand through his hair, the absence leaving me momentarily bereft. I wanted him back, touching me.

  “You’re different.”

  I frowned a little. “Okay.”

  “I wanted to see you again, and you weren’t really giving me that option.” He arched his eyebrows. “Can that be enough?”

  I sighed and moved to him. “I guess we’ll see.” I pressed a swift kiss to his cheek and left him before I could talk myself into staying.

  I walked back into my apartment, which was too bright and bare compared to Blake’s. This was my new home, but I had a long way to go before the place would feel like my own. I eyed the mountain of bags and boxes that I needed to organize before getting back to work tomorrow. Then I remembered something.

  I grabbed my phone and pulled up Sid’s number. He picked up on the second ring.

  “What’s up?” he said.

  “A few things. Alli got a job in New York.”

  “Bummer,” he said without emotion.

  “Also, someone at Angelcom is prepping me for my next meeting with Max, which bodes well for the financing.”

  “Cool.”

  “Lastly, where are you staying when the dorms close?”

  “I was just going to crash with some friends around here until something came through.”

  “I’ve got an extra room at my new place, and I could use the company. Are you interested?”

  He paused a moment. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, definitely.”

  “All right, sounds good to me.”

  I smiled and gave him the address before we hung up.

  ***

  The signage on the frosted glass double doors read, Landon Group, in bold serif font. I crossed the threshold into a landscape of high tech workstations that filled the long room. I spotted Blake leaning on the windowsill talking to a young man whose headphones were hanging around his neck. A smattering of Trekkie memorabilia decorated the desk. Sid would love it here, I thought. Blake looked up and muttered something before crossing over to me.

  “Hey.” He flashed me a boyish smile and took my hand to lead me through the wide center aisle of the room to an enclosed office at the far end.

  The gesture caught me off guard, but to my surprise, everyone seemed completely focused, as if no life existed beyond the stream of data feeding the machines. I was dressed all wrong too. In a white pencil skirt and a sleeveless black collared shirt with respectable black pumps, I stuck out in a sea of T-shirts, hoodies, and Hawaiian shirts. Apparently I had a lot to learn about tech start-up culture.

  Just outside what I assumed was Blake’s personal office, a punky petite woman sat at an L desk, zeroed in on her computer screen. She looked up when we approached.

  “Erica, this is Cady.”

  She jumped up and shook my hand. Cady was dressed as casually as everyone else in jeans and a simple white T-shirt. Her left arm was sleeved in colorful tattoos that blended together as one expansive work of body art, but what stood out most was her short bleached-out mohawk frosted with hot pink tips. Her ears were decorated with shiny metal gauges that matched her spiked belt.

  “Hi, Erica. It’s good to meet you.” She took my hand, revealing a beautiful smile that lit up her gray eyes. Even with all her decorations, she was very attractive.

  “Likewise.”

  “Erica, Cady is my personal assistant. She’s also your neighbor.”

  My eyes shot to him. I didn’t realize he had a roommate.

  “I live downstairs from you. I think we just keep missing each other,” she said.

  I breathed out with relief, surprised by my own reaction. “Oh, wow. Okay.” What the hell? I shouldn’t care if he had a roommate. After all, I was about to have one.<
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  “Let me know if you ever have any questions about the place or the neighborhood. I’m kind of Blake’s unofficial property manager too.”

  “Right, thanks.”

  She gave a little wave as Blake pulled us into his office, shutting the door behind us.

  His office was more typical of what I expected from his apartment, though it still impressed me. Three oversized monitors lined one of his two desks. Two displayed dozens of lines of code and the last was filled with spreadsheets. Heath’s assertion that Blake did all the work seemed valid. Even I wasn’t sure I could wear that many hats at once.

  In another corner of the office, an enormous television hung on the wall, connected to what appeared to be every video game console one could imagine. He led me to a large frosted conference table facing a glass writeboard.

  “Very Mission Impossible,” I said, secretly hoping for an excuse to write on it. Maybe I could illustrate the boundaries that needed to exist with our relationship.

  He laughed and sat down at the table beside me. “Okay, show me what you’ve got.”

  I flipped a switch and my business brain took over, shifting my priorities and focus for the next two hours while we worked diligently, outlining a plan for the second phase of the presentation to Max. We hashed out numbers and I explained more about the business. I scribbled notes down, mapping out the points that I would organize back at the apartment tonight, trying not to be distracted by his proximity.

  Even under these circumstances, I couldn’t stop remembering that Blake and I had once shared a night of unbridled passion. People avoided workplace affairs for this very reason. When I wasn’t looking directly at him, I could pretend I wasn’t unbearably attracted to him, but not without concerted effort.

  “Have I earned my dinner, yet?” He was leaning back in his chair, a pen tucked behind his ear and a wicked smile on his face that just wasn’t fair. Women had to work so hard to achieve “effortless” beauty, but Blake could make my heart skip a beat with a well-timed smile and a pair of well-worn blue jeans.

  “Do you always wear T-shirts to work?” I asked, ignoring his question.

  “Usually.” He shrugged.