Page 53 of Dial F for Finance

“That paperwork is a lie,” he says, jaw ticking.

“No, Dominic. Tokyo was the lie.”

He holds my eyes a moment longer. Then he nods, once, like a man absorbing terms.

“Then I’ll have my lawyer look it over.”

CHAPTER 12

Dominic

Stepping away from Jenna outside her building last night was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. The night had been so close to perfect. In true Jenna fashion, it’d started off cool and gradually warmed until she was putty in my hands. All I had to do was hold my hand out and demand her keys and she would have dragged me upstairs to spend the night between her thighs.

Instead, I stepped back because as much as I know she melts when I take control, I also know her. Well enough to understand that the only way to get through to Jenna Pemberton is to take my hands off the wheel at the exact moment I want to slam on the gas.

I made it to my car. I made it home. Jacked off twice and still slept like shit.

That fucking folder is haunting me.

It rides shotgun as I make my way into the city, glaring at me like a pissed-off ghost. Part of me wants to torch it. Drop it in the path of a street cleaner, let the wind work on it until it’s pulp and pretend it doesn’t exist.

But my conscience won’t let me.

Morals really get in the way sometimes.

When I reach the city, it’s doing its usual weekend impression—joggers, farmers market totes, a guy walking four dogs without breaking a sweat.

I cruise the block until I find parking near David’s building. When I head inside, the concierge gives me a friendly, “Mr. Cruz,” and lets me through to the elevators. Normally, I love coming to visit David and his kid. But today, the folder under my arm feels like the death of all my dreams. Though it’s hard not to crack a smile when I’m barely halfway down the hall and I can already hear the thunder of paws.

The door opens before I knock. Michaela stands in the gap with a clipboard in her hands, Archie shouldering past her to headbutt my thigh like I owe him money or snacks.

“Uncle Dominic,” she says. “Excellent. I have a proposal for you.”

“Of course you do.” I scratch Archie’s enormous golden head and let them both usher me in. “Sixty seconds. Pitch me.”

A few months ago, the only thing my nine-year-old niece could talk about was dolphins and becoming a Supreme Court justice. But a disappointing experience with the legal system when her absent mother decided to try and get her parental rights reinstated has her exploring other options. Entrepreneurialism—or girl bossing, as she likes to call it—is the current flavor.

“Dog-walking cooperative,” she says, walking alongside me. “Me and two girls from school. We have eleven committed clients, a sliding-scale pricing model, and a waitlist.” She holds up a clipboard that has, God help me, a chart on it. “We need startup capital for branded bandanas. Fifty dollars. In exchange, I’m prepared to offer you four percent.”

“Four.” I put a hand over my heart. “You’re valuing a pre-revenue dog-walking operation at twelve-fifty on eleven verbal commitments. You wound me. I want twelve percent.”

“Six, and I’ll stop telling people you cried like a baby at Layla and Bennett’s wedding.”

“That’s old news. I always cry at weddings.”

“Fine. I’ll tell them about that time you slipped in a mud puddle at the park and split your pants.”

“Six,” I agree, shaking her small, merciless hand. “You’re going to run the Fed someday, and I want it noted I was an early investor.”

Nora appears from the kitchen wearing yoga pants and an oversized T-shirt, reading glasses pushed up into her auburn hair. She looks like the front cover of a book depicting the kind of life I’d have said I didn’t want three years ago.

“Dominic. Hi! This is a nice surprise.” She accepts the kiss on the cheek, then narrows her eyes at Michaela. “Did you just close a round before Dominic got his coat off?”

“She got six percent of my dignity and a controlling interest in my weekend. The place smells amazing, by the way. Whatever that is in the oven, I’d annex a small country for it.”

“Brownies, and flattery gets you a corner piece.” She’s already moving toward the kitchen. “Coffee? Tea?”

“Something harder?” I half-joke. It’s nine a.m., but I’m not above drinking to take the edge off shitty legal documents.