Page 1 of Instigator

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Ceci

The back room of the bookstore is loud in the way only book clubs can be—half drunken laughter, half passionate arguments over fictional men who desperately need therapy.

I weave between mismatched folding chairs and stacks of discounted hardcovers, balancing a bottle of gin in one hand and my dignity in the other.

Every third Thursday is the highlight of my month. Mostly because these people are mine. My loud, chaotic, aggressively affectionate friends.

Unfortunately, they’re also all in love.

Every single one of them paired off over the last few years, while I somehow became the human equivalent of the last seat in a game of musical chairs. Still standing. Still smiling about it. Pretending I don’t notice everyone else already has someone to go home to.

And I do pretend.

I joke that I’m single by choice. That dating sounds exhausting. That I like my freedom too much to share it with another person.

But sometimes, late at night, I want what they have so badly it feels like a physical ache. The problem is that nobody looks at a forty-three-year-old divorced tech billionaire and sees romance.

They see money.

Sometimes they see sex.

Mostly, they see an opportunity. And I’m not about to let myself get swindled again.

“Ceci,” Bex cries out as I enter the raised platform at the back of the store. “I just had the most epically brilliant idea.”

“Oh?” I set the gin on the counter, pour myself a full plastic cup with a splash of tonic water, and then help myself to a s’mores bar treat before turning back to her. “Is it work related?”

Her face falls. “Well, yes.”

Fighting back a laugh, I pat her shoulder. “Tell me about it tomorrow.”

Dr. Rebecca Whitney has a brilliant mind. I believe in her potential so much I encouraged the Boston Grizzlies’ charitable foundation to fund a research project so we can create a more protective helmet and prevent concussions. Last season, she worked with the hockey team as their concussion spotter, and her brother and fiancé are both hockey players, so she has a vested interest in the subject. And I’ve been on the foundation’s board for several years, so it was easy to pull some strings and get this project started.

But she struggles to leave work at work. I’m the same way, and I’ve had to consciously force myself to stick to my designated eight hours a day.

“You got it, boss,” she says, recovering with a grin.

Hiding a grimace in my red plastic cup, I take a deep gulp of my mostly gin, very little tonic. I hate when she calls me “boss” or reminds me I’m essentially in charge of her career. Even though the foundation calls the shots, it’s my pet project. My ass is on the line if she can’t deliver.

And I can’t fucking get the code right.

I’ve been aimless since I sold my company to a hedge fund conglomerate nine years ago. Nothing I’ve done since means anything in the grand scheme of things. None of the projects I’ve worked on have recouped their costs. And most importantly, nothing has come close to fulfilling me.

I fucking hate this.

I’ve been go, go, go since I was in high school, through undergrad and my master’s, and then with the business. If I hadn’t gotten that first round of funding, I’d have gone for a PhD. Luckily, the company took off, and now… I have nothing to prove. I don’t need the stodgy professors to validate me. My bank account does that.

But it doesn’t fulfill me. At this rate, I don’t think anything will.

Like the fearless leader she is, Sadie claps her hands together. “Let’s get the party

started!”

A cheer goes up throughout the room. Unlike a typical book club, where everyone reads the same book each month, ours is a celebration of our love of reading—specifically romance. We talk about what we’re reading, what we like and dislike, and share recommendations. The alcohol flows freely, there are plenty of snacks, and all in all, it’s a pretty nice way to spend an evening.