Page 8 of Faking It
“You have to take opportunities when they present themselves.” She doesn’t say anything but the slight smile remains. “Zane Phillips. Nice to meet you.” I stick my hand out. She looks down at it and nods but doesn’t shake it.
Fuck, she’s stubborn.
And goddamn gorgeous.
“And you’re Harlow Nicks.”
“Considering you had my electric bill, I guess that means you know how to read.”
“I do.” I nod. “And I also have your email address from your interview paperwork.”
“Should I worry that you’re stalking me?”
I shake my head and sigh. “I’ll email you the information about the party—”
“—don’t bother—”
“—it’s on Friday night. Cocktail attire. Lots of networking.”
“I won’t read it.”
I flash a megawatt smile at her and then turn to walk away. “Yes, you will.”
And she will.
It’s rare that a woman resists me. She’s trying but I’ll win in the end. It just seems for the time being that I have my work cut out for me.
I’m a man who always has an end goal in mind. Always.
There’s no point in setting a goal if you don’t plan on smashing it.
Question is, what in the hell am I aiming for when it comes to Harlow Nicks?
“YOU SHOULD GO, MIJA. YOU need to live in the now.”
“Mom,” I sigh her name in exasperation and look her way. Live in the now. How many times in my life have I heard her say that one? My spitfire of a mother, who never backs down, never lets me settle, and who would do anything in her power to help me succeed. “Going to some hoity toity event isn’t going to help pay the bills.”
“I told you I have it covered this month.” She pulls up her mocha colored hair into a clip, sinks back in her chair, and points to my laptop. “Look at him.”
“I have looked at him, Mom.” Tons of pictures of Zane—more than I should admit to. At charity events. At business functions. At parties with celebrities who are so well known they are typically referred to by their first names only.
The headlines and bylines clutter my mind. CEO of the up and coming online matchmaking site SoulM8.com. A native of Brisbane, Australia, who moved here when he was twenty to pursue his entrepreneurial goals. The man who began his fortune by making some lucky trades on stocks, then by buying failing businesses and then selling them for a ridiculous profit after revamping them.
Must be nice to have the Midas Touch, as one article called it, all the while being a prick.
“He’s tall. Handsome. Successful.”
“And an asshole,” I grumble.
“An asshole with connections.” She lifts her eyebrows in that way to tell me she has years on me and knows more than I do.
“A presumptuous asshole,” I murmur.
“You’re still mad about the shoes? What woman gets mad when a man brings her a brand new pair of high heels—expensive ones at that—to replace the ones she broke? Not me. Mmm-hmm-nope.”
“Yes, I’m still mad about the shoes.” And about the note sitting atop the pale pink Jimmy Choos that said:
“See you at eight, Cinder. You’ll show.”
