Page 50 of Faking It
“Relax, Zane. It’ll be clean,” Enzo adds.
“Who’s in?” Kostas asks.
I look around the table. I’m the only self-made man here.
The only one who didn’t start with lined pockets from a daddy’s shipping conglomerate (Kostas), a grandfather’s Tuscany vineyards (Enzo), or another’s family tobacco plantations . . . and possibly other crops (Mateo).
I’m the lone fucker who stole his way out of Brisbane to avoid the fists of his father, berating of his mother . . . and made something of himself.
But we’re all ambitious men.
College has a funny way of putting you together with like-minded people.
If that’s what you want to call us.
“I’m in,” Enzo says with a flick of his wrist before turning back to the woman across from us.
“Definitely,” Mateo adds.
“The cautious one is last,” Kostas says as our eyes meet.
“Not cautious . . . just not foolish.”
“You in or not Phillips?”
“I’m in, mate.”
I may have went to Mykonos those two weeks to relax and catch up with my college pals, but before I left there the following week, I was already making headway on the contest. I’d found a small start-up that was making waves in the cyber-dating world in Australia—its premise was different and unique and people were talking about it and talking is always a good thing. I’d pulled an all nighter, researching AI and how I might be able to integrate it with the platform, and knew this might really be something. It took them only forty-eight hours to accept the offer I made the next morning.
The buzz had returned just like that for me. I couldn’t wait to get home so I could overhaul certain aspects of the company—name, image, branding—and make it my own.
Hell, I may not believe in love or even bet on it, but there are a shit ton of people out there in the world who would pay a mint to find it.
I run a hand through my hair. I may not pay money to find it myself but fuck if I’m not paying for it in other ways right now.
Fucking contests.
They get me every time.
“ROBERT? WHAT ARE YOU DOING here? What a nice surprise.”
Not really.
I look up from the table in the coach where I have paperwork strewn everywhere, a stale cup of coffee a couple hours old on the counter . . . and still no Harlow in sight. Robert’s standing in the open doorway, his golf spikes on, his hair beneath at flat cap.
“I have business meetings here over the next couple of days and then some free time so I thought I’d check the schedule and stop by to see how things were going.”
“They’re going great,” I say as I shut the door behind me and walk down the steps.
“And Harlow?”
“She’s out and about,” I say, knowing damn well that checkout time at the hotel is nearing—because I already called to find out about an hour ago—as I was sitting there working and wondering where she was.
Robert nods slowly as we start to walk. Where? I don’t know. “Let’s grab a drink.”
I glance at my watch. “It’s a bit early yet, but sure, mate.”
