IRL: In Real Life (After Oscar, #1)(29)

I glanced at them. The tab on one said Dr. Elizabeth Newell. The other read Conor Newell. I hesitated, my thumb tracing across the name before I realized Deb was still there and had likely seen the gesture. I cleared my throat, setting Conor’s folder aside. “Fine. Thanks. Let me know when the others arrive for the meeting. Close the door on your way out.”

When she was gone, I opened the file on Dr. Newell. The front page was a summary. I cringed reading it. She was sick. A chronic autoimmune disorder that was weakening her lungs. There was a list of treatments she’d tried that had worked for a time but had ultimately ended up failing. Conor had mentioned there were still possibilities out there, but they would be expensive. And money was apparently already an issue. A financial report on Dr. Newell showed several credit cards already maxed out, a second mortgage on the house, and a few overdue accounts with a nearby hospital.

I turned, glancing out the window. The businessman in me should have been doing backflips. This was information gold—the kind of leverage that would make acquiring Dr. Newell’s patents even easier. By buying the rights to her partner’s biomedical ink material, I’d managed to make her patents worthless… unless she sold to me.

She didn’t want to do so. She’d made that clear on multiple occasions. According to her, companies like Grange BioMed were a scourge, feeding off the most vulnerable, profiting off other people’s illness and misfortune. Her intended recipient of the patents was some kind of foundation that would distribute the lifesaving technique at cost, or close to it. And maybe a couple of years ago she would have stood on her principles and refused to sell. But now—now she had no choice. Her research partner had put her between a rock and a hard place.

All I had to do was name my price. She would be forced to accept it.

My eyes fell on the folder with Conor’s name on it. I tapped my fingers on it lightly but didn’t flip it open. I didn’t understand my hesitation. This was business, I reminded myself. Nothing personal. And yet…

A vibration in my pocket startled me. My hand jerked, sending the file skidding to the floor. I ignored it, reaching for my phone instead.

NotSam: Thank you, Trace. Truly.





I blew out a breath. The itchiness under my skin receded. Not all the way, but enough to be tolerable. Enough that I felt a smile creeping across my lips. I liked seeing him use my name.

Wells: I’ll see you tonight.





My text didn’t feel like enough though. I wanted to say more—so much more. But I didn’t know what or how. I wasn’t used to this… this communicating thoughts and feelings business. So I settled on adding:

Wells: Good luck with your meetings today.





He sent back the eyeroll emoji followed by:

NotSam: Thanks, I’ll need it with That Asshole.





I frowned.

Wells: That Asshole?





NotSam: Yeah, it’s the nickname my mom and I use for the guy I’ve been meeting with. She hates everything he stands for and despises the idea of working with him in any way.





I hesitated, but I couldn’t resist.

Wells: Is he really that bad?





NotSam: If you’re a fan of soulless, heartless corporate greed types who prey and profit off the weaknesses of others, then no, not at all.





Something clenched in my chest. So that’s how he saw me?

Wells: He sounds like a real winner.





NotSam: At least he’s hot. Makes the meetings go by faster. Speaking of, gotta run if I’m going to make it there on time. See you tonight!





I sat, staring at the words on the screen.

Soulless.

Heartless.

Preying on the weak.

It wasn’t like I didn’t know my own reputation. It was useful to be seen as cold and unemotional. It gave me an advantage in negotiations.

But for Conor to think about me that way.

It gutted me.

Because that wasn’t who I really was. I’d always considered my reputation something I wore like a suit, something I would change out of at the end of the day. Maybe it had started out that way, but suddenly I wondered if I’d been wearing it long enough that it had become part of me. Like a second skin.

Deb knocked on the door and opened it a crack, poking her head in. “The lobby called. Conor Newell and James Allen are on their way up.”

I nodded.

She frowned. “You want me to get them settled and come get you in ten?”

I shook my head. “No. I’ll be over in a minute.”

She looked at me a moment longer, her concern over my demeanor obvious. Then she ducked back out of my office, closing the door behind her.

I stood, reaching for my suit coat on the back of my chair. Something crunched under my foot. It was the file on Conor Newell. Several pages had escaped from the folder when I’d knocked it to the floor earlier. I crouched, gathering them together while my eyes skimmed the top page automatically. I realized I was looking at an application for a line of credit on a building in downtown Asheville.

Conor’s game store. He was probably planning to use it as collateral on a loan to get money for his mother’s treatment. Of course he was. Because he was generous and loving and caring.