IRL: In Real Life (After Oscar, #1)(48)

I hung my head. “Yes, sir.”

I pulled myself from the memory, a sour taste in my mouth that I tried to wash away with a swallow of scotch. I’d sworn that day to never let emotion impact a business decision. I’d committed myself to building back the business, making enough that Win would never have to think twice about money, that my father would never have to question my commitment or professionalism.

I’d become the person my father wanted me to be in every way.

And I fucking hated it. Because my life was cold and empty and exhausting. Just like his had been.

I once swore to myself that I’d never become my father. But look where I was now: ensconced in a glass tower, looking down on the rest of world, money insulating me from ever having to interact with it. From ever making connections.

Sure I was powerful, but I was also lonely. I reached for my phone, knowing what I’d find but checking anyway. I flicked open the messages app. Nothing from Conor.

Decisions have consequences, son.

Indeed.





17





Conor





For some reason, I spent more time being angry at Wells than Trace. After an entire afternoon spent getting to know him—the real him—he’d ignored me and then dismissed me back to my hotel like I was nothing.

Selfish prick.

Yes, I was annoyed at Trace for not wanting to meet up. But that was physical disappointment. So I wouldn’t get laid tonight by a sexy man who wanted to hold me down and fuck my brains out. That didn’t hurt nearly as much as the rejection by a man who’d been so approachable and easy just a few hours before. When Wells had turned into the dismissive asshole again in the conference room, it had occurred to me maybe I’d been keeping him from someone important.

Maybe he had someone waiting for him at home.

And that thought burned with the angry heat of a thousand suns. It made me want to beat the shit out of some faceless asshole. Or pick a bar fight. Or… or something.

I didn’t even get a chance to shove the hotel door open. The doorman opened it gracefully with a polite “Welcome back, sir.” Without thinking, I made my way to the bar for something strong and was startled out of my funk by the familiar bartender.

“You,” I squawked, staring at the man whose phone number had started it all.

“Hey, cutie. What can I get you?”

“Did you give me a fake phone number the other night?”

The man’s smile lit up the room around him as he leaned across the bar to speak quietly to me. “Dude, why the hell would I have done that? I was desperate for you to call me.”

My face heated. “I texted… but it went to someone else.”

The bartender grabbed another scrap of paper off an order pad like he had the other night and jotted his number down on it. “Here, call it right now.”

“Can’t. My phone’s battery died,” I lied.

“Use the house phone,” he said with a wink.

While I dialed the handset he gave me, he reached under the bar for his cell. Sure enough, it started ringing, but my eyes stayed glued to the paper. The green lined paper was distinctive, and I realized the number I’d used the other night to text him had been on a scrap of plain white paper.

Where the hell had that number come from? I wondered if someone else had left their number on the bar and I’d picked it up by accident. That would mean Trace had been in this very bar. Could I ask the bartender to… what? Tell me if a guy with a hot dick and a controlling attitude had been in for a quick drink?

I was crazy.

“Sorry,” I said, smiling up at him in apology. “My mistake.”

“Tonight, then? I get off at—”

“Sorry, no. I’m off to bed now for a very early meeting. But thank you.” I gave him my best “it’s not you, it’s me” face before turning and leaving to make my way up to my room alone.

I did an amazing job of ignoring my phone while I showered and changed into clean pajama pants and T-shirt. And I did an even better job of ignoring it while I wandered over to the window to stare out at the city lights surrounding the relative darkness of Central Park.

But I did a piss-poor job of ignoring my hurt feelings. Without realizing it, I’d spent hours in that park getting to know an interesting and complicated man. I’d hung on his words as he’d described places he’d been and things he’d studied in school. I’d ached to know more about why he seemed to hold himself to such a high standard. Why he didn’t seem to let other people in.

And then in the conference room, he’d met my eyes and I’d thought… I’d thought there was something there. I’d thought for one brief moment he was going to let me, of all people, in.

I was an idiot.

And then there was Trace. The man who got my blood rushing in every direction and who made me insane with lust. But who was a complete stranger, an internet phantom.

I glanced over at my phone, a dead brick on the stark white bedding. If I turned it on, whose name would I want to see appear? Whose message would I want to read most?

And what the hell would I do if there was no message at all?

I groaned and faced back out the window into the night beyond. The park called to me, reminding me my place wasn’t there in the big city with either of those men. It was back home in the North Carolina mountains where the Blue Ridge Parkway crossed the French Broad River and where dense rhododendron always made me feel at home on the hiking trails. I closed my eyes and tried to put myself back there in Pisgah Forest, stepping over knobby roots and rain-worn rocks. One of the only reasons I could spend so much time in my game shop was knowing those familiar paths and vistas were right at the edge of town waiting for me.