IRL: In Real Life (After Oscar, #1)(52)

James shrugged. “Maybe he doesn’t want to see his mother’s life’s work used to extort money from desperate patients on their death beds.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re exaggerating just to prove a point.”

“That doesn’t make my point invalid,” James countered. “People who need this technology to save their lives won’t get it because they can’t afford it and they will die.” He gave me a sour smile. “But at least you’ll get rich in the process.”

I felt the blood rise in my cheeks as my anger escalated. “That’s not fair. It’s because of Grange BioMed that this tech will even make it to market. Without our investment, no one will have access to it.”

He gave me an exaggerated shrug. “Well, I guess you’ll have to find some other inventor to fleece. The good news for you is that losing this deal will barely be a blip on Grange BioMed’s bottom line.”

I was about to tell him that I didn’t give a shit about the deal, that I was worried about Conor, when James’s phone dinged. He held up a finger for me to wait. I rolled my eyes and turned back toward my office.

“It’s Conor,” he called after me.

I froze before I’d even made it out of the conference room. “Is he okay?”

He didn’t respond, his attention on his phone. I wanted to stalk across the room and rip it from his hands, but I held myself still, my body vibrating with tension. The two texted back and forth several times, and I was about to lose my mind and scream for him to tell me what was going on when he looked up at me and slipped his phone back into his pocket.

“Deal is back on,” he said. I waited for him to say more, but he just resumed his seat at the table instead.

“Is he okay?”

“Seems to be.”

I wanted to throttle that fucking lawyer. “So he’s on his way in to sign the paperwork?”

“Nope. I have a power of attorney, so I’ll be signing on Dr. Newell’s behalf.”

“Dammit,” I growled. I pulled my phone out and pulled up Conor’s number. I was just about to hit the Call button when I realized that I couldn’t. Because my number was in his phone as Trace. I couldn’t call him as Wells.

I clenched my hands into fists, wanting to punch something. Preferably James if it would make him answer my fucking questions. “Where is he?”

“On his way back to Asheville, I think. He was in an Uber headed to LaGuardia when I finally got in touch with him.”

My eyes darted to the door. Everything inside of me wanted to race after him. Instead I ground my teeth together, willing myself to appear calm and collected on the outside when everything inside was raging with alarm. “Why?”

James shrugged. “The deal is done. No reason for him to stick around. Right?” He gave me a look that seemed to imply there was a deeper meaning to his words, and I wondered for the briefest moment if Conor had said something to him about me.

I braced my hands against the edge of the conference room table, steadying myself. I’d expected Conor to be upset with Trace, but I didn’t understand what I had done as Wells to send him running. There’d been so much sexual tension between us last night that I’d thought it had been obvious where things were leading. We’d sign the papers, finalize the deal, and then I would take him home and fuck him until neither of us could stand.

But instead he’d left.

He’d left.

Conor was gone. On his way home.

I’d tried to show him that I could be a good person. That I could be worthy of him. That I wasn’t Glacial Grange—there was more to me than work and the bottom line. But it hadn’t been enough.

He still didn’t trust me. In real life I was a corporate raider. He knew from my history that I’d do anything to get the best deal. It turned out that he’d gotten to know me better yesterday and still thought the worst of me.

In real life I wasn’t to be trusted.

And why did him thinking so little of me bother me so fucking much?

James leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms and appraising me. “Is there something I should know?”

I shook my head, trying to force myself to focus. I’d let myself get distracted. Let my emotions affect my business decisions. I knew better than that—I’d already been burned doing that once before. I needed to remember: this was about the deal. Not Conor.

“No. Nothing,” I said brusquely. “He’s right. The deal is done. Let’s get it formalized and over with so we can move on.”





It was done. The papers were signed despite Conor’s insistence on being a no-show. To say I was disgruntled would be a massive understatement. I was both furious and devastated, so much that I decided to take a visit down to my favorite brandy bar in Tribeca to drown my sorrows in some thirty-year-old Balvenie until I couldn’t taste the difference between it and Johnny Walker Black.

Normally I’d soak it up with their rack of lamb or filet, but I couldn’t even pretend to have an appetite. So I drank my dinner and then drank my dessert too. I hunched down on the leather chair in my dark little corner and felt sorry for myself, unsure of what I really wanted from all of this. From Conor.

Nothing. That should have been my automatic answer to that question. I shouldn’t want anything from Conor at all. I had the patents; the deal was done. That should have been the end of it.