IRL: In Real Life (After Oscar, #1)(54)

Conor met my eyes, and I saw something sharp-edged in his expression. “I said it could be a game changer for people’s lives too.”

“Well of course,” I agreed. “That’s a given.”

“Is it? In all of your talk about acquiring the patents, it’s always been about the industry and the market and potential profits and never about the patients.” I started to respond, but he wasn’t done. He leaned forward, pressing his point. “Have you ever had someone close to you become sick, Wells? Like, really sick?”

“I… no… I guess I’ve been lucky,” I stuttered, taken aback by the ferocity of his tone.

“Yes, you have been,” he said. “It sucks.” He pressed his lips together for a moment, then blew out a breath, his shoulders dropping. “My mom’s sick. Really sick. I didn’t want to tell you before because I didn’t want it to impact the deal.”

I swallowed, the rawness in his voice causing my throat to tighten. “I’m so sorry, Conor.”

He nodded. “When she and Claude developed the printer, their plan was to donate it to a nonprofit so the technology would be available to anyone who needed it. And then Claude sold to you, and my mom’s illness grew worse, and the treatments started failing.”

It felt like a lie to pretend as though I didn’t already know this, and I hated it. But now wasn’t the time to tell him the truth. Now was the time for me to sit here and listen.

Even though I already knew the answer, I asked, “Are there more treatment options for her?”

“That’s the point. There are. But they’re expensive. That’s why my mother sold her patents to you. To afford the chance to keep living. Even though she knows that doing so is going to put that tech out of reach for people in a similar situation.

“Don’t you get it, Wells? There are people out there like me, people whose mothers are sick, and this printing technology could help them and now they may not be able to afford it.”

“That’s not going to happen,” I told him.

The corner of his lip tipped in a rueful smile. “Isn’t it?”

I dropped my eyes to my lap. I didn’t know what to say. How to respond.

Conor took a sharp breath and shook his head. “You know what? The deal is done. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do this. Do you think… maybe it would be okay if we didn’t talk business tonight?”

I reached over and took his hand, clasping it between both of mine. I gently squeezed until he met my eyes. “That sounds like a great idea.”

His eyes searched mine, and then he let out a breath, his shoulders instantly relaxing. “Thank you.”

“Besides, I’ve already had a couple of glasses and fear discussing business might reverse all the good work this Balvenie has already done for me.” I winked at him and squeezed his hand again before releasing it. “What would you like to drink? They do a rare scotch flight if you’re into that or a rare bourbons that’s great also.”

He tilted his head to the side, tapping a finger against his chin. “Do you think they do a good pi?a colada?”

I blinked at him before looking around to see if anyone had overheard him. “A… what?”

“Oooh! Wait,” Conor said, flipping through the book in search of something. “You know what I’m in the mood for? A white wine spritzer.”

I glanced at my glass, unsure of whether or not I’d lost count of how many I’d had and was drunker than I’d thought.

The server arrived and welcomed Conor with a flirty smile. “Have any questions for me?”

He shot her large grin. “Yeah, am I in the mood for a sidecar or a glass of that bourbon with the little horsie on top?”

Had I been savoring a sip of the Balvenie, I would have done a classic spit take. As it was, I gawped at Conor as he smirked at me.

That sly motherfucker had been messing with me.

The server laughed her ass off. “Definitely the Blanton’s, but if this guy’s buying,” she said, thumbing over her shoulder at me, “then you need to up your game. Might I recommend the Boss Hog Whistle Pig?”

Conor gave me a look that gave new and filthy meaning to the terms Boss, Hog, Whistle, and Pig. I squirmed in my seat while he decided.

“Screw it. Just bring me whatever he’s having,” he said. “And bring us an order of those little fancy burgers I walked past please. Thank you.”

After she moved away, Conor trained his sparkling eyes on me. “I wish I’d thought to pull out my phone and snap a picture of your face when I asked about those other drinks. You’d have thought I was ordering a whore in a convent.”

“Don’t you mean a monk in an abbey?”

He nodded, the corner of his lip curving ever so slightly. “I do prefer monks to nuns; it’s true.”

I took another sip of my drink as the server returned with Conor’s glass. “Are you okay though, really?” I couldn’t help but ask.

Conor leaned across the small table and rubbed the pad of his thumb across my forehead. “Why are you worrying so much about me?” he murmured. “You had a big day too. Said goodbye to many of your precious millions, didn’t you?”

I leaned into his touch, silently thanking the scotch for an excuse to indulge in it.