Last Summer(9)

It would be her first cover byline, something she’d been dreaming about since Luxe Avenue hired her. That and landing the Senior Features Writer position she’d been vying for. The magazine had a wide female readership. Damien Russell’s face on the cover would be a gold mine of issues sold.

Ella grinned and Davie sighed, but she couldn’t contain the smile that followed. “I’d love to be a fly on the wall, but guess I’ll have to settle for the article. It’s late; I’m turning in.” She finished her cocktail and stood.

Ella rose and hugged her friend. “I’ll make it up to you tomorrow,” she promised.

“You can buy me breakfast. I’d say ‘good luck’ but I don’t think you need it.”

Ella watched Davie sashay toward the elevators and laughed. “You look gorgeous tonight,” she called over the noise of slot machine winnings.

Davie blew her a kiss. Ella sent one back, then turned toward the bar. The patron beside Damien paid his bill and vacated his stool.

Lucky her.

She settled on the warm seat, her arrival going unnoticed. Damien was watching the Warriors game. She, on the other hand, was all too aware of him. His scent, discreet and classy yet modern, was enticing. She would bet his cologne was something from Tom Ford.

Capturing the bartender’s attention, she ordered a drink.

“Bourbon on ice.” Damien’s drink of choice. She’d watched the bartender prepare his cocktail and was pleased when her drink order made Damien finally look her way. He took her in, from her coiffed sandy-brown hair to her Helmut Lang slip dress, with an expression that bordered on disinterest. But she smiled, undeterred, and he flagged the bartender.

“Put her drink on my tab.”

“Yes, sir.”

Damien’s attention returned to the game.

When her drink arrived, Ella lifted her glass. “Thank you,” she said to Damien.

Damien raised his. “Of course.”

“I’m Ella Skye,” she said, setting down her drink and offering her hand.

He shook her hand. “Damien Russell. I suspect you already know that.”

Her nose wrinkled. “You do? How?”

“Your drink order. And your name. It sounds familiar.”

Ella’s face lit up. She couldn’t help it. He’d read her work. How else would he know of her?

“Maybe you’ve read one of my articles. I write for Luxe Avenue.”

His head tilted back and he smirked. “You’re a reporter.” He shook his head and went back to watching the game.

“Ouch. Blacklisted already.”

“You’re all the same. Yes!” He shook a fist when Curry scored.

“I beg to differ,” Ella said, trying not to take offense.

“You all ask the same questions. ‘Why’d you leave CyberSeal? Why are you still single?’ That’s a foul,” he blasted the screen when Durant tripped and there was no call.

“Why are you single?” she dared, her tone teasing. She stroked a finger along the edge of her cocktail napkin.

He remained focused on the game, nursing his cocktail, and said, “‘It is not a lack of love, but a lack of friendship that makes unhappy marriages.’ That’s all you’ll get out of me. My personal life isn’t up for discussion.”

Ella arched her back, brows lifting. “Did you just quote Nietzsche to me?”

Damien set down his drink. He turned so that he fully faced her. “Impressive. Not many people know of him.”

“Or have studied him. I spent a semester abroad in Germany.”

“Where did you study?”

“University of Freiburg. But I graduated from San Francisco State. You got your bachelor’s in computer science at Berkeley and master’s in business from Stanford,” she said, reciting facts from his public bio. “Serious question, though.” She tapped the bar beside his elbow.

He smiled, unsure. “What’s that?”

“On which side of the stadium do you sit for football games?” His two alma maters were longtime rivals.

He exhaled a long stream of air. The corner of his mouth pulled up in a lopsided grin. “It’s a tough call. Depends who I watch the game with.”

They shared a smile and Ella sipped her drink. Damien hadn’t glanced once at the screen since she cited the philosopher. She took it as a good sign.

“You know, your quote is telling.”

“Is it?”

“Your ex-wife hurt you,” she said, intentionally being direct. It was a gamble, but he quoted Nietzsche. The political philosophy class where she’d studied the German philosopher had nearly put her to sleep. But Nietzsche’s personal life had always stuck with her. Nietzsche had been betrayed twice, in life and postmortem. The woman he loved and proposed to had married his friend, and after his death, his sister, who inherited his estate, misinterpreted his literary work to her advantage and political gain.

Damien’s face went blank. “You get right to the point.”

She shrugged. “It’s the reporter in me. Bad habit. We can talk about your relationship with your dad instead.” She stroked her leg, let her Christian Louboutin slip off her heel.

“Or . . .” His chin dipped, his gaze following her hand. “We can talk about why you’re in Vegas.”