Moonlighter (The Company, #1)(5)

It wasn’t until the following day when I learned of my mistake. At breakfast, my assistant, Rolf, asked me if Eric Bayer had found a minute to talk with me. “I sent him over to you at one point, but someone grabbed you before he got there.”

“Eric Bayer?” Of course I recognized the name. “He was at the party?”

Rolf gave me a crooked smile. “You didn’t see him? Hot hockey player? Defenseman? Pretty gray eyes? He left a note at the front desk before the party, asking if the two of you could catch up. It’s in your itinerary folder. And I assumed you knew each other.”

“A note?” I hadn’t found it.

But then it all clicked, and that’s when the shame set in. Twelve hours too late, I realized I’d blown off an old friend after failing to recognize him.

I was mortified. As the head of a multinational corporation, remembering names and faces was half the job. I could pick out tech CEOs from across a crowded room. I knew their wives names and their assistants’ quirks. I took pride in remembering everyone I met.

Except Eric Bayer.

Here’s the thing about making a faux pax: you must apologize immediately. If you don’t, it just gets worse when you see that person again. But I didn’t do it. I didn’t have his address, and I couldn’t think what to say to this man that I’d known when we were both in middle school. Besides—I thought the chances of bumping into him again were low.

Yet here we are.

I’m still embarrassed. But not too embarrassed to eat all three tacos in rapid succession.

“Have another?” Scout offers. “There’s more.”

When I glance around, I see that everyone else has barely begun eating. Max looks at my plate, and then his lips twitch.

“No, thank you,” I say primly.

“Mexican soda?” Scout offers.

“Sure, why not?” I say. “Maybe my tape worm will like that, too.”

There are polite chuckles. But my face flames.

“Now Alex,” Carl says, pushing his plate aside. “Let’s go over your security concerns for this upcoming trip.”

Oh, goody. Another awkward thing to navigate. “Well, I’m probably being overly cautious.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Carl argues. “A man put his hands on you in anger. That’s serious business.”

I take a breath in through my nose and focus all my attention on the older man. I know it’s not my fault that my ex turned out to be a first rate creep. But I still feel ashamed. Even though everyone in this room is here to help me.

Except Eric. I really wish he wasn’t about to hear any of this.

“Okay, thank you,” I say softly.

Carl gives me a kind smile. He’s still a handsome fella. It’s easy to see where the Bayer brothers got their good looks. Maybe Carl’s hair has thinned, but his shoulders are square and his posture is commanding. “You’re headed to an unfamiliar location, to a high stress event. We won’t let you face that alone.”

“Thank you,” I say again, my eyes hot. People at work sometimes describe me as having ice in my veins. But it’s not true today. Carl’s kind words make my eyes sting. And here’s something I didn’t know about being pregnant—it makes you more emotional. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt as vulnerable as I do right now.

Carl takes a small remote control device out of his pocket, and points it at the clear glass wall. “Is this our guy?” When he presses a button, an image resolves on the surface of the glass, seemingly out of thin air.

I would be very impressed by this slick technology if I weren’t looking at a life-size photo of Jared Tatum, my ex. Honestly, “ex” is even a stretch. It doesn’t take too long to realize a man is a liar and a weasel.

It doesn’t take long to get pregnant, either. But that’s on me.

So maybe I’m having a petulant loser’s baby. But at thirty-two, with no soulmate in sight, to raise the child myself was an easy decision. I always wanted a family, though I assumed I’d have a nice husband first.

But the talent pool of men my age just keeps getting thinner. The nice guys are already married. And the few who aren’t don’t date. Or they date women younger than I am.

Besides, I’m so used to my independence that I’m beginning to think I’m not marriage material. I don’t like to take help from others. Or advice. You don’t get to be a CEO without trusting your own gut above all others.

And, either way, I’ll have a baby at New Year’s, in less than six months. Becoming a single mom is my choice to make, and I’ve made it.

“Who is this guy?” Eric asks beside me. If I’m not mistaken, there’s a note of disdain in his voice.

I force myself to look up at the screen again. “My ex,” I say curtly. “We dated in March and April, until I realized he was only interested in my father’s venture capital fund.”

“Jared Tatum, thirty-three years old,” Carl supplies. “Founder and CEO of Fitband International.”

“That better be him,” Max says. “Otherwise I’ve hacked into an unrelated man’s email and bank accounts.”

“You hacked him? Is that legal?” I hear myself ask. And then I realize that’s a stupid question. Of course it’s not legal. The reason I pay this security firm so well is that they’re willing and able to do things that ordinary people can’t. “Never mind, I retract the question.”