Trillion(18)

The infinite expanse of my home greets me with my own echoing footsteps after dinner. The housemaid left a note by the backdoor, telling me the dry cleaning has been hung and that the gardener had a family emergency and wasn’t able to prune the boxwoods this afternoon.

I crumple the paper and toss it in the garbage.

The caretaker’s cottage is dark, Mr. and Mrs. Petroff are likely visiting their grandkids tonight, as they do most Friday nights.

I stop by the study on my way to bed and pour myself two fingers of Four Roses bourbon, a quick nightcap to take the edge off my thoughts.

Collapsing in my father’s old wingback chair, I retrieve my phone and check a few emails. And by a few, I mean at least ninety-six—most of them sent in the past couple of hours.

I delete the majority of them and file the important ones that can wait until I’m in a clearer state of mind. Friday evenings are when I unwind, shut my mind off to give it a break after a long week. I don’t like to think too hard because thinking is all I fucking do every minute of every hour of every other day of the week.

When I get to the bottom of my inbox, I find the message from Broderick sent earlier this week—one containing Sophie Bristol’s personal address and cell.

It’s not quite ten o’clock.

I’ll bet she’s still up.

I toss back a mouthful of bourbon and let my impatience and minor lack of inhibition get the better of me. Composing a text, I hit send before I change my mind.

ME: Did you finish your wine yet?

Three dots fill the screen instantly before disappearing. A moment later, a message fills the screen. Any other woman would’ve taken their time replying so as not to seem desperate, but not her.

She has zero interest in playing any games and no reason to impress me.

SOPHIE: Texting my personal cell on a Friday night? Boundaries must not be a thing with you …

ME: Limitations are for the weak-minded. Again, did you finish your wine yet?

SOPHIE: Every last drop. You realize I’m hourly, not salary, right? This could cost you in overtime.

ME: It would if this were work related. This has nothing to do with your current position in Payroll. This is a private, non-corporate matter.

I top off my bourbon and swallow another mouthful. She wants to flirt. This is good.

ME: Tell me what it’s going to take.

The screen is blurry. I’m buzzing and mentally exhausted, but I re-read my message to make sure there are no typos before sending.

SOPHIE: You’re not giving up, are you?

ME: I’m a man who knows what he wants.

SOPHIE: I appreciate that, Trey. I do, but you don’t want me. You only think you do.

ME: How could you possibly know that?

SOPHIE: Because you saw me in the hallway and immediately decided you wanted me to marry you and have your babies?

There were hints of this version of Sophie earlier today in her office. Flirty. Slightly feisty. Office Sophie is proper and poised and she keeps her cards pressed firmly against her ample bosom. Wine Sophie is brazen and doesn’t speak to me like I’m some sixteenth century guillotine-happy king.

I picture her tossing back her unpretentious wine, grinning drunkenly as she taps out her messages. No one but Broderick has ever spoken to me with such blatant casualness before, and I fucking love it.

ME: I didn’t randomly choose you. You stood up for me in the break room. You got my attention, whether you wanted to or not. And when I looked into your file, I knew there was something different about you. You’re not like anyone else. Also the fact that you turned down seventeen million dollars, tells me you know your worth.

She still hasn’t officially accepted my second offer, but the clock is still running. Broderick gave her seventy-two hours on this one. We wanted her to have the weekend to think it over.

SOPHIE: Thank you for the flattery and the kind words, but I’m still not going to marry you or be your fake fiancée or have your baby. Also, I’m exactly like everyone else.

A second later, a photo comes through—a selfie of Sophie with her blonde locks in a messy bun piled high on her head, a lime green mud mask covering her pretty face, and a wine chalice pressed against her fuckable, full mouth.

I chuckle.

Smart ass.

I’ve received millions of “selfies” in my day—never anything as wholesome—or unsexy—as this.

ME: You have no idea how turned on I am right now … please send more.

SOPHIE: Despite my education and extensive list of accomplishments and references, at the end of the day, I’m as basic as the next girl.

ME: There’s nothing basic about you, Sophie Bristol.

I love her name, the way it rolls off my tongue when I say it out loud. But Sophie Westcott sounds even better. There’s a ring to it. A rhythm.

SOPHIE: All joking aside, you only see what you want to see when you look at me. And my resume? It’s a small drop of water in the ocean of my complexities.

ME: Poetic. Also, how can you be basic and simultaneously complex?

SOPHIE: I write poetry. See? That’s not on my resume. And plenty of basic women write poems. Sometimes we sketch too. And listen to music that makes us cry. It’s a whole thing. Also, we have a group that meets on Wednesdays. At Starbucks. We get matching pink drinks.

ME: Send me some of your work.

She sends me three laughing emojis—the ones with tears.