Saving the CEO (49th Floor #1)(25)

“Camp?”

“Yeah, a math camp.” She pulled the covers up, embarrassed. “I want to start a math camp for girls. Like a normal summer camp, but with a math focus.” She pulled the covers up even higher, covering the bottom half of her face. But he could still sense the self-deprecating smile. “That sounds stupid, doesn’t it?”

He tugged the covers down so he could see all of her face and rolled onto his side, propping his head up with his hand. “No. Tell me more.”

“Well, there aren’t a lot of girls in math. I’m not sure if they’re not interested, or if they find it intimidating. But you can do a lot with math.”

“Like be an actuary?”

“Yes,” she said, a touch defensively. “Or an engineer.” Then she smiled. “Or the senior executive director of finance of a company.” She began talking faster, unable to hide her excitement. “Or an artist, or a teacher, or whatever. I don’t even think it’s about careers, so much as it’s about building girls’ confidence. I was thinking about trying to target girls who maybe wouldn’t otherwise be able to go to camp. I know I would have loved to get out of the city in the summers when I was a kid, but it wasn’t…possible.”

“Why not?” He wanted to know more about the mysterious and expensive mother.

“Teen motherhood doesn’t usually come with a huge disposable income. She was sixteen when she had me.” She huffed a bitter laugh. “If I’d had a kid at her age, I’d have a thirteen-year-old now.” He labored over the arithmetic—he’d been wondering how old she was. It took him a while to come up with twenty-nine—eight years younger than he was.

“What about your father?” Hell, if she was in a talkative mood, he was going to get as much as he could.

“He wasn’t that much older than my mother. He was nineteen when I was born—but he wasn’t involved.”

“But you’ve talked about Edward being your father’s best friend.”

“My father and I didn’t have anything to do with each other until I was in university. He made contact about five years ago to try to make amends for…walking out, I guess. He and Edward met in culinary school and bounced around the restaurant scene together over the years. Edward had some family money and a lot more ambition than my father. He built a name for himself as a front-of-the-house guy, and when it was time, leveraged the family fortune to open Edward’s. He hired my father as sous chef—it was a huge opportunity for my dad, who’d historically had trouble sticking with any job for long. Are you sensing a pattern here?” She shook her head. “I shouldn’t be so mean. He did the best he could.”

“How did he die?”

“Car accident. Driving home after an evening shift. He was drunk.”

“Jesus.”

She scrambled up to sit back against the headboard and shrugged. “At least he didn’t kill anyone else.”

She was so matter-of-fact as she recounted the tale of abandonment, reunion  , and death. It wasn’t like her. She was usually much more animated. The type of water she used in her scotch garnered more emotion than this tragic tale. “Well, I think the camp idea is great. There are lots of ways you could make money, though—you don’t have to be an actuary if you don’t want to.”

“Yeah, I was thinking. Today was kind of fun.”

“Fun?” he teased. “Thanks a lot.”

She reddened. “Not this,” she said, waving her hand vaguely between them. “Earlier. I didn’t know a business like yours could be so interesting.”

“You could do something like this after you graduate. You’d have to start at the bottom, as an analyst of some sort. You wouldn’t make as much as fast as if you took the actuarial exam, but you’d probably do much better in the long run. And if you’ll tolerate some unsolicited advice?” She nodded. “You’d be wasted as an actuary. You’re a math brainiac, yes, but you’ve also got people skills. It’s what makes you such a good bartender. You should think seriously about a career in business.” He hoped he didn’t sound too paternalistic, lecturing her about her career. It’s just that he meant it. The last place Cassie should spend the next several decades of her life was tucked away in an office crunching numbers by herself.

“It’s definitely something to think about. Gotta graduate first, though.” She yawned.

That was his cue. “I should go.” Please let this not be awkward. It always was, but maybe Cassie would be different this way, too.

She sat up straighter. “Right.” He’d gotten dressed earlier to go downstairs to meet the pizza guy, and now she was pulling a T-shirt out of a small dresser.

“Don’t get dressed on my account.”

“It’s okay, I uh…”

Usually this was the part where he made his speech about not doing relationships. He might be a coldhearted ass, but he prided himself on not being the kind of coldhearted ass who promised to call women and then didn’t. He preferred a clean break. But she’d heard a couple of variations on that speech already, so he’d forgo it.

“I usually sleep in a T-shirt anyway,” she finished, pulling on a faded Toronto Maple Leafs shirt about four sizes too big for her—the sartorial opposite of the red dress. But with her hair all tussled and her mouth, red and swollen from their encounter, decorated with a little dab of whipped cream, the effect was the same. Damn, he had to get out of here or he would never leave.