Finally, I come across the first solid piece of evidence that Ace was, in fact, in Italy, and when I see it, my heart drops into my stomach.
It’s a photograph of him, his arm wrapped around a petite blonde woman—even behind her dark glasses, she’s stunning—in front of the Colosseum. It’s from an odd Italian paper that seems to just have been digitized, and lists him as “American tourist Ace K and his wife.”
So he was in Italy—at least he was eight months ago when the photograph was taken.
I close the monitor and stand up, running my hands through my hair. I feel giddy, anxious, like I need a walk. I’ll go get a bagel from the deli down the street.
And even though my heart pounds—the chase is on, and I’m going to get some information about this, even if I don’t like it—I can’t stop myself from smiling.
I love Ace Kingsley.
I do.
Chapter 24
Ace
I can’t stop thinking about her, even when I’m supposed to be advising the department heads at my father’s company on streamlining employee retention practices. The figures on the sheets in front of me keep slipping away from my attention.
“Mr. Kingsley?”
“Yes?” The man who’s sitting to my right—his name completely escapes me—looks at me through thick, round glasses, his face pink, like he’s doing something slightly embarrassing.
Oh, right. I’ve been staring at this sheet of paper for God knows how long, and everyone in this meeting is waiting on me to say….
What the fuck was I talking about?
“I’m sorry, Mr.—”
“Mr. Howard. Joe Howard,” he says, then clears his throat. “You were suggesting some alternative forms of compensation to add to our repertoire.”
“Right. Of course. Thank you, Mr. Howard.” I don’t smile, but I give him a nod. His shoulders relax. “I have a memo here that describes the relative success of flexible vacation time and paid travel opportunities in some of the other divisions. You should all have copies of the emails in your inboxes.”
I stand up, and the rest of the people sitting around the massive meeting room table follow suit. “I’ll be available for further discussion, if necessary.”
A chorus of “Thank you, Mr. Kingsley” rings out around the table, and I slide the leather portfolio carrying my paperwork off the table and leave the room.
I try to keep my stride in check as I head back to my corner office. I want to get back to my phone, to send Carolyn a dirty message, and start making plans for this weekend.
When I came out of the shower this morning, she was gone, a little note on my bedside table.
Work beckons… ~C
In a way. In another way, work is screaming at me to remember that my net worth is well over a billion dollars, and that if I don’t show up at the office, nobody will be the worse for it.
Of course, my father did pull some strings to put me in this temporary time-suck, so I’m not about to figuratively tell him to fuck off, even if Carolyn is the one woman in the world I want to spend all day in bed with. Possibly ever.
It’s a dangerous thought, but the majority of my mind doesn’t seem to care. The majority of my mind wants to toy with the possibilities, wants to spend every moment without her thinking about what she might be doing, daydreaming about being with her again, fantasizing about making her laugh…and making her do so much more.
She probably won’t answer. She’s probably working in that little boutique of hers—she hasn’t invited me to come see it yet, but I hunted around online until I found out where it was and walked by last week just to see where she spends her days—and if I know anything about Carolyn, it’s that she’ll single-mindedly focus on work until the work is done.
Just like she’s been focused on getting me out of the Swan and back to my apartment.
So far, we’re one of two success-wise. I want to erase that first disastrous night together from her memory completely, and I can only do that if every weekend from now on is a fucking stellar one.
I’m three doors down from the office when my father comes out of one of the presidents’ offices at high speed, looking over his shoulder to say one last thing.
“Oh, and Schell, don’t even think about—shit!”
I skid to a stop, my hand on his shoulder, just in time to keep from running him down.
“Son!” he says, laughing, and claps his hand against my shoulder. “Where the hell are you going at such a high speed? Don’t tell me you’ve discovered a passion for advising.”