Cousins (Cousins #2) (3 page)

Especially when I know better.
 

Especially because I know this is wrong.
 

I just need to grow the hell up and stop spreading my legs for every sexy thing he says in my ear, and for every kiss he barely gives me right at the corner of my lips, and for all the times he's stared at me like I was the only woman breathing on the planet.

Damn.

***

After filling my belly with the rest of my shrimp cocktail and a frosted glass of fruit punch, I head back to my room in order to shower and change. Mr. Lambert breaks for forty-five minutes between his two panels, and I only have an hour before that happens. I've been told that I'll have his full attention in the Poseidon meeting room during the first fifteen minutes of that break. My mouth is a little dry and my nerves a bit frayed in anticipation, but all in all, I think that I'm as ready as I'll ever be to deliver my pitch.

I went over my presentation with a fine-tooth comb during the plane ride, and that's why I purposely turned off my computer when I landed. I didn't want to burn myself out or change anything at the last minute in a moment of anxiety or fear. I need to trust that I know what I'm doing, and that I know what I'm talking about, and that these men will have the foresight to see the tremendous potential of my app.

A short ding signaling that I have a text comes in from Mr. Lambert's assistant Daniella finalizing the time that I should come down to the conference room.
 

Daniella: Please be at the Poseidon room at 3:15 sharp Miss Hill. Mr. Lambert and the rest of the group will be assembled and waiting.

Me: Thank you. I'll be there.

A small knot forms in my chest.
 

I'm definitely nervous.
 

No matter how much I try to psyche myself out of becoming a stressed out mess, it's inevitable; I'm a hormonal wreck. I do the math in my head and figure out that my period is coming on soon. On top of everything else, that may be adding to my crazy.

I strip myself bare and stare at myself in the mirror. My hair is wind blown and my skin sun kissed from sitting by the lagoon all morning. Not bad. All totally fixable. I stare further down and notice a small mole has popped up in between my breasts. It's new. I wonder what it would cost to get it removed. I gaze even lower and wonder for the hundredth time if I should get a Brazilian wax. A couple of girls from my old job at The Tavern used to rave about them.
 

"You'll be smooth as a baby's bottom, Elizabeth. Your man will love it." They'd say.
 

Little did they realize that the term smooth as a baby's bottom turned me completely off from the whole thing. I didn't want to sleep with a man who wanted a woman's snatch to be as smooth as a prepubescent girl's. Of course I've occasionally had second thoughts about this every time I take a good look at my private parts. Vaginas aren't necessarily pretty in my opinion, especially mine, because it's totally covered with a lot of wiry and unruly hair just like the top of my head.
 

After shutting down all my negative thoughts and giving my body a more positive final once over, I'm ready to get showered and dressed.

You're not sleeping with any of these men Elizabeth.

You're pitching an app that could basically sell itself.

You've got this.

Yellow is my lucky color. I've loved it since way back, probably influenced by the many spring days I spent collecting buttercups and dandelions in my backyard as a kid. But I learned that it was good luck for sure when I wore my lucky yellow shirt on Black and Gold Day in middle school.
 

It was that day the Gold team (which I was on) finally kicked the Black team's butt in flag football, when it had been the Black team that had won the title for the last four years. It was also the same day that the nicest boy in seventh grade, Matt Kellum, noticed that I was alive and breathing. I fell while running with the flag, and when he helped me up he told me "Good job Hill". It was one of my fondest memories of middle school. I didn't even realize that he knew my name … or that I even existed.
 

So I'm waffling between wearing a navy blue power suit with a pale yellow tank underneath the jacket, or wearing a dark gray pencil skirt with a scoop neck lemon yellow blouse. The suit means business. The skirt accentuates the shape of my wide hips. Something men seem to like on me no matter how much I vehemently disagree.

I was meeting with a room full of men.
 

Some of them really close to my age.
 

The skirt wins.

Turns out that I made the right decision, because I'm sitting around an oblong conference table full of men. Most of whom are under forty years old. I recognize immediately the guy that Sloan is connected to, because while we were never formally introduced, I've seen pictures of him in several of Sloan's Instagram selfies.
 

Due to nerves, I'm tempted to twirl around in the plush, ergonomic chair I'm sitting in, but think better of it once Mr. Lambert enters the room.

"It's a pleasure, Miss Hill."

Mr. Lambert extends his hand to shake mine. I stand up to do the same knowing that a few eyeballs in the room have instantly landed on my ass.

"The pleasure is mine, Mr. Lambert." I turn my head and smile. "Gentlemen."

"So you have our attention, Miss Hill. Let's hear about School Bucks."

I can feel a trickle of sweat rolling down my back, while the room is as cold as a Chicago winter. I am obviously still nervous. To talk myself off the ledge, I begin to silently go through everything Sloan told me about the men in the group.
 

She mentioned that they were smart and selective, but that they were also very motivated in getting into tech investments, and definitely highly motivated in investing in new female entrepreneurs. Something about certain funds they managed that were earmarked for female business owners.
 

She instructed me to look every single man there in the eye during my presentation but to end it looking at Mr. Lambert. Something about it being the art of the close. Sloan also stressed that I needed to walk around the room while I talked. She said that many of them would be distracted by my body and focused on my movements, which was a good thing. In my opinion, it's bad enough that I'm wearing the pencil skirt (that if I'm honest is one size too small), but to walk around in it purposely to showcase my ass seems a little sexist and screams of desperation.

Of course that doesn't mean that I'm not going to do it.

I do.

After a brief description of my app, I stand up and decide to walk around the table as I hand out a printed copy of my presentation to each and every member of the group. There are eight men in total. A few are smiling at me while I talk (including Sloan's guy), a few are reading the materials I hand out while I am talking, and Mr. Lambert is copiously taking notes on a yellow legal pad.

Seems to be a good sign.

I make sure to complete my presentation in ten minutes flat, so that I have five minutes for any quick questions and answers. There are several.
 

The first is from an intimidating man with a set of unforgettable bushy eyebrows named Ned Harrison. He looks like my old professor from my statistics class.

"So you majored in computer engineering and minored in information systems, but you're not the coder of the app. Is that right?"

I clear my throat nervously.

"I'm the architect, but I needed more experienced coders to construct the app and to tweak and test the fine details. Moving forward, I'd definitely want someone on board who has the skills to update the app as needed. Every time Apple or Android comes out with a new operating system, we have to update the app. And we'd probably be updating it more often than that as we build out the database."

Ned Harrison nods his head at my answer but doesn't look at me any longer. That worries me. The second question is from a man named Bob Hathaway.

"This was a well thought out presentation Miss Hill, but I have to be honest here, there is no fiscal sense in us investing in one product. Do you have any sort of long term plan of expansion? What other apps could you roll out that would be in alignment with this one?"

A good question. One that I don't have a really good answer for or at least an answer that he wants. I'll have to bullshit.

"Absolutely. There are several app ideas I have that are in the planning stages."

Uh
…
and what the frack are they Elizabeth?

"To be honest, I'm still working out the details of those apps and would rather not divulge any particulars. Be assured though that they are congruent with the overall mission of my business, which is to support the average American student's quest in forming a viable plan to finance their higher education. The average college student has many financial needs for over four to eight years, and my applications are designed to support those needs."

I pray that my bullshit worked on at least half the men at this table. After I'm done talking, I notice a few head nods around the table and a few more notes taken by Mr. Lambert, and then just like that my first and only pitch meeting is over.

"Well thank you so much, Miss Hill. You've given us a lot to consider."

Hmm … maybe this didn't go so well. I've heard of investors so excited that they made offers right in the middle of a pitch. Sort of like that show Shark Tank, but I understand, I'm new and unproven. Plus I'm young, and I don't actually do the coding. They have to take all of that into consideration.
 

At worst I received a free trip to the Bahamas out of the deal. In fact, I'm going to make this trip even better by heading to the bar right now.

"Thank you gentlemen and thank you for the extraordinary hospitality. I look forward to hearing from you in the near future. Please feel free to contact me with any further questions."

A few of the men stand up as I make my way to the door including Mr. Lambert. He walks with me outside of the conference room and into the hallway.

"You did really well, Miss Hill. Daniella will be in touch with you, although I can't guarantee exactly when. We have a lot of offers to consider and limited funds. In the meantime, do what you can to increase the app's visibility and profitability, and send over any new figures if that happens."

"Thank you, Mr. Lambert. Really. I appreciate everything that you've done for me. Giving me this chance."

"You're welcome, Miss Hill."

***

I need wine.

Sangria to be specific.

There are several restaurants and one main bar on my side of the hotel. I don't really want anything to eat, but I definitely could use a drink to drown out the constant replay of the pitch meeting in my head.

Either I have the strong makings of becoming a drunk, or a thing for bartenders because I like them. I like talking to them, watching them pour a drink, wondering who they are outside of work. It's weird I know. The bartender I'm stalking tonight is nothing like the guy from The Lotus (Marco). This guy is extra tall and somewhat hard looking with beautiful cocoa brown skin and bloodshot eyes.

"Would you like to order?" He asks with what I assume is a heavy Bahamian accent.

"What's better?" I smile. "The white or red sangria?"

"The red." He replies without a smile in return.

"I'll have an extra big glass of that." I say in an effort to exaggerate just how much I need it right now. And that gets me a small lift at the corner of his lips.

"Coming up."

After gulping down an entire glass of the best sangria I've ever had in my life, I'm still in replay mode. Maybe I should have stressed the low overhead. How could I have forgotten to include potential other apps in the presentation? Perhaps I should have worn the power suit.
 

Hell, I could second guess this all night. I need to face the facts that there isn't much I can do about it now. The meeting is over. The best I can do is follow up with a thank you letter reiterating my greatness blah, blah, blah.

The bartender with little words walks back over to check on me.

"Another?" He asks.

I need to remember my budget.

"How much are they?" I ask a little embarrassed.

And then I hear a voice from the end of the bar that I haven't heard in what seems like a lifetime.
 

"I've got her next drink."

Oh my frackin' God.

"Ethan?"

CHAPTER THREE

ROMAN

I've been sitting in my father's home office for at least twenty-five minutes and my brain is like a ticking time bomb, about to explode, but of course I would never reveal that to Joseph. I never have and I never will reveal all my crazy to him. Unfortunately he caught me on my way to the airport, so I had to swing by and at least show my face for a few minutes.

"We need to talk about Mendez." My father growls while angrily typing an email at his desk. "Dammit, I can't find any of my emails in this new layout. Why do they keep changing everything? By the time you learn it, they go and change it."