The Billionaire's Heart (The Silver Cross Club Book 4) (12 page)

Jim stared at him for a second, clearly nonplussed, and then laughed. “He’s funny,” he said to me. “Is he being funny?”

“I think he’s
trying
to be funny,” I said.

“I’ll fire you,” Elliott said, and I smirked up at him, because it was an empty threat and we both knew it.

Jim’s lab was cluttered with—I didn’t even know what. Machinery. Stacks of what looked like oversized coasters. I perched on a stool and tried not to touch anything. Elliott and Jim wandered around the lab and gesticulated at each other and used words I didn’t understand. I still wasn’t sure why Elliott thought it was important for me to be here, but I didn’t mind sitting and watching Elliott be businesslike and efficient, his brow furrowed as he explained something, his big hands tracing abstract shapes in midair.

I
liked
him.

Finally, after much longer than I would have thought possible, they stopped talking about ceramics and started talking about business. I perked up. Elliott was giving him the hard sell: salary, benefits, opportunities for glory.

“Yeah, I don’t know,” Jim said, running one hand through his hair and making it stick up even more than it already was. “My advisor’s a little… I’m supposed to be finishing soon, and I don’t think she’ll be too happy if I like, decamp to New York and start working on something that is very clearly
not
my dissertation.”

“Are you done with your research?” Elliott asked.

“Well, mostly,” Jim said. “I mean, there’s always more—but yeah, okay, I guess I’m pretty much done.”

“I’m happy to be flexible with your schedule,” Elliott said. “If you need to take a few hours a day to work on your dissertation, that can be arranged. And I won’t need you to start for another month or two anyway.”

What a persuasive, smooth-talking son of a bitch. Jim was going to crack: I could see it in his eyes. He was already halfway in love with Elliott, or maybe just with the silent promise Elliott made with his nice suit and his stylish hair. Everything about him said
I’m rich, and I’ll make you rich, too
.

“Maybe if I send her weekly progress reports,” Jim said, and Elliott smiled and tucked his hands in his pockets.

Case closed.

We left Jim in his lab, hyperventilating over the email he was drafting to his advisor, and walked back out into the cold. “You liked him, right?” Elliott asked me.

“Yeah,” I said. “He seems like he’ll be easy to work with.”

Elliott nodded. “A little neurotic, but most scientists are. And the research he’s doing is really promising. I think he’ll be able to build the filter we need. And.” He paused, and smiled, not looking at me, a little secret smile. “I just got an email from the gentlemen I met with last night. They want to invest in the company.”

* * *

The good news buoyed us all the way home to New York. Elliott bought us a celebratory bottle of wine, and I drank more of it than I should have and ended up falling asleep. I woke with a start as we pulled into Penn Station, sitting up and wiping my mouth. I had a feeling I’d been drooling a little.

And, oh God, I had been sleeping with my head resting against Elliott’s shoulder.

I was mortified, but he didn’t say anything, and my embarrassment faded as we gathered our suitcases and went out into the train station. It was late afternoon, and we fought our way through the burgeoning rush hour crowds to the street.

It was snowing lightly. Elliott said, “I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t set your alarm. We’ll have a late start.”

Bless the man. I’d never had a boss tell me to be deliberately late to work. It wasn’t like we’d had a particularly strenuous trip to Boston, either. The train was just about the most relaxing way to travel. I said, “I’ll be there at the crack of dawn, tapping my foot and wondering why you aren’t there and ready to work.”

He grinned at me and said, “Go home, Sadie.”

I went home.

My apartment was dark and cold. I set down my bags in the quiet living room and turned on a lamp. Here I was: alone in my life.

Ugh. Self-pity was so unattractive.

I had a come-to-Jesus with myself while I cooked dinner. Nurturing my crush on Elliott had been fun, and I’d gotten a lot of emotional mileage out of it, but it was time to stop. It was no longer a harmless diversion. I had developed actual
feelings
, and I couldn’t in good conscience let myself keep it up. Both because I had already met my lifetime quota of emotional pain, and because it was sort of creepy to obsess over someone without their knowledge or permission. That shit was okay in high school, but Elliott and I were both adults, and I thought he would probably be pretty unnerved if he knew how much brainpower I had been devoting to thinking about his smile and his deliciously long fingers.

Maybe Regan and my mother were right. Maybe it was time for me to start dating again.

I had to get back on that horse eventually. And dating would help me redirect my emotional energy away from Elliott. The only way to deal with a crush was to mercilessly cut it off at the root, like ivy. And then hopefully it would wither and die, and I could stop feeling that giddy rollercoaster drop of my stomach every time Elliott glanced at me.

Okay. Decision made. I would put myself out there. I would smile at men in coffee shops.

And if someone asked me out, I would say yes.

I slept deeply and dreamlessly that night, as if my subconscious was soothed by my newfound resolve, and I woke at dawn ready to tackle the day’s work. With two weeks left to go before the conference, Elliott and I were approaching my favorite part of any project: the last frantic rush of work, a blur of adrenaline and sleepless nights. Maybe I was a masochist, but something about panic brought out my best work, and I never felt more creative than when I was sweating bullets over a looming deadline.

I tried to give myself the leisurely morning Elliott had all but ordered, but I was full of new ideas for the website and wanted nothing more than to get to office and start working. And so as soon as I had finished my coffee, I got dressed and headed for the subway.

The office was empty when I arrived. I was a little surprised that I had beaten Elliott to work, but not unhappy. He needed to sleep more and worry less. I would make the website changes I had in mind and show them to him when he showed up. I turned on my computer and my desk lamp and got busy.

I was working on the Sponsors & Funding page, which was sadly devoid of any sponsors or funding. Elliott had written some pretty mediocre copy for me, and I worked on revising that, and then decided I might as well list the Boston investors. It wasn’t official yet, of course, but Elliott said the money should come through within the next couple of weeks. It couldn’t hurt to have them on the website. Having funding would give us an air of legitimacy that we badly needed.

The problem was, I had no idea what the investors’ names were. Should I even
list
them by their names? Maybe they had a company.

I pushed my chair back and looked over at Elliott’s desk. All of his paperwork was in hanging files in the bottom drawer. He didn’t lock the drawer, and he didn’t seem particularly protective of his papers. He had, on more than one occasion, handed over entire folders to me and told me to look through for whatever I needed. So I didn’t think he would be upset if I looked for the names of the investors. They shouldn’t be too hard to find. Elliott was meticulously organized, and labeled all of his folders with clear and precise descriptions—“2017 RECEIPTS FOR TAXES,” “W.H.O. WATER STATISTICS.”

So I went over and crouched in front of the drawer and flipped through the files. I felt a slight prickle of guilt, but I shook it off. As far as I knew, Elliott had nothing to hide. The folders were alphabetized, and I quickly found the one labeled “INVESTORS, POTENTIAL.” It was fat with papers, and I pulled it out and tucked it beneath my arm.

The folder immediately before that one was labeled “INVESTORS, ACTUAL.” Curious, I used two fingers to spread it open. There was a surprising number of papers inside—not many, but more than I expected, which was zero. Maybe Elliott had anticipated that the Boston men would agree to give him money and had preemptively switched their paperwork from one folder to the other.

I grabbed that folder, too, and went back to my desk to look through the paperwork. I started with “INVESTORS, ACTUAL.” The top piece of paper was a print-out of an email. I scanned it quickly, looking for any mention of Boston.

But the email was dated November 14, and it didn’t say anything about Boston at all.

It said something about funds being transferred.

Frowning, I went back to the beginning and read through the email more carefully. It was brief, and light on specifics, but it clearly said that red tape was delaying the promised funding, and that Elliott would be kept abreast of any developments.

Why hadn’t he told me about this? Boston was the first I had heard of
any
actual funding.

I went through the rest of the folder, one piece of paper at a time. There wasn’t that much, maybe fifteen pages, and I didn’t really understand what I was looking at. There was a company or organization called Uganda International Friendship, which seemed like a stupid name, and it seemed that they were funding Elliott, or attempting to fund him. And he hadn’t said anything about it to me.

I ran a quick internet search on Uganda International Friendship and couldn’t find anything relevant. Plenty of stuff about friendship missions and building schools, but nothing that seemed like it was the company in contact with Elliott. Not a single website. It was like the organization didn’t even exist.

It was
weird
. That was all. And I didn’t like that Elliott hadn’t told me. But maybe he just didn’t want to get my hopes up until he actually had the money in hand. That seemed like something he would do. It wasn’t like I thought Elliott was doing anything underhanded or illegal. He wouldn’t get involved in—God, money laundering or international smuggling or—I didn’t even know. Tax shelters. Nazi gold. I was just a graphic designer; what did I know about any of this?

I put the papers back and turned my attention to “INVESTORS, POTENTIAL.” Elliott had put the messages from the guys in Boston right on top, and they conveniently had the name of their organization in their email signatures. Easy. Problem solved. I updated the website and put both folders back in Elliott’s desk, and did my best to put the weird mystery organization out of my mind.

Elliott finally rolled into the office around 10, holding a cup of coffee and looking like he had been awake for maybe half an hour. The dark circles beneath his eyes were a slightly paler shade of purple than usual, which I took as an encouraging sign.

“I thought I told you to sleep in,” he said, taking off his coat and frowning at me.

“I got plenty of sleep,” I said. “I’m full of beans. I want to get this website up and running.”

He shook his head at me, slow and disappointed, like a parent who had just caught his toddler smearing paint all over the walls. “Workaholism,” he said. “A potentially fatal disease.”

I flipped him off, and he grinned.

I worked all day, intensely focused, and would have kept going into the evening if Elliott hadn’t come over to my desk and said, “It’s after five.”

I looked up, feeling like I was surfacing from a dream. “What?”

“Go home,” he said. “You can overwork yourself again on Monday. Have a good weekend.”

“Right,” I said, and rubbed my eyes. I was suddenly very tired. “Okay. You too.”

It had started snowing that morning, just a light dusting, but the flakes were coming down fast and heavy when I got outside. I sighed, dismayed. The evening commute would be a total shit-show, and I wanted to get home and put on my favorite pajamas, the really ugly flannel set with yellow ducks that Ben had bought for me years ago.

I didn’t want to think about Ben.

A few blocks from the subway station, my phone rang. I fished it out of my bag and answered without looking at the screen. “Hello?”

“Yes, I’m calling for Sadie Bayliss,” a woman’s voice said.

“This is Sadie,” I said. I pulled the phone away from my ear and glanced at the screen, but I didn’t recognize the number.

“This is Tricia Evans with Airliner NY,” she said. “You submitted an application recently, and I’d like you to come in for an interview.”

“Oh,” I said, and then, when her words sunk in, “
oh.
Yes, absolutely.” Airliner NY was one of the top design agencies in the city. I had applied on a whim, never expecting to actually hear anything from them. A full-time job with Airliner was basically the Holy Grail. And I would have
benefits.

I was getting ahead of myself. An interview didn’t mean a job offer.

“I’m glad to hear it,” she said. “How does Monday at 10 work for you?”

I would just have to tell Elliott I would be coming in late. “That would work great,” I said.

“Terrific,” Tricia said. “I have your email address from the application, so I’ll send you our address and directions. I’ll see you on Monday morning.”