Roman I checked my watch again to be sure.
10:11 p.m.
Is she kidding me?
My eyes stayed on the face of the watch as if it had personally offended me.
If she was attempting ‘fashionably late’, this was beyond it.
This was annoyingly late.
Who the hell was she to even attempt fashionably late?
She owed me.
I looked toward the entrance again.
Nothing.
I told her at 8:00 p.m.
It had been hours.
And Megan Holt was nowhere in sight.
People were still arriving, though most had already settled into the event.
The ballroom was alive with conversation, music, clinking glasses, and the occasional burst of laughter from one of the tables.
Everyone else was having a wonderful evening.
After surviving a couple of pointless pleasantries, I retreated to stand near one of the tall windows overlooking the city, nursing a snifter of whiskey, and wondering how a woman I’d met only a handful of times had managed to get under my skin this badly.
I’d asked her to come—yes, asked.
Not invited—the forty million dollars I paid and her promise of a rain check, said I could.
So why was she not here yet?
True, I had sent the message late—I didn’t know it hadn’t gone through at the office, so I’d sent it properly when I got home—but it was not enough to be late, especially when she owed me.
I took an easy sip of my whiskey.
It tasted like nothing.
Rain check?
I had never accepted one in my life.
People usually didn’t get the opportunity to give me one.
They begged and were grateful for my attention.
Anyone who tried to put me on a waitlist, soon found themselves on my vengeful one.
Like Harrison Holdings.
That was who I was.
Yet I’d accepted hers.
And she dared a late-show?
I took another slow sip, sending my eyes again to the entrance.
Still nothing.
“Roman.” I turned.
Brooklyn appeared beside me, holding her tablet out as her eyes ran the screen.
She was working tonight.
As was I.
“I just got eyes on Mr Grant and I don’t think he is very happy with the numbers from that Omar company.” I took another drink, checking my watch again.
“Find out the numbers and work on it.
But make them meet our validations.
We are not negotiating on their terms.” The event was the last place I’d wanted to be at the moment, but I was.
So when I leave, I’d like to leave as the owner of Lima Bank.
Or the promise of it.
“Just confirming,” she screenlocked her tablet.
“Why are you staring at the door?
The room is behind you,” she said with a rude smile which faded almost immediately.
Her eyes scanned the room, then she checked her watch.
“Are you waiting for your date?” My eyes narrowed.
“What date?” “You said someone was meeting you here.
So I assumed.” “That she is my date?” “Can’t hurt to ask for miracles.
After all, it is a she,” then, “I’m not judging either way.” My fingers tightened around the glass.
Hard enough that my knuckles turned pale.
Regaining my senses, I loosened my grip.
“I do not pay you to make stupid assumptions, Brooklyn.
Go, find out about the fucking numbers.” She raised her hands in mock surrender.
“Sheesh, don’t chew me out.
I’ll go already.” Then, “You know, for someone who is remarkably irritated, you look very concerned.” She started away but stopped and turned.
“If she shows up, try not to interrogate her.
Something must have delayed her.” “Brooklyn,” I warned.
“I’m going.
I’m going.” Then she disappeared into the crowd.
I exhaled.
This was insane.
I was a grown man.
A businessman who negotiated billion-dollar deals and sat across from wealthy elites.
I’ve lived through lawsuits, competitors, and investors, yet I was standing by the window like some idiot, waiting for a woman to walk through a door, pretending like I’d not spent the last two hours looking for her.
The self-sanction came so naturally I almost laughed.
I walked toward a group of men I knew from the financial sector and inserted myself into their conversation, nodding and answering their questions, while all the time, some irritating part of my brain continued listening for the sound of the entrance doors opening.
And my eyes were still searching for her.
Absolute nonsense.
“Mr Roman Sterling in the flesh,” Susan Grant recited, catching up with me at the bar.
“I thought you were busy tonight.” I motioned for the bartender to fix my drink before turning to her.
She looked as she had at the fundraiser, hair, makeup and style mimicking her previous look.
Her green gown was fitted through the waist, and the diamond necklace around her throat probably cost more than most people’s houses.
Still it couldn’t rival Megan’s simple dress.
Damn it Roman!
“I am working.” The bartender pushed my drink toward me and I drank it, keeping eye contact with her, then relaxed against the high table without asking the man to fix her a drink.
It was a subtle way of asking her to leave me alone and I hoped she’d pick it.
She did not.
Or was pretending to.
“Wine.
Merlot,” she waved her fingers then leaned on the high table with me.
“I must say I am glad to see you,” her smile grew.
“Your possible acquisition of Lima is the talk of the evening.
A simple sight of you had everyone quivering.
Myself included.” she said.
Then her smile turned suggestive.
“Although, mine was for a totally different reason.” I swallowed another small sip.
“Miss Grant, you are very straightforward.” “I’ll take that as a compliment.” “It wasn’t.” She blinked.
For a moment, genuine surprise crossed her face.
Then she laughed.
“Wow.
You are the straightforward one.” “Really?
I must hate being misunderstood more than I thought.” I threw the entire content of my glass down my throat and dropped the empty glass noisily.
“If you would excuse me.” “But—” I was already walking away.
Catching up to various conversations while pretending I was interested, I nodded to Brooklyn across the room, then accepted a wine offering from Marco Vitiello, and got more invitations to fancy dinners and parties.
Oh, no.
After a while, I reached the point where irritation achieved a higher peak, starting with Megan’s absence.
I couldn’t explain why it bothered me this much.
She wasn’t really obligated to me.
True, I’d spent forty million dollars on her first dance, but that didn’t buy me a woman.
It certainly didn’t buy me her time.
It irritated me that I thought of that.
Apparently, I’d developed a preference for being annoyed by Dr Megan Holt.
At 11:42 p.m.
deciding I had hit a perfect low in my social battery, I sent Brooklyn a message and left the event angrier than I had arrived.
Especially angry that I had waited this long for a no-show rain check promise.