If Tom shows up again, I’m going to forget everything my mom taught me about being a nice girl. I’ll tell him how I feel in every language I know, including Klingon.
Rodney comes out of a conference room opposite my desk with a tall man in a charcoal suit. Not one of our lawyers. I know everyone on the SFG legal counsel team. And he doesn’t look like an accountant, either. They always have this exacting air about them, an anal retentiveness that demands they calculate everything down to the last penny. The man’s black hair’s too long, and there’s an arrogance and indolence to his dark gaze.
Rodney smiles broadly. “Cristiano, this is Pascal Snyder, the brain behind that new model
you liked.” As Cristiano turns toward me, Rodney mouths, Your latest Nikkei prediction modeling.
I try not to beam too hard. That one’s my pride and joy.
The man’s expression is cordial without being overly friendly. “A pleasure. When Rodney said ‘Pascal,’ I assumed it was a man.”
“All woman,” I say, hoping my gender isn’t going to be a problem.
“Clearly. And beautiful as well.” His tone is flattering but also scrupulously professional. He extends his hand. “Cristiano Cortez. Nice to meet you.”
I shake hands with him. His grip is firm but not overly strong. This is a man very aware of his strength. I wonder if he is the Cristiano Cortez, one of the most important clients at the firm. I’ve never met the man, but I’ve heard about him. But there might be more than one. It isn’t as though the name’s trademarked.
“I did like that model. If I had a firm that managed money, I’d poach you,” he says. His cool but penetrating gaze communicates that he always says what he means, and I can feel myself glowing.
He turns to Rodney. “Thank you for your time. You’ll hear from my assistant by COB today.”
“Excellent. I look forward to it.”
Cristiano leaves.
“Tell me if that’s who I think it is,” I say to Rodney.
“The one and only. He likes your work. A lot. And he isn’t shy about saying so.”
I put a hand over my mouth. “Oh my God.”
Excitement bubbles like a freshly popped bottle of champagne. He didn’t just think I was good, but he told others at the firm. This has got to be my year.
Dad walks by with a fresh coffee in his hand. Before I can tell him what Cristiano said, he leans over the partition of my cubicle with a warm smile. “Back so soon? I thought I said you could take your time with Court.”
Something feels wrong, but I’m too excited about the exchange with Cristiano to dwell on it. “It was just a business lunch to discuss an investment he wanted to make.” And it’s a good thing it didn’t drag on, because I would’ve missed Cristiano.
Dad’s expression tightens for a moment until his gaze falls on the calla lilies. “Then why did he send you flowers?”
“I told you it’s about the pies.” Then I add, “He wants me to bake him some more.” I don’t really believe he meant it—my pies are good, but not that good—but that’s what he said, so…
Dad presses his lips together. “At his place?”
“Huh?” What kind of question is that?
“Does he want you to bake him pies at his place?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say,” I respond distractedly. I want to tell Dad about Cristiano. So I do, feeling like that first time I created pro-forma statements on my own in high school. “He loved my Nikkei model.”
“Mmm.” Dad’s eyebrows pinch together and lower over his narrowed eyes. If he were a weather system, a tornado would have started by now. “I don’t know why Rodney would make Cristiano think that your model is all that critical to our work. We’ve always grown his money for him.”
It couldn’t hurt more if he’d backhanded me. My eyes sting, and I blink furiously. The weight of people’s gazes presses down on me. Their pity is too much to bear. Humiliation prickles like ants crawling.
“Then why don’t you call him and tell him that?” I say coldly. Or at least I try to say it coldly. But my voice is shaking. And I hated it that I’m letting Dad know how hurt I am. A big girl doesn’t let someone see her cry or be hurt at work, even if it’s her dad.
“I haven’t had the chance, but I will.” He starts to walk away, then stops. “Pascal, everyone has something that they’re really good at. Working here just isn’t for you. Your talent is better off used elsewhere, in other fields.”
The words punch me in the heart, and I almost double over. I gasp, and somehow air is stuck in my throat. My cheeks are hot, like he’s slapped them. Tremors run through me, but I can’t stop them, not even by clenching my hands. He’s never, ever said anything like this to me before. If he honestly felt I wasn’t any good, why didn’t he tell me earlier? “Like what?” I say, my voice barely above whisper.