I nod.
“He owns a large hotel chain. Worth a few hundred million, I’d guess,” he says.
“Oh, wow.”
“Marius Blast, the man next to him, owns a bank. He was in Forbes last month. And the woman next to him runs an umbrella company that controls more assets than the two men combined.”
I force a swallow down my throat. “That’s … That’s one way to make you feel unaccomplished.” I give him a tight smile. “Me, not you. I have no idea how much you’re worth.”
He grins devilishly.
“And I don’t want to know,” I say, trying not to let his sexiness distract me, though that task is virtually impossible. “Your business is your business. I just make the coffee.”
He angles his head and gives me a look of disbelief.
“Okay, I don’t make the coffee.” I laugh. “But I’ll add that to my duties if it makes you happy.”
He smiles again, but there is no laughter. Instead, he brushes a strand of hair off my face. “You really aren’t interested in how I compare to these people?”
It’s an odd question for a myriad of reasons. Even if I could overlook the question itself, I would be stumped by the curious yet hopeful look in his eyes.
“No,” I say, my voice soft. “Why would I care?”
He trails the back of his hand down my chin but doesn’t answer me.
“In my lifetime, I’ve learned a few things,” I tell him. “One of them is that money and relationships—friendships,” I correct quickly, “never mix. In any capacity.”
“Friendships. Right,” he says, his brows furrowed. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “Good logic there.”
It is good logic because money complicates things. And we are friends. Assuming we are more than that sets me up to have a broken heart. I’m not sure what part of that he seems to have questions about, but I don’t have time to ask him.
Two men come up to us. Both men are older than Oliver, and both are extraordinary in their own way. One of them—the one Oliver addresses as Curt as he approaches, has a Sean Connery vibe. He’s ruggedly handsome with a voice that could melt honey. I instantly like him. The other one is the man Oliver told me was Marius Blast.
Jet-black hair, a dimpled smile, and a suit that was tailored for his long, lean body, Marius is stunning.
“It is good to see you, Oliver,” Marius says, extending a large hand.
Oliver shakes it with gusto. “Good to see you, Marius.”
“And who is this beautiful woman at your side?” Marius turns slowly toward me. His eyes are a brilliant green that lack a certain warmth about them.
I instantly miss Oliver’s arm around my waist.
“Curt, Marius, this is Shaye Brewer.” Oliver faces me. He seems to want to say something, but the seconds pass with silence.
Oliver’s associates look at us expectantly, also assuming more will be said. And with all of their eyes shifting to me as the subject of the conversation, my stomach begins to twist.
“I’m his executive assistant,” I say. It’s the first thing that I can think of to finish his thought. “It’s a pleasure to meet both of you.”
The words flow from my mouth in a nervous rush, and I have to clamp my lips shut so I don’t keep talking. Oliver’s lips form a hard, thin line as he turns away.
“Yes, Shaye is my executive assistant,” Oliver tells them, his words clipped. “I thought it would be nice for her to come tonight and meet some of the people she’ll be engaging with in her new role.”
“Brilliant idea, ole boy,” Curt says, clapping him on the shoulder. “I knew you were fit for a CEO when you were this high.” He holds his hand out waist level. “So many men—people, forgive me, miss,” he says to me, “expect their right-hand people to work with other brands and businesses without knowing them. I’ve always said that it’s easier to do business if you know who you’re doing business with.”
They banter back and forth, Marius contributing to the conversation here and there. I stand at Oliver’s side, clutching my champagne flute and replaying the last two minutes.
Could he possibly be mad that I told the truth?
Oliver stands a few feet away from me. He glances at me from time to time, but the hand closest to me is now in his pocket. It’s a small thing to notice, but everything with Oliver Mason is calculated.
This is too. I just don’t know why. I am his EA. It’s my job title. It’s how he presented me to the Landry family. “This is the lovely Shaye Brewer, my EA. I’m pleased for you to meet her.”
My body shrinks. There isn’t room for the champagne and the tiny pastry with brie and mushroom that I tried on Vivian Landry’s request. It was delicious when I ate it. It’s less delicious as it threatens to become unreasonable in my stomach.