Chapter 22: Olivia
Davis makes a few calls, sends a few emails, and by the afternoon we’re back on the company plane and headed to Amsterdam, of all places. The reality of what’s happening doesn’t hit until we land at Schiphol.
I’m on an airplane.
With a billionaire’s son.
In the city where I was once so desperate for cash that I was strongly considering kidnapping another American girl and flying back to the States on her ticket.
The scenario feels so far from reality, and yet it’s real somehow: fanciful, outlandish, but nevertheless real. If I could go back in time and tell the girl sitting with her back against the thin bedroom door in her mobile home, holding her younger brother and crying while their stepfather shouted at them, that one day she would be in this scenario, she would have slapped me for lying. She would have cussed me out and told me not to tease her with things that she could never have.
And yet it’s real.
I decide to enjoy it, but I know I have to manage my expectations. At any moment, Davis could decide that he wants nothing to do with me. That would be it: I would be alone in Amsterdam, once again abandoned by a man with a financial hold over me. At least this time, I have enough money saved to get home.
When we arrive at the Waldorf Astoria, I’m not sure if I should be surprised that Davis has booked the same hotel—the same suite—that he stayed in eight years ago. I shoot him a look at the reception desk, which he meets with a smug smirk.
Asshole. Beautiful, sweet asshole.
The suite is too large for just the two of us, but Davis obviously doesn’t care. He instructs the bellhop to bring our bags to the very same room where it happened—the infamous room where we slept together eight years ago. I’m not sure how my brain manages to muster disappointment upon seeing that the room has since been redecorated, but I’m actually sad that it doesn’t look exactly the same.
That’s how screwed up I am.
“I have to do some work, but dinner in two hours?” he asks me as he heads out to the main sitting area with his laptop.
I follow him with my own laptop. “Can I join you?”
“At dinner? Sure.” Davis grins again as he glances at me over his shoulder.
I know he’s being a smartass, so I do the same and reply, “I actually have dinner plans, but I meant now—working.”
“Dinner plans?” he inquires, playing along as he makes himself comfortable on one of the sofas. “With who?”
“Myself. I’m getting frites.”
Davis raises both eyebrows—the smartass act completely dropped. “Those frites were so good,” he recalls aloud. “Like, so good.”
“I was kidding, but it sounds like you want to go.”
“I kind of do,” he admits, raising a shoulder. “But I’m not much of a frites-eater these days. I’ve got a reservation somewhere else.”
I’m tempted to tell him the same thing that he said to me yesterday at FundRight: Fuck It. Take a Xanax and eat the fries, handsome. But I know better than to tell someone what to eat. Plus, after our last disastrous trip to a restaurant, I wonder if I owe it to him to let him take me out. “Sounds great,” I say as I settle in next to him, allowing myself to sit closer than I normally would.
For the next couple of hours, we remain side by side with our laptops out, sorting through emails and updates we’ve missed back in New York. Lana has asked me for a debrief on the FundRight meeting, so typing out a response is my main priority for the afternoon.
Hi Lana,
Thanks for checking in. I think the meeting went well. Davis let me chime in on some of the questions, and I think that Gus
“Delete all of that,” Davis interjects.
Startled, I jump at the sound of his voice. I look to my right and I realize that he’s reading my email—blatantly, actually.
“That’s rude. Can you imagine if I read your email?” I protest.
“What?” His expression drips with innocence, and it doesn’t even look practiced.
“I’m allowed to give Lana updates on the meeting, right?” I inquire, keeping my tone civil.
He pushes down the lid of his laptop. “Highly encouraged. But that’s easily the worst email I’ve ever seen in my life.”
Uncertain, I look back at my screen and re-read what I’ve written. “It can’t be thatbad, right?”
“My great grandfather could write a better email than this, and he died before the internet was invented,” Davis quips, and I can’t hold back a laugh no matter how annoyed I am with him.
“Fine,” I concede. “I’ll bite. What’s wrong with it?”
“For one, why are you thanking her for checking in? That’s her job. Never thank someone for doing their job; thank them for doing their job well.”
“Oh. So, delete that?”
“Yep. Strike that out.” Davis moves closer. “Second sentence: ‘I think the meeting went well.’ Why are you saying you ‘think’ that? It objectively went fantastic. I have an email from Gus in my inbox saying that he couldn’t sleep last night because he’s so excited that this acquisition could go through. That’s the white whale of meeting outcomes.”
“Got it. I’ll make that more…confident.”
“Perfect. And then the last part: ‘Davis let me chime in on some—’ Jesus. Delete all of that, Olivia. I didn’t let you do anything and you didn’t just chime in. You led shit. That’s a big deal. You need to tell her that and you need to feel like an absolute killer for it.”
“Okay, okay,” I reply as I type. “Here I am, writing great stuff about myself.”
He lets out a scoff. “More like, writing the truth.”
“Here.” I turn my laptop so he can see it. “Better?”