Most people—and by most, I mean 99.999% of them—are fake as fuck.
Except Aerin.
And the funny thing is, I don’t even think she realizes it.
“I’ll probably be working in here most of the day,” I say, motioning for her to leave. Those reports won’t summarize themselves. “So if you need me …”
Her lips part, but only for a second, and then she’s gone.
I’m sure she wants to talk about the other night, but what’s the point? She said she doesn’t want it to happen again, and that’s that.
We’re both adults. We had sex. That’s where the story ends.
I grab the first file off the stack Marta prepared for me. Richard Brevin. Born and raised in Nantucket. General surgeon and owner of a private surgical center. Four kids. Hobby trader. His autobiographical write-up is seven. Fucking. Pages. Long.
Eleven more to go …
Good God, this is going to take all day.
I’d outsource this to Aerin, but she’s already up to her neck in other shit I’d rather not do, and seeing how I’m going to be actually meeting these assholes on Monday, I can’t exactly bullshit this.
I finish Brevin’s mind-numbing memoir and move on to Jack Rodgers, then Bunny Caulfield, then Armie Amundson. Oh, look. There’s a Rockefeller and a Vanderbilt. Fancy.
When I’m almost done with the last one, I check the time on my phone.
Two hours. Gone. Just like that.
Rising, I stretch my back and shoulders before making my way around the empty office. There’s no one here but Aerin, myself, and the weekend rent-a-cop who sets up shop at Marta’s desk, with a handheld video game device, stack of comic books, twenty-four ounce Mountain Dew, and king-sized Reese’s by his side.
Passing Aerin’s office, I notice her door is ajar but her desk chair is vacant. Her phone rests next to her computer monitor, so I know she hasn’t left.
Whatever.
I’ll catch up with her later.
Heading back to my father’s office, I check my phone and handle a couple text messages from friends wanting to know if I can meet up with them at White Bear Lake this weekend. It pains me—physically pains me—to tell them no.
When I reach my father’s office, I spot both of the doors wide open, and when I step over the threshold, I find Keane standing next to one of his bookcases, the photograph of my laughing mother and grinning father in her hands.
“Keane.” I clear my throat.
She startles, nearly dropping the frame.
“You scared me,” she says with a slight chuckle. “Is that your mom? She’s beautiful. Love the glasses. I think my Mom had a pair just like that once.”
“Was, Keane. Was my mom.”
Her smile fades. “Oh. I’m so sorry.”
I yank the picture from her hands and place it back on the shelf. She’s quiet, offering nothing more than a heavy stare as she studies me.
“Anyway. I assume you needed something?” I return to my father’s desk, taking a seat in his mammoth leather chair. The tension in my shoulders sends a thread of pain that travels to my jaw.
“You didn’t have to yank the picture out of my hands.”
My gaze flicks up. “Excuse me?”
“You just … yanked it.” Her arms fold and there’s a warm tinge in her cheeks. “That was rude.”
“What’s rude is touching things that don’t belong to you.”
“It was a picture …”
A picture that represents my past. A past that’s none of her business.
“Do me a favor and never ask about my mother again.” My tone is flat yet serious.
Aerin’s hands lift and she blows an exaggerated breath through her pillow soft lips, and then she gives me that look again—like she’s trying to figure me out.
If she only knew how many people have tried. How many people think there are some sort of ancient secrets waiting to be unearthed, some key or code to crack to get to the bottom of who I am. I can’t count how many women have tried to makeshift psychoanalyze me, thinking I wouldn’t notice the direction their questions were headed.
In a world where information is literally at our fingertips and we can find out anything we want to know about something with the click of a button, I prefer to lay low. I’ve even gone so far as to hire a company to scrub the Internet. Any mentions of me, any photographs, articles, or write-ups have to have my approval before I’ll allow them to be posted, and any sources sharing my phone number or address are automatically removed.
As the son of one of the richest men in the country, I can understand why people are curious. But all I’ve ever wanted to be was anyone else. I don’t want to be some guy people write about in gossip articles. I don’t want to be America’s Most Eligible Bachelor. I don’t want to be a household name or a celebrity.