11. Ava

Chapter 11

Ava

T he crescendo of a song I'd never heard before played so loudly from my speakers that I could almost feel it vibrating the walls of my apartment. My playlist had ended nearly an hour ago, and I hadn't cared enough to pull myself away from the canvas and change it.

This, the paints, the feel of a brush against the stretched linen—it was the only thing keeping my mind off Adrian. The longer I could put off the intrusive thoughts, the more I could convince myself that what we'd done hadn't absolutely ruined me or sent me back years into my silly teenage crush.

The face that had taken shape in front of me wasn't one I completely recognized. She had elements of myself—the freckles mostly and the green of her eyes. But the shape of her jaw, the sharpness of her brow line, the darkness, and the little specks of white I'd added to highlight the blacker areas of her hair, looked far too close to Adrian for comfort.

It bothered me more than I cared to admit.

She wasn't done, but the longer I stared at it, the more I realized that I needed her to be finished. I dipped my purposely dedicated brush into the jar of paint thinner and gently pressed a fingertip against her cheek before checking it. Perfect. Still semi-wet.

I didn't even take the time I normally would to get the perfect stroke.

Dragging the thinner, soaked brush across the center of the canvas, I streaked the paint, pulling it at odd angles and distorting her. I pulled the brush right through the center of her face, paint smeared as if I'd taken a hand across a freshly lipsticked mouth, and she was something new and something old all the same.

But there was still too much of both of us in it.

I dipped the brush again.

Beep. Beep.

The sound of an incoming text through my speakers nearly made me knock the entire jar of thinner onto the old hardwood floor, and for a second, I could have sworn my life flashed before my eyes at the idea of how my father would react to me ruining the original flooring in the townhouse he'd bought for me.

I shuddered at the thought.

Beep. Beep.

Fucks sake.

Grunting and sore from holding my position for the last three hours, I pushed myself off my chair and hobbled over to the kitchen counter to check my phone.

I was almost grateful I hadn't had it next to the paint thinner. The text that awaited me absolutely would have sent the thinner flying.

Unknown Number: Hey. Hope you don't mind me reaching out on your real number this time.

Unknown Number: I answered all of your assistant's questions. You haven't gotten back to me about whether you're taking me as a client.

I stared at the phone for far too long before wiping my paint-covered hands on my apron and picking it up. There was no one else that could possibly be—no one else I'd given a fake number to that had my real one now. Dad must have given it to him.

Me: That's because I'm not.

Unknown Number: Come on, Ava.

Just as I was two letters into a reply, another message came through.

Unknown Number: Can we schedule a meeting to go over potential matches?

I gulped.

Me: Find someone else.

The message sat there for a moment undisturbed before the little bubble with three dots danced across the bottom of the screen.

Unknown Number: I'd rather not.

Unknown Number: Look, client to freelancer, I need to find a mother for my kid. And I trust you to do that.

A mother for his kid ? What the fuck did that mean?

Me: What?

Unknown Number: It will be easy as fucking pie for you, okay? Guaranteed success for your business. Just find me someone happy to have their life paid for by me while helping me raise my son. I don't need an emotional connection to her.

I stared down at the phone, trying to process what he was saying. He…didn't want an emotional connection. That was the whole fucking point of my business.

Me: I don't think I can do that for you.

Unknown Number: It will raise suspicions with your father if neither of us follows through with this. You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours. I get what I'm looking for and you get a success story to show your father and any potential clients.

My stomach turned over, twisting, pulling at my guts. I couldn't tell his angle through text, couldn't figure out if he genuinely wanted this to go well for us both, or if he was just trying to toy with me.

Me: Adrian, please.

Unknown Number: God.

Unknown Number: Even through text, that sounds fucking sinful.

Just as quickly as those two messages arrived, they disappeared. They made the whooshing sound of my heart beating too loudly in my ears increase, made my breath catch, but then they were gone as if they'd never appeared. He must have deleted them within milliseconds.

Unknown Number: Monday morning. 10 A.M. sharp. 44th floor of the Darkwater building. The receptionist will tell you where to go.

————

Why I'd let myself be persuaded to turn up at ten in the morning on the forty-fourth floor of the Darkwater building in the financial district, I would never know. And I'd probably never live it down.

"Ms. Riley is here to see you." The young man who had walked me from the front desk of his offices to the frosted door at the back of the main room spoke calmly into the little intercom system.

The door buzzed, and he pushed it open, holding it for me. I stepped through.

"Go down this hall and hang a right," he explained. "Mr. Stone's office is clearly marked there."

I nodded and thanked him, and a second later, the door shut behind me. The space was eerily quiet—three hallways branching off in a T-formation that, from what I could tell, led to a private meeting room and a storage space.

I swallowed down the last of my pride and walked down the main hall. My heels clacked against the floor, echoing off the walls and through the quiet walkway. I wished I hadn't worn them, wished I'd dressed more casually, but this was a business meeting and nothing else. I didn't want him to get the wrong idea.

But a part of me did feel suffocated in my black pantsuit and patterned blouse. He hadn't seen me dressed like this, and it didn't feel right. It felt more like a costume with every passing step toward his office.

I took a right at the end of the hall and went down a short, narrow hallway that ended in a door that was ajar. The plaque read, Owner and CEO, Adrian Stone. It filled me with an intense, unending sense of dread.

I didn't let it hold me back, though.

I pushed through the open door. The office that waited for me was almost as large and beautiful as my father's. It was a wide, open space that must have taken up at least a quarter of the southwest side of the building, with floor-to-ceiling windows separated by the structural beams of Darkwater. The floor was made of large, black and gray marble tiles, and at the far end of the room overlooking the Hudson was a wide desk with a wooden bookshelf behind it. To my left, a small seating area contained three white, leather chairs, and there, in the middle, on the long matching sofa, sat Adrian.

The door shut behind me without me so much as touching it, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.

"Sorry," he said, waving something small and black in his palm. "Should have warned you."

"You think?" I breathed. My bag slipped from my shoulder as I turned back to him.

Fuck.

I had no idea how I was going to get through this stupid meeting.

He sat there in his black suit, his tie slightly too loose, his white shirt fully on display under his unbuttoned jacket. He lounged against the back of the sofa, his arms out on either side, his legs crossed at the knee. Salt and pepper hair was styled back and out of his face, save for a single clump that didn't seem to want to do what it was told.

But it was how he looked at me that absolutely demolished me.

It felt like being under a microscope, but in a way that made my skin heat and my cheeks flush. Like he could discover anything and everything he'd want to if he just looked long enough.

I should have insisted we did this in public.

"Have a seat," he offered, his lip lifting up at one side.

"This is strictly business," I insisted, hardening my voice. But my feet didn't want to fucking move.

"I was under no impression that it wasn't," he laughed. One hand shot out toward the chair across from him as an offer, and I swallowed, nodding my acceptance.

I shouldn't have needed that offer to move, but for some reason, my body decided it worked on his command alone. I stepped across the marble and onto the plush carpet that covered the floor beneath the seating area, sinking into the soft chair he'd pointed out.

If I was going to get through this, I needed to shut everything down. All of it, every bit of whatever wanted to come out. I needed to be cold. I needed to put on my professional mask, get this done, and then get the hell out.

I slipped my binder out of my bag and opened it to the questionnaire Emily had filled in. "How accurate is what you told Emily?"

His mouth popped open as he chuckled. "Is that her name?" he asked, shifting until he was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "It's accurate. I didn't hold back."

I sighed and looked down at the first page of notes. I hadn't even looked at it once—I'd managed to keep myself from giving in to my curiosity for weeks, but here and now, I had to read it.

Some of it was obvious—things like being interested in women, his job, his position, his primary location. The fact that he lived in this building was a little bit of a surprise, coupled with the exact figure of his income that made me realize that spending sixty-five grand on a dance with me was a drop in the ocean for him. It made my eye twitch regardless.

But then there were other things, things that I wouldn't have known, things that made me stop and fully read his answers.

Favorite thing to do outside of work? Spend time with my son, Lucas.

Favorite season? Winter. The lights, the Christmas markets, the chill, the snow. All of it. Even the worst parts, when Christmas is over, and it's the dead part of the season.

Favorite music genre? Classical, indie, and pop. No, I won't explain.

What is the first thing you look for in a partner? A pulse. (I'm sorry, Ava, he wouldn't give me another answer. -Em)

What is your favorite thing in your life? Lucas.

Ideal date? A night at an art museum, finished with a glass of wine on my sailboat.

"Something wrong?"

I swallowed and lifted my gaze from the sheet. "No," I lied. I just hadn't been expecting that last one. "There are a few things that Emily didn't get to when she interviewed you."

"You mean when she pretended to be you?" His smirk nearly made me break my pen in half.

"I don't know how relevant these will be considering you don't actually care that much who you end up with, but I'd rather know and try to accommodate you," I continued. I wasn't going to give his question the time of day. "Do you have a preference on a?—"

"I do care who I end up with," he interjected. "Just because I don't want some fantastical love story out of this doesn't mean I don't want to find someone I'll be happy spending at least the next ten years with, if not more."

My lip twitched into a scowl. I'd never been good at hiding what I was feeling, but I tried regardless, covering my mouth with the back of my hand.

"Hit a nerve?"

"I just don't understand why you're talking about it like that," I snapped. "‘ Some fantastical love story' . You make it sound like that's something to turn your nose up at, like you're better than other people for not wanting that." I jotted down the phrase "fantastical love story " and put a giant X over it.

"I don't think I'm better than other people for not wanting to fuck around with the silly idea of true love ."

I let him see the scowl that time. "See, you did it again. Silly idea. True love . Do you not hear that? Are you that dense? I'm not saying true love is a real thing, but love surely is, and you're acting as though I'm stupid for thinking that."

His jaw hardened as he looked at me, a sea of piercing blue staring me down. "Ask me about my preferences, Ava."

An uncomfortable silence hung over us for far too long as I worked up the nerve to continue. Every part of me just wanted to get out of here for reasons completely different from the ones that had flared when I came in, but what he'd said in his text was true. Dad expected me to try. And I wanted this business to fucking work. "Age preference?"

"Thirty to fifty," he said.

But I'm twenty-five. "Do you want her to be any particular height?"

"Under six foot."

"Size?"

He shrugged. "No real preference."

"Working or non-working?"

He went quiet for a moment as he looked at his watch, his brows knitting together. "Working, but not as many hours as me. Ideally, she'd be independent and would have her own things going on, but with more time for Lucas than I have."

"How many hours do you work? Just so I can ballpark this."

"Forty-five to seventy a week. It varies." He shrugged, and as I jotted down his answer, a loud crack came from him. I glanced up, and he was pushing at his neck at an odd angle before turning and doing it in the other direction. Jesus. "Maybe someone that can work from home if she's full-time would fit nicely?"

"Okay." I clicked the top of my pen against my lip as I tried to think of anything else that could be useful for me to know. I didn't want to have to contact him again after this unless it was to set up a date. "Is there anything else specifically that you want me to know?"

He sucked his teeth as his gaze traveled somewhere behind me, lost either in thought or in the plain gray paint job of the wall. "I have to take frequent trips for the company. So I guess someone who doesn't mind being left alone with Lucas would be good," he said. "Other than that, I guess it would just be… someone who loves children, and someone who is okay with their partner being closed off."

"You want me to ask the women I'll be speaking to if they'll be happy being unloved?" I scoffed. "That'll go over well."

"I'm sure there's someone out there who is more than happy to have their life paid for in exchange for helping me raise my son without the guarantee of more."

I shook my head. "You do realize that this service is for people who don't need to have their life paid for, correct? My clientele will be mostly people of your status."

His gaze met mine again. "You'll find someone."

I snorted. "Either you've got a warped sense of perspective, or my father significantly oversold my abilities."

"Open up the pool a little more if you need to," he said. His hands dug into his slacks on either side of his knees, and with a quick grunt, he pushed himself up until he was standing. It screamed of a power move, with him towering far above me and looking down at my discomfort. But from the way his lips tightened, from the way he looked away from me as I clocked it, it felt more like an assertion of his reluctance to keep going. "There's nothing else I need you to know."

"Wait," I insisted, flipping the page to the last little chunk of questions I'd forgotten about. He paused, and I skimmed them, picking out which would actually help me with this, since he wanted to end the meeting. "Are there any specific traits you'd like me to consider?"

He sighed. "Someone good with kids, but I figured that was clear."

"Any specific professions you prefer?"

His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "No Broadway cast members."

"What? Why?"

"Next question."

"You can't just not explain that," I said, jotting it down regardless and underlining it for emphasis.

"I absolutely can, and I will." He crossed the floor, stepping from carpet to marble tile, as he walked back toward his desk. "Just skip the theater industry."

The sun nearly blinded me as I turned my head to watch him collapse into his desk chair. I followed his lead and stood, putting myself back in the shade once again. "If you could just explain, I can figure out what the root of that issue is and apply it to other candidates for you."

"Ava. Stop."

I held his gaze across the room. Every part of me wanted to dive into that deeper, sink my fingernails in, and rip it out of him. It was such a random request, but I didn't know how far that went—were musicians in general off the table? What about playwrights, technicians, film actors, set designers? "I can't do this if you don't work with me."

"You can." The intensity of his voice as he said those two stupid words across the empty space hit me in a way I wasn't expecting. It almost felt as though I were a child being scolded for something I hadn't done, like I was being spoken down to, like he wanted me to be aware that he could make or break my career with this. It felt sour .

He scrubbed at his face and sighed, relaxing into the leather of his chair a little bit more. When he opened his mouth again, the words came out softer, gentler, and I couldn't help but wonder if he'd realized how cutting the last couple things he had said had been.

"If we need to refine it after the first few matches, then we will. But for now, that's as far as I'm going."

"Fine." I shut my binder and shoved it back into my bag, not fully accepting his silent apology in the shift of his tone. "I'll contact you once I've figured out how to pitch this to potential matches."