20. A Guy in Finance

20

A Guy in Finance

NICOLE LAMB

When Nicole went on her date with Kingston, the first thing she became absolutely convinced of was that Kingston was rich.

Not like he was being pretentious or flashing C-notes around, but like he was wealthy.

His rental car was a BMW with a model number starting with an M.

She didn’t know what kind of watch was on his wrist because she had no clues other than Apple Watches, but the brushed steel casing and sapphire blue face with three inset little dials for the date looked ridiculously expensive.

Arvind would probably know what type of watch it was.

Kingston’s clothes she’d touched yesterday had not been scratchy polyester or wrinkly cotton. They’d been—smooth. Soft. Silky. Not like something you’d buy at TJ Maxx.

Also, Kingston was not staying at the La Quinta Inn, where Sidewinder put up all the other regional salespeople. His hotel was a little farther down the coast towards San Diego and called Aviara, but even non-materialistic Nicole knew what the Four Seasons logo meant.

A colossal fountain stood in front of the grand Spanish colonial building, and a concierge walked right out of the lobby and called Kingston “Mr. Moore” as he opened his door.

Yeah, with the Spanish tile floors, real potted palms at the peak of health, and expansive windows overlooking the immaculate golf course, it was ritzy.

All of this added up to the fact there was no reason on God’s green Earth that Kingston Moore should be working as a junior sales guy at Sidewinder Golf.

Maybe Joe knew something terrible about Kingston and was blackmailing him into working for the company, playing on his connections.

Maybe Kingston knew a terrible secret about Joe Flanagan and was milking the company for all it was worth. Maybe that Centurion Amex thingee was a corporate card, a Sidewinder Golf corporate card, and Kingston was draining the coffers as they spoke.

Maybe something had happened and Kingston was down on his luck but still had high-society tastes, and Joe had hired him because they were friends.

But something was up. Kingston didn’t fit in. He was outlier data, a jolt in the pattern.

Also, Nicole didn’t fit in at the restaurant.

When she’d been deciding what to wear before Kingston had picked her up, she’d put on her best date dress, which hadn’t seen the light of day for eight months. Yet even in California, land of the casual, she felt underdressed in this high-ceilinged, bustling restaurant.

She didn’t have a proper purse, either. Nicole wasn’t a purse kind of girl. She’d brought her backpack with her wallet, a cell phone charger, her toothbrush, yoga pants, and a tee shirt just in case (and not in case of yoga ), a pack of Plan B and a strip of condoms, and her work laptop.

Kingston had looked askance when she’d flung the hefty backpack into his backseat, but she’d just shrugged and climbed into the car while he’d held the door for her.

The other women at the other tables all had trapezoidal or crescent-shaped bags of smooth leather hanging on their chairs. Their hair was highlighted and glowing, flowing around their shoulders instead of plaited in a fresh braid. They all wore gauzy pastel dresses and strappy stilettos because it was spring, while Nicole’s best dress was black, and her heels were medium at most.

Nicole shoved her backpack under the table by her feet to hide it.

The string quartet-type music was just loud enough that they and everyone else had to raise their voices to speak.

For the next problem, the menu didn’t have prices on it.

She’d heard about such a thing but never seen it. She’d had to guess the cheapest thing on the menu without any data, which was disturbing. She eliminated beef and seafood and picked something else.

But the biggest problem by far the whole evening was that it became more apparent that Kingston Moore was not just a nice guy.

Nicole had dated a few nice guys. A fun guy. A couple of surfer dudes.

But Kingston wasn’t a guy.

She was beginning to understand the difference between a guy and a man.

Kingston was a man, a sober, serious, responsible man.

Not to say he wasn’t funny. He cracked clever little jokes that didn’t hurt anyone, mostly self-deprecating that stopped before they became fishing for compliments. He didn’t laugh too loudly or look around to see who was looking at him.

And he was looking at her.

He asked Nicole questions, and he listened.

He asked if she’d always wanted to be an engineer.

Nicole said, “I cycled through the usual doctor-lawyer-ballerina phases, but I was really good at math. Being good at math means people tell you that you should be an engineer, so I am. Did you always want to be in sales?”

He chuckled. “Sales isn’t something most people aspire to. It’s something that people fall into for a variety of reasons. Some people like the challenge of convincing other people to do something, maybe against their will. I just like people to have better golf clubs, so they play better golf. Good golf clubs make people happy.”

Nicole sat forward and leaned over her chicken and risotto. “That’s one of the reasons that I accepted the job offer from Sidewinder Golf after college. It’s benevolent to want to help people be better at something they enjoy. It’s wholesome.”

He poked his steak and lobster, plus an extra side of potatoes and another one of mushrooms, and asked what she liked to do other than work.

“I like to go to the beach. I didn’t do enough of that kind of thing during college, so I’m glad I stayed in California. But I’m also trying to be self-sufficient as far as fruits and vegetables are concerned. I live in an apartment, so there’s no way I could grow grains or anything to be truly self-sustaining, but I have a bunch of gardening towers on my balcony where I grow at least half of what I eat. A lot of zucchini. And salad.”

He grinned at her. “You’re a prepper.”

She held up one hand to stop him right there. “I prefer prepping enthusiast. Have you ever considered what will happen with climate change? We need to start preparing now. Maybe that’s because I’m an engineer and can see the engineering challenges coming, but everybody needs to do their part. Have you thought about it?”

He shrugged. “Maybe I’ll buy a compound in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont and ride it out.”

Yeah, he had money. “But not everybody can do that.”

He nodded. “True. Why didn’t you work for a nonprofit if you’re concerned about climate change?”

She scoffed, “Got to make some money to pay off my student loans. I had one offer from an NGO, but the salary was half that of Sidewinder’s.”

He asked about her family.

“Oh, you know, not a lot to tell. My dad is a minor-league lawyer working cases that matter to people, not corporations. My mom teaches third grade. My younger brother is majoring in information technology at Fresno. What’s up with your family?”

Kingston smiled and shrugged. “Nothing to speak of. What’s your favorite movie?”

And so on.

All the time, his electric blue eyes watched her.

Steadily like a camera, like she was the star, not like being spied upon.

Relentlessly like a predator, but like a lion, not a snake.

Fascinated, like a lover, attentive without accusation.

His slow smiles and tidbits of truth revealed with his eyes wide open fluttered into her heart.

“Where did you work before Sidewinder?” she asked.

A calm blink before his answer. “Mostly in finance.”

“Oh, no. You’re a meme,” she told him. “You’re a guy in finance, trust fund, six-five, blue eyes.”

He tilted his head, his smile turning quizzical. “How’d you know about that?”

The joke had fallen flat and turned into fluster. “It’s just a social media meme about the kind of guy that some women want. There’s a silly song about it.”

He was holding his recently refilled wineglass but not sipping it. “But how’d you know about the trust fund? A little internet research?”

“Good Lord, you have a trust fund? I didn’t know that.” Yeah, she’d figured out he had money somewhere, though. Family money like a trust fund made perfect sense. “I was just singing the internet meme. You said finance, and the rest of it was pretty obvious. The, um, six-five, and the— um —blue eyes.”

Really amazing blue eyes.

“Ah, just a song, then.” He sipped his wine.

A second bottle of wine arrived and was uncorked.

Before Nicole let the waiter fill the glass, she asked, “Um, am I driving tonight?”

His blue eyes were a little brighter from the wine. “If a ride is needed, the hotel can supply a chauffeur and car.”

“They will?”

The waiter nodded subtly at her.

“The La Quinta sure doesn’t offer that,” she grumbled.

“And that’s why I stay at the Four Seasons,” he said, nudging his wine glass toward the waiter, who refilled it with a gracious smile. “I can just stagger back to my villa after supper, but you have a decision to make, my little engineer. Would you like dessert here, or shall we take a stroll around the pool and order room service from my place, where it’s quieter?”

People chattered, their voices raised above the violins playing, silverware clinking, food slurping, and kitchen pans clanking, and a nervous shiver shook Nicole from the inside out. Words like now-or-never-now-or-never pinged around her head.

Nicole sniffed the air in and said, “Quieter would be nice.”

Kingston lifted two fingers into the air. “Check, please.”

“But we just opened this bottle of wine.”

He shrugged. “We can take it with us if you’re enjoying it. We can order dessert through room service, too.”

“Oh.” She scrambled down her leg and grabbed her backpack from the floor. “Let’s go halfsies.”

He chuckled again. “Of course not.”

The waiter brought the bill, and Kingston signed it. He didn’t put down that Centurion card or anything, he just signed it, like his name itself was money. “And send the bottle of wine ahead of us?”

When they stood, Kingston held out his hand and raised one eyebrow.

“I—what?” she asked.

“Your backpack, I’ll carry it. It looks heavy.”

“I can—it’s okay.”

He stood with his hand out, and his voice was lower. “Your backpack.”

She handed it over.

Kingston slung one strap over his shoulder, picked up his wineglass, and gestured toward the exit.

“We can’t take the glasses,” she whispered.

His raised eyebrow and squinted smile told her otherwise. “It’s all within the hotel. Housekeeping will take them in the morning.”

Oh, right.

Nicole picked up her wineglass and, after he gestured again, led their way between the chattering people around white-draped tables toward the arched exit and the hotel lobby.

Outside, the April-night air was cool on Nicole’s arms and bare shoulders as they strolled around the pool, her high-ish heels clacking on the cement, and then down a sidewalk along the golf course. She sipped her wine as they walked, feeling stupidly decadent in a pretty dress strolling along a gorgeous fairway in the twilight as the stars came out, a little buzzy, with a handsome man carrying her bag.

He said, “San Diego is so beautiful. It makes me wonder why I live in Connecticut.”

A breeze coasted through the trees. “Are you from there?”

“Scranton, Pennsylvania, originally.”

“Here in the West, most people are from somewhere else, but I’m from Oceanside. I’ve never been to Pennsylvania.”

“A lot of mountain ranges and forests between towns, as I remember.”

“Were your parents from there? Mine are from Colorado.”

As she took a few more steps through the gathering night, Nicole wondered if he’d heard her, but he must have. Except for the whispering leaves on the trees around the path and cars hissing in the far distance, the rhythmic clap of their footsteps was the only sound in the night.

Warmth in her palm, and his hand closed around hers as they walked.

He slowed and stopped, then tugged her hand to turn her toward him. As she looked up to see what was happening, his dark silhouette was already bending, and his lips brushed hers.

The darkness, the quiet, the intimacy of the seclusion closed around them, a secret moment for a soft kiss.

His gentleness stole her breath. Yes, the wine and the anticipation swirled in her blood. If he’d grabbed her and thrown her up against a tree, she would’ve ripped his clothes off and jumped to wrap her legs around his waist, but this slow kiss, the taste of wine in his mouth, the warmth of his body traveling through the cool night air as if their clothes were already in a pile at their feet, the sweet fragrance of night-blooming jasmine and the scent of soap and masculine cologne from his body that was almost touching hers kindled a delicate but deeper fire.

He released her hand and stroked the underside of her jaw.

Nicole reached up, holding onto his shoulder and then the back of his neck for balance as the kiss lingered, and then they parted.

“How far is that villa?” she asked.

“Just at the end of the sidewalk, past these trees,” he whispered.

“Let’s go.”