Corey dipped his chin to the maître d’ as he passed, and the man didn’t bother offering him a mimosa or glass of champagne, which was standard practice upon arrival for brunch at The Ivy.
Corey had been there before, more than once, and it was known he did not drink during the day.
Ever.
He didn’t because it made him groggy and lethargic, and until he fell into bed every night at midnight or one o’clock, he did not allow himself to be groggy or lethargic.
Ever.
When he arrived at the table, she had her face tipped up to him—that striking heart-shaped face that was the same shape as her mother’s.
He stooped and kissed her cheek, already knowing someone, somewhere would take a picture. And that someone, somewhere, would likely sell it. And the photos of their brunch would be captioned by some human parasite who made a living from other people’s successes and failures.
And Corey knew that Chloe Pierce, as the daughter of his best friends—one of those friends more famous even than he—would not be mistaken as Corey’s latest arm candy.
They’d been seen together many times before, all the way back to when she was a baby.
Family brunch with tech tycoon Corey Szabo and Chloe Pierce, eldest product of the power couple, Imogen Swan and Tom Pierce, Szabo’s closest friends, was a possibility.
Though, Chloe’s name might not be mentioned at all.
But Imogen’s would, certainly. Tom’s was a good probability.
Corey wondered how Chloe felt about being the “eldest product” or “daughter of” and never really being Chloe.
He suspected she wouldn’t voice her opinion out loud.
Nevertheless, she undoubtedly hated it.
He took his seat with his back to the patio, she was against the brick wall, framed in The Ivy’s famed patio foliage, and a server was there immediately.
“Sparkling water and coffee,” he ordered.
The server nodded and looked to Chloe.
All she said was, “Yes.”
The man moved away.
Corey dipped his eyes and saw she had a mostly-consumed glass of champagne in front of her.
No fruit juice to get in the way of her alcohol.
A testimony to the times.
He’d noted that normally, Chloe was like Corey. She might find times to allow herself some freedom to be less than strictly in control of every breath of her life.
But those times were rare, and most likely when she was alone.
However, now, things were different.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Awful,” she replied candidly. “How are you?”
“I’m well,” he murmured. “Happy to see you.”
“Really?” she queried. “That’s a surprise since I haven’t seen you since Gram’s funeral.”
This was catty.
They’d both been busy, he always was, and she was starting her store, and they lived in separate states, for fuck’s sake.
A man would have to be mad or plain stupid not to know this cat had claws.
Corey just refused to be the target when she was aiming at someone else.
“Chloe,” he said warningly.
She huffed out a breath and looked away from him.
“You’re in LA on a buying trip?” he prompted when she seemed happy to study the cars parked on the street for the next hour.
She turned her attention to Corey.
“I’m here to escape.”
He opened his mouth to offer another warning.
“He’s moved out,” she declared before he could. “Trial separation. But the way things are going, not that they share much, though we can tell, there’s not going to be anything trial about it.”
Corey leaned forward quickly and whispered a harsh, “Quiet.”
Her head jerked and her mouth slammed shut.
He did not move away, and he kept his voice as low as possible with her still being able to hear him when he ordered, “You do not speak of such things unless you know precisely who can hear them and you trust them implicitly.”
She didn’t move, not a twitch, and she kept her sunglasses trained on him.
“And I hope you know that there are solely five people in that Circle of Trust and none of those people, save me, are sitting mere inches from you on this patio,” he continued.
She drew a delicate breath into her nose that stated eloquently, in pure Chloe fashion, that she was irritated to be reminded, as well as remonstrated, about something she knew very well…but in her emotion, she forgot.
Then, because he needed to know, in his bones and soul he needed this knowledge, he broke his own rule and demanded, “Right, just tell me, are you looking after her?”
He meant Genny, to whom the impossible had happened.
Tom had cheated on her.
He’d admitted it.
They were attempting counseling.
This was failing.
And now, apparently, Tom had moved out.
After more than two decades, finally, this had opened the door to Corey. One he’d attempted to open years ago by tearing Genny and Duncan apart.
Those years ago, she had not stepped through.
And Corey knew, regrettably he knew this down to his bones and soul, she wouldn’t eventually step through this time either.