In a Fix (Torus Intercession 2)

“Girlfriend, then,” I amended, gesturing for her to step in front of me as the concierge announced that it was time for us to go up. “The others will still wonder why you’re along on this weekend of debauchery.”

“Is that what it’s going to be?”

“One assumes,” I said tiredly.

She chuckled softly. “Don’t sound so excited.”

“I’d prefer to stay home and read.”

Her smile was wide as she nodded. “In comfy clothes, with a cup of tea, on a window seat with a blanket, am I right?”

“I see we’re of a similar mind,” I said, charmed by her. “Perhaps you’d like to come home with me now, to Chicago.”

She giggled. “Oh, I like you,” she said with a sigh, following the man in the black suit onto the elevator. “But Brig was adamant that I come, so”—the gallic shrug spoke volumes—“what was I supposed to do?”

I nodded.

“I mean, who says no to Brig Stanton?”

No one, apparently.

As the elevator began its ascent to the thirty-third floor, I realized she was staring.

“Something wrong?”

“No, I just can’t get over how—I mean, you really don’t at all look like any of his other friends,” she said, brows furrowing, like I was a puzzle that needed to be solved.

I got that a lot. Even Rais, roughly three minutes into his new job at Torus, knew who I was before he’d actually confirmed who I was.

“You’re Croy, right? Mr. Colter said I’d know you ’cause of your hair.”

I squinted at him. “Because of my hair?”

“He said it was an odd color.”

What was odd about platinum blond? I’d been the towheaded kid when I was little, and the white became silver as I got older, with some pewter streaks thrown in, but remained mostly white.

“It’s not odd,” I muttered defensively under my breath.

“He didn’t say he was short?” Cooper threw out.

I shot him a look that should have melted the skin from his skull. At six feet, I was nowhere near short, except in comparison to him and the rest of the giants.

“Or puny?” Locryn offered. “You sure he didn’t say puny?”

Barnes got the same death glare.

Rais’s chuckle was low and warm. “Nope.”

“He had to have said albino,” Shaw teased me, his whiskey-rough voice soothing me even though he was being a dick.

“I’m not—it’s platinum blond, Shaw,” I told him for easily the billionth time. “It’s an actual permutation of blond.”

“Big word for so early in the morning,” Nash informed me, his grin wide.

I really didn’t want to get into yet another hair color discussion with her, so I deflected. “That’s because you only know the frat boys, and I’m not one of them.”

“No, it’s definitely your hair. Do you know how much some women pay to get, and keep, their hair that color? Has anyone ever told you, you look like a GQ model?”

The sigh, if I’d allowed it to escape, would have been eloquent. Thankfully, she was on a roll.

“And not that there’s anything wrong with Brig’s other friends, mind you,” she apprised me, as though worried someone might overhear her speaking ill of them. “I was in a sorority, after all, so I’m not casting aspersions on Greek life, but his friends are just a bit loud and boorish.”

“But all captains of industry,” I volleyed back.

“Working for their fathers,” she added snidely, eyes flicking sideways to me, her grin sly.

I scoffed. “But not Chase, right?”

“Yes,” she said, and I heard it, the sudden freeze in her tone, and all the teasing was gone. “Chase Baldwin. He went out on his own, refused to work for his father at the investment firm. He became a lawyer instead, and now, at thirty-one, he’s made partner.”

I was betting, in spite of her defense, that his family’s business, as well as those of their friends, had helped him on the express track. No one made partner at a law firm that young, not unless they were bringing some serious money, in the form of prestigious clients, to the table.

“Well, good for him,” I announced, grinning at her, offering her my hand. “And my name’s Croy Esca, by the way.”

“Oh my goodness,” she gasped, taking my hand in both of hers, laughing. “I’m such a spaz today. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right; it’s still early where we’re from, and we were both at the airport before sunrise.”

“I still didn’t—what you must think,” she groaned. “I’m Astor, Astor Finnel.”

I couldn’t help but smile, because really, she was a charming person. She seemed fun, didn’t take herself too seriously, and by all appearances, was laid-back and down to earth. I had not expected that when I read the file.

Astor had a degree in the history of art and architecture from Brown University, was a socialite who sat on the board of directors of several charities, and she lived lavishly on her trust fund. Her parents wanted her to marry; she wanted to see the world. She met Brigham in Barcelona, and they’d been together ever since. It must be nice for him to know that his money was of no interest to her since she had millions of her own. Brig Stanton won big when he snared her.