Still, sweeping through the airport with his team flanking us like some kind of secret service detail...it’s overkill.
I feel like I’m being stalked by the paparazzi instead of keeping their company.
Guess I can’t deny there’s a point to it, though.
We’re not the only ones arriving at Austin-Bergstrom International for the conference. People flit through the terminal with their press credentials already clipped to their shirts and luggage—and when we pass by, many of them stop in their tracks.
Roland gets at least a dozen wide-eyed double takes cast his way like arrows.
He isn’t fazed, moving with his head held high among us, coolly arrogant and the only one in our group not hidden behind a pair of overgrown shades.
My nerves jitter for him.
If looks could kill, he’d be dead on the spot.
No one dares to actually confront him, of course. But it’s pretty clear that people from all over the country and even the world aren’t fond of him.
Whether it’s personal or just detached loathing for what he does, I don’t know.
There’s a pang in my chest.
I know he’s an adult. More like a corporate king than any mere mortal.
The man signed up for this life.
Hell, he built it.
He chose this job and also changed The Chicago Tea from the mundane high-brow journal it was in my father’s day. He’s responsible for that and the outrage it’s drawn like flies to a corpse.
But how does it feel to be hated everywhere you go?
What strength does it take to square your shoulders and smile like it doesn’t affect you in the slightest?
I look for a hint of hesitation, of doubt, of questioning life decisions in his eyes.
Nothing.
God, maybe it really doesn’t affect him at all.
I can’t help watching him from the corner of my eye as our group climbs into a fleet of sleek black cars ready to whisk us away to our hotel to freshen up.
Somehow, I end up sharing a car with him.
Okay. So maybe I’m giving the second coming of Narcissus too much credit for thinking he has enough of a heart to even care about anything.
But some part of me wants to think he does.
He cares that Vance Haydn is hurting people, certainly, and I’m still not sure why.
Is it so wrong for me to see a human side to a villain, no matter how terrible he may be?
He doesn’t make it easy on this trip.
He’s in pure sadistic boss mode as we swarm the conference. I get to see the Roland the outside world thinks it knows: savvy, cool, unruffled, commanding. A tyrant who carries himself with a presence that dominates every room even when he’s not the center of attention.
I’m torn between the fascinating presentations on industry developments around the second life that people’s data creates online. Knowingly or not, we’re all building a shadow self that our content interacts with like it’s a real person...
...and it all belongs to the very real man who somehow, through every presentation and networking chat and snack break, maneuvers me to his side.
I don’t know if I should be offended or flustered.
I can’t tell if he’s trying to shelter the naïve little mouse because he thinks I can’t handle it—or does he just want me near him?
Stop it, my brain hisses. You’re here to work.
Later, as we break apart for refreshments, I slump against the wall near the snack table, just to catch my breath and get out of the general chaos.
Though I’ve been a journalist since college, I’ve never had to talk to this many people in one day in my life, not even at the Winthrope gala event.
I’m pretty proud of myself that I didn’t stutter, but I still need air.
I need a freaking minute.
Like most desperate wishes, that minute doesn’t last long.
I’m nibbling a finger sandwich stuffed with cucumber and garlic sauce when Roland brushes my side, taking the empty seat next to me and overwhelming my nose with his trademark scent.
It isn’t fair.
No man should make a woman feel him just by his smell.
He’s a tall, built menace who could scare Cesare Borgia today, slouching in the seat with his ankles crossed. Not a single wrinkle in his pressed black vest despite the whirlwind we’ve been through today.
“How are you finding it?” he asks, sipping at a paper coffee cup that probably tastes like an entire candy shop liquefied for his insane pleasure. “Learning anything useful?”
“Learning how to keep from landing more lawsuits at your doorstep,” I say quickly. “Even if you’ve let go of the reins, if Just Vibing gets a legal challenge for inappropriate use of cookies and consumer data...you’re the one defending the case.”
“I told you, I never lose. I’d take care of it before you could blink, Callie.”
“God, you’re so arrogant,” I say.
“Confident,” he corrects, cutting me open with that smirk.
Damn him.