Chapter 13: Davis
My coffee tastes worse than usual. I made it this morning using this five-hundred-dollar French press that my sister swears by, and with these beans from Costa Rica that my father’s friend sent to him last Christmas. And yes, my father’s friend is, in fact, the President of Costa Rica.
But despite having the best French press and the best beans in the world, I still think my coffee tastes horrible. I wish I could drink it how I want: with a shit ton of sugar and heavy cream and whipped milk on top, but my nutritionist made me cut back on dairy and sugar six years ago and my trainer agreed that it was the right decision.
Plus, the fact that Olivia practically salivates every time she looks at me now is also a motivator to keep the diet and workout regimen going.
I take a drink of my coffee and look out of the SUV’s window at the passing views of the highway. There’s not much to see. The I-90 is about as interesting as a conversation with my younger brother, not to mention just as depressing to look at. When I’ve finally seen enough Cracker Barrels to last me a lifetime, I pull out my phone, which I’ve tried to avoid for the last two days, ever since Olivia and I parted on Saturday night. I didn’t stick around to see her reaction to my abrupt departure, but I figured it couldn’t have been good. I haven’t heard from her since.
Probably for the best. Based on her reaction, an angry text from her would have simply been confirmation that she hates me. Which is the point, yes, but I can’t say that I do well with anyone hating me, especially since I’m pretty sure that no one has ever hated me before.
When I click on my phone screen, I find that I don’t have any messages from Olivia. Typical, sure. We don’t text. She just gets naked for me and lets me do whatever I damn well please with her body, but no, we don’t text. I decide to change that.
My phone buzzes with emails and messages from Kelsey, but I ignore them. I just keep focusing on my sparse text string with Olivia, typing and deleting repeatedly. “Hey.” “Hi there.” “Hi Olivia.”
It all looks so dumb, but I don’t know what else to say to her.
Me: Morning
Me: Miss me?
As soon as I send that out, I regret it. She doesn’t miss me. The last time we saw each other, I was walking away from her half-dressed, cum-covered body.
You want her to hate you, I remind myself. The whole point is to make her life a living hell if she wants your money.
It’s a much better plan than my original rose petals and doves and hugs plan, but the weight of it does burden me. If I ever get on better terms with Kieran again, I’ll be sure to commend him for being such an asshole because it’s much harder than it looks.
Olivia doesn’t respond right away. Once half an hour passes, I wonder if she’s going to respond at all. She definitely doesn’t have to; it’s not in our contract. But the thing about Olivia is that she’s dependable. No matter what, she responds. If I send her an email, she replies within minutes. If her brother calls her all the way from Missouri when she’s in Amsterdam, she takes the call. For her to ignore me…
…yeah, she’s pissed off at me.
Redemption. Vindication. Motherfucking justice.
We cross into Connecticut around the time that my phone buzzes with a text from her, and I can’t unlock the screen fast enough.
Olivia: Your admin cancelled our meeting forty-five minutes ago. That’s not enough time for me to miss you.
Me: I’ll be in Boston until Friday.
Me: Interested in overtime?
Olivia: Not really.
Yep, she’s definitely upset with me. That outright rejection is exactly what it looks like: a hard pass. Nope. She has zero interest in even hearing me out.
Saturday night clearly crossed a line for her, which means that my next move needs to be strategic. If I keep being an asshole, she’s going to distance herself from me until the weekend, when she’s contractually bound to see me.
If I want to make it hurt more, I’ll need to get back into her good graces.
Me: Shame. I know you need the money.
Olivia: K.
“K.” That’s the kiss of death. She may as well have texted, Go die, you annoying bastard, because it’s basically the same thing.
It’s time to be sweet. It’s time to channel Davis circa a decade ago and to remember how he would have treated Olivia in this situation.
Me: Go work in my office. I’m not using it today
Olivia: I have my own office, thanks.
Me: Does your office have a sectional sofa, full-wall windows on two sides, and a popcorn maker?
She begins typing and then stops several times. This continues for over a minute until she finally texts:
Olivia: Fine. You had me at popcorn maker.
Me: It’s yours for the day, plus an extra five-thousand. Under one condition.
Olivia: Oh here we go…
Me: I’ll be expecting a nude picture of you at my desk.
As soon as I send the message, I wonder if I’ve lost my mind. I glance over at my father, who is sitting one row ahead and to my left in an SUV en route to Boston. Next to my father, to my right, is Gregory Davenport V, Davenport-Ridgeway’s CEO and Gray’s father.
My boss’s boss’s boss. A man who visited me in the hospital the day after I was born.
And here I am, asking a summer intern to sext me.