The Redemption (Filthy Rich Americans 4)

It was my money, after all.

But my time away had changed me, even as I’d struggled not to let it in. My selfish thinking had contributed to my downfall, and I was determined to be a better man. Plus, Sophia had worked hard to make this event a success and exceeded my expectations when I’d given her zero support or guidance. She was due all the appreciation.

And yet, all Damon Lynch did was stand there and stare at her dubiously.

My annoyance flared, and I glared at him while issuing the command. “So, perhaps you should thank her.”

“Yeah, of course.” He returned to life and gave her a quick smile. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she mumbled back, but it felt perfunctory. She’d given it without thought, as a conditioned, polite response.

Not that Damon noticed or cared. His gaze was already back on me, the girl forgotten, and I set my teeth in displeasure as disappointment sank her shoulders. As soon as he began rattling off all the donations he’d garnered at the party, she turned and strolled away, abandoning us.

I’d once been as selfish as Lynch, unaware of anyone who didn’t have something I needed or wanted, and Sophia had been invisible to me. And, yes, there were things I wanted and needed from her now, but I was sure I’d always be aware of her regardless of what happened.

Etiquette dictated that Damon Lynch provide me with some sort of gift as a show of appreciation for the party I’d thrown for him, and Monday morning I sent an email instructing him to send it to Sophia. I would have told him in person, but with the holiday tomorrow, office attendance was poor. Most executives chose to extend their weekend through today.

“Good morning,” Sophia said as she delivered my coffee, setting it beside my keyboard in the spot I preferred. “People magazine reached out to me last night and asked for the rights to publish one of my pictures.”

She had lit the internet on fire with the party. Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook were flooded with pictures from Saturday night.

“Which one?” I asked.

Her smile was coy. “The one of you.”

Electricity crackled between us.

When I’d turned to her after the lantern launch and demanded she join me on a walk, I’d thought she’d been shooting video. I hadn’t realized she’d snapped a picture instead. She’d captured me in my tuxedo, my face turned up toward the sky and a smile on my lips, surrounded by the glowing lanterns.

She’d cropped and edited it so the composition and focus were exactly right.

All the pictures taken of me during my fifty-five years, and Sophia had now shot the best two.

I’d forgotten what I looked like with a real smile, but she’d trapped it and posted it for the world to see, even flattering me with her caption.

My boss is better than yours.

The endless comments from strangers of #silverfox were nice, but I’d obsessed over her line all weekend. Did she mean it strictly as an employer, or as I hoped she did—that I was the one she allowed to be in charge and responsible for her?

She’d continued to send me morning pictures for my approval, and today she wore a white sleeveless dress with a high collar and her hair pulled back in a bun. She was polished, but her youthful blue eyes and tan skin kept her from looking too severe.

I feigned indifference. “What did you tell People?”

“I said I’d check with you first.”

I turned my full attention to her. “I appreciate that and, yes, it’s fine. You must know I’m pleased with the picture.” I’d used it to update my profile image on all my social media.

“I got lucky,” she said.

I narrowed my eyes. “Don’t do that.” When confusion played across her face, I continued, “Don’t pretend you’re not competent. You are good at what you do, Sophia. Own it.”

She gave a lopsided grin, as I’d caught her in a harmless lie. “Yeah, okay. I was hoping I’d get a smile out of you.”

“You did,” I agreed. She prepared to leave and return to her desk, which meant it was time to strike. I motioned toward the sitting area. “By the way, that came for you this morning.”

Surprise darted through her expression, and she turned her gaze toward the table, expecting another large white box and a silver bow.

“Macalister, we talked about . . .”

Her words petered out when she spotted the smaller, glossy black box tied with a sinful red ribbon. Her shoulders lifted with her deep breath.

She offered it hesitantly, smart enough to know it wasn’t likely. “Shoes?”

I pushed back in my chair, stood, and steeled my expression, not wanting to give anything anyway. She’d surprised me with the lanterns, and it was only fair that I do the same to her.

“Open it and find out.”