The Fortunate Ones

He nods. “Usually the right cheek, but your boss, Brian—he goes for both.”

Is that genuine humor? It feels like a trap, as if he’s trying to bait me into incriminating myself. I remain silent, half tempted to slide off the barstool and leave.

“Well if it matters, you’re not my usual type either,” he offers.

What’s that supposed to mean?

“Well, yeah. I’d imagine you spend less time with the help and more time with the helped, like the group you came in with.”

“Those women came with my friends, part of the celebration committee,” he clarifies.

I remember that’s why he came in tonight.

“What are we celebrating?”

“We? Technically I’m the only one with a drink.”

He holds up his tumbler to prove his point.

Most of the veteran employees drink through their entire shift, so I don’t feel bad hopping down and slinking around the bar to pour myself something. There’s a ton of wine, but none of the bottles are open, so instead I settle for a Jack and Coke, heavy on the Coke. It’s not my usual, but I enjoy the slight burn of acid in the back of my throat. It distracts me from the fact that James is watching me walk around the bar and reclaim my seat. Jack and James.

I take another sip and then brave a glance at him. He looks amused…by me. How nice. I’ve always wanted to amuse a man as hot as him. Not.

“Now what are we celebrating?” I ask again, trying to keep the topic of conversation away from anything too personal.

“My company just launched a new product.”

“Oh yeah?” I’d heard he owned his own company. “What’s the product?”

“A smart watch.”

“Sounds fancy. What does this glorified pedometer do? Track how many steps housewives take between the wine aisle at Target and their kid’s soccer practice?”

I’m caught off guard by my own boldness, but if I’m truly off the clock, I’m no longer being paid to put up a subservient veneer.

“Not quite. It’s an early detection system for heart attacks.”

My glass pauses on the way to my mouth. “What? How?”

“It’ll bore you.”

“Try me.”

He sighs and sets his tumbler down. “Basically, a high-risk patient wears it around their wrist and the device’s biosensors keep track of temperature, oxygen saturation, blood pressure, and respiratory rates.”

“Sounds fancy,” I say.

“All of that is basic. The real breakthrough is our proprietary software. It integrates these previously isolated data points within predictive algorithms.”

He sees my raised eyebrow and decides to bring it down a notch.

“In 99% of the trial cases, it warned people about a myocardial infarction 10 minutes before it actually happened.”

“Wow, okay. So I pay you for a watch that beeps and tells me I’m going to die?”

He looks down and laughs, shaking his head. “When it detects an oncoming attack, it dispenses a low dose of aspirin, dispatches an ambulance to your location, and calls your emergency contact.”

I’m suddenly aware that I’ve started biting my lower lip. There’s something about a man talking passionately about something. When I realize what I’m doing, I release it and reach for my drink. “I feel bad for calling it a glorified pedometer.”

He laughs. “Well to be fair, it does track a user’s steps too. I think most smart watches do these days.”

I smile. “How long have you been working on it?”

“Five years.”

“Five years?! And you’re celebrating here?”

I sweep my hand across the dining room. It’s nice, don’t get me wrong, but if I’d spent five years working on something that SAVES PEOPLE’S LIVES, I’d celebrate anywhere but here. Disneyland, maybe.

“All day I’ve been pulled in different directions. Interviews, luncheons, a launch party…it feels good to sit here.” Maybe he can tell I’m not convinced, because he continues, “I’ve been coming here since I was a kid. In a way, it’s a second home for me.”

That’s surprising to hear. Most of the members who are legacies tend to have that old money stench to them—lazy, entitled, and more demanding than most. James Ashwood doesn’t carry the stench. In fact, the man smells like an amalgam of all those sexy-sounding cologne things: spice and pine and sandalwood. What the hell is sandalwood anyway?

“How long ago was that? Were you here before they moved the golf course?” I ask.

“Are you just trying to figure out my age?”

Guilty.

I blush. “Maybe.”

“I’m 36.”

“Huh.”

For some reason, I’m disappointed.

“How old did you think I was?”

“Just…younger.”

I take another sip of my Jack and Coke. Soon I’m going to need a refill, or maybe by then James will be ready to leave.

“How old are you, Brooke?”

I still, somehow shocked that he knows my name. Did Brian say it earlier? I can’t remember.

I slide my gaze to him. He’s watching me with those eyes, a gaze that can cut straight through me. “I’m 25.”

“25,” he repeats with a nod before taking a sip of his drink.