Benjamin Kempball: The Way To A Banker’s Heart

Chapter 3: Benjamin

She was probably the cutest thing I had ever seen. It wasn’t just her looks—it was the way she carried herself. There was this beautifully awkward charm about her, a contradiction in motion. She seemed both at ease in her body and, at the same time, like a newborn foal testing its legs for the first time. That slight clumsiness didn’t make her frustrating or annoying, though. Quite the opposite. It made her endearing, like every small misstep was part of some unintentional dance meant to captivate anyone paying attention.

“So, what do you do, Benjamin?” she asked, her voice casual but curious as she wiped down some of the bottles behind the bar.

I hesitated, my lips parting to answer truthfully. I was on the verge of saying it outright—that I worked with stocks and that I was one of the most successful investment bankers in New York at the moment. But the words caught in my throat. A nagging thought held me back. Would she only see dollar signs if I told her? Would her perception of me shift into something transactional? I didn’t think she was like that, but something inside me didn’t want to take the risk. Another part of me, quieter but certain, felt she wouldn’t care at all.

“I work in sales,” I said instead, the statement technically true but far from the full picture.

“How wonderfully vague,” she chuckled, a playful grin lighting up her face. She reached up, stretching her body to return a bottle to one of the top shelves. Her movements were unpracticed but natural, and the slight wiggle in her balance made me bite back a smile. “In my mind, I just heard, I lure women back to my apartment, kill them, and make baskets out of their skin.”

I raised an eyebrow, caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief. Her mind had leaped to something so dark, so bizarre, yet she delivered the line with such casual ease it left me mesmerized. “What does that have to do with sales?” I asked, genuinely curious despite myself.

“Oh, you sell the baskets,” she replied matter-of-factly, as though this was the most logical explanation in the world.

“Of course, I do,” I said, nodding solemnly, fighting the laughter threatening to bubble out. “Does that make you my next victim?” I asked before I could stop myself. The words hung in the air for a moment, and I instantly regretted them, worrying she might think I was some kind of lunatic.

But instead, she laughed—a full, unrestrained laugh that lit up the entire bar. She tilted her head back, and the sound poured out of her like music, natural and effortless. It was intoxicating. “God no!” she said through her laughter, a wide grin spreading across her face. “But perhaps a future business partner.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “I’m very creative that way.”

I nodded, putting on my best serious expression, the one I wore every day in the boardroom. “So, what exactly do you bring to my business?” I asked, leaning into the joke, eager to see where she’d take it.

She turned fully to face me now, dipping the rag she held into a bucket of lukewarm water. The light caught in her eyes as she tilted her head, pretending to think deeply. “Hm,” she mused, looking up at the ceiling as though the answers were written there. “Well, I listen to a lot of true crime podcasts, so I know what not to do with a body,” she said, ticking off her points on her fingers. “I’m incredibly creative. I mean, I do everything—I bet we could even make rags out of their hair if it’s long enough.” She paused, giving me a sly smile before adding, “I’m also great at talking to people. A little ray of sunshine, some might say.”

Sunshine. The word hit me unexpectedly. If there was ever an embodiment of sunshine, it was her. She had that undeniable quality of breaking through the clouds, like the first warm light after a storm. The kind of light that brought rainbows with it. The kind that made you smile without even realizing it, filling you with a warmth you hadn’t noticed you were missing.

“Sounds interesting,” I said, stroking my jaw as though considering her proposition seriously. “How much of the revenue would you need?” I asked, tilting my head. “Percentage-wise, I mean.”

“Well, fifty, of course,” she said immediately, not missing a beat. “But you’ll have to do the actual killing part. That’s not for me.”

“Then I can’t give you fifty,” I countered, pretending to weigh the logistics. “That wouldn’t be fairly distributed.”

“Why not?” she asked, feigning offense. “I can guarantee your sales will skyrocket with my face on the brand.” She framed her face with her hands, flashing me an exaggerated smile. “Besides, if your sales skyrocket because of me and my hard work, I should be rewarded for it.”

I shook my head, biting back a grin. “I’ll give you thirty,” I offered, surprising even myself with how much I enjoyed this ridiculous banter. I’d never let anyone else negotiate with me this way—not in a million years.

“Thirty?” she gasped, her voice dripping with mock outrage. “That’s outrageous.”

“Thirty-five, then,” I said, playing along, just to keep her talking.

“Okay,” she said, leaning on the counter, her weight shifting as she raised one leg slightly to relieve the pressure on her feet. Her body language was unselfconscious, as though she’d forgotten we were in a bar and not just two friends bantering at a kitchen table. “I see how fifty might be a little too much. So, hear this,” she said, pausing dramatically. Her timing was so perfect I found myself leaning in without realizing it. “Forty-nine percent.”

I let out an incredulous sound, shaking my head at her audacity. “That is not going to happen,” I told her, my tone firm but laced with amusement. “You know, I’m actually a real businessman, and I know what my business is worth. I’m not about to hand almost half of it off to someone I barely know.”

Her sly smile widened, and it did unspeakable things to my already fraying composure. “Well,” she countered with a playful glint in her eye, “I’m going into business with someone I barely know, and I think I should be compensated for that risk.”

I narrowed my eyes at her, feeling a grin tug at the corner of my mouth despite myself. She mirrored my expression, her brows drawing together in mock seriousness as she leaned forward slightly, meeting my intensity head-on. “Forty percent,” I offered, my voice calm and measured. “And that’s my last offer.”

“As if,” she scoffed, rolling her eyes in a way that somehow made her even more charming. Her lips twitched upward again as she stood up straighter, her weight shifting evenly between her feet. “How about this, Mr. Businessman?” she proposed, her tone dripping with mock professionalism. “We both meet in the middle and say forty-five. For the first year,” she added, holding up a finger for emphasis, “and after I’ve doubled your sales—which I will—I’ll get the fifty percent.”

I leaned back in the uncomfortable barstool, pretending to mull over her proposal. In truth, I was stalling, unable to bring myself to leave the warmth of her presence. There was something magnetic about her, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Every movement, every quirk of her lips, every glimmer of mischief in her caramel eyes seemed effortlessly perfect. It felt almost surreal, like she was too good to be true.

No one is perfect, I reminded myself, though I couldn’t spot a single flaw. Everyone has a catch, some hidden sharp edge that eventually reveals itself. And yet, with her, I couldn’t find a single thing to tarnish the image forming in my mind.

“Deal,” I said finally, holding out my hand toward her.

Her grin grew impossibly wider as she reached out, her smaller hand disappearing into mine. Her touch was warm, her skin soft against my rougher palm. The contrast made me feel like a giant, though I didn’t mind the sensation one bit.

“Just so you know,” she said, her tone dripping with mock smugness, her eyes narrowing mischievously, “I would have done it for thirty.”

I leaned forward, still holding her hand firmly in mine. A smirk curved my lips, and I met her gaze, unflinching. “Just so you know,” I replied smoothly, “I would have given you the fifty percent at the very start.”

“Dammit!” she groaned, smacking her free hand against the counter with a dramatic flair that made me laugh. “I knew I should’ve been tougher.”

We released each other’s hands, but neither of us moved away. There was a lingering energy in the air, a palpable tension that neither of us seemed eager to break. Her caramel eyes held mine, and for a moment, the world outside of this conversation seemed to fade into the background.

Looking at her now, I couldn’t help but want more—more of her laughter, more of her light, more of the inexplicable warmth that seemed to radiate from her presence. She wasn’t just interesting; she was intoxicating, a puzzle I desperately wanted to solve.

“How about this,” I said, my voice lower now, more deliberate. “As a thank-you for joining my business, why don’t I take you out to dinner?”

Her smile faltered, and the light in her eyes dimmed ever so slightly. She leaned back, her gaze dropping to her hands as her fingers fiddled absentmindedly with the hem of her shirt. The shift in her demeanor was subtle but undeniable, and it sent a pang of regret through me. I’d overstepped.

“I’m sorry,” I said quickly, my words rushing out. “I shouldn’t have been so bold.”

“No,” she said immediately, her eyes flicking up to meet mine again. “I’m flattered. I really am.” Her lips curved into a soft smile, but the spark of mischief that had been dancing in her gaze moments ago was gone. “I just… don’t date,” she added, her voice hesitant, as if the admission cost her something.

Her words left me puzzled. There was a finality to them, but also a fragility, as though she wasn’t entirely convinced of them herself. My brow furrowed, and before I could stop myself, my eyes dropped to her hands. No rings. Not even the faint tan line of one. She wasn’t married.

“Much,” she added suddenly, the single word tumbling out as if to soften the blow of her earlier statement.

It left me in an awkward limbo. One part of me wanted to press her, to ask what she meant by that cryptic response. Did she mean she rarely dated? Or that she was in some kind of complicated situation? Another part of me, louder and more insistent, wanted to tell her it didn’t matter—that I didn’t care, as long as she wasn’t steady with someone else.

“Okay,” I said finally, though my tone betrayed my confusion. “So… is that a yes or a no?”

She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could get a word out, the door to the bar swung open, and a group of guys filtered in, their laughter and conversation filling the once-quiet space.

“Vi!” one of them called out, a broad smile lighting up his face as he waved enthusiastically in her direction.

“Hey, Sam,” she replied, her tone casual, though her eyes darted briefly to me before returning to the group.

“How about an it’s complicated?” she said softly, her voice lower now, almost hesitant.

Her words only deepened my confusion, leaving me with more questions than answers. It’s complicated. What did that even mean?