Seducing Mr. Grumpy

14. Not knowing when to stop. [Part 2]

She finally pulls her face away from the window and turns to look at me, genuine surprise in her eyes.

"You don’t know what Coachella is?"

I stare at her, expressionless, doing everything in my power not to blush. I hate not knowing something, and I almost expect her to mock me—but instead, she just smiles sweetly and pulls out her phone to start showing me photos of a colorful, massive concert.

"This is Coachella," she says, pointing at her screen. "And that’s us. We go every year, all four of us. It became our tradition."

"You look happy," I tell her, taking the phone from her hands to zoom in on her face and get a better look at her smile.

"That was one of the best days of my life—I met Harry Styles!"

"What?" I glance sideways at her.

"Harry Styles? The singer?"

"I know who Harry Styles is. What I don’t understand is why meeting him made it the best day of your life."

"Because… it’s him, obviously!"

I groan and hand her the phone back, not wanting to see another picture.

And the rest of the ride is nothing but Summer talking to me about how amazing Harry Styles is—his deep, slow voice, his dimples, his boyish smile.

"Shut up" I gently place my hand over her mouth, silencing her rambling. "Enough about Harry Styles, we're here."

"Oh, that was fast!"

It wasn’t fast. She just got too caught up talking about that curly-haired i***t.

As we approach the table, we realize it’s not Mr. Morón waiting for us, but his brother. That irritates me even more. I was expecting to meet with the company’s president, not his second-in-command.

We go through the usual introductions, during which I say Summer is my assistant, and I immediately notice the way this man and his assistant look her up and down with visible distaste. My hands clench under the table, and a rage I’ve never quite felt before rushes through my veins. It’s so intense I have to force myself to smile and erase the frown threatening to take over my face.

Thankfully, we cut to the chase and start discussing the real reason for this meeting.

"As you can see," I point to the chart in front of Samir Morón, "in the long term, your return on investment would be over one hundred percent. There’s no loss involved."

"Yes," the man nods, "but there’s nothing here that guarantees those percentages will hold."

"Well, that’s the risk with any investment. No one can give you guarantees—" Summer grabs my thigh under the table, and that’s how I know I need to ease my tone. "But as you can see in these graphs, ninety-eight percent of my investors have been satisfied with their profits, both short and long-term."

"And the remaining two percent?"

This son of a b***h.

"Nothing’s perfect in business, as I’m sure you know, Mr. Morón."

"You’re suggesting a very large amount of money, Mr. Pauls."

An amount I’m sure he spends on a new convertible like it’s a Sunday grocery run.

I gather my patience and search for new charts on the tablet.

"As you can see, we have a strong market position. Expanding to more Asian countries is bound to be a success… here, let me show you."

After more analysis and presentations, I finally feel like I’ve got him in the palm of my hand.

Until he turns to Summer and says, "You’re the assistant, right?"

She nods timidly, with that soft smile she shouldn’t give just anyone—especially not someone looking at her like she’s beneath him.

The man turns back to me, completely dismissing her.

"And the clothes your assistant is wearing—do they represent your brand, Mr. Pauls? Are those… items from your company?"

I clench my jaw.

"Of course. We offer all kinds of styles. It’s fashion, after all. Do you know what fashion is, Mr. Morón?"

Summer grips my thigh again, but when he throws another disdainful glance her way, I almost lose it.

"It’s hard to take you seriously when your assistant dresses like that, Mr. Pauls."

A reasonable part of me knows the man might have a point. But the unreasonable part can’t stop seeing the way he looks at her—like she’s nothing, when all she’s done is smile kindly.

"The numbers speak for themselves. That’s why we’re here, not to judge her."

"Even so..."

He looks at her again, like she’s something stuck to the bottom of his shoe, and murmurs something in Arabic to his assistant. I don’t understand what he said, but judging by their snickering, I know they’re mocking her.

Fuck this.

I stand up abruptly, loud enough to draw attention from everyone nearby. And I want to hurl a string of obscenities at that asshole, but then I catch Summer’s eyes—she just wants to leave. She’s not used to confrontations or setbacks. I can see this whole situation is scaring her.

I take a few deep breaths, trying to calm the rage boiling in my veins, my hands clenched into fists, seconds away from doing something stupid. But then I look at her again—her fear, her surprise, her uncertainty—and I force myself to dial it down.

In the end, I just pull out my wallet, toss some bills on the table, grab Summer’s hand, and get us the hell out of there.

"Dominic, what did you just do?" Summer pants behind me.

"Nothing," I grunt, playing dumb.

"You need to go back and apologize!"

I laugh, but it comes out sounding anything but amused.

"Nic, I’m serious. You said you’ve been fighting for this deal for months!"

"They can shove their money up their asses."

"Nic!"

She tugs my hand, forcing me to stop. We’re already outside the restaurant, on the pedestrian walkway. The heat is suffocating, which only makes everything feel more overwhelming.

I run a hand over my jaw, trying to steady myself as their mocking laughter replays in my head.

Those bastards—who the hell do they think they are, looking at her like that?

"You can’t act like this!" she yells, overwhelmed, and only now do I notice how shaken she is.

Which just pisses me off more.

"Those assholes had no damn right to—"

"It was stupid! You can’t react like that—it’s not fair!"

"Fair?!" I growl. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"It’s not fair to me," her voice cracks as she looks at me, eyes brimming with tears, and it unravels me in the worst way. "You can’t be like this with me when two seconds later you’ll treat me like we’re not even friends. You confuse me."

"This has nothing to do with us."

"Bullshit." A tear escapes her, and I clench my fists, stopping myself from wiping it away. "I’m not a little girl. I don’t need you to be my protector. All I’m asking is for you to be my friend. Can you even say we’re friends, Nic?"

I open my mouth—I want to say yes, we’re friends—but the words just won’t come out.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck!

She wipes the tear away hard, looking off to the side as a broken little laugh escapes her, and I can feel myself starting to shake.

"It’s really hard dealing with you. So hard to love you."

"I never asked you to love me, Summer."

I want to take the words back the moment they’re out—but it’s too late.

She nods, and I can see her thinking it over, and all I want is to ask her to stop—to beg her to stop overanalyzing my shitty words—but I stay frozen, unable to say the right thing.

"That’s always been the problem, hasn’t it, Nic?"

"No, I—"

She shakes her head, cutting me off. I don’t even think she’s listening anymore.

"I’ve never known how to stop—especially when it comes to you."

Overwhelmed, motionless, and unable to move, I watch her walk away from me.

Shit!

[2/2]