The Million-Dollar Question. Kimberly Lang
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That would give her time to build a reputation and network here in Miami and increase her chances of further seasons exponentially.
She just had to get through dinner with Evan and get his agreement first.
Easy-peasy, right?
Oddly, Evan hadn’t asked many questions when she’d emailed him, saying hello and asking if he’d like to get together. She’d provided her phone number, but he’d stuck to email, setting up the place and time with the minimum amount of communication necessary. She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a not.
It had taken courage—more than she thought she’d need for something so simple—to email him in the first place, but he’d accepted so quickly that she’d only had forty-eight hours to figure out how to actually pull this off.
Evan and Jory were friends, practically brothers. Although she’d not been there to see it, she knew Evan loved her parents and had spent a lot of weekends and holidays at their house instead of his own. Her parents loved him. But that had nothing to do with her, and she couldn’t cash in on her parents’ kindness or Jory’s friendship like some kind of promissory note owed to her.
But they weren’t friends. They were just two people in Jory’s orbit, basically little more than strangers.
Okay, they were more than strangers. She just wasn’t sure where on the hierarchy of relationships to place her brother’s roommate when he was also the guy you lost your virginity to in what turned out to be only slightly more than a one-night stand.
Ugh.
While she’d felt hurt and used at the time, perspective could offer the balm that it probably hadn’t been personal. And realistically, he’d most likely saved her from making a similar mistake later on—when she would have been alone, surrounded by strangers, and even more vulnerable. Naïveté was a dangerous thing.
The truly embarrassing part was that she’d known exactly what he was going in to it. Hell, he’d taken Jory into his decadent world of wine, women and song, debauching him quite thoroughly. But with the arrogance only a teenager could have, she’d believed she was different. Special.
Combined with Evan’s combo of charm, good looks and raw sensuality, that arrogance had easily overwhelmed and shouted down anything she’d known merely intellectually.
That was the rational, reasonable part of her brain. The same part of her brain that turned that burn into something useful, allowing her to focus on her training instead of getting wrapped up in messy entanglements that could have complicated her life unnecessarily. So that was good.
Parties, boyfriends … all those things she’d been told she’d have to sacrifice for her career didn’t seem like so much of a sacrifice after that. Or at least not an overly painful one.
Her inner eighteen-year-old still held a grudge about it, but she’d need to keep that safely hidden away.
Even if Evan felt remorse over the whole sorry incident, she wasn’t sure that was something she could—or wanted to—play on, either. She’d look foolish and ridiculous and hopelessly naive—and petty and manipulative to boot.
Nope. That little lost weekend needed to stay lost.
She was an adult; he was an adult. This was a purely business transaction, albeit with a personal glaze. But there was no crime in networking the contacts you had, personal or not.
Be friendly. Be businesslike. Evan was a successful businessman. According to Jory, Evan’s advertising agency was growing in phenomenal leaps and bounds, and he should appreciate a professional approach. There was no need to jump right in with the request—a little pleasant small talk always greased the wheels nicely. She would put the sponsorship out on the table early, giving him plenty of time for questions and plenty of time for her to convince him. If all went well, she could walk out of here tonight with his commitment and the ballet’s business manager could get the good news by class tomorrow.
If all went well.
And there was no reason why it shouldn’t.
“Good evening, Mr. Lawford.”
The valet at Tourmaine opened Evan’s door and greeted him with a smile. Tourmaine was his go-to place for entertaining clients—modern enough to feel on trend without being trendy, music loud enough to hear and enjoy without hindering conversations, and, most importantly, good food and a staff that knew him—and his tipping habits—well. “Good evening, Brian.”
“Enjoy your meal.”
“Thank you.” A banal, basic exchange of pleasantries, but one that he needed to remind him that the world hadn’t, in fact, gone insane.
Because barring that, he had no idea why Olivia Madison wanted to have dinner with him.
He knew, of course, that she’d moved to Miami. Jory had been ridiculously proud of his sister’s accomplishment, and they’d had dinner back in the fall when Jory came to see Olivia’s first performance with her new company. But Olivia hadn’t joined them, and Jory didn’t bring up his sister unnecessarily.
Evan hadn’t seen Olivia since she was eighteen, and that was definitely intentional. The only thing that had ever come between him and Jory was Olivia, and they’d nearly come to blows over her, doing damage to their friendship that had taken time to repair. He didn’t know how twitchy Jory might be about it these days, but it wasn’t something he wanted to stir up—not until he at least knew why Olivia had contacted him in the first place.
Miami was plenty big enough for them to never come in contact with each other at all, and he assumed that was exactly how Olivia—and Jory, as well—wanted it.
So an email out of the blue from her with a dinner invitation had to be viewed with some level of suspicion, yet there was no way he could not have come. If only to find out why.
Yep, that was his story and he was sticking to it.
He was a few minutes early, but Olivia was already there, the unusual coppery-blond hair both Madison siblings inherited from their mother easy to spot in the small crowd of people around the bar. She was in profile to him, reading something on her phone, giving him the chance to examine her at leisure.
She’d been baby-faced at eighteen, but far more mature in some ways than others her age—by then, she’d already traveled and lived abroad, a professional in her career when most others were still figuring out their future. She’d said she’d wanted a taste of real college life, the same as anyone else, and there hadn’t been a good reason not to indulge her—and himself at the same time.
The baby face was now gone, replaced by chiseled cheekbones and winged eyebrows that gave her a classical, elegant look, emphasized by the impossibly good posture and movements that were effortlessly graceful—even those as simple as ordering a drink or walking toward him … which she was now doing, a hesitant smile on her face.
“Evan. It’s good to see you.”
While her tone sounded sincere, he doubted it was completely true. There was a moment of hesitation, then she leaned in for one of those air-kiss things. Her cheek touched his accidentally and she jumped back as if she’d been scalded. He wouldn’t deny it: it sent a bit of a jolt through him, as well. He cleared his throat. “And you.”
The initial pleasantries finished, they stood there in an awkward silence, and he wasn’t used to awkward silences. “You look good,” he managed.
There was a small tug of her lips that stopped short of a smile. “So do you.”
More silence.
Thankfully, the hostess arrived to save them. “Mr. Lawford, we have your table ready.”
Following Olivia to the table gave him another chance to study her, and goodness, she was thin. She’d always been on the slight side, a necessity of dancing, but wraithlike was the word that came to mind. It