Page 6 of Without Apology

CHAPTER TWO

Simon

When I’d first heard my newest assignment would be in Dallas, I’d been less than thrilled about the location. I was an urban dweller who preferred larger cities, such as London or New York. However, a job was a job, so I flew in from New York at the last possible moment before my scheduled dinner with the owner of the newest company I was looking to buy on behalf of my client.

Only in small-town America did an owner wanting to discuss the potential sale of his business invite someone over for dinner rather than make a reservation at a fancy restaurant. But my client was adamant about purchasing this particular company and I didn’t make my millions by telling him no. The least I could do was drop by one of the local supermarkets to pick up a bottle of champagne beforehand.

What I hadn’t counted on was meeting the charming Ms. ‘Quite’ Single Peyton at the market, of all places. She’d been a breath of fresh air. Especially since I’d spent the last few years in Manhattan meeting women who were more interested in my zip code or net worth than anything else. Of course, when you worked eighty hours a week, who had time for dating anyhow?

I’d laughed more in the ten minutes spent with her than I could ever remember having laughed with anyone.

Once I was in the back of the sedan and pulling out from the grocery store, I rang my assistant, Emma.

“Hello, Simon,” she answered.

Emma had been my right arm over the last seven years and probably knew me better than anyone else did.

“Hello. You all packed?” She was flying out of New York tomorrow to meet me here and bringing along our accountant, Tom.

“I am. However, I’m not sure what to pack for Kansas.”

I grinned. “Texas. They get very perturbed here if you call it anything else.”

Emma was British like me. And like me, she didn’t often get the whole state pride thing. It was decidedly American. Nevertheless, I’d learned it didn’t do us any favors to piss off people by lumping them into the wrong state. It was almost as bad as getting the American football teams wrong.

“Fine. Fine. Is it hot?”

“Not too bad this time of year.” It was March and mild. However, I was told that in August it would be a different story. “Do you by chance have a status on my International Driver’s Permit?” Without one, I wasn’t eligible to drive here in the States. I realized I’d prefer to pick Peyton up for a date instead of showing up with a driver.

There hadn’t been a need to drive in New York City, which I’d called home for a decade. But if I was to be here in Texas for the next few weeks, I didn’t want to be chauffeured around. The look on Peyton’s face had been enough to confirm that wasn’t typical here in the Southwest. Plus, it had been a long time since I’d driven, and I was eager to try it again.

“Yes. The permit came in. I’ll email you a photo of the document, so at least you’ll have proof until the hard copy arrives. Although I don’t understand why you wouldn’t prefer to have a driver.”

“This isn’t New York. There’s a lot of space, and I’m anxious to take a car on the open road and step on the gas.” What could I say? Freedom was calling to me.

“I’m sorry. I must have the wrong number. The Simon I know prefers not to waste any time and to work in the back of the car.”

She wasn’t wrong. It was how I often spent car or plane rides.

“You sure you want to rent a Mercedes? I can call back and get a fire-engine red Lamborghini.”

“Funny. Actually, what would fit in better here would be a pickup truck.”

“Oh, the horror. Next thing you know, you’ll be wearing boots and baling hay.”

“Keep making jokes, and I’ll change our hotel reservation to the Stagecoach Inn.”

Of course she had to have the last word. “As if you’d remember how to make your own reservation, let alone change one.”

Once again, she wasn’t wrong.

***

When I arrived at the owner of Maddox Consulting’s house, my first thought was that it was huge. After living in both Manhattan and London, where land was at a premium, I found it jolting to see such a sprawling house, with dozens more like it lining the street.

The man himself greeted me at the door, clasping my hand in a firm grip. “Hello, Mr. Granger. It’s nice to finally meet you in person.”

“Please call me Simon, Mr. Owens.”

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