Page 12 of The Billionaire's Second Chance
“That’s funny,” Charlie said, blinking. “I seem to recall asking you if you wanted to talk this morning, and getting–quite rudely, I might add–told to get dressed and get out and go fuck myself.”
I took a deep breath, ready to defend myself, but… I shook my head instead. It wasn’t worth it. I released the breath slowly.
“But if you have something to say, well, I suppose I’m listening,” he said. My eyes narrowed.Thanks. Howgenerous.
“I just wanted to tell you, Charlie, that this is really,reallyimportant to me.”
“Oh,” he said. He sounded surprised, and I waited for the sarcastic remark that would surely follow.Oh, really, Samantha? Your precious job is important? Could it be because you have no romantic prospects? No life?
It didn’t come. Maybe he didn’t understand.
“So,” I continued, then jabbed the air in his direction with my index finger. “You will not screw this up for me.”
His expression changed, and he barked out one sharp laugh.
“Screw this up foryou?” he asked, his eyebrows disappearing into unstyled brown waves. “Foryou, Samantha?”
“That’s right,” I said. “This means a lot to me, and I know you do things differently in the tech world, but in publishing–”
“You don’t need to tell mehow they do things in publishing, Sam,” he hissed. “You might remember that I spentmy entire lifehearing abouthow they do things in publishing. What’s your point?”
“I’m up for the New York Lit Award,” I said, and was gratified when his eyebrows rose. Having a grandfather who had built a publishing empire and an older brother who’d inherited it meant he wasn’t entirely ignorant of the significance: the New York Literary Association named one literary agent each year–one–as Agent of the Year. A friend of a friend had tipped me off thatmy namewas on this year’s list of potential winners.
Practically, it only elevated an already successful career.
But socially, it meant you hadmade itas one of New York’s literary elite.
I had to have it.
“You know as well as I do that they take this kind of thing into account,” I said.
“This kind of thing,” he echoed.
“Yes,” I explained patiently. “Volunteering, giving back. It looks good in their write up. They don’t want to be seen as awarding the agent who just… makes the most money.”
“Itlooks good in their write up,” he said, eyebrows shooting further up his forehead.
“What, Charlie?” I asked, crossing my arms in front of my chest.
He huffed out a disbelieving laugh. “I knew you were serious about your job, Sam, but I didn’t realize just how…mercenaryyou are. Here I thought we werehelping children, but it’s just so you can win some stupid award and make a little more money.”
“That’s right,” I shot back, smiling sweetly, “like you aren’t doing this to get your company some good press. Tell me, Charlie, how many unpaid interns are you going to hire out of this year’sconveniently tech-literatesenior class?”
“I’m not–” he said, his voice getting louder. “I’m–” He held up his hands in surrender, and his voice had returned to normal when he spoke again. “You know what? It’s not worth it.”
My stomach fell out. No. I needed this. I needed that award.
“Don’t you dare, Charlie Martin, you cannotscrew this up–”
“If you sayfor youone more time, Samantha Scott, so help me God–”
“–for me.”
“I won’t!” he shouted. “It’s tempting, right now, just to spite you! But some of us,” he continued, “aren’t motivated by our own selfishness! These kids–”
He cut off abruptly, and I wondered if I’d misjudged this–if he really did care.
If he cares, it’s only because he has theluxuryof caring, I remembered.You don’t. Stay focused.
