Page 53 of Filthy Rich Daddies
Dean returns laden with brown paper sacks, the smell of peppery char filling the suite. He sets one at my elbow. “Eat.” He cracks his own bag. I obey because burger grease is life.
The first bite floods my mouth with umami. I forgot human maintenance tasks. The third bite returns color to the world, fades the server fan squeal.
Dean waits to speak until I wipe my lips. “I saw her.”
I freeze, a fry halfway to my mouth. “Where?”
“The boardroom corridor. She…we talked.” His cheeks warm. His beard can’t hide that grin. He shares a condensed version about hooking up on the board table, a discussion about choice, and a number exchange.
My chest compresses. Jealousy flares, yes, but stronger is relief that she reached out physically. Now I know she’s safe enough to seek connection. I swallow a fry, nod slow. “Good. She trusts you.”
He tilts his head. “She trustsus. She asked about you and Tic.”
I cover my grin with a napkin. “I’m okay. Hyperfocus break.”
He studies my face like a calibrating instrument. “You sure?”
I gesture at burger. “Refueling. Thanks to you.”
He leans back. “I can’t see a future yet, but I want…something. Anything. With her.”
I recognize that raw hunger. “I get it,” I admit. “When I let myself daydream, it’s about her. My chest hurts.Goodhurt.”
Dean nods. “Exactly.”
“Question is whether Tic’s onboard long-term, not just in bed.”
Dean’s gaze tracks a blinking status light, thinking. “He deals differently, but he’s drawn to her. You saw the way he talks to her.”
“Then we ask,” I say, as if inviting our eldest brother into a group project is simple. I grin.
He doesn’t. “Optics,” he mutters. “CEO, CTO, former COO all dating the same twenty-two-year-old? People will combust.”
I snort. “Optics are JPGs on gossip sites. Who cares?”
“Investors, franchise partners, her professors, her parents, her friends—her,” he counters, voice still soft but edges sharpened. “Col, she’s still an undergrad, and we—we’re walkingFortuneheadlines. Imagine paparazzi cameras outside her dorm.”
The server fans whir like distant surf. His point sinks under my skin, cold and obvious. I’ve been so busy chasing anomalies and future stroller designs that I forgot her daily bandwidth. Hazels under flashbulbs, Arabella fending off TMZ, professors triple-checking plagiarism because sudden money equals suspicion.
Ghosting us suddenly looks like self-defense more than fear.
I rest my elbows on my knees. “So we do stealth mode. Private entrances, NDAs for drivers. We can sandbox her from the press.”
Dean sighs. “Even a sandbox has cracks. First, she needs freedom to choose without three Copelands breathing destiny down her neck.”
I nod slowly. “Okay. We slow our roll. Let her ping when ready.”
He pushes off the rack, steps toward the door. “We’ll talk to Tic. Frame it as long-term support coalition, not a merger acquisition. Not yet, anyway.”
I smirk. “Language he understands.”
The door hisses open, and warmer air from the hallway sweeps in. Before he exits, I call after him. “Hey, Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“I still don’t give a damn about optics. But I care about her comfort. Thanks for the reminder.”
He gives a half grin I haven’t seen since we were kids. “We’ll find balance. It’ll take time, but we’ll get there.”
