Page 87 of Riot's Thorn
“I get that.” Roland goes through the ceremony of swirling and tasting the wine when the waitress returns. After his approval, she pours us our first glass, leaving the bottle. “So what’s next for you? Once all the paperwork goes through, your dad’s companies and properties will be liquidated, and you’ll be more than a billion dollars richer. What will you do with it?”
I debate telling him the truth or not. So far, I’ve kept everything about the FBI investigation, Bart, and the plans I have for my future a secret from everyone. “I’m starting a charity. I took a nonprofit management course in undergrad, and I’ve become well-versed in finances through my MBA. My dad also made me take psychology classes, claiming it would help my negotiating skills, so I think I’m equipped to work with the demographic I want to help.”
“That’s honorable. What type of nonprofit?”
“I want to help women and children who are victims of trafficking,” I say proudly. The answer was so simple. It only makes sense to spend Dad’s money righting some of the wrongs he caused. He’d hate it, and that makes this decision even better.
“Wow.” His tone sounds impressed, but his hand tightens around his wine glass. I only notice because his rich brown skin tone turns white around his knuckles. That’s a strange reaction, but I don’t have time to think more about it when he switches the focus to Dad. “Your father would be so proud. He was quite the philanthropist too, did you know that?”
“I didn’t. He actually didn’t talk to me much about the business outside of what I was learning in school.”
He takes a healthy sip of wine. “Well, he donated to your college, for one. But he was also part of a collective managed by someone whose whole job it was to find charities that really made a difference all over the world to donate to.”
“Wow,” I say into my wine glass, trying to sound impressed.
The waitress comes, and we place our orders. Roland keeps the conversation going since I’m too tired to think. The food is delicious, and Roland stuck to one glass of wine, which means I end up drinking almost the whole bottle. By the time dessert comes, I’m feeling loose and happy but not overly drunk, since our meal took an hour and a half with multiple courses.
“You really impress me, Parker,” Roland says.
“Thanks.”
He takes a small bite of the chocolate mousse he insisted we share. “Yeah, I mean, you’re smart, talented, poised, and—forgive me if this is too forward—absolutely stunning.”
I blush despite myself. “Thanks. The same could be said about you. I mean, trade the beautiful for handsome. But you know what I mean.”
“You think I’m handsome,” he says flirtatiously.
“I have a feeling you already know that about yourself.”
He takes a spoonful of the mousse and holds it out to me. “You have to taste this. They took such a simple dessert and made it something memorable.”
The conversation is veering into uncomfortable territory, and I’m starting to think Roland has the wrong idea. But I can’t think of a way out of it, so I wrap my lips around the spoon, humming my approval. “Delicious.”
His dark brown eyes linger on my lips. “I may be way off here, but I’d kick my own ass if I didn’t ask you out on a date.”
“Roland—”
“I know you said that guy was your boyfriend, but you two clearly don’t make sense. You need someone by your side who can amplify you. Plus, I think we’d be good together.” He grins. “You already said you thought I was handsome, so I know you’re attracted to me.”
“I’m sorry, I’m going to stop you there. I don’t date to further my career or get into the right circles. I’ve seen what living a lifethat way can do to a person, and it’s not me. Riot might be rough around the edges, but he treats me the way a man should treat a woman.”
His smile falls. “Can’t blame a man for trying.”
“Definitely not. Trust me when I say I’m flattered,” I say in an attempt to placate his bruised ego.
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m stuffed. Ready to get out of here?” He tosses his napkin on top of the basically uneaten mousse, no doubt staining the white linen, before snapping at a passing waiter to ask for the check. That right there tells me exactly the kind of man he is.
As we walk out, things feel awkward, and thinking about sitting in his car for forty-five minutes to get back to the cabin sounds painful. “I think I’ll call up the private car service Dad used.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. But I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Bright and early.”
I wince. “The wine is telling me maybe we should sleep in for an extra hour.”
He tosses his fob in the air and catches it. “You’re the boss.”
