Page 73 of Dating Goals
I follow Elodie across the ballroom, weaving through clusters of Switzerland’s elite while trying not to look like I’m being led to my execution.
Cain Fawkes stands by a massive window framed by velvet drapes, surveying the party like he’s mentally calculating who to throw off the mountain first. Something about this whole situation feels off, like when you know a slap shot is coming but can’t quite track where it’s headed.
Every few steps, I glance over my shoulder, hoping to spot Anika. Nothing. Where did she go?
“Eyes forward, hockey boy,” Elodie murmurs, her fingers digging into my arm like she’s afraid I might bolt. Which, to be fair, I’m considering. “And smile. You look like you’re marching to the penalty box.”
“That’s my concentration face,” I protest but paste on what I hope is a charming grin.
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile. “Just follow my lead and try not to say anything…hockey-ish.”
“Hockey-ish? What does that even mean?”
“Cain!” Elodie’s voice transforms into a light cadence as we approach Gold Sequin Jacket Guy. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
Cain Fawkes turns, and I immediately understand why Malcolm keeps him around. Despite the ridiculous jacket, everything about him screams that he breaks kneecaps for fun. His face has that particular hardness you only get from years of making people regret looking at him the wrong way. He’s shorter than me by a good three inches, but the way he carries himself suggests he doesn’t consider this a disadvantage.
His cold, calculating eyes flick from Elodie to me, narrowing slightly. “Elodie. Wasn’t expecting to see you tonight.”
His voice is surprisingly refined for someone who looks like he bench-presses small cars.
“Cain, darling!” Elodie purrs, releasing my arm to slide up to him. “That jacket is absolutely criminal. I’m blinded by your fabulousness.”
“It’s a Tom Ford,” he says, straightening his back. “Limited edition.”
“It’s…very sparkly,” I offer, which seems to be the wrong thing to say because Elodie jumps in smoothly.
“This is Griffin McGregor,” she says, like she’s presenting a prized show dog. “He’s one of Malcolm’s investors. And a hockey player.”
The way she says “hockey player” makes it sound like an adorable hobby, like I collect stamps or build ships in bottles.
Cain’s gaze narrows, his expression suggesting he’s just found something unpleasant stuck to his shoe. “I know who he is.”
“Then you know he’s trusted.” Elodie smiles sweetly. “Griffin is interested in exploring some of Malcolm’s more…exclusive opportunities.”
Cain looks me up and down. “Is that so?”
“That’s right.” Smooth, confident. “Always looking for smart opportunities.”
Cain’s eyebrow twitches. “Funny, I don’t recall seeing your name on tonight’s list.”
Elodie slides her fingers under Cain’s lapel. “I thought he might enjoy joining the discussion later.”
Cain’s eyebrows shoot up. “That discussion isn’t for tourists, Elodie.”
“I’m not a tourist,” I interject, trying to sound casual. “I’ve got a decent chunk of change invested already.”
“Hockey players,” Cain scoffs. “You get a few million and suddenly think you’re Warren Buffett.”
“Who says I’m not?” I grin. “Have you ever seen us in the same room together?”
“Don’t be rude, Cain,” Elodie chides, leaning in to whisper something in his ear that I can’t hear. His expression shifts slightly.
“Just eager to get in on the ground floor of whatever’s next,” I say.
Cain studies me for a long, uncomfortable moment, his expression unreadable. I maintain eye contact despite the growing certainty that this man has definitely made people disappear.
Finally, he nods. “Fine. If you want in, you follow my rules. No questions, no comments unless directly addressed. But if you say or do anything stupid, you’re out.”
