Page 37 of Moonlighter
“Nope.”But you’re the hottest, I privately add. My hormones are dancing the foxtrot even before that hand slides to my waist.
“Alex Engels! So nice to see you.”
The executive’s voice lifts me out of my reverie and reminds me that I’m here to network. I stop and turn. It would be rude not to greet the CFO of a gaming company and his golfing buddy, the venture capitalist.
I put on my Corporate Leader face and greet these men by name. “Arnie! Roger. Great to see you.” Names and faces have always come easily to me. “This is my boyfriend, Eric Bayer.”
It’s funny how the lie just rolls off my tongue.
“Are you in tech, Eric?” the head of SumoChip asks him.
“Not a chance,” he says easily. “I’m a forward for the Brooklyn Bruisers hockey team.”
It’s almost ridiculous how quickly their faces light up. “Great season!” Arnie gushes. “Shame about game seven.”
“Wasn’t it, though?” Eric says with a sigh.
Then the three of them pick apart the hockey playoffs season while I sip my drink and plot out what I want to say to the head of this convention.
“We’re boring Alex with this sports talk,” Roger says eventually.
“I do own a basketball team,” I remind him. “But hockey was never my favorite sport.”
Eric grabs his chest in a mock expression of horror.
“Until now, Honeybunch,” I add, to the amusement of the tech executives.
Eric gives me a wry grin and slips his arm around my waist. “Thin ice, cutie.”
The other men think that’s hilarious. But finally, we’re free of them. “You play the boyfriend role well,” I whisper as I lead him across the space.
“Nothing to it,” he says. “You’d almost think I’d been somebody’s boyfriend before.”
“I’m sure you have been.”
He gives his head a single shake. “Not often. Nobody wants a guy who travels as much as I do. Even if they say they do, they don’t.”
“I’m familiar with that problem myself.”
“I’ll bet you are.”
“Now who are we homing in on, here?” he asks quietly.
I glance at the group of men against the windows. Unfortunately, one of my own executives has joined the group. “The guy in the green tie is Trent Trainor. He runs this event, and I have some feedback that will be unwelcome.”
“Oh, brother. Will I need hazard pay for this?”
I pat his arm. “Nope. This time I get to do all the talking. The shorter man standing next to him is Peter Whitbread. He works for me.” He’s the general counsel and an old contemporary of my dad’s. Unfortunately, Peter is still pissed off that I’m CEO and he’s not.
“But you don’t like him,” Eric guesses.
“Is it that obvious? The feeling is mutual, too. Let’s get this over with.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I make my approach. “Evening, gentlemen.”
Four executives—all in their fifties—turn to me with polite smiles, each one a multi-millionaire, but each one slightly over the hill. These are the people who run tech conferences—the aging B team. Because the very sharpest minds in tech don’t have the time.
