Page 45 of The Autumn We Fell in Love

I offer her a real smile. “I’m Laurent Orville.”

It takes me a minute to realize I just gave my real name to a strip club customer, something that’s not typically done. All the performers use stage names for a reason.

Somehow, though, it felt natural to give her my actual name. She feels like a person I can trust.

“Shira Meade.” Her face flushes further. It’s pretty.She’spretty. This woman is like a Pre-Raphaelite painting come to life.

The name snags at my memory. “Hang on,” I say, shifting my weight to one side, considering her anew. “You’re not the Shira Meade who had Sonoma sneering at Silicon Valley not too long ago, are you? The app designer?”

“I wouldn’t saysneering,” she mutters, dropping her gaze again, tugging on the hem of the understated but classy black tunic she’s wearing.

I’m surprised by a sense of disappointment flooding my chest at the loss of her green eyes on mine. What the hell has gotten into me?

“Don’t let her fool you,” Shira’s friend laughs. “She is absolutely that person.”

“Silicon Valley couldn’t stand that someone from wine country designed one of the best apps of the year,” I say, full-on grinning now. It’s not often I get to flex my mental muscles in the club. It feels damn good.

As if it requires great effort, Shira says, “That’s actually why we’re here.”

Sudden fear grapples at my throat. Why would one of the tech designers of the year be here, the Fine As Wine Strip Club and fucking Wine Bar, needing my help?

For a dizzying moment, I wonder if she’s somehow learned of my tenure at Yale. That’d be a novelty, an Ivy League stripper.

News like that could easily get back to my parents.

Not that they really pay attention to the news coming out of San Pablo. Like so many in Merlot, they adore their little wine country bubble and have no desire to pop it.

But gossip of a Yale graduate working as an exotic dancer? That would make them sit up and take notice — and ask uncomfortable questions.

But Shira’s talking. I force myself to focus on her words. Something about her award-winning dating app, and investors, and a surprise demand.

I don’t know exactly what she’s asking of me, only that it’s clear that it has nothing to do with Yale, thank goodness. I command my racing pulse to ease.

“Wait,” I say, trying to catch up, “you’ve got investors who are going to take your app bigger than it already is, and they’ve got some unreasonable ask for you?”

She nods.

“Typical financial man bros,” I snort, shaking my head. I’ve dealt with so many guys like that. They think that just because they’ve got loads of cash, they can treat people however they want, which usually means like shit.

“That’s what I said,” Shira’s friend says. “More or less.”

“You know their demand is unreasonable, right?” I say to Shira. “Your app already has enough clout to do well on its own without them.Theyshould be beggingyoufor the opportunity to let them invest in your work.”

Shira wrinkles her nose. “I hardly think Blush is worth begging to invest in." She shakes her head as if to clear it. “Anyway, I just need someone to pretend to be my Blush-matched beau for a lunch or something.”

“Seriously though,” I protest, “with accolades like yours, you don’t need to—“

“I’ll pay.” She’s scowling. I consider her, wondering if I’ve offended her. Or maybe confused her? Her face is unreadable.

But one thing is clear. She wants what she wants, and she’s willing to pay for it.

“I’m in,” I say, even though I have no idea what she’s paying, or when she needs me.

I don’t care, I realize. I don’t care about those details. There’s something about Shira that I want more of.

What’s more, these investors she’s negotiating with are trash. To ask what they did is unacceptable. For whatever reason, she can’t see it.

But I can.

---