Page 12 of Protégé King

I’m directed to one of a cluster of buildings, a high-rise of glistening black glass, where I’m greeted at the door by an official looking doorman. From there, I’m directed the iconic Medallion Lounge, where I’m offered a gold pin to place on my dress that identifies me as one of the hundred. Nerves jangle in my belly again. This is happening to me. Little ol’ me. And then I go sideways again with my next thought. Damion is here. I should be thinking about the CEOs and leaders I will soon meet, but he is in my mind.

I shove thoughts of my bad boy, player, ex-neighbor, once friend, away.

Once I step inside the lounge, I’m informed by a hostess—a gorgeous redhead in a golden dress—that there are several levels for me to visit, and each is a different style journey. “Not only does each floor represent a different design style, you’ll find many of our state’s great business leaders on each level.” She motions to a waiter with champagne and says, “Enjoy the night. You deserve this, Alana.”

I blanch at her knowledge of my name but she’s already turned to another guest with a golden pin. I wave off the waiter, an easy decision considering how well tequila and Damion went nine months ago. I intend to stay crystal clear and sharp to enjoy this journey and an evening that rewards me for my hard work.

With a calming breath, I step into a room of old-world money with leather and high back chairs and dim lighting. It’s not long before I’m in one conversation after another with some of the biggest names in our city and state. Even the mayor is present, and quite welcoming. I notice that there are people who murmur about his politics both pro and con, but I avoid those stories.

A lesson from my father: Talking politics is about as risky a gamble as guessing a woman’s age or weight and landing the wrong direction. These are all good ways to die.

I don’t want to die, be it literally or professionally.

I continue to work the crowd, and so far, Damion is nowhere to be found. I wonder if he simply decided not to attend. That’s power. You have it. You don’t need to be told you have it. You don’t need to wear a gold pin for everyone else to be clear on that point. Still, my nerves are now dancing with disappointment. Some crazy part of me wanted to see Damion. The sane part of me, at least, knows I’m better off without him.

Eventually, I end up on level two, where I find myself in a circle of eight or so future leaders, meeting each without much warmth or acceptance. That’s when things go south. That’s when there are jabs punched my direction.

“Don’t you sell real estate, or something like that?” One blond dude with glasses asks. “My dad made our real estate agent quit.”

The two girls on either side of me giggle like schoolgirls, not future leaders.

That’s when it happens.

Damion steps in front of me, shoving the guy with the glasses slightly as he does. “Hello, Alana,” he says, in a deep, raspy voice that says he’s all man now.

But I know that already.

I know so much about Damion West that the rest of the world does not know.

The problem is, he knows me that well, too.

Chapter Eight

Alana

Some might think my present encounter with Damion is a new and improved version of a meet-cute. A re-meet-cute. And how could they not? Damion stands there, blue eyes fixed on me, wearing the kind of six-thousand-dollar suit you’d imagine of a billionaire meet-cute experience.

And it looks good on him.

Gray. Pin striped. Perfectly fitted with a blue-ish gray tie that pulls the blue in his eyes.

“Hello, Damion,” I greet, every part of me alive and prickling with electricity from his mere existence in the same room.

“Will you be my real estate agent?” he asks.

“I’ll be your attorney,” I offer. “I’m fairly certain you’ll need me more in that capacity over acquisitions.”

His lips curve. “Always busting my balls.”

Somehow that statement, which he’s made often to me, has more meaning now than it did before we had our hands all over each other. “Because it’s always deserving.”

His lips curve. “I resemble that remark.”

“You know each other?” the blonde next to me asks, giving Damion the kind of up and down inspection that says she wants to climb that tree.

“We grew up next door to each other,” I reply, giving her a sideways look.

“Oh, right. I heard that from my dad. Your father serviced his family’s real estate needs. They went to tracks together.” She sips her champagne and smirks.

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