Page 4 of Upshot

Henry is my grandfather. Technically, so am I. But I go by Rand, short for Randolph. When you’re the fifth son with the same name, you have to try to find something unique to be called. Everything else is already taken.

“You make me sound like my grandfather when you call me that,” I whine.

“Funny, I don’t remember your grandfather ever sending me an audio file of him getting blown,” Peter says.

“Oh, god.” I flop onto the couch and place my head in my free hand. Fuck this, I turn on the speaker and toss the phone on the table. Slowly, I recline back on the couch.

“Yep, that’s pretty much what you said,” he teases.

“Please tell me I didn’t post a sex tape to social media last night.”

“No, I checked. I also had the IT department do a discreet deep dive too.” I can hear the amusement in Peter’s voice. “As far as we can tell, it was an unfortunately timed butt dial you left on my voice mail. You, at the very least, owe me the details to go along with the soundtrack.”

“Pete, I need to go. I think I’m about to hurl back up the whiskey and vodka from last night.”

“Damn, you got drunk too? I always thought holding all of that inside would end in your demise. Do you have a face tattoo?”

“Goodbye, Pete.” I slap at the red button until it hangs up. Maybe I should just skip the coffee and go for a shower instead. That should work. Then I can head to the restaurant for breakfast. Something good and greasy.

“Hurk,” I gag at the thought. Oh god, kill me now. I stand and head to the bathroom. If I’m going to puke, at least I can do it in the shower.

I feel a little better after my shower. My brain still hurts, but I don’t think anything is going to make a reappearance. I’m starving too. I’m kind of looking forward to that greasy breakfast now.

If I’m lucky, I might run into Brontë in the restaurant. Her details are still a little fuzzy in my brain, but I’d really like to see her again. There's no way I can forget a woman like that.

Even if you discount how beautiful she was, I remember how much fun she was at the bar. She had that magic ability to be funny, smart, and flirty without overdoing it. I think she even made me blush a time or two. New plan: dress, find Brontë, take her to breakfast.

It takes me an hour to get ready to face the real world. I choose a pair of slacks and a polo shirt instead of my typical suit. Finally, I’m ready to head down to breakfast.

Making a slow perusal of the lobby and then the restaurant, I fail to catch a glimpse of her. Is it odd that I’m a little obsessed with a woman I only have a fuzzy memory of? Probably. But she made quite an impression.

I’m shown to a table, and I’ve just settled into reading the menu when a strong hand lands on my shoulder.

“How are you this morning, Rand?” It’s one of the other developers attending the conference. He also works on the West Coast. He’s more into commercial real estate though. He’s offered me a job every year since I graduated from college.

“I’m good, Kyle. Join me?” I motion to one of the other chairs.

“Well, just for a minute. Have to catch a flight. Missed you at the session this morning. But based on the beauty I saw you with at the bar, I can’t say I blame you. Saw her again this morning checking out. She looked about as good as you do. Dark sunglasses, pale as a sheet.”

“She checked out?” Why do I feel an immediate and overwhelming sense of disappointment? It’s stupid to miss someone you barely know, but I do.

“Yep, I heard the other one say they had to hurry to catch their flight.” Kyle shakes his head with a grin. “I hope you young bucks appreciate what you have. Someday you’ll find one who knows her way around a kitchen, and you’ll wind up with a spare tire that proves you're taken to all the ladies.” He laughs at my look of horror.

“Well, give me a call next time you're down my way, and I’ll take you to lunch.” Kyle stands, shakes my hand, and leaves the restaurant.

I plow my way through a huge stack of pancakes swimming in syrup. Because who doesn’t need a week’s worth of sugar sitting on top of a lifetime's worth of alcohol? The last twenty-four hours make it all worth it. Brontë might be gone, but I won’t ever forget her.

As a matter of fact, there has to be some way to find her again. Not in a creepy sort of way. Just, I wonder if there is something there. I all but lick my plate clean before walking to the reception desk.

“Hello, Mr. Randolph. What may I help you with?” the young woman behind the counter asks.

“I need to verify that I still have a late check-out.”

She punches a couple of buttons on her computer. “Yes, sir. I have you checking out at two this afternoon. A car will be waiting for you.”

“Thank you. Do I have any messages by chance?”

She punches away at her computer again. “No, sir.” I knew it was a slim chance that Brontë left me a message, but there’s always that thin hope. “Is there anything else?”

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