“I have eyes.”
Jake grabbed the wrench.
“I have work.”
“You're still going, right?”
He stopped.
Lily leaned against the doorframe.
“You told me once that being intimidated is a bad reason not to learn something.”
Jake looked at her.
“When did I say that?”
“Science fair.”
“That's different.”
“No.”
“It isn’t.”
She walked away.
Jake muttered:
“I liked you more at six.”
“I heard that.”
The next evening, Jake stood outside the Grand Harmon Hotel wondering whether escape remained socially acceptable.
He wore dark slacks.
Navy shirt.
Clean boots.
No tie.
His hair had been cut that morning.
Lily had insisted.
“You look homeless.”
“That is not how homelessness works.”
“You know what I mean.”
Now the revolving doors spun before him.
Inside:
Marble.
Gold.
Crystal chandeliers.
People whose watches probably had security details.
Jake entered.
He immediately regretted everything.
Then the room changed.
Not because anyone noticed him.
Because everyone noticed someone else.
Heads turned toward the grand staircase.
Claire descended.
Deep ivory evening suit.
Long blonde hair falling over one shoulder.
No sunglasses.
No clutch hiding half her hand.
She looked like herself from the garage and completely unlike herself at the same time.
Then Jake saw the banner.
THE WESTON FOUNDATION ANNUAL BENEFIT
HOSTED BY CLAIRE WESTON
He laughed quietly.
Claire reached him.
“You came.”
“I considered developing a sudden illness.”
“What stopped you?”
“My daughter threatened me.”
“I like Lily.”
“Of course you do.”
Claire looked him over.
“Clean.”
“Don't get used to it.”
She offered her hand.
Jake took it.
Claire smiled.
“Still angry?”
“Moderately.”
“I can work with moderately.”
They entered the ballroom.
Jake spent the first thirty minutes learning that rich people could ask insulting questions with extraordinarily polite grammar.
“What sector are you in?”
“Automotive repair.”
“Oh.”
Always the same “oh.”
Not hostile.
Just recalculating.
One executive asked:
“You own multiple shops?”
“One.”
The man nodded sympathetically.
“How quaint.”
Jake smiled.
“Your car ever break?”
“Yes.”
“Then quaint becomes useful fast.”
Claire nearly spit out champagne.
Later, a silver-haired executive approached.
Victor Hale, Weston Global board member.
Claire introduced them.
Victor looked at Jake’s hands.
“A mechanic.”
“Yes.”
“Claire always has interesting guests.”
Jake smiled.
“You should see my customers.”
Victor laughed as if Jake had made a joke.
Jake had not.
Another man joined them.
Graham Pierce, president of a manufacturing subsidiary Weston Global planned to acquire.
Forties.
Perfect tuxedo.
Perfect hair.
Perfect expression of someone who believed every room was a negotiation.
“Claire.”
He kissed the air near her cheek.
Then looked toward Jake.
“And this is?”
“Jake Calloway.”