The Founder (Trillionaire Boys' Club Book 7) Read online

Inside it’s quiet, the chatter of the outer room absent.

  My heart beats faster. This is weird.

  There is a titanic round table. It’s probably ten feet through the center, but in addition to being massive, it’s also thick and heavy, like something Vikings would eat off of. There are more than a dozen chairs around the table, but only one is occupied.

  Evan hears the doors. Sees us. Sees me, and his eyes go slightly wide as if he’s surprised I’m here and is trying to hide it. He stands, coming around toward us. The bearded man from the restaurant is still here — waiter, maître d’, whatever. His presence is suddenly strange — intrusive, like an unwanted chaperone.

  I face Evan, not two feet away, feeling a flush. He’s so much cuter in person than he is online or on TV. His hair is cut short, his features handsome, his smile hot enough to melt me in two. He’s draped a jacket over his chair and faces me in a white shirt that fits him more perfectly than I’ve ever seen a shirt fit a man. It flatters his frame, showing off broad shoulders and a flat belly. I want to look away, for decency. His physique is also hotter in person.

  I look up. He’s still there. Waiting.

  “You’re not Rebecca Presley.”

  No wonder this never made sense. He thinks I’m someone else — some other woman by the same name.

  “I’m—”

  “You seem way too quiet.”

  He smiles, but it seems slightly uneasy. I can tell he wishes he hadn’t said that. It’s true; I’m a thousand times quieter than my loudmouth persona. People who follow me online then meet me in person are sometimes disappointed. Because the real Becca Presley doesn’t stand ten feet tall, exhaling fire on her enemies. I’m timid, usually nervous in public, even shy. What I do on my websites is my armor. What’s beneath is far more vulnerable than I prefer to let on.

  But still, there’s that doubt in his smile, as if Evan is embarrassed. He’s wondering if I feel insulted. It’s a strange thing to see on him, and after a long second, I start to wonder if I’m even reading him right. Is it that he’s wondering about a faux pas? Or have I surprised him in another way, and he’s nervous, just like me?

  Ridiculous.

  We’ve been standing here too long, and I’m acting too prim. The waiter-or-whatever is still beside me, waiting for our greeting before moving on to menus and drinks. But Evan and I are at an impasse. We must look like two people who don’t know whether to hug or shake hands.

  Shake hands, obviously.

  But another second passes before Evan’s hand goes up. I shake it and make my lips say, “Nice to meet you.” But I’m distracted by this … this something I feel in this small room. The energy is odd. As is Evan’s shake. He takes my hand and there’s something like a pleasant shock.

  Evan — not the waiter guy — moves to pull out a seat beside his.

  I sit down, and Evan follows.

  Finally, our escort can ask for our drink order. I consider wine to ease my nerves, but that feels dangerous. We both end up with water and menus.

  When the doors close behind the bearded man, the energy of the room shifts again. It’s just the two of us. The windows are covered by thin drapes. It’s quiet. It should be awkward, but it’s something else.

  “I apologize,” Evan says. “I wasn’t able to get us a bigger table.”

  I smile, then look across the giant table. It’s big enough to dance on.

  Or do other things on.

  “Pathetic,” I say.

  “Seriously, though. It’s so loud out there. I like to hear the person I’m talking to. I know this room is obnoxious, and you’re going to have to sit right beside me because across from me is a half-mile away. I promise I’m not usually this spoiled.”

  “Sure you’re not,” I say, still playing along.

  “I don’t even ask for this room. It’s just where they seat me if there’s nobody else in here.”

  We’re close. My bare knee, below the hem of my maybe-too-short dress, is just inches from Evan’s. My left hand isn’t sure where to go, but it’s ended up near his, running a finger across the menu. I’m a little lightheaded.

  More silence. It’s awkward, but in a very specific way. A waiter returns with water. We both jump a little when the doors open as if we’ve been caught.

  Caught doing WHAT, Rebecca?

  My mind has answers. They involve the big table. It’s embarrassing even to think such things. I’m here for business — though what that means, I still don’t know.

  We wait for the waiter to leave, then I say, “I’m not what you expected, am I?”

  “Honestly, no. I guess I expected you to be more exuberant.”

  “Like a big loud asshole?”

  My hand goes demurely over my mouth, but Evan laughs. More ice, successfully shattered.

  “I wouldn’t say it that way.”

  “But you’re thinking it.”

  I stare at him, unwilling to let him out of an answer.

  “Okay, a little,” he finally says.

  I have a long, complex explanation for the implied question — one involving my insecurity, my social anxiety, my tendency to deflect and raise armor, and my terrible track record with the men who’ve hurt me. But it’s far, far too intimate for a first encounter. I shrug and say, “I’m not like I am online, at least not most of the time.”

  “It’s amazing, you know,” he says.

  “What is?”

  “How you are online. I’ll bet you don’t even realize how gifted you are. How rare your talent is.”

  “Gifted? What talent?”

  “The way you communicate. It’s …” He seems to search for a word.

  “Obnoxious? Inappropriate?”

  “Natural. Unforced. You don’t see it that much, online or off.”

  “You do know I’m the girl who has a website making fun of her ex-boyfriend’s little dick, right?”

  “How did that start, by the way? What’s the story?”

  I tell him the public relations version — facts without the baggage. I tell him how Steve belittled me, but don’t elaborate on how small I still feel because of it today.

  By the time I’m done, the waiter is back, asking for our order. I don’t want to say I haven’t looked because I’m hungry and don’t want to delay, but Evan sees my bafflement and says, almost apologetically, “Can I order for you?”

  “Um …”

  “Unless you already have something in mind.”

  “No. Please. I could use some help.” Saying it takes some effort. If I let Steve order for me, he’d order something absurd.

  “Sounds like he deserved it,” Evan says after he’s ordered chicken something-or-other and the waiter is gone.

  “What?” It’s out of context. I’m having trouble keeping up.

  “Steve. Sounds like he deserved to have a website in his honor.”

  I shrug.

  “I looked through your history. Just a little, before I messaged you.”

  I want to stop him there, get more detail on why he messaged at all. It came out of the blue, and he’s been light on specifics. If this weren’t all coming from Evan Cohen of LiveLyfe, I’d be thinking Stalker for sure. And there’s no proof that I still shouldn’t be, except that few girls feel as fine hanging with their stalkers as I feel now.

  But Evan was talking about my history, so I respond. “What about it?”

  “It looks like your fans showed up right away. Like, from day one.”

  “That’s because my first fans were already fans of my last business, and they already knew him. I’m an open book. I wrote a lot about Steve, and me and Steve together, whenever I—”

  “I saw some of that stuff, too.” He reaches for a salt shaker and slides it pointlessly to one side, probably just to give his hands something to do. “But you said something there: ‘fans’ of your last business.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Most people don’t think of business ‘fans.’ They think in terms of ‘customers.’”
<
br />   “Hmm.” I’ve never really thought of it. It all seemed interchangeable. But then again, it’s not like I have many boundaries.

  He explains why it interests him, but I’ve stopped paying attention. I should have worn a longer dress. I wish I were less awkward, less boring to be around.

  When Evan stops making me uncomfortable with praise, he tells me that this — and by “this,” I assume he means all the stuff I wasn’t paying attention to just now — is why he wants to work with me. Some people think he’s ridiculous, but the man has dreams beyond LiveLyfe, and those dreams need this, whatever it is.

  I want to take what I suspect is a compliment, but it’s tricky. I’m just some loud bitch on the web. People seem to like me, but who cares? Anyone can post dick pics.

  Evan is clearly on a mission, but it’s obvious that the mission is eluding him as much as it is me. He has a vision. But right now, it’s out of focus.

  I try to meet his eyes, but it’s hard. I’m thinking things I shouldn’t think about someone I just met.

  I wish I were more interesting.

  I wish I had the brilliant mind Evan seems to believe that I have.

  I wonder what he’s thinking about me. Whatever it is, I know it’s wrong.

  CHAPTER TEN

  EVAN

  REBECCA IS STUNNING.

  I DON’T think she has a clue. You hear that sort of thing all the time and it’s usually just a line. With her, it’s true. She has fine, smooth features, wide, exotic lips, and hair like something from a shampoo commercial. She’s worn that gorgeous mane in the most casual, thrown-back style — but the I-don’t-give-a-shit way she’s done it only makes it more interesting to me. She’s wearing makeup, but barely. She’s not a woman who’s decided to accentuate the positive. Sadly, I’ll bet she doesn’t see there is positive to accentuate.

  The blue dress hugs her figure. Every time she moves, I think about what it would be like to rip it off her. Her sapphire eyes keep straying to the table. It must be an insecure tick, but something in me keeps wanting to see it as an invitation. There’s almost nothing on the wide expanse, save our drinks and a few odds and ends. It’d be a perfect place to hop up and—

  “—the web,” she says.

  I blink. I don’t think I’ve been looking at her chest, but it’s possible. I’m usually such a nice boy. She deserves better than to have me zoning out while she’s talking, especially since I was the one who got in touch and asked her here.

  “I’m sorry?” I say.

  “I’m all over the web,” she repeats.

  I fight for context. Luckily, some part of me has been listening — the same part of me, probably, that’s spent ten minutes failing to articulate what this is all about. I may not have a clue what I want to build with someone like Rebecca, but fortunately, I can put my finger on what she’s said.

  “I just want to get to know you. The web isn’t good enough.”

  “But that’s what I’m saying. If you want to get to know me, I’m all over. I blab about everything.”

  She’s looking right at me. It’s hard to focus. Her eyes are a blue I’ve never seen. Bottomless. No matter how long I’ve fallen, I’ve yet to land.

  She goes on: “This is weird.”

  “Weird?”

  “I’m just being honest. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Just tell me what you mean.”

  She shifts. Her dress …

  No, sir — Rebecca Presley is nothing like I imagined. She’s soft where I expected hardness. Quiet when I expected someone brash. Despite her abundant masculine energy online, she’s perfectly feminine a few feet away. I know there’s an explosive, exuberant woman somewhere inside; the world has seen it on her website. But she hides it well beside me.

  Or maybe it’s this Rebecca who’s hidden.

  “Well, okay. First. Is this an interview? Or is it …” She pauses, and I’d swear she stopped herself from saying a date. She ends with “… something else?”

  “It’s not really an interview.” But that sounds lecherous, so I say, “But I think it’s in the same realm as an interview.”

  “So, this is about a job?”

  “Maybe. Kind of. I’m not sure.”

  “Because when we were chatting online, and then on the phone, you didn’t say anything about a job.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be vague. I was rushing both times. Truth be told, I didn’t …”

  This time I trail off. I was about to tell her that I didn’t yet know what she looked like, but that feels like a mistake. If Rebecca had any clue how amazing she looks, she could gussy herself up and cause traffic accidents. Beauty like that is rare, and in Rebecca, it’s coming from something inside. In her case, it’s not just skin deep. Something of her personality radiates through her, becomes visible. She wears her heart on her sleeve, for all to see. And this was never, from the start, supposed to be about something as superficial as her looks.

  “You didn’t what?”

  “I didn’t know much about you, I guess. Even what’s public.”

  “You could read up.”

  “Do you not want to be here?”

  She smiles to disarm what must feel like an interrogation. For a minute, I could see public-Rebecca, about to harpoon me online for some sort of wrongdoing.

  “It’s not that. It’s just … like I said. Weird.”

  “Weird that I’d want to meet you?”

  I flinch. All sorts of men must want to “meet” her. They’re just put off by her venomous tongue.

  “Weird that you’d think there was more to know beyond what I post.”

  “Isn’t there?” I ask.

  She stops. There is. It’s just not something she’s comfortable sharing. She’s not an open book after all.

  Two waiters arrive with food. We pause as they set the plates and refill the water.

  “What is this?” she asks. The waiter looks confused. He’s not the one who took our order.

  I give the waiter a Never mind look and tell Rebecca, “Just try it.”

  She does.

  Her eyes are delighted. Something inside me leaps to realize that I was responsible for putting it there. “Mussels and chorizo. They cook the mussels with local chorizo, white white, and garlic.”

  “It’s wonderful,” she says. “I should eat fancy food more often.”

  A few quiet minutes pass. Apparently, she’s accepting what I said, even though I’ve said so little. It’s true that she’s “all over the web” if I care to look. It’s true I was compelled to meet her anyway. It’s true that I sense vast potential here — not just in Rebecca herself, but in any possible partnership. I know it’s strange — that it’s “weird,” as she says. That doesn’t change the fact that I felt it from the moment I read her first word, and that I have a solid record of being right when I follow my gut.

  There’s something here; I just know it. Something between us.

  “Tell me about your project, then,” she says.

  “I already did.”

  “Tell me again. I didn’t understand it.”

  I laugh a little. “That’s because there’s not much to understand. To tell you the truth, I’m not even sure what I want to do — what you might be involved in. But I’m used to following my instincts. I get a feeling, and I move toward it. All I know is that I want to use my resources, leveraging what I’ve done with LiveLyfe to build something new.”

  “You’re not happy with just LiveLyfe?”

  “It’s my baby. But I’m only 27 years old. It can’t be my final chapter.”

  “You can make it bigger. Make it better.”

  “That’s going from one to N. I’ve always been more attracted to going from zero to one.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “‘Zero to one’ is creating something new rather than just adapting a thing that’s already been done. Something lateral, that’s never been seen before.”

  “Like a phone
made of bananas?”

  I feel slapped. I must look like an idiot.

  “What?”

  She takes a bite. “That’s never been seen before.”

  I’m not sure where to go with that. I don’t know if I should laugh or just keep eating as if she’s said the most logical thing in the world. I can’t stop looking at her, and it’s possible that the sight is clouding my judgment. I don’t want to stare, but the more time passes, the harder it’s becoming harder not to. I want to be respectful, but my thoughts are anything but. A woman like this, she must get creeps leering at her all the time.

  I try to remember why she’s here. Before she walked into the room, I only knew her mind. I only knew her style, her thoughts, and the soul she lays bare for anyone who can click. I knew there was potential in what I saw without seeing: the brains that launched not just one company, but several. She’s effortless. A natural. And it’s an unfortunate coincidence that I feel myself so drawn to her now that we’ve met.

  Fortunately, Rebecca saves me by speaking first. Despite her quip and how loud she is online, something is making her quiet in here. Uncertainty in her manner. She keeps averting her eyes. I’d swear she’s inches from reaching out to touch me in half a dozen easy ways: a brush of her hand, a touch of her knee to mine. Something tiny. But she’s pulling back at the same time, a flush creeping across the subtle curve of her elegant neck.

  Why are you thinking about her “elegant neck”?

  “What’s this really about, Mr. Cohen?”

  “Evan, please.”

  “‘Becca,’ then,” she says, indicating herself. She takes a sip of water. “What’s this really about, Evan?”

  “I told you. I don’t know. I just know that I’m ready for my next phase and that I will need good people to help.”

  “How am I supposed to help you if I don’t know what I’m helping with?”

  “I suppose you’d be a consultant.”

  “I’ve charged people for consulting before. I’m kind of a fraud at it.”

  “How so?”

  She laughs. Somehow, it’s beautiful. “I’m just not a consulting type. I mean, look at me.”

  I shouldn’t, but I do. I take in more than her face. I follow the dress’s clingy contour as it dives down her back, as it sighs across the swells of her breasts. I’m a tiny lightheaded. And something else I shouldn’t be.