~SEBASTIAN CHASE~

Cinnamon.

The smell of spice lingered long after she had left the elevator. It was oddly mesmerizing, breathing in her scent as she stood close to me in the elevator. I could still picture the lights glinting on her dark red hair as she walked away. I had stared at the pale skin on the back of her neck, wondering what it would be like to touch it.

"Sir, don't forget your check," Frank said, pulling me out of my reverie. My assistant took out a cream-colored envelope from a folder he carried. "It's the one you signed yesterday, made out to the children's foundation. I know you hate bringing your checkbook with you."

"Thank you Frank," I said, putting the envelope in my jacket pocket. The elevator doors opened and we stepped out into the basement parking lot where a large grey limousine was waiting for us. "I suppose I can't just drop this off at the reception, can I?"

"You could. But if people see you getting chummy with the hospital board and personally handing them a check, they're more likely to give a donation of their own. You'll have plenty of time after your meeting to get to the fundraiser. Are you sure you don't want me at the meeting?"

"It's really more of an informal chat with the British ambassador, Frank. I'll need you here to help Callie prep for the meeting next week for the Beijing deal. Her new assistant can barely keep up with her."

"Yes, sir."

One of my bodyguards, Selene, opened the limousine door for me. "Mr. Chase," she greeted me as I got inside.

She sat across from me. "How is your mother, Selene?" I said.

"She's fine, sir. Thank you."

We rode in silence. My mind went to the impromptu interview with the latest applicant for the tutoring job. It was a pity Ms. Slade did not pass muster. Her resume wasn't bad. Cum laude graduate of English at a respectable university. A master's degree in Comparative Literature. Bylines in the local papers. Nothing too grand, but her essays were thoughtful and sharp. I had read an article of hers published two years ago titled "Are we raising our sons to be boys or men?" and this was what prompted me to shortlist her among the applicants for the job. In the piece, she described how society has been teaching toxic values of masculinity, producing boys unprepared for a modern, more progressive age of gender equality.

I'd been raised that way, and I hated it. My father, a patriarch — in every sense of the word — of an old Texas banking dynasty did his best to mold me, his oldest son, into his image.

Benson deserved better.

When Benson's father — my brother Eric — passed away five years ago, and his mother permitted me to adopt the boy, I swore I would do good by my nephew. I had made sure to raise him with better values than what I myself had been forced to live by growing up.

Now my adopted son was ten years old, and while he seemed happy and healthy, I worried about the lack of a female role model in his life. I had no other siblings, and it was unlikely I would be getting married any day soon. I thought the best solution was to hire a female tutor and companion for him. Benson was enrolled in the best private school, and the curriculum was challenging enough that most of their students required tutors.

There was no question about whether or not to hire Ms. Slade. I could never abide by tardiness. When a person acted with discipline, it was a reflection of a disciplined mind. Which was what I needed in a tutor for Benson.

There were three other interviews lined up for the job. I was sure Ms. Slade would find a position elsewhere that would make the most of her talents, but for now that position wasn't that of tutor to my son.

"You seem to care for your son very much. I hope you find what you're looking for."

I felt an emotion nearly overwhelm me.

Regret.

It was something I hadn't felt for a very long time.

***

~VICTORIA~

"Tell me again why you aren't trying acting? Lots of aspiring screenwriters try to get a break that way," I said. "I mean, look how well it worked for Matt Damon and Ben Affleck. And Sylvester Stallone."

My best friend and roommate Nicolette rolled her eyes delicately, in a way that very few girls are able to. "Are you kidding me? Can you imagine the really horrible lines I'd have to work with until I get to work in a decent production?"

"Most actors just have to go through it at the start, I think."

"Most actors have the patience for it," said Nicolette.

She had a point. Nicolette wasn't the kind of person to do anything she wasn't crazy about. She was either all in or not at all. This explained much of her career trajectory: make mad money working as an escort while (in her words) her ass was still pointed the right way, until she got her scripts on theater screens across the country.

Nicolette and I were hanging out in Nicolette's bedroom watching movies. It was our favorite thing to do together. We didn't get a lot of time together because Nicolette worked mostly at night and I worked during the day, so on the rare occasions we were both free, we made sure to schedule some quality girl-bonding time. Tonight, we were having quiche from the corner bakery, and watching Old Boy, one of Nicolette's all-time favorite films. As we'd already seen it together about fifty times, we were having a light discussion about Nicolette's writing career.

"Plus," Nicolette added, "do you know how my clients like to talk about their lives?"

"Yeah, you mentioned that." I laughed, recalling the stories Nicolette would tell me about the men she'd go out with at her job, ranging from hilarious to creepy to just plain sad. One of them had her over to cook him Thanksgiving dinner because he couldn't celebrate it with his ex-wife and estranged children. A terrible cook who prided herself in this particular non-talent, Nicolette ended up serving burnt turkey and soggy mashed potatoes, but the 45-year-old investment banker was so happy he cried.

"I get a glimpse into the lives of the rich, powerful, and sometimes sad men and women of L.A.," said Nicolette. "It's the stuff great movies are made of."

"I love that I get to talk to you about these things," I said. "I never get to meet anyone rich and powerful. Well, hardly ever." I suddenly remembered blue eyes and dark hair. "Hey, actually I did meet someone like that today."

"At the coffee shop?"

I shook my head. "Job interview."

"I didn't know you had a job interview today. How did it go?"

"Not well. Disastrous." I sighed.

"I'm sorry, sweetie," Nicolette said. "I'm sure you'll find something soon. So, this guy interviewed you?"

"Yeah. Some big brass over at Mattheson Bank downtown, the corporate office. I was late."

Nicolette frowned. "Must have been really big brass — a VP or CEO or something — if he gets to interview his kid's tutor at work."

"I'm pretty sure his tie costs more than what I make in a year. Anyway, I had to practically run after him and try to convince him he should hire me." I winced. "That was probably not the best move."

"You didn't try to sit on his lap, did you?"

"What? No!" I laughed. "I jumped in his private elevator with him. The receptionist looked like he was about to get a heart attack."

"That's not something I would ever imagine you'd do, Vic." Nicolette eyed me suspiciously. "Was he hot?"

I bit my lip and nodded. "Oh my God, is that why I ran after him?"

Nicolette burst out laughing. I groaned, fell backwards on the bed and covered my face with a pillow.

"You know, if you find yourself running down hot bankers in hallways, it may be a sign you really need to get laid. Like, soon," Nicolette said.

"I know!" My voice was muffled from the pillow over my face.

"It's been two months, babe." Nicolette grabbed the pillow and her face hovered over mine. "You're not still hung up over Jason, are you?"

"What? No!" I tried to grab the pillow from Nicolette, who pulled it away from my reach.

"Oh really? Have you seen anyone since then?"

I gave up trying to get the pillow back. "I've been busy. I'm job-hunting, remember?"

"Fine," Nicolette said. "But once you get a proper job, I'm setting you up with some guys I know."

"I thought you said a girl doesn't need a boyfriend."

"What is this, the 19th century? I didn't say anything about a boyfriend. All I'm saying is sex will do you some good."

"Is that why you're always so bright and cheerful?" I teased. She picked up a mushroom and artichoke quiche. "Because of all the sex you're having?" She grinned evilly.

"Damn right it is. And I'm going to make sure you're getting some soon, even if I have to pay for it."

I nearly dropped the quiche I was in the process of biting into. "Really, you'd do that?"

"How about we see if anyone will do you for free first." My friend pretended to look me over with a critical eye.

"I don't know. I think I smell like doughnuts. Is that a thing men like?" I sniffed the front of my shirt. When I first started work at the Foxhole, I enjoyed the aroma of coffee and pastries. After a couple of weeks, however, it started to get old. And stick to my clothes and hair.

Nicolette sighed. "You seriously need a new job."