Chapter 1 Dominic

Dominic

“Been out with anyone lately?”

The tension headache that’s been threatening all day finally sets in, throbbing low in the base of my skull. I shake my head at Oliver’s ridiculous question, my gaze not straying from the screen of my laptop.

“You know I don’t have time to date,” I say, more than a little exasperated that we’ve had this conversation approximately six thousand times.

Just because Oliver is in a happy relationship doesn’t mean he needs to force monogamy down everyone else’s throats. I’m perfectly happy being single.

“Come on, man. You without pussy is like macaroni without cheese.”

My vice president, ladies and gentlemen.

“Fuck’s sake, Ollie. Do you have to be so crass?”

This recurring conversation is wearing thin. I’m about three seconds away from kicking him out of my office. Or kicking him in the nuts. Whichever comes first. Maybe I'll kick him in the nuts and then kick him out. It's not like he doesn't deserve both.

Oliver only scoffs as he wanders to the far end of the office and reaches for a cut-crystal glass from the bar cart. The glass decanters hold fine aged Scotch and the best gin money can buy, but I rarely touch the stuff. It’s there for two purposes—on the rare occasions when I’m entertaining clients, and for Oliver. The man drinks like a fish, though he rarely lets himself get intoxicated by some miracle of his metabolism. But I take no issue with it. It’s well after six, and technically speaking, our workday is over.

Without bothering to ask me if I’d like a glass, he simply pours himself two fingers of Scotch and then joins me again, sinking into the plush black leather wingback across from my desk. He only takes one sip before continuing the criticism.

“Don’t be such a priss, Dom.” He pauses to look at me, his eyebrows raised in amusement as if he’s about to let me in on an inside joke. “You must have forgotten.”

I lean forward and place my elbows on the desk. “Forgotten what?”

He smirks, swirling the liquor in his glass. “That I know all of your quirks.”

I roll my eyes. That’s a polite way of putting it. At least he didn’t call it a sexual deviance again. The memory of that conversation last month makes me shudder.

It’s true that Oliver knows me well. I’d be the first to admit my best friend and vice president has gotten me out of some unseemly situations over the years, but that doesn’t mean I want to discuss my sex life with him.

Even though we’ve been friends since we graduated from Princeton, there are certain boundaries I like to maintain now that I’m his boss. In some ways, those years seem like only yesterday, and in others, they feel like a lifetime ago. Even if Oliver hasn’t changed much, I feel like a completely different person.

“You know the only two ladies I have time for are Emilia and Lacey.”

Defeated, he sighs. “Yeah, yeah. I know.”

I would appreciate it if Oliver didn’t always forget the two little girls waiting at home for me to read them bedtime stories and check for monsters under the bed. Children certainly aren’t on Oliver and Jessica’s radar at this point in their relationship.

They weren’t on mine, either.

“Besides, there will be time for fun and games later. The internship program begins Monday.” I skim over the schedule my assistant has compiled for me.

Oliver drums his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Damn, that’s right.”

A handful of the best and brightest recent college graduates from all over the nation were selected out of more than a thousand applicants to join Aspen Hotels on a trial basis. For the next two weeks, they will be responsible for learning our current business model and executing the forward motion of our hotels into a more modern format.

It’s not the first time Aspen has offered this internship, but it may be the last. Outreach initiatives like this have proven successful from the public relations standpoint, but employee retention from these internships has never impressed me. I guess that’s the one thing I inherited from my father, the late Phillip Aspen—perpetually low expectations.

“Since when did we believe in internships?” Oliver grumbles into his drink.

Once again, he’s read my mind. Despite my misgivings about the program’s success, I do need a new director of operations. Desperately. This internship, with some tweaks, will help me find a candidate who’s fresh and hungry, not someone so set in their ways that they refuse to do things my way.

“We need to reevaluate our operations if we’re going to survive in this market. Internships are an excellent way of bringing in new blood without losing money on new hires who prove to be financial risks.”

“That was pointed.” Oliver laughs.

“Terry wasn’t a new hire. Terry was a very old hire who needed a wake-up call.”

“I was talking about Kylie.”

“Oh.” Kylie was briefly our director of operations, after Terry’s resignation.

“Why did we fire her, anyway?”

“She had some unreasonable expectations.”

Oliver raises his brows in question, but he knows better than to ask.

I don’t condone unwarranted sexual advances from my employees at our philanthropic events, no matter the blood-alcohol content. I also don’t ruin a perfectly capable woman’s career by broadcasting her actions to my friends and coworkers after she throws herself at me. Instead, I quietly fire her with a sizable severance package and an emphatic good riddance.

“So that’s what you’re trying to get out of this? A new director of operations? Look, Dom, I respect your choices, and God knows, I let you make most of them. But recent college graduates don’t necessarily have the experience we need at the helm of our entire operation.”

I smirk. “I’m glad my father didn’t feel that way when he hired you as a consultant fresh out of college.”

Oliver raises his hands in surrender. “Point taken. And I’m glad you decided you needed a vice president to help you run this shit show.”

He lifts his glass in a friendly toast. I mime the gesture in return.

Ping.

An email grabs my attention. It’s our marketing director, proposing the updated social media branding for my approval. I examine it with a critical eye—each and every font, each pigment of color. It’s classic, but still somehow fresh, and doesn’t stray from our brand. I decide that I like it, and shoot off an email telling her as much.

“Do you ever stop working?” Oliver is leaning so far back into the chair that I have to look over my screen to make eye contact.

“Nope. Shouldn’t you be headed home soon to Jess?”

“She’s off on business.” He sighs, genuinely upset by her absence.

I smile. True love isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Oliver and Jess are a thriving couple to all inquiring eyes. But as their friend, I know exactly how deep their codependence goes. I can tell that as soon as Oliver leaves my office, he’ll be on the phone with her, asking about her day.

He’s fucking whipped.

“Well, chin up, brother. Tomorrow should be interesting, right?”

“For you, maybe.” Oliver frowns. “I don’t have the luxury or energy to enjoy the company of young attractivos.”

I smile at Oliver’s choice of words. He hasn’t lost any of his quirks since settling down. If anything, his propensity for made-up words has only been encouraged by his other half.

“You should enjoy the next two weeks, though.” Oliver tips his glass toward me.

“How so?”

“Get yourself some new blood.” He gives me a devilish grin.

Ah, yes. Back to square one. How do we always end up here? Oh, right, because Oliver has a one-track mind.

“Aspen Hotels needs new blood. Dominic Aspen is just fine,” I respond firmly.

“When's the last time you had a woman in your bed?” he asks.

I don’t indulge him with an answer, mostly because I can’t remember, but also because it’s none of his damn business.

“That’s what I thought.” Oliver grins, knowingly. “And when's the last time you had a conversation with a woman that you weren’t paying?”

“Are we done with this lecture yet? I have work to do,” I grumble.

Oliver doesn’t respond, only slides out of the chair and places his glass on my desk, temptingly close to my hand. “Good night, Dom.”

“Good night, Oliver.” He has his phone in his hand, dialing Jess before he’s even out the door.

Classic.

I run my hand through my hair and eye the clock on the far wall. Past dinnertime. I don’t have much of an appetite, but I know I should eat. I should also go home early for once, relieve the nanny, and see my beautiful daughters before they’re tucked away in bed.

Yet, here I sit. Staring at the drops of Scotch at the bottom of someone else’s glass.

Dominic Aspen is just fine.