“Did you keep the number plate?” It was genius.
He grinned. “Nah, I let it go. It was made for that truck.”
That was genius too. Mark Grippen was not a wanker, though given his profession, he could well have been a terrible egomaniac and a full-time tosser. It would’ve been incredibly distressing to conclude her instincts about him all those years ago had been wrong. A real fantasy killer.
When he smiled, a low wattage version of his knock-you-on-your-arse grin, some of the tension in him dropped away. “I’m ready,” he said. He’d declined a hot beverage and his water glass was full. “Whatever you’ve got, lay it on me. I can take it.”
“Mark, I promise it won’t be too painful.” Saying his name out loud over and over while doing meal preparation during the week had paid off.
“Grip. No one calls me Mark, except the relatives. Go on, read me the riot act. I know I messed up with my money.”
“Grip.” She took a breath. That felt so much better. “You’ve had some losses, some less than profitable investments, but I’m not here to judge you. That’s not my role.”
He frowned. “You’re not mad with me for the plantation that has no trees or the horse that’s farting up a global climate crisis?”
She smiled at that. “I’m not mad with you. I’ll never be mad with you.” He blew out a hard breath, brows drawn down, hand ranking through his hair. “It seems like you want me to be.” And wasn’t that a little close to fantasyland.
“My other advisors let me do whatever I wanted and that’s why I’m here. I don’t want to be one of those rich bastards who doesn’t trickle down.”
“Trickle down?” She closed her eyes because they’d been on his hands, those scarred knuckles, the blunt nails, and his hands were what he’d used in her mind to make her trickle down.
“That’s the theory, right. Jokers who get lucky and make a lot of money have an obligation to use it to help other people. Trickle their wealth down. We still have senseless wars, hunger, and the planet is burning.”
Snap out of it. “That is a theory. It tends not to hold true.”
He tapped the tabletop. Stars alight. She loved his hands. Her body conjuring memories of his electrifying touch.
“That’s what I read, which is why I need someone who’s not going to let me get away with being a douchebag who drives a fricking monster truck.”
His tone felt like the slap she deserved. He was frustrated with her and that shouldn’t make her want to smile, but it did. She’d put him on her hit list because she’d studied twenty-year-old Grip, read every word written about him, watched him interact with fans at meet and greets and on chatboards. He was boisterous, funny and kind. And he’d been the same in person. In the last week, she’d spend time catching up on her research, watching him interact with fans on Facebook. Same energetic, fully-committed, funny, kind guy who just happened to be a multimillionaire now.
“This is an important conversation, but let’s back up a little bit,” she said. “My job is to find out what you want to spend your wealth on, what inspires and interests you, and to help you make the best use of your money toward that aim.”
He closed one eye, scrunched his face. Not a wink, a grimace. “Exactly what does that mean?”
“It means if you wanted to collect monster trucks then I’ll find the most valuable ones, build the right garage for them, get the best price on insurance and help you come up with other noteworthy names for plates. That last bit isn’t really what I do, but it would be fun.”
He laughed. But he didn’t yet understand.
“It also means that if you want to give away every cent you make, I’ll help you find ways to use your money to make more money so you have more to give away to make the most impact.”
“Fuck yeah.” He slapped his palm on the table, twice, grinning at her. Now he got it. “I want that.”
“We can do that. We need to create a direction because you’re not Jeff Bezos rich yet and we need to ensure that you have the right amount of money preserved for your own use.”
“How do we start?” He used his stylus to tap his water glass, making it ring like a stock market starting bell.
None of her other clients were this hyper. He made them seem dull and dreary. “I learn what makes you happy.”
“Happy?” He said that as if it was the first time he’d heard the word. “The thing is I’m a happy guy. Most things make me happy. Except having this money. It makes me tense. I spend half my time trying to forget it’s there and the other half getting rid of it.”
“Now that’s just wrong.” She shook her head in mock annoyance. “What we need to do is understand in broad terms what you really like to do, then drill down into some opportunities that fit that profile.”
“You want to drill down.”
She could’ve chosen a less sex-oriented word because he ran with the inuendo, making eye contact and raising a single brow when he said the word drill.
“You’re going to profile me like I’m a serial killer.”
She folded her arms to cover the shiver that zipped up her spine. Was he flirting or just being
