But it’s true. I hardly feel relevant anymore because everything at Kombuchaid runs like a well-oiled, money-making machine. Our business hardly needs me or Brent, my partner, and it’s by design. We set it up this way on purpose, but neither of us realized just how boring we would make our lives by doing so. Brent’s keeping busy by visiting our factories this summer, but I know better. The factory visits are nothing more than a ruse. He’s bored too and wanted to travel, leaving me in charge at headquarters, which is fine. Still, since Kombuchaid doesn’t need me, I’ve been having a hard time sorting out what my life’s about. What is a business that no longer needs its CEOs?
My office was decorated by our publicist and if I’m honest, I hate it. It’s all dark wood, a sleek black desk chair, and a bar discreetly tucked into the corner. I pour myself a glass of bourbon and stare at the luxury. It was supposed to be the classic executive’s office reminiscent of Mad Men, and the designer said it would look good in magazine spreads. But I was sleeping with her at the time and didn’t know how to tell her that I hated the collegiate wooden oar and the tiny cannon on my desk.
But what can I say? The woman was good in bed, and she had a lot of silly ideas of what Denver society would expect of a successful businessman. She offered me the “traditional” publicity package, and at Brent’s insistence, I went with it. I glance at the cover of the Denver Star’s Most Eligible Man of the Year issue. My face looks back at me from the cover, bronzed and handsome, and I cringe. Fuck. This is not what I signed up for. I thought it’d be a public relations thing, nothing more, but people seem to think I’m a piece of meat now. Goddamit.
Then again, the title doesn’t hurt when it comes to the ladies of Denver society. It gives them an ego boost to be seen with me, and they giggle way too much when I squire them around town. I date them, and I sleep with them, but my heart’s not in it. Hell, my brain’s not in it because most of those women couldn’t hold a conversation to save their lives.
I sigh again, defeated. Summer, it seems, makes me introspective. I stare out the tinted window at a nearby park. The hottest season feels like a wasted time of the year when you’re an adult. You notice the kids in the parks, having fun and being loud, and it hits you: that used to be you, but not anymore. Once upon a time, I enjoyed the sunshine and the breeze on my face. Now, life is passing me by while I rot in an office. Well, not rot exactly, given that the A/C is on high. It’s more that I’m a corpse embalmed in an artificial environment.
Fuck. What do I do? I sleep with women, but there’s nothing in it. I’m not even proud to say that I love them and leave them because it sounds lame. I wish I had someone real to call my own. Someone lush, curvy, and enticing, but Denver seems to be filled with the skinny, shallow type.
But then my mind wanders to my friend’s daughter. Harlow Marshall, twenty-one years old, and soon to be a senior at Colorado State with a degree in marketing, of all things. I would have thought she would have gone for something more unusual, like culinary arts or astronomy because she has such a curious mind, and I’ve always adored that about her.
But then I sit upright because these thoughts are going in the wrong direction. Lately, I’ve found myself noticing other things about Harlow too. She’s smart, funny, and my God, that ass. I laugh at myself for being such a dirty old man, thinking of a sweet teenager’s rump. Someone as pretty has her can’t possibly be single or interested in a man my age. Fuck, I’m literally old enough to be her dad. Besides, the idea is moot anyway. Brent would murder me for lusting after his daughter, and rightfully so.
After all, I’ve known Harlow since she was born and she’s the child of my best friend, so it’s out of the question. I knew her when she was merely a twinkle in Brent’s eye. She’s too young. Why is she even on my mind, anyways? I should be poring over spreadsheets or at the very least, fantasizing about a woman my own age.
But the heart wants what it wants, or at least my cock wants what it wants. Then, I jerk upright suddenly. Oh shit, Harlow’s internship starts today, and I was supposed to swing by to say hello. Brent made me promise to look out for her, although I doubt Harlow needs any help from me. I stand, but then sit down again. It’s lunch time, so she’s probably not even at her desk. Just to be sure, I use the security camera feed on my computer to check and, sure enough, her cube is vacant. Where the fuck is she?
I sit back in my chair just to think as the feed pans to some other angles. Kombuchaid is heavy on security, and we’ve got cameras in every corner. Suddenly, something catches my eye and I lean forward in my seat again, eyes squinting.
Harlow is heading to the bathroom, but it’s not the bathroom on her floor. No, this is the one in the basement, where we’re doing construction,
