Page 59 of Fighting Gravity

Tate had spent all morning telling himself seeing Rosie again would be no big deal. He’d run a billion-dollar company for a decade now. He dealt with hard shit all the time. Hell, he’d just received his annual summons from his mother and had to meet with her in two days.

But his body was betraying him. Tate hadn’t stopped shaking since Rosie had joined his group on the patch of bare earth. He could hardly keep up with the friendly chatter of her colleague, Andrew. He couldn’t stop sneaking glances at the woman he’d fallen so hard for.

Even as the wind blew her red-gold locks around in swirling patterns, Rosie’s face remained impassive, her serene expression like knives in his gut. How could she feel nothing when he felteverything? The concerned looks his brother and Quinn kept throwing him as they exchanged pleasantries with their guests didn’t help. Vadim kept shaking his head at him like Tate was missing something. By the time he moved to the front of the crowd to give the prepared speech Quinn’s team had written, he was beyond irritated.

He spoke about smashing boundaries and delivering on dreams, about widening worlds for everyone, not just those with wallets deep enough. He talked about how the hotel design captured inclusivity and the romance of space travel. He thanked his hardworking team, Rosie and her team, and told Hector he couldn’t wait to build their vision together. As he talked about OrbitAll’s future, he thought about his own, how the future he’d pictured with Rosie just a few weeks ago no longer existed.

Tate got in line with Rosie and everyone else, shovel in hand, and posed for pictures. He turned a shovelful of dirt. He watched her pivot her body toward Andrew, toward her car, as if she really planned on leaving without a word to him.

As much as he loved her, as much as Tate couldn’t be unkind to Rosie, he also couldn’t let her walk away. He approached her from behind and gently slid his hand under her elbow. He felt her tremble as surely as he felt her lean into his touch. Maybe she wasn’t so unaffected after all. He tried to shove away the triumph that spiked through him, but it didn’t work. He hated the idea of feeling so much alone.

He drew Rosie away from the crowd. He could see her nostrils flaring as she forced shallow breaths through her nose.

“I wanted to thank you myself, not just in a speech written by a PR team.” Not the main motivation in cornering her. Just one of many. “You met some unlikely timelines for us and gave us a design more beautiful than I imagined.”

“You’re welcome.”

Her stilted expression erased his smile. They stood, neither talking nor moving, for too long.

“This is it, huh?” The question just fell out. Tate had wanted Rosie close. He’d needed to touch her. Now he didn’t even want to hear her answer.

He let go of her elbow and turned away before she could reply. He turned back on impulse. Her gentle features tore at his insides. “I meant what I said. Thank you. For everything.”

Somehow, Tate walked away. He told himself walking away would be easier than seeing her do it again, but he was wrong.

He couldn’t settle his body or his thoughts on the flight to New York to meet his mother. Chen had woken him way before his alarm that morning. A little over two months after leaving them for China, his erstwhile pilot was now on the move again, leaving Jiuquan to “get his girl,” as he’d put it. Tate had struggled to sit with the feeling that had flooded into his veins when he’d heard Chen’s plan. The emotion wasn’t joy. It was jealousy.

Tate had found his perfect partner in Rosie. He hadn’t left her for a better job like Chen had done. All he’d done was try to surprise Rosie and say yes to some weekend guests. Tate wanted to get on a damn plane and sweep Rosie off her feet like Chen was planning to do with Elle. But Rosie preferred the fucking ground.

Tate nodded at the doorman at Woolworth Tower, the same man he’d been nodding at yearly since he’d taken over at OrbitAll and the summons from his mother had begun. As his shoes echoed in the marble lobby, it occurred to him that Rosie would probably love the neo-Gothic structure that had been the tallest in the world at one time.

The elevator, crafted of intricate Art Deco metal, took him to the twenty-ninth floor’s penthouse. Dread built with every floor. He sighed in time with the final ding. The doors slid open into the soaring, all-white great room. The chandeliers threw soft light that bounced off the gleaming black piano. His mother’s assistant, Brielle, was on the phone, pacing in pumps at the back of the room, speaking rapid French. She sent Tate a wave that could be mistaken as dismissive if he didn’t know her better. The housekeeper, Irina, scurried by in the background.

“Tatum.”

His gaze followed the voice up. His mother stood at the head of the spiral staircase twenty feet above him, one hand on the metal railing. Remi Geier looked as imperious as ever in a severe black dress, her ice blond hair brushed back into a long ponytail. Her only wrinkles were between her eyes. Frown lines.

Tate adjusted the bag slung across his chest as she made her way down slowly, eyes never leaving his.

“Maman.” They always spoke French together.

She didn’t speak as she made her way slowly down the stairs, back rigid and face still as stone.

Tate straightened as her heels met the parquet floor. Like Rosie, she normally had an inch on Tate, but she towered over him in those platform pumps. Quinn would know exactly what line and what year, but Tate had never paid much attention to their couture houses.

“I’ve asked Irina to put out a light lunch while we go over figures for the annual report.”

She didn’t ask how Tate was. Didn’t comment on the CEO promotion. She didn’t ask about Matt, or Matt’s family. He dutifully followed her through the vast apartment to the formal dining room. At least there was lunch. And wine.

His mother took a seat, tucking her long legs to the side. Her spot held neat stacks of what Tate knew were audited income statements, descriptions of the respective industries run by each family member and their position in each, market price of the company’s stock and dividends paid, staffing details. The boring shit that had never interested either of her sons.

Tate’s spot was empty except for a place setting. He swept the wine glass into his hand and poured a sizable glass of whatever ruby liquid lingered in the decanter. He inhaled as the wine hit his tongue and spread. His next exhale was happier.

The crease between his mother’s brows made an appearance. Tate dropped into his seat, not quietly, and fished his own reports from his messenger bag. She took them and started scanning, the frown never leaving her face.

He grew more irritated the longer she scrutinized. Why couldn’t they just have their exchange via email? She didn’t get any more joy from their meetings than he did. For once, he didn’t feel like fixing the unhappiness on her face. He didn’t want to give explanations for the numbers she saw or justify his staffing decisions.

Her calculating frown grated on him. Did she really think any of the Geiers in his generation wanted to emulate her “legacy over love” lifestyle? As beautiful as she was, as successful as she’d made their company in the past two decades, she was fucking miserable.

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