Page 6 of Creed

“It isn’t?” I smile when her scowl deepens.

“Who are you supposed to be?” She hikes a delicate dark brow at me.

“Supposed to be?” Then I remember this is a Halloween-themed mixer, and some are in costume. “How do you know I’m wearing anything that’s a costume?”

Her eyes trail down my body to my shoes, then back up again. My skin tingles like she’s touched it with her fingertips or tongue.

“I’m not sure about the glasses—if they’re legit or part of the costume… But a plain, boring gray suit, with a standard white shirt…” She taps her chin, contemplating.

I bite my tongue that my shirt isn’t ‘standard’—not with the price tag, custom-made tailored fit, or that it’s made of the finest Italian fabric—because I sense arrogance will push her away.

“No flashy tie… and with those tattoos and stylish hair. Come on.” Her delicate brow arches even higher. “All this,” she waves her small hand at me, “can’t be your signature style, so yes, I’m saying you’re definitely in costume.”

I smile and sip my bourbon.

Her eyes track the movement, and her throat bobs as she swallows, staring at the ink on the back of my hands. Then she smiles, and I feel my world shrink solely to this angel before me. All my attention is zeroed in on her. A gunman could open fire, and my only thought would be to cover and protect her.

She snaps her fingers, smiling even more broadly. “Bob Iger. CEO of Disney.”

I realize she must have noticed my Mickey Mouse cufflinks. Bob Iger is a powerful and pragmatic industry leader and one of my favorites.

“I’m impressed.” And I am. I truly had thought no one would’ve figured it out.

Tilting my head, I assess her as she had me, but with even more appreciation and heat. She’s tiny compared to me, at least a foot shorter, and the sheer size of my body feels like it dwarfs hers. She’s wearing a crisp skirt suit, the maroon color accentuating her skin and eye coloring. The skirt suit fits her curvy frame nicely but doesn’t suit her. Somehow, I seem to know this isn’t this girl’s style. The silk shirt under her suit jacket has a pattern on it, and I notice upon closer inspection it looks like computer code.

“Reshma Saujani,” I guess.

Her perfect, pouty mouth pops open slightly.

“Am I right?”

Her lips tug, but she resists the smile.

“Girls Who Code, among other things,” I add. “Reshma Saujani has been a big mover in empowering women in the tech field.”

“And for women’s economic empowerment in general,” my mystery angel adds further.

“We both figured out who each other was dressed as, even though we thought no one else would.” I cock my head, looking at her. “Interesting.”

Even in the dim, flashing lighting, I can tell her cheeks are flushed, and it pleases me to know that I affect her.

The crowd around us separates slightly, and the dean of San Diego University’s Knauss School of Business waves and heads toward me. The slight distraction costs me because my angel is slipping into the crowd when I turn back.

“Wait,” I call, but she doesn’t turn back around, and the dean is on me before I can follow my angel.

“Mr. Santoro.” He pumps my hand, smiling broadly. “Such a pleasure that you’re able to join us.”

I incline my head politely. “Dean Barlowe. A pleasure, as always. And please, call me Creed.”

He smiles broader. “I heard you closed quite the mammoth real estate development deal. Congratulations.” When I hike my brow, he grins. “I may lead the education of our newest minds and talent in the field, but I’m still connected.”

As the school’s dean, I take a chance that he would know the students by name.

“Did you see the young lady I was talking to?” I ask.

“Sophie?”

Bingo.

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