Frontline by Alexandra Richland Page B

do?”
    Trenton sets his glass back down on his placemat. “Merrick Industries is a global investment management firm,” he says, as though he’s being interviewed on CNN. “We offer varied risk management, strategic advisory, and enterprise investment system services as well as equity, fixed income, and cash management strategies to a broad base of exclusive clientele spanning the globe.”
    “So you manage other people’s money —like big companies.”
    “Large assets in particular.”
    “How large?”
    “Trillions of dollars.”
    “Trillions . . . wow. So do you enjoy your job?”
    “It requires strategy, foresight, quick thinking, and even quicker reaction. I find the challenge exciting.”
    “Like fencing,” I say, realizing his description sounds similar to how he described his pastime earlier in the weapons room.
    His chewing slows as he considers my comment.
    “I’ve never thought of it . . . but yes, there are strong similarities between the two.”
    “Did you start Merrick Industries from scratch or acquire or merge with an existing company?”
    “I built my company from the ground up based on a business plan I devised in college. I’m considered a pioneer in my field, especially since I topped the trillion dollar mark in accounts by age twenty-five.”
    Well, that explains the ego.
    “That must be quite the power trip, knowing these companies depend on you to manage their holdings.”
    Trenton shrugs. “I’m excellent at what I do.”
    I sigh and fork a green bean into my mouth. I feel as though I’m sitting at the other end of his boardroom table instead of his dinner table.
    “My reputation is world renowned,” he says, “so, yes, you may say the power I possess over the richest and most influential global businesses is very . . . rewarding. It’s a prominent position I take very seriously.”
    “Okay, but you didn’t answer my previous question.” I stab my fork into another green bean. “Do you like your job? Is it fulfilling?”
    “It’s a very lucrative career.”
    I grit my teeth and exhale through my nose.
    Our conversation stalls as Randall clears our main course dishes and serves me a warm slice of apple pie, swimming in vanilla ice cream. He leaves without placing a dessert in front of Trenton. I take a few bites, listening to my soft chews in sync with the ticking of the grandfather clock while Trenton stares at me from across the table.
    It’s time to step up my game.
    I stand, napkin in hand, and slide my placemat, including my pie and cutlery along the polished table all the way down to his end. Trenton watches me curiously. I pull out the chair nearest to him, take a seat, and place my napkin back in my lap.
    “There. That’s much better.” I square my shoulders. “Do you always sit a million miles apart from your dinner guests?”
    Trenton smirks. “I can’t remember the last time I was even in this room.”
    “Well, that explains this ridiculous setup. I was about to ask you for a bullhorn so I wouldn’t lose my voice talking to you.”
    “There are many things we can do besides talk.” His hand finds my knee beneath the table.
    I shake my head, but smile. “You’re incorrigible, you know that?”
    Trenton moves his hand above the table again and trails his fingers down my arm. I hold my breath.
    “Don’t pretend you don’t want me, Sara. I can see it in the way you look at me . . . how your body responds to my touch.”
    Heat rises in my cheeks. “Just to clarify—what happened in the hospital between us—I’ve never done that before.”
    Trenton folds his hands on the table. “Nor have I.”
    “Really?”
    He tosses me a stern look. “Why is that so hard to believe?”
    I shrug. “You just seemed so assertive in your attack, like you’ve had plenty of practice.”
    Trenton leans forward. His gaze looks so intense that I feel exposed, despite that the questions are focused on him. “I’m confident when I know what I want and my actions