The official story I’d given the world—and Dean—was that when Dad died, I’d lost heart and had decided to focus on my family. It was true for the most part, and it seemed like the best reason to give, because I would be damned if I brought Jake into the mix. No one would get anymore of him at my expense.

Now, Fairchild was in my face, demanding more. I grinned with teeth that wanted to take a bite. “I don’t regret my decision. I’ve moved on to better things.”

“Better things?” He scoffed. “Nothing could beat stepping into the ring and annihilating your opponent.”

I was pretty sure punching this guy in the mouth would beat that. But I gave him an idle shrug in response and said nothing more.

Thankfully, Jackson became Mr. Manners—probably trying to cover for my refusal to bend to Fairchild’s will—and changed the subject.

“Franklin,” he said, “I’m so glad you’re finally meeting Parker. Her suggestions for our forecast model have made significant improvements to it, which has led to interest from a huge client in the European market—”

Fairchild made a derisive noise and waved a hand, cutting Jackson off. “In my day, you played the field based on your gut, not fancy computer software.”

Parker recoiled at his verbal hit. And I had the impulse to throw a punch for her. But like any good fighter, she took the strike, then pushed back, tensing and straightening her spine.

Her smile was cool water. “I agree, Mr. Fairchild. Nothing tops the power of well-honed instincts.” She kept her voice carefully modulated, totally unrattled. “The true purpose of my job is to provide information to back up that instinctual drive by taking numerous factors—hourly energy demands, wholesale power prices, generation mix,”—she waved an elegant hand as if to say this was all elementary shit—“and factoring in such variables as the proportion of power generated from renewable sources, and cross-border power flows for several European markets, and condensing that information into reports and data tools.”

We were all staring at her now, enthralled by her ice cream voice and gentle confidence. And she knew it.

“With that,” she said, “our clients have a clearer picture on how to proceed in various avenues.”

It was obvious she could go on and on but she stopped then, resting her hands on the table, and stared back at Fairchild with those brown doe eyes.

I wanted to laugh or maybe clap. This wasn’t the flustered harpy I’d been arguing with, or even the nervous Nelly I’d seen at the bar, tapping her toe in an agitated rhythm as she waited for Dean. This Parker knew her shit and wasn’t going to be cowed.