Chapter Two
One week later
Carver
“I’m not here.”
The little plastic ball cracks as I tap it with the mini-club. It rolls down the short greenway, making one full, crisp circle around the cup. It sinks in the hole with a flourish.
“Um, Mr. Jones, sir?”
“Yes, Marissa?”
“But you are here. Mr. Salvo knows that.”
Tossing the club on the brown leather sofa across from my desk, I yank on my tie. The early afternoon sun showers my corner office with so much light I consider pulling the blinds. “What’s your point?”
“You want me to lie to him, sir? He said he saw you walking in after your lunch meeting with Noah Tate.”
“We aren’t lying to him.”
“Whatever you say, Mr. Jones.”
“It’s not lying, Marissa. It’s called ‘keeping the balance.’ Salvo thinks he’s going to fuck with me over this CEO position? Fuck him. Let him consider what they’d do if I decided to walk away. ”
“They’d be in trouble, sir.”
“Damn right they would.”
“With that being said,” she says carefully, “I was just notified a few minutes ago that Ms. Gallum is set to arrive at any minute.”
Groaning, I look at the ceiling. Her entrance will start the ball rolling on this absurd situation. It’s not that I’m not ready to fight for this position, one that is inarguably mine. I’ve never been more ready for anything in my entire life. It’s just that I have to is asinine.
It’s also not that I think it’ll be difficult because it won’t. I crush men daily in business meetings and negotiations. Simply put—I’m a winner. And little Amity Gallum with her timid personality and plaid cardigans doesn’t stand a chance. It’s a waste of my precious time.
“Let me know when she’s here,” I tell Marissa. “Until then, hold all my calls.”
“Yes, sir.”
The line clicks dead. I stare at the phone, wondering what Salvo wants. He is a cockroach—aggressive, quick, and when you see him, it’s a sign you need to clean house.
With a quick glance at the clock, I drop into my seat. The sunshine lures me in and taunts me. I haven’t had a full day in the sun since I took this position. I hopped a plane with Noah and Sterling and arrived in Vegas at three in the morning over three years ago. I don’t remember all too much of that weekend. The pink, lacy thong in my suitcase and the imprint of what I believe were handcuffs left around my wrists makes me believe it was probably pretty epic.
There won’t be any sunny vacations in my foreseeable future, not with Dennis Gallum trying to ruin my life. I get that he wants his daughter to benefit from all the work he put into this company. I don’t hold that against him. But if he thinks she’s going to waltz in here with her meekness and wallflower mindset and bring this company success, he’s not nearly as smart as I gave him credit for.
“Mr. Jones? You have a visitor,” Marissa chirps through the line.
“Send her in.”
Swiping a set of files from the corner of my desk, I spread them in front of me in a haphazard, I’ve-been-doing-this-all-day kind of way. Not that I haven’t been working since before the sun came up. I have. That’s not the point.
The point is this: first impressions matter most. It sets the stage for every other interaction, regardless of the relationship. The relationship I’m about to have with Amity Gallum as opposition in some fucked up competition to win the CEO title of our fathers’ company will be the most important one of my life.
Hell, it might be the only one in my life, but that’s beside the point.
The door handle flicks. I bow my head and appear to be so invested in the numbers in front of me that I don’t hear it.
My stomach knots as I wait for her to say something. I imagine her standing in the doorway, a load of binders and clipboards in her hand, as she looks at me over the top of those clunky glasses she wore when we were kids. I hope to God she upgraded those in the last twenty years.
Frustration grows with each second she doesn’t bother to speak. If she can’t get the balls to say hello, how in the hell does Dennis think she can run the company? So stupid.
I finally look up to get it over with.
Holy. Shit.
One thing is clear—this is not Amity Gallum. There’s no way this stunner is the braces-wearing, freckle-faced, nerdy little girl I knew at fifteen. No. Freaking. Way.
After making a quick mental note to tell Marissa to specifically name everyone here to see me, I feast my eyes on the voluptuous visitor. My lips twist into a smirk as I try to keep myself composed. “Good afternoon,” I say smoothly.
“Yes, it is.”
It takes every bit of effort I can manage to keep my jaw from dropping. Even after all this time, I recognize that voice.
It can’t be.
Black stilettos do nothing but extend long, lean legs that are capped off with a black skirt. A white top, rounded at the chest by a full set of tits, has a tailored black jacket on top. Loose, blonde curls touch her shoulders.
She. Definitely. Upgraded.
“Can I help you?” I grin, rifling through all the ways I can, and hope to be, helping her later.
Her blue eyes pin me to my chair, clearly not amused by my reaction to her “fuck me” body. “No, but I can help you find a restraining order if you don’t stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re a fifteen-year-old boy that wants to pick me for Seven Minutes in Heaven.” She throws me a narrowed glare so cold I’d shiver if I had feelings.
Memories of a night a long time ago filter through my mind. I haven’t thought about that in years. Noah dared me to use my uncanny ability to stop the bottle from spinning when it landed on her. I was never one to back out on a dare. I had a reputation on the line. Besides, maybe I’d thought about kissing her a time or a hundred million in the previous six months. This simply gave me an excuse.
“You still think about that?” I ask.
“Yes. You come to mind any time a guy is being an asshole.”
I consider this. “On one hand, I’m glad I’m memorable.”
“Only you would be proud someone remembers you as a complete jerk,” she sighs, rolling her eyes. “You haven’t changed at all.”
My entire game plan is out the window. I didn’t expect her to be pissy, aggressive, or hot. I have to regroup on the fly. “That’s no way to talk to your boss, Ms. Gallum,” I poke.
“Let’s get one thing straight: you are not my boss.”
“That’s not true. I’m the current President of this company, and you, by all accounts, are just a woman jockeying for a position.”
She crosses her arms over her ample chest as she takes in the easy way in which I point out that simple fact. “It looks to me like you’re just a man trying to hold on to a dream that’s dying.”
“Do you need CPR? I’ll happily give you a little mouth-to-mouth.”
“Thank you,” she singsongs, her arms falling from her chest to her sides. “You just reminded me how easy it’s going to be to take the CEO title.”
A little giggle escapes her lips, one I can tell is for my benefit. I’m benefitted. I can imagine that same sound with my name wrapped around it as I bring her to the brink of orgasm.
“I wish you the best of luck,” I tell her, ignoring my blue balls. “I really do. Because you’re going to need it.”
“I know. I’m just the girl that should be looking for a position on a level I’m capable of.”
“Of course your father told you I said that.”
“Yes, of course he did,” she mocks.
She takes me in for what may be the first time since she walked in. The grandeur of my office, the statement I make sitting behind this antique desk framed by the large windows overlooking Manhattan, hits her. She almost flinches.
“If you think it’s going to be easy to bend me over, Carver, you think wrong.”
“Do you prefer another position?” I deadpan. “I’m game.”
“I don’t like you.” She glares. “I won’t like you. And,” she says, storming in and getting comfortable on the sofa across from my desk, “if you get in my way, I will make you pay.”
Challenge. Accepted.