The Merger

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

G annon

“You need to ask Jason to set you up with a loyalty rewards program,” I say, sorting the mail Kylie dropped off while I was in meetings this afternoon. “Ghana last month. Ireland next week. You’re quite the little jetsetter.”

Mom laughs through the speakerphone on my desk. “There’s nothing wrong with living your life. I just wish I would’ve started sooner. Hint. Hint.”

“It loses its subtlety when you say hint hint .”

“Maybe I wasn’t trying to be subtle.”

I smile. “I live my life, Mother. Just because I’m not flying across the world on fancy vacations doesn’t mean I don’t have an enjoyable existence.”

“When’s the last time you took a vacation, Gannon Reid?”

“ Ooh , middle name. You’re serious.”

“I am serious,” she says. “You’re forty years old, and all you do is work.”

“Hmm. I wonder where I learned that from?” I pause, listening to her groan. “That question was rhetorical, by the way.”

As the eldest Brewer son, I was born with a particular set of expectations. And if I forgot them while riding bikes or playing with action figures, my father was right there to remind me that I was failing him. Not failing the expectations. Failing him .

All I wanted to do was please the man. I played baseball because he did. I learned everything I could about cars because that was the only thing we could discuss that didn’t involve business. I combed my hair to the right despite my cowlick all through elementary school and joined the math club despite hating math—I even tried to make myself left-handed like my dad.

But the older I got, the more I realized that being like Reid Brewer wasn’t a compliment, and I tried to erase all the traits I purposely tried to attain. Some of them stuck. One of those sticky habits is working too much.

“Are you coming back to Nashville any time soon?” I ask.

“Yes, of course. I need some baby Arlo snuggles.” Mom laughs. “Who would’ve thought Renn would be the first of you to have a baby?”

“Me.”

“Really? I thought it would be you.”

I ignore the twist in my stomach and, instead, chuckle for her benefit. “That shows how little you know your children.”

“That’s not very nice.”

I leaf through a finance report. “Renn was a professional athlete. He was fucking women on different continents for years. You’re lucky he doesn’t have a dozen offspring scattered across the planet.”

“Don’t say fucking in a sentence with your siblings. It’s … disturbing.”

“Although with all your traveling lately, you could continent-hop and visit your grandchildren.”

“Gannon, that isn’t funny.”

“We must have different senses of humor.” I pause to study last month’s payroll numbers. “Is this what you called for? To tell me you’re heading to Ireland and will only come back home to see Arlo? If so, noted.”

“No, you little shit. I called to check on you. To see how you’re doing.”

“Same shit, different day.”

She sighs. “Gannon, please humor me.”

“What do you want from me?” I sigh, setting down the report. “I had an omelet for breakfast. Traffic was congested on Franklin Avenue this morning, so I was six minutes late for a call. My favorite socks didn’t come back from the dry cleaner last week, and I’m still pissed about that. But now I have to stop there on my way home and drop off my suit because one of Tate’s friends spilled a drink all over me this afternoon.”

Though I fight it, a grin slips across my lips.

“Do you want to see my cleavage?”

Carys Johnson, you little minx.

I’ve had my eye on that woman since the first day I saw her. Tate was home from college for the weekend and brought Carys along. I happened to pop by Mom’s while they were there—and then went straight home to jack off.

She has curves that I want to sink my hands into. Lips that I want to kiss. I want to devour every part of her body and then do it over and over and over again.

That’s why I don’t go near her. And precisely why she’s not touching our plants … or anything else.

I adjust my cock and refocus my attention on the call.

“The fact that you have nothing else to tell me—ever—besides work, food, and transportation says a lot, Gannon.”

“It should tell you that I’m in charge so Bianca can stay happily married in Florida, and you won’t have to come back to town to save the company from the helm of Tate or Ripley.”

She struggles not to laugh. “That’s not funny. Your brothers are perfectly capable of running … okay, you’re right.”

I chuckle.

“But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t expand your horizons,” she says.

There’s only one way out of this conversation. “Mother, I expand my horizons routinely, but I suspect you don’t really want to hear the ins and outs of my extracurricular activities.However, if you’d like to know how I?—”

“Don’t you dare start discussing your sex life.”

“Oh, but I thought you were worried about me expanding my horizons?”

“You really are a turd.”

I make a face. “Turd? Who have you been hanging out with?”

“I suspect you don’t really want to hear the ins and outs of my?—”

“Okay, okay.” I chuckle. “Well played.”

“Thank you. And on that note, I’m going to go pack for Ireland and call Renn to check on Arlo.”

“Be safe, Mom.”

“I will. Please take care of yourself, Gannon.”

“Always. Talk to you soon.”

“I love you.”

A soft smile touches my lips. “I love you, too, Mom. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

I end the call, then rock back in my chair and stretch.

My stomach rumbles, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since breakfast. I quickly check the time, then pull the rest of the mail to me. The faster I can get through this, the quicker I can get out of here.

The first three items need a signature. I scribble my name across the bottom of each page, then set them aside. The fourth will require a call tomorrow. It gets moved to the top basket in the corner of my desk. The last item is a curious-looking envelope.

“What’s this?” I ask, picking it up.

It’s letter-sized with neat cursive writing on the front. The return address is local, but there is no name. Weird.

I slide an opener across the top and pull out a card. The foiled letterhead glistens under the lights.

Waltham Prep Centennial Gala Celebration

Celebrating one hundred years of excellence in education.

“That looks like a great time,” I say, rolling my eyes.

A date, time, and location are listed, along with a slew of my high school’s historical statistics—none of which interest me. I turn the card over and find a personalized note.

Dear Mr. Brewer,

On behalf of the Centennial Committee, we are delighted to invite you to be a featured alumni speaker at our upcoming gala. We believe your insight and wisdom would contribute meaningfully to the evening.

Please let us know if you will accept this invitation by the date listed below. Should you require more details or would like to discuss further, please contact me at your earliest convenience.

Sincerely,

Thomas Crenshaw

“That’s a no,” I say, tossing the invitation and envelope on a pile of papers for Kylie to shred.

Before I can push away from my desk, my phone vibrates.

Tate: No. I mean it.

“No? No what?” I ask aloud.

Me: Did you mean to send this to me?

Tate: Yes.

I furrow my brow.

Me: Are we talking in code?

Tate: You know what I mean.

Me: I don’t have time for this, Tate.

Tate: CARYS.

“ Oh ,” I say, grinning. “ Carys .”

Her name rolls off my tongue with ease. It’s perfect for her, both sweet and spicy. It brings me back to her juicy red lips pressed together this afternoon in a perfect little pout when I wouldn’t give in to her.

God, how I wanted to.

I wanted to strip her down, bend her over Tate’s desk, and spank her bare ass for spilling her drink on me.

I’m hard just imagining her peach-shaped behind up in the air waiting on me.

I bet that pussy is hot and wet. I wanted to slide my fingers through her slit and confirm that she was dripping for me today. “You need me, Gannon Brewer.”

She has no fucking idea.

Me: What are you telling me? Hands off because you’re fucking her?

Tate: No! She’s like my sister.

Me: Tate, brother, there’s nothing familial about her.

Tate: Well, don’t get familiar with her either. She’s off-limits, Gannon.

Me: You act like I’m a monster.

Tate: The two of you together would be more than the world can handle, and I won’t be the one to watch her cry and listen to you complain once it all blows up.

Me: You think too much.

I smile while imagining steam rising from Tate’s head as he stares at his phone. He’s always so protective of Carys, a trait that I admire. If you’re going to have feelings for someone—platonic or romantic—at least take it seriously. And that he does.

Tate: I can’t have this conversation with you.

Me: You texted me.

Tate: Because I can read a room.

Me:

Tate: I mean it.

Me:

“Because I can read a room, huh?” I say, staring at our exchange. I wonder what that means.

Carys is too young, too beautiful to want me. And Tate surely understands that I wouldn’t lead a girl like that along—let alone his best friend. Relationships are for the young and dumb; fortunately, I am neither of those things.

“I’m desperate if you haven’t noticed. Don’t make me go back to insurance.”

I want to shake this off and forget about Miss Matcha, but something about that line bothers me. Why is she desperate? Or was she being dramatic? Does she actually need this job?

I mosey around my office, stopping at the windows overlooking the city. It’s a beautiful evening. The sky boasts pinks and purples, and the traffic below crawls peacefully—from up here, at least.

Carys’s proposition lingers in the back of my brain, and I mull it over. Her sales pitch was impassioned. And if I’m not being a complete dickhead, she did make some sense. But logically speaking, I don’t need plant care to keep my staff happy. They’re paid well and respected. And my clients are mostly men who don’t give a damn about vegetation.

Still, if she wasn’t Tate’s best friend, and I wasn’t sure I’d struggle to keep my cock out of her mouth, I’d probably hire her for the hell of it.

I nibble at my bottom lip and then glance at the clock. I press 0 before I can overthink it.

“Yes, Mr. Brewer?” Kylie asks.

What am I doing?

“Hey, Kylie. How many office plants do we have in the building?”

“Sir, I have no idea. Do you want me to count them?”

Her question hangs in the air like I’ve lost my mind. Have I?

I rub my forehead, frustrated with myself. “No. Just take a guess.”

“Um, well, there’s one on my desk, and there are two or three, I think, in the lobby downstairs. There are three in the break room, but one could probably be thrown away. It’s been crunchy for weeks. Oh ! The main conference room has a couple of trees, and I think they stuck the potted plant your accountant sent over for the holidays in the small conference room. It was starting to drop leaves and getting all over the place. So that’s at least ten. There are a couple in the hallway in marketing and?—”

“That’s fine,” I say, sighing. How are there that many plants in this office, and I never knew it? “Who takes care of them?”

“Well, I take care of the one in here. I don’t really know who takes care of the others. I’d venture to say no one is, considering most of them look dead.”

Fuck . “Where do we get these plants? Who brings them? Why are they here?”

“Some are gifts. Employees sometimes leave them behind once they are promoted or leave the company. Some of the others were here when I started last year, so I don’t know where they came from. Others just seem to appear.” She pauses. “Mr. Brewer, are you okay?”

It seems not . “Yes, why?”

“Because this is just really random, and you’re not usually … random.”

I ignore that. “Do you think anyone cares if they’re healthy or not?”

“Meaning if they are healthy or the plants?”

“The plants, Kylie.”

“Oh. Right. I’m not sure if people care. If I had to guess, I’d say they do. Dying plants are depressing.” She pauses again as if she can’t keep up with the conversation. “Would you like me to round them up and get rid of them? If they bother you, I could donate them to a nursing home.”

Not a bad idea . “Maybe. I’ll get back to you on that.”

“Okay.”

“Thanks, Kylie.”

I click the button and catch a glimpse of myself in the window. My hair is messy, and my eyes have bags under them. Maybe I do need to figure out how to relax a little.

“One messy meeting with Carys Johnson, and I’m causing my staff to question my sanity,” I say to the empty office.

And this is why Tate’s best friend will definitely not be caring for Brewer Group’s plants … or anything else.

She’s a fucking ten.

She’s also a fucking no .