Chapter 10 #2
And yet I find myself watching her hands.
“You crushed it at the rehearsal yesterday. You’ll be fine, don’t worry,” I offer, even though my opinion or support is the last thing she’d accept.
She doesn’t look at me. She keeps making notes and… it looks like calculating something in the notes app on her tablet, the tablet’s pen running furiously over the screen.
“I’m not worried,” she mutters.
“If you say so,” I scoff.
Yeah, I’m definitely sulking. I’m so fucking immature around this woman, it’s not even funny.
She whips her head to me. “Maybe I’m uncomfortable because you’re staring.”
Our gazes collide, and I respond with a smirk. “Do I make you uncomfortable, Thunder?”
She studies me, her lips pressed into a line.
“You know why I put on business attire?” She angles her body to me. “All my life I have had to fight to be taken seriously among men. This is just a game to you, but it’s important to me. And here we are, and you pull the most disgusting card in the book.”
I frown. “What are you talking about?”
“You pretend to want me, so you distract me enough to let my guard down. Well, fuck you, Liam Stone. Stop staring at me; stop leaning your lips toward me, and best of all would be if you got lost completely.”
That’s what she thinks? That I’m pretending? That it’s my strategy?
I slide closer, not minding the driver. My nose is in her face. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t waver. Doesn’t scoot farther away.
I drape my arm on the backrest behind her, leaning even closer.
Her chest rises and falls in short bursts. Her jaw ticks, but her gaze is firm on mine. This woman doesn’t cower.
Fuck, if that wasn’t the sexiest thing ever. She lifts her chin ever so slightly.
Her lips are so close, but after her declaration, she would probably bite my tongue off.
“There is a pull between us, Little Thunder. It might be unwelcome. It certainly is inconvenient. We might not want to act on it, but it’s inevitable. We can’t wish it away. So do us both a favor and decide what you want.”
Her only response is a glare and a swallow.
My hand finds her chin, and I hold it between my thumb and forefinger. Not that I need to force her to look at me. She’s already shooting me with her glare.
It doesn’t deter me. “I might have leaned in, but you want my mouth as much as I want yours. It’s going to happen sooner or later, consequences be damned. But remember this. Whatever happens between us, you deserve to succeed.”
She blinks, and I push off, sliding back to my side of the car. “And one more thing,” I growl. “I. Do. Not. Pretend.”
I focus on the road ahead, but I feel her eyes on me.
After several beats, she pushes the tablet across to me. “We’re pitching this wrong.”
I dip my sight, scanning through her scribbles and calculations. “Enlighten me.”
“This family isn’t afraid of losing money. They’re afraid of losing themselves. Their name. Their story. Everything they’ve built.”
I study the numbers in front of me, the picture slowly forming into a crystal-clear option we haven’t considered before. “Go on.”
“We position this as a legacy partnership, not a takeover. We promise to preserve their brand identity. We offer a phased acquisition.”
She taps the screen, pointing to numbers in tiny cursive and continues, “Sixty percent now, the rest after three years.”
I look at the numbers and then at her. “With them staying on the advisory board?”
She nods eagerly, a ghost of a smile lighting up her face. Then she points at another formula. “I tried with two years, but that wouldn’t work for Vireon.”
No Excel spreadsheet, no Airtable, no complicated projections. She did it all with a back-of-the-hand calculation.
I let out a laugh. “Jesus, Roxy, it’s brilliant.”
“I know.” She practically buzzes with excitement.
I meet her gaze, making sure she doesn’t think my next words are platitudes or a ploy to let her guard down. “You’re brilliant.”
She studies me from under her lashes, her cheeks pink. “Thank you. What now, though? We should call Corm.” Her fingers drum faster.
I shake my head. “It’s a good plan. We pitch your version.”
“Stop scowling,” Roxy admonishes me, whispering.
We’ve been here for two hours, and we haven’t spoken a single word about the actual deal.
Not one.
Hearthstone Foods welcomed us with smiles, cider, a tour, more smiles, more cider, and then a detour to their “heritage shed”, full of sepia photos and rusted jam pots.
It’s like these people accepted the meeting just to fuck with us.
“That’s my normal face,” I mutter.
“I know.” She sighs. “Try to smile.”
For the fifth time, the patriarch, Graham Miller, launches into another story about the original apple press.
Roxy stands beside me, nodding like this is the most fascinating thing she’s ever seen.
I bite back a groan.
Of course she’s patient.
Of course she’s composed.
Of course the universe hand-picked the one woman who irritates me and inflames me in equal measure.
Her eyes track every detail, every shelf, every label, every family anecdote. She looks genuinely delighted, as if she were born to understand places like this.
The way I’m drawn to her every move? Less delightful.
Graham finally gestures to a row of copper kettles and beams. Roxy beams back.
They’re bonding over cookware. Fucking cookware.
Her enthusiasm shouldn’t be sexy. Her patience shouldn’t be sexy. Her ability to charm elderly founders without even trying really shouldn’t be sexy.
I flex my fingers.
She gives me a sideways look, urging me to smile. I scowl harder.
She shakes her head in exasperation and then looks up at the copper kettle, eyes soft.
“Graham, this place is… special.”
Graham nods with a satisfied look, and turns to me with expectation. He wants me to confirm? And suddenly, I understand something that has nothing to do with spreadsheets or strategy.
Why we’ve been stalled for two hours. They’re testing us. They want to see if we respect their legacy. If we get the heart before the numbers.
Roxy understood all this within five minutes.
Me? I understood nothing until she smiled at a fucking kettle.
“You’ve built something special here, Graham. You should be really proud.” I play along, and the founder nods his contentment.
He leads us toward the administration building, where an assistant offers us yet another cider.
Graham’s sons join us as we are shown into a cozy waiting room leading toward a rustic boardroom. Finally, we’re getting to the main program.
I stop at the door, letting Graham and Roxy enter first, but the older man halts as well.
He pats Roxy’s hand. “Thank you for indulging me, my dear. Why don’t you wait here while the men talk?”
Roxy stiffens beside me. No flinch. No wince. But the air around her tightens.
Graham opens his mouth, but I draw my arm back, fisting my hand so hard, my knuckles crack. How dare he?