6. Bennett
BENNETT
W e’ve barely pulled away from the curb when Caleb strikes.
“You going to tell me what that was?”
I slide into the back seat without meeting his eyes. “What what was?”
“Um. Let me see… The way your brain seemed to drip out of your ears every time you so much as glanced at the COO.” He snaps his portfolio shut. “I have never covered your ass the way I had to in there today. Still, the meeting went well. Better than expected. Robert practically handed us the keys.”
I turn to the window where Chicago slides past, steel and glass catching afternoon sun. Our driver slices through traffic with practiced ease, cocooning us in climate-controlled silence.
“Bennett.” Caleb's voice cuts through my thoughts. “What's going on you and her?”
“Nothing that affects the deal.”
“That's not what I asked. ”
I exhale slowly. Control the breath. Control the mind. A technique that's served me through a thousand negotiations.
But this isn't a negotiation.
This is a goddamn cosmic joke.
“I wasn't expecting to see her there.”
“No shit, Sherlock. I don’t think either of us thought you’d see your festival dalliance in Robert Carmichael's boardroom. As his daughter and COO.” He lets out a low whistle. “That's... one hell of a coincidence.”
I look at him sharply. “You think?”
“You already know what I think.”
“She claims she didn't know. About me. About the deal.” I watch his face. “What are the odds?”
Caleb studies me too long. “Well, bullet dodged, then. Lucky you never tried calling.”
My jaw tics. “Exactly.”
“Except now you've got to work with the girl you ghosted.”
“For a few weeks. Once the board votes, we'll bring in our team.” I shrug. “She becomes redundant.”
“Institutional knowledge like hers doesn't grow on trees.”
“We'll evaluate her value like any other asset.”
“Right,” he says evenly. “Nothing personal.”
I shoot him a look. “Don't.”
“Just observing that your laser focus seems slightly... shattered today.”
“My focus is perfect.”
“If you say so.” He scrolls through his phone. “You know what? We should celebrate the Carmichael win. That new rooftop bar on Michigan just opened. ”
“Tokyo deal closes this weekend.”
“You can spare two hours.” He glances up. “Unless you're avoiding public spaces for some reason?”
“Subtle.”
“I don't do subtle,” he says. “I do damage control.”
“She's not in my head.”
The lie burns my tongue.
Because she is in my head. With those defiant hazel eyes, the way she stood her ground while her father crumbled. That pencil skirt showcasing curves I haven't been able to erase from my mental hard drive.
Caleb watches my face. “Look, we've known each other too long for games. Just tell me. Is this going to be a problem?”
“What 'this'?”
He gives me his courtroom stare. “The woman you were clearly interested in—don't deny it—turns out to be the daughter of the company we're acquiring. Whose job you're about to eliminate.”
I turn back to the window. “It's not a problem.”
“Bennett—”
“I said it's not a problem.” My tone is final. Absolute. “I don't mix business and personal. Ever.”
“Right,” he says, settling back. “Paragon of emotional detachment.”
“Precisely.”
“Which explains why your knuckles are white from squeezing that armrest to death.”
I release the leather, flexing my fingers. “I'm annoyed. I got played.”
“If you say so.” He doesn't look up. “But prepare yourself for seeing her again. Due diligence isn't a one-night stand.”
I say nothing. He has no idea how prepared I am. How much mental energy I'm already wasting on anticipating our next encounter. That's precisely the problem.
“I'm always prepared, Caleb. That's why we close deals others can't.”
“Hm.” It's the sound he makes when he disagrees but values his life too much to push.
The car stops outside our building. Before I can escape, Caleb grabs my arm.
“Saturday. Rooftop. Eight o'clock. I'll send details.” His voice softens. “You need to decompress. Last quarter nearly killed us both.”
I consider refusing. But he's not wrong. I've been living on espresso and spite.
“Fine. Send it.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “That easy?”
“Don't make me change my mind.” I pause. “And don't think I don't know what this is.”
“Concerned friendship?”
“Monitoring my mental state to protect the deal.”
He doesn't deny it. “Two birds, one stone.”
I step into bright sunlight, the city's afternoon glare bouncing off glass towers. “I'll see you upstairs. Need to make a call.”
He nods and vanishes inside. I stay on the sidewalk, pulling out my phone.
I scroll to Jenna, my executive assistant, and type:
Me:
I need everything we have on Layla Carmichael. Education. Work history. Personal background. Especially any ties to other private equity or VC groups.
Her reply is instant:
Jenna:
How deep?
Me:
Deep enough to know if she's playing an angle.
I pocket my phone and inhale. City exhaust, the sharp tang of the lake not far away.
This isn't personal.
It's due diligence.
Standard procedure.
I almost believe it.
The elevator rises smoothly. By the time I reach the top floor, I've mentally locked the whole situation behind a wall.
There's a company to acquire. A transition to execute. An integration strategy to implement.
Whatever happened at the festival is irrelevant.
Whatever Layla Carmichael's game is, I'll uncover it.
And this time, I won't find her intriguing.
Even if I can still see the gape in her blouse every time I close my goddamn eyes.