Chapter 4
Islam my office door hard enough to rattle the pictures on the wall. Three swift strides carry me behind my mahogany desk, where I bracingly grip the edges.
Damn that woman.
I knew Maddie Emerson spelled trouble from the moment I chased that bear away. All flashing hazel eyes and legs for days. Being noble flew out the window real fast when she slipped those soft hands up my chest.
I brush my palm through my hair, remembering her trying to hold onto it while I was kissing every inch of her tight body. The cut is a bit longer than what I used to have in the Navy, but still shorter than most men wear it in the city nowadays.
I never should have let it get so far with her. I was this close to giving in, every cell in my body screaming to damn it all to hell and allow myself to feel her wrapped around me.
Only a soldier can muster that kind of self-control. If I had given in, there would have been no return from it. She would have gotten attached and started dreaming up happily ever afters I can’t possibly give her.
And I would have lost my mind.
Even if I was still whole, it would have been a bad idea. I’m almost fifteen years older than her.
So, I did the responsible thing. What was best for both of us.
Walked away.
But man, that felt shitty.
I haven’t regretted anything so much in my life as leaving her sleeping by those dying embers.
That day, I hiked hard and fast, more than twenty miles without stopping once. It would have been impossible for her to catch up even without carrying that gigantic backpack.
As if she would have chased after me in the first place.
I was tempted many times to turn back and look, but I forced myself to continue.
Left foot. Right foot. Keep moving forward.
Until I was far enough. Completely numb.
And yet, a week later, she stubbornly refused to leave my head.
As if she was living there rent free.
And the next thing I know, she shows up at my company as the new PR hire. As if I fucking manifested her.
A knock precedes Cade slipping into my office, his eyebrows raised.
“Dude, did that social media chick run over your dog or something? You bit her head off for no reason.”
I drag a hand through my hair in agitation.
“She deserved every bit of it. Traipses into my meeting in that tiny little skirt threatening to turn us into some GenZ fan account! Starts spouting off nonsense about TikTok without any business credentials.”
Cade raises an eyebrow and smirks. “That was indeed a small skirt.”
I scoff, throwing myself into the seat across from him. “An influencer will now tell us how to run a tech conglomerate. We might as well turn ourselves into her personal fan account!”
Cade crosses his arms, entirely unaffected by my heated tone. We served in enough hot spots together for my temper tantrums not to faze him.
“Look, her suggestions weren’t stupid, Jack. Maybe going full TikTok isn’t the answer, but the girl has a point about digital engagement. She probably has her finger on the pulse of what”s trending better than us. And her insights might come in handy with our project.”
Cade levels me with a knowing look before continuing.
“But this isn”t about protecting the company, is it? Was it that she challenged you, or was it the skirt that did it?” He snorts a laugh.
I give him a warning look. But he’s not too far off the mark. Dear old Dad will keel over at the first meme posted about Whitmore Tech. Yet I need him in his best mood until I find a partner and investor to produce Whitmore’s new virtual reality software.
To make things worse, seeing those sun-kissed legs in four-inch heels every day will do nothing for my peace of mind.
Sighing, I unclench the white-knuckled grip on my desk. As much as I hate to admit it, Cade is right.
Was it Albert Einstein who said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results?
I suppose we do need to dust off our tried and true methods and attempt something new.
“Who hired her, anyway? She’s a kid, for Pete’s sake.”
Cade sighs. “Look, her background could be an asset. Marketing saw something in her. Give her a chance, brother,” he says with a shrug.
I barely have time to start up my computer and think of a response, when the looming figure of my father appears in the doorway.
Walt Whitmore: self-made billionaire, tech genius. The man built this company from nothing while single-handedly raising me after Mom passed. Now at sixty-five, his tall frame remains imposing and muscular under his tailored suit, his dark hair shot only slightly with gray.
As if on cue, Cade rises and shakes his hand, standing at his eye level. “Mr. Whitmore, so good to see you. He’s all yours. I was just leaving.” He gives me a side look and a nod before closing the door behind him.
As always, my father’s green eyes that mirror my own bear straight through my skin and size up my soul. I straighten my shoulders instinctively, then feel ridiculous for still snapping to attention for the old man”s inspection.
“I heard about the little PR pixie shaking things up in the morning meeting,” Dad announces without preamble.
Of course, he did. Walt Whitmore makes it his mission to know everything that occurs on his turf. His sources probably had him dialed in before I even stormed back here.
“I need to know you”re keeping our vision secured, son. Whitmore Tech stands for innovation and excellence. We can”t forget that chasing flashy trends.”
I nod crisply. “Of course, the core vision remains unchanged. But Ms. Emerson”s input about expanding visibility for younger demographics seems to be valid. Especially with our product expansion into virtual reality.”
He considers me with a stern eye before cracking the barest hint of a smile. “Well, we’ll see how well that software line will do. I don’t have high expectations. But you did finance the pilot from your private funds, so I’ll reserve my judgment of your pet project for now.”
I release a breath I hadn”t realized I was holding. Making Dad proud has annoyingly remained a driving force well into adulthood. After defiantly enlisting against his wishes years ago, part of me still wants to prove that I can create the proud legacy he expects here, too.
Which is why his next words land like an anvil. “As the new leader of this enterprise, you’re accountable for Whitmore’s future. And I think it’s time you started investing into your own.” He pauses, and I know what’s coming. “This firm needs a solid image with an heir on the way, and I expect you to deliver it.”
My jaw clenches so hard, it”s a wonder my teeth don”t crack.
Not this again.
I bite my tongue so hard I taste blood. I should know better than to hope Walt will ever understand why his golden boy turned his back on the gilded path carved out for him since birth.
He crosses his arms, face clouding with that ever-present disappointment he has perfected since the day I broke the news I was enlisting as a Navy SEAL.
“I groomed you as my protégé from boyhood for this company,” he grumbles bitterly. “You were set to inherit my empire. Then you threw it all aside to go fight in some far-off countries.” He pauses, looking me up and down judgmentally. “Now if you want to take over, I want to see you settled down. A wife and a child that will continue my legacy into the future. “
Each word is a blow to my bruised psyche. But I straighten against the verbal assault.
“I was fighting in far-off lands, but it was for our country. Your country too,” I bite out. “I needed to find my own path to serve something bigger than myself or Whitmore Tech. The service shaped me into who I am. Please accept that.”
Dad scoffs. “And who is that? A haunted shell of a man bearing unseen scars from months held captive behind enemy lines. Is that the glorious hero”s journey you were seeking? What did they even do to you?”
I flinch as phantom pains from torture sessions flare. Marc and Cade are the only ones who know what we endured. The memories lurk no matter how deeply I bury them. Sleep remains elusive most nights even now, months later and safe at home.
Maybe Walt has a point. Maybe I am too damaged now to rule an empire. But that can”t dull the conviction behind my choices, no matter how much he disparages them.
“A wife will soothe your scars,” he pronounces with an air of finality. “Children will ground you. I expect an engagement announcement by the shareholders meeting next quarter. Then Whitmore is yours.”
I seethe silently as he stalks out, confident as always he has secured the outcome he demanded.