Chapter 5
five
The look on this smug bastard’s face is priceless.
Part of me longs to call him out and humiliate him. Part of me wants to slap his right cheek so it matches the left.
You’re a professional , I remind myself. Even if he isn’t .
In the end, I settle on complete and total indifference. By the time his wild eyes touch mine, I might as well be made of ice. He stares, horrified, until Dominic reaches across my chest to offer his hand, brushing my cleavage as he goes.
The two men shake hands. I know I have to extend mine as well, but the thought of touching him again flips my stomach. I ruthlessly tamp down my nerves.
“Mr. Everett, is it?” I ask, reaching out.
His hand grips mine with more strength than I expect, given his pretty-boy outfit. A charge skirts up my arm, raising goosebumps on my skin.
“Miss Rivera.”
Those fathomless black eyes run over my features and flit down to my boobs one last time before snapping back to mine. Molten heat shifts in his dark depths. Irritation fills the space around his full mouth as he lies, “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
I can’t help the small, mean smirk twisting my lips. “Oh, likewise .”
Around us, the others settle in. Someone asks Mr. Stryker about his upcoming weekend plans; while they chat, Graham casually leans into the charged space between our seats.
“‘ Sue me, ’” he quotes, muttering as he trains his gaze on the view across from us. “And you’re an attorney . Cute.”
The memory of my own private joke nearly breaks my concentration. I swallow a mocking laugh. “If you think that’s cute,” I murmur, “then maybe a sexual harassment suit would be downright adorable .”
His head turns toward me. I resist the urge to look back. Despite his repugnant personality, I find his appearance fascinating.
His gentlemanly clothing; those wild, impassioned eyes; the indolent way he speaks and carries himself. So many contradictions. Inconsistencies the lawyer in me longs to resolve.
Graham opens his mouth to speak, but Mr. Stryker begins the meeting in earnest. He blows out a breath and rubs his hand over the back of his neck, a gesture that instantly makes him seem more approachable.
His chiseled lips quirk into a rueful smile. “I’ll be real with all of you and say: I feel uncomfortable commandeering your work time to discuss my personal finances and holdings. So I’d like to offer you an out. If any of you would prefer to return to your company business and leave me to fend for myself, I have nothing but respect for that. Frankly, I don’t want to spend an hour talking about me, either.”
His accountant and Everett chuckle. They clearly knew the intent of the meeting before they agreed to attend.
The real estate acquisitions manager and I exchange a brief glance—as the only women in a room with the CEO, we don’t care what the meeting is about. We aren’t leaving.
“All right,” Mr. Stryker says, nodding. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He waves his hand, and his omnipresent PA begins passing out tablets. Mr. Stryker winces slightly. “For security purposes, we’re not able to distribute this information on paper. The iPads are encrypted and password protected. You’ll each have access to a set of data as it pertains to your specialty.”
He gestures to the blank white space behind me and then taps a few things on his own iPad. The wall flickers to life as a projection of an MLS listing pops up. It’s a townhome… a thirty-three-million-dollar townhome on the Upper West Side.
“Miss Dunn,” Mr. Stryker clips, taking his seat. “You’re up.”
The real estate woman looks about my age. She clearly knows what she is doing—her fingers fly over her screen as she pulls up the information she needs and rises to her feet.
With a shoulder-length head of shimmery auburn waves and a wide, white smile, she commands our attention easily. Her navy jumpsuit and short, matching blazer give her a trendy air of professionalism. It also highlights her lithe, willowy figure. I find myself fighting the urge to glance at Everett and see if he’s ogling her the same way he gawked at me.
Beatrice Dunn reviews the property for us. It seems like a huge place for a bachelor—and on the “wrong” side of the island for a Midtown executive. But it’s a gorgeous prewar building, completely renovated throughout and full of charming architectural quirks.
Every time I look at the price, my stomach squirms.
Beatrice taps again. “Projected returns within five years fall somewhere in the neighborhood of thirteen million dollars.”
Everett’s voice comes as a surprise from the place beside me. “And Stryker’s condo on the East Side?” he interjects, drawing my eyes.
Instead of his tablet, he has a legal pad in his lap. His right hand scratches notes as he waits for Beatrice’s reply.
Numbers , I realize. He does math while he listens.
“I have an offer going under contract next week for nineteen million,” she answers coolly.
Everett flashes a quick smile, turning on his charm to soothe the sting of his interruption. “Great, thanks.”
Beatrice gives a dismissive bob of her chin and turns to address me and Dominic. “The contracts for both of these properties should be on your tablets. They need to be reviewed and approved as soon as possible.”
I look at the application on my screen, wishing I’d had time to familiarize myself with the program in advance. It seems simple enough, though—a few taps lead me to the main menu, then a section clearly titled “contracts.” There are several documents stored within, but only two with addresses in their titles.
“I’m with you,” I tell her, pulling up the condo contract. “I assume the West Side property will be the top priority?”
Beatrice smiles warmly at me. “Naturally.”
“And the East Side sale; standard conveyances?” I confirm, scanning the relevant section of the document.
Mr. Stryker cuts in. “Yes. It all goes.”
I nod and turn to Dominic for his answering directives… only to find my boss fumbling with his screen. “I don’t have either document.”
Without much thought, I reach over and navigate his way to the same list I had. “There,” I tell him, pointing. “Third from the top.”
Mr. Stryker checks his watch. I sense that the motion indicates he’s losing his patience. “Don’t sweat it, Carter. Miss Dunn will confer with Miss Rivera. I’m sure she’s more than capable of two contract reviews.” A frown mars Mr. Stryker’s brow. He gives me a sincere look. “Unless you have other plans this weekend, Miss Rivera.”
Aside from church and steak, I don’t. But I appreciate his consideration either way. “Not a problem,” I demur. “Real estate moves at warp speed in this city. We have to be quick to stay competitive.”
Mr. Stryker nods. “Well put. Miss Dunn? Get with Miss Rivera after we conclude? I’ll rest easy this weekend knowing you two are on it.”
Beatrice nods again, shooting me a friendly smile while she slides back into her acrylic seat. “I look forward to it.”
“Great,” Mr. Stryker says, turning to the accountant. “Milton, talk to me about property taxes. How screwed am I?”
Mr. Boyle starts his portion of the presentation. Thrilled, I bite back a smile and flag the two contracts in question. They’re the first I’ve been trusted with independently—and they’re Mr. Stryker’s personal properties. It seems like a huge vote of confidence.
Finally, it’s Graham’s turn. Unlike the others, he remains seated, pivoting his chair to address the room at large. His expression looks casual, but a mysterious spark gleams in his eyes. His opening remark seems to surprise everyone.
“When’s the last time you went to a mall?” he starts.
The room remains silent. Graham’s mouth draws up at the corners, lending his handsome features a boyish quality I try not to like. “Anyone?” he prompts, looking at each person in turn before his eyes fall on me. “Miss Rivera?”
I don’t appreciate being put on the spot, but I refuse to quail under his bright black stare. “A true shopping mall?”
I haven’t been to one in ages . As much as it pains me to help him prove his point, I have to admit, “It’s been years.”
Graham gives a decisive nod. “And when’s the last time anyone in this room sent a contract in the mail?”
Beatrice actually snorts. “As in the mail -mail?” Her hazel eyes widen. “I don’t think I’ve ever done that. And I’ve been licensed for years.”
Graham’s cocky smile widens. “Has anyone called a restaurant to make a reservation lately?”
No one replies. With a sardonic smirk, Mr. Stryker shoots his friend a look. “We get it, Everett.”
Graham claps once. “Of course you do. Because it’s common knowledge. Old media, old commerce, old communication. It’s all old . And while we may not be willing to admit it yet, we’re done with it. So why not take our money and put it where it belongs?”
Annoyed, I snap, “Which is…?”
The words pop out before I can stop them. I curl my fingers around the arm of my chair, resisting the urge to press them to my mouth.
Graham’s answering grin renews my goosebumps. It’s somehow smooth as silk yet razor-sharp all at once. “The future , Miss Rivera.”
I don’t have a retort for that. No one does.
Graham takes advantage of the silence, pulling up a graph of market projections. “This is what Wall Street is telling you,” he says, waving a blasé hand at the chart. “They want you to invest in AT&T. Walmart. FedEx. But if we know that the world is changing—or, arguably, has changed —why are these companies still among the most highly recommended for diverse portfolios?”
Again, no one has a response. Graham’s grin returns. He taps his screen. The projections on the wall morph, tripling instantly. “This is what I propose instead,” he concludes. “I’ll let you read for yourselves.”
My eyes scan the projections, noting that none of the stocks are businesses I recognize, but they all sound familiar. My mind reels back to a Wall Street Journal article I read recently.
“Cryptocurrency,” I murmur, narrowing my eyes at the names. “It’s all crypto?”
“Yes, it is,” Graham replies, not looking at me. “Entirely.”
On my other side, Dominic scoffs. “No one deals in cryptocurrency exclusively . The risk is enormous. And with the rates as low as they are now, won’t it take years to get any returns back?”
Mr. Stryker’s green eyes loop over the projections. “I have time . The wait for returns doesn’t disturb me as long as we’re certain there will be returns.” He pins Graham with a searching look. “How sure are you?”
Graham doesn’t so much as blink. “Completely.”
A smile flirts with Mr. Stryker’s features. “Where have I heard that before?” he mumbles to himself, shaking his head good-naturedly. “Say I go for this—how much?”
Again, Graham replies with absolute confidence. “Give me five. I’ll give you back one-fifty in three years.”
Million , my mind squeaks again. One-hundred-and-fifty million ?!
Mr. Stryker strokes his forefinger over his jaw while he stares his friend down, considering. Dominic swivels back and forth between the two, aghast. “Surely, you’re not considering taking your entire portfolio in such a volatile direction. Your father always adhered to market projections and?—”
Mr. Stryker holds up a staying hand. “I’m aware,” he cuts in, his voice flat. His gaze finally flickers from Graham to Dominic. “But I’m not my father.”
He turns back to Graham. “Do it. Five million of my personal funds. We’ll see where we’re at in six months, and if your strategy proves successful, we’ll discuss the possibility of transitioning Stryker & Sons’ vested interests over to you.”
I want to be a shark. Truly. But I’m sick at the thought of being responsible for so much of someone else’s money. Taking on two high-stakes real estate contracts already seems incredibly intimidating, and all I have to do is review them.
Thank God I’m not writing this contract , I think, running my gaze over the projections again. Too rich for my blood ?—
“Miss Rivera?”
I look up at the sound of Mr. Stryker’s voice. “Sir?”
He taps at his iPad a few times. My own screen flickers. A deluge of documents appears on top of the two I’ve flagged.
“Since Mr. Carter objects to this change of strategy, I’ll assign my personal Everett Alexander contracts to you. Graham will tell you what he needs in order to initiate the trades. The two of you will need to hammer out some details first. I’ll sign as soon as you’ve come to agreeable terms. Shall we shoot for a week from today?”
Carajo.
Shock obliterates all other thoughts. I must nod, though, because a second later, Mr. Stryker motions to his PA, who makes a note on her notepad. Satisfied, Mr. Stryker offers me a brief but encouraging smile before turning to the rest of the room.
“I think you’ve all suffered enough,” he announces. “There’s a catered lunch coming in at noon. Beth will send an email out when it arrives.”
Just like that?
It feels as if one meeting has launched my career into a different stratosphere. And I’m floating in space, untethered.
I blink down at the list of contracts, still in disbelief.
Game face, Jules. Don’t let them see you sweat , I tell myself. Especially Everett. Not to mention ? —
A terrible thought finally sinks down through the awe.
Dios mío.
Dominic.
For once, my boss’s eyes aren’t glued to my boobs. Instead, they burn the side of my face with ill-disguised animosity. Scowling, he opens his mouth, only to be cut off by both Graham and Beatrice.
“Miss Rivera—” Graham starts first, but Beatrice grips my elbow and yanks me to my feet, rotating us toward the door.
“Sorry, Mr. Everett,” she says over her shoulder, “These contracts simply must be reviewed today. I’m sure Mr. Carter can give you Miss Rivera’s contact information. You can email her to coordinate your schedules for next week.”
Beatrice leans closer to me, muttering while she fixes her eyes on the exit. “Don’t turn around. I swear to God, smoke is coming out of Dominic’s ears. And that Everett guy looks like he’s about to eat you.” She huffs an agitated breath. “These men, I swear.”
Gratitude floods me. “ Thank you ,” I murmur back.
“No sweat,” she whispers. “I’m thrilled they hired you. We need more women around here, and you’re clearly twice as smart as balls-for-brains back there.”
I like her more and more by the second.
We make it halfway across the main floor before she turns to me and grins, offering her hand. “I’m Beatrice, by the way. But call me Tris. Beatrice is soooo crusty.”
Giggling, I shake her hand. “Juliet. But my friends call me Jules. And if today is any indication, we should definitely be friends.”
Tris widens her hazel eyes. “ Please . I know Mr. Stryker is doing his best to change things up, but this place is such a boys’ club. I swear his father never interviewed a woman for any role apart from administrative?—”
She swallows the rest of her sentence on the spot, then pins a bright smile to her lips and speaks through her teeth. “Oh. Here comes Mr. Stryker’s fiancée.”
His fiancée?
That explains the big townhome purchase. And why I never see him check out any of the women in our office. Not that a fiancée would stop some men from behaving like animals.
I shake the thought of Graham Everett out of my mind and pivot to find Beth approaching with a gorgeous blonde beside her. Dressed casually in a slouchy ivory sweater that reveals one freckled shoulder and dark, high-waisted jeans, this woman clearly doesn’t work in the office.
But she also doesn’t look like the fiancée of a mega-mogul. Her basic dove booties and understated pearl earrings certainly don’t scream hundred million . And she carries, of all things, a plastic container full of brownies.
The girl beams at Tris, exuding irresistible, genuine warmth. “Tris!” She throws her arms around the realtor, affording me a flash of the flawless oval diamond gracing her ring finger. “I’m so glad I caught you!”
“Me too!” Tris replies, stepping back to present me. “Jules, this is Ella, Mr. Stryker’s fiancée. Ella, this is Juliet Rivera. She’s a new junior attorney here. We’re just about to go over your townhome contracts.”
Ella blushes brightly. “Oh Lord, the townhome. Obscene, isn’t it?”
Tris’ smile sharpens. “Not for Manhattan’s hottest CEO and his gorgeous bride.”
Ella rolls her deep blue eyes at Tris before sliding them to me. “I can’t tell if she’s an expert saleswoman or I’m an easy mark.”
Recognition suddenly lights her gaze. “Wait—Juliet? As in Marco’s cousin? Oh, he’s told me so much about you! I adore Marco! Gray would be lost without him, seriously. He’s parking the car downstairs, but I think he’s coming up for our meeting .” She chuckles. “So silly. Only Gray would call wedding planning a meeting .”
Gray.
It takes me a moment to realize she’s talking about Mr. Stryker— Gray son Stryker.
Tris touches my arm, her expression sly. “Ella hired my roommate Alice as her wedding planner. They used the meeting this morning to lure Graham here and trick him into discussing best man duties.”
“It’s totally Alice’s idea. She’s a genius !” Ella giggles. “Anyway. How do you like it here, Jules? Are they treating you well, or do I need to kick Gray’s behind?”
A startled laugh escapes. “No, Mr. Stryker is great! I’m so grateful he decided to give me a shot. I know he usually hires people with more experience.”
Tris waves her hand dismissively. “ Psh . You crushed that meeting. We’re lucky to have you on board.”
“You’re obviously brilliant,” Ella says kindly, smiling at me and Tris in turn. “Look how you’ve already fallen in with the right people.”
Ella glances around us. Her face turns coy. “So, am I late? Is Gray checking his watch compulsively?”
I swallow a smile when I realize I was right about Mr. Stryker’s watch-checking earlier. Of course he’s impatient—he wants to see his fiancée.
And I don’t blame him. She’s a delight.
“We better let you go before he comes looking for you,” I tease. “Because if he comes out here, he may give me more contracts to review.”
“Okay then,” Ella replies, “For your sake. But come by the break room later and grab a brownie! Assuming the boys don’t eat them all.”