33. Alex
ALEX
“I don’t understand,” Whitbread grumbles into my ear. “Why are we vetting two contracts for the same manufacturing job?”
“I’m spreading the risk around,” I explain for the third time. “The factory fire was a wake-up call. Two manufacturers will insure a steady supply.”
“But this is the only part you’re buying two of?” he asks. “That makes no sense.”
Honestly, he’s right. But Whitbread brings out my self-righteous side. “It makes sense to me,” I argue. “The Butler will sell out during Christmas, and I’m not taking any chances.”
“There are things I don’t like about the contract from the Thai company,” he grumbles.
“Then mark it up like you always do. And let me get on with my day.” You grumpy old turd.
“When will I see this second contract?”
“After lunch, I hope. Tomorrow at the latest. Is there anything else?”
He’s silent for a moment, probably because he’s tossing another dart at the photo of me I imagine he keeps on his office wall. “Send it over when you can,” he says, before hanging up.
And just like that, another fun call with Whitbread ends. When we send out the employee satisfaction survey at the end of the year, I hope he doesn’t fill his out.
“Bingley?” I ask the Butler on my desk. “Have I received any more calls?”
“No, my queen! You are free to go to lunch. Your dining companion is a Mr. Xian Smith, and you will lunch together at The Modern on East Fifty-Third Street.” I know all that already. Until Bingley adds: “Table for three.”
“Three?” I ask. “Who’s the third person?”
“Apologies, oh great one. That information is not on your calendar. The reservation was altered just two hours ago by Rolf.”
“Rolf?” I shout.
But he can’t hear me, because my office door is closed. And a glance at the phone shows me his line is lit up. That means I have to heave this very pregnant body out of the chair to go figure it out myself.
I put both hands on the desk and rock forward until my feet reach the rug. There should be a tool for this. I’m picturing a crane-like device, suspended from the ceiling. The Pregnant Power-Assist. A woman could rent one for her third trimester.
Take my money.
Waddling out of my private office, I spot Rolf on the phone.
“She has no availability that week,” he says, my calendar up on the screen in front of him.
“No availability at all,” he repeats. “You can email her if you’d like to communicate directly.
Thank you.” He punches the button to disconnect the call.
“Who’s trying to see me?” I ask.
“The CEO and lead programmer for Maximum. That channel you—”
“Canceled. I remember.”
“They want to plead their case.” He shrugs. “I suppose I could fit them in if you want me to.”
“Nope. I already told them we don’t want their sexist crap that nobody watches.”
“So,” Rolf frowns. “If they made sexist crap that people watched, you’d still carry their channel?”
“Perhaps,” I admit. “It would depend on their numbers, and how far up the barf meter I found their content. Hey, Rolf? Why did you change my lunch to three people?”
“Oh. Your security team emailed to ask for that.”
I feel a frisson of fear. “Do you know why?” Usually my guard sits at the bar or waits just outside.
Rolf shrugs. “I figured you’d know. The car is downstairs, by the way.”
“Okay.” I go back into my office for my coat and bag. Up until now I haven’t let myself get nervous about meeting Xian Smith again.
When I emailed him on Sunday, asking if his offer to manufacture still stands, he’d replied immediately. He offered to fly in for lunch. And, sure, it’s a little unusual to sit down to a $138 tasting menu with a man I suspect is trying to hijack my company and all of New York’s elite.
But my job is confrontational even on the best days. I have competitors. I have detractors. Business is a battlefield, and I’m accustomed to the clashing of swords. My security team never asks for a seat at the lunch table, though. That’s a little nerve wracking.
I refresh my lipstick and then head out again. “Hold down the fort, Rolf. I’ll be back in time for the finance meeting at two-thirty.”
“Feel free to bring back leftovers,” he grumbles. “I’m trapped here taking calls from all the people who want your attention.”
“Poor baby,” I tease. “What a shame that none of the hundred restaurants within a two-mile radius will deliver. Oh wait…”
The phone rings again. He gives me a sour look as he answers it. Everyone is a grump today. Except for me, of course, the one who has to dine with her alleged enemy.
I’m still feeling rock solid as I descend the elevator and arrive at the side door, where the head of building security greets me with a smile. “G’day, Ms. Alex,” he says. “Your car is waiting to the right.” He points through the window and then holds the door for me.
“Thank you, Mr. Mendes!” As I march outside, Duff gets out of the car to open the rear door for me.
And then I do a double take. Because that’s not Duff at all. It’s Eric Bayer. He’s wearing a gorgeous charcoal suit with a crisp white shirt and a blue silk tie with puffins on it.
I already know I’m in trouble. It’s hard to hate a man in a puffin tie. I don’t know why. It just is.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Engels,” he says primly. “The drive to the restaurant should be less than fifteen minutes.”
I come to a halt in front of the open door. “Eric, what are you doing?”
“Taking you to lunch.”
“Why?”
“Would you get into the car, please? This is not a secure location.”
Grumbling, I get into the back seat of my own car. “Is this some kind of joke? Are you the third seat at lunch?”
“It’s not a joke at all,” he says, hopping into the front and slamming the driver’s side door. “You’re sitting down with someone we believe to be a dangerous cybercrime lord. Since he’ll remember me from Hawaii, he’ll just assume that you take me everywhere you go.”
“You’re trying to pass yourself off as my employee?”
“I know I’m too ruggedly handsome for that. But I can make this play, coach. Besides, I’ll be wearing a recording device, so that Max can review it later.”
“Fine,” I grumble. “If Max wants to browbeat you into escorting me around, I’m not getting in the middle of it.”
“He didn’t browbeat me,” Eric says, pulling into the stream of midtown traffic. “I volunteered.”
“Oh.” I study the back of Eric’s handsome, kissable neck. “Thank you,” I grumble. But how am I supposed to focus now?
“Do you have a moment to hear my apology?” he asks, stopping for a traffic light.
“I suppose.” Seeing as I’m trapped here.
“I am sorry about my ridiculous behavior. I wasn’t myself the other night.”
“You sure weren’t.” I love you and I think we should get married. That did not sound like the Eric I know.
“If I recall, though, you said the same thing to me after that party in Florida. You weren’t yourself.”
“I wasn’t,” I admit with a sigh. “Fine. It’s the same. We’re even.”
“Not really,” he says, turning onto Sixth Avenue. “It’s not the same at all. You were telling me to get lost, and I was only professing my love for you. So you should probably be less insulted than I was back in April.”
“But I didn’t hope you’d get lost,” I point out. “I just didn’t really deserve you at that moment. So I lied. And since you don’t actually love me, it really is the same.”
Unfortunately, he has to stop for another light. With his foot on the brake, he turns to look me right in the eye. “I do love you, though. That was true. Still is.”
My stomach flips over as his warm gray eyes crinkle at the edges.
The light turns green, and someone behind us leans on his horn.
Eric turns around again and drives through the intersection.
“I meant a lot of what I said, Engels. I can’t give you a precise figure because I, uh, don’t remember all of it.
But I didn’t show up there to hurt you or make fun of you.
I don’t have a lot of lightbulb moments.
Except in hockey. So I think I just needed to get that off my chest.”
“You always said that hockey was your true love,” I point out. “You never sang a different tune until your cousin showed up and passed you the tequila.”
“I know,” he says, following the traffic up sixth. “And that’s unfortunate. But the young pup helped me realize a few things, so it’s hard to hold it against him.” The car glides to a stop on Fifty-Third Street. “But now we have to concentrate on Xian Smith.”
“No kidding?” I give him an eye roll. “You’re the one who wanted to go off topic.”
“Thank you for indulging me,” he says, handing his keys to a valet. “Now let’s go run up your expense account.” He offers me his arm. “Can I begin recording now?”
“Of course.”
He pulls out his phone and opens some kind of app. His finger hovers over the screen. “It’s not switched on yet. If you wanted to say anything filthy, you should get that out of your system right now. Like—your ass looks spectacular in that suit.”
I snort. “No thanks, I’m good.”
“Suit yourself. But I’d like to say that you look especially ravishing today. And I’m going to spend the whole lunch thinking about kissing you.” He taps the screen, turning on the recorder. “Everywhere.”
I feel myself blush, and he gives me an evil grin. “Could you focus on my personal safety now, please?” I say.
“Oh, always.” He opens the restaurant door for me. “Mr. Smith is thirty feet away at the hostess stand, and he’s looking out into the garden.”
“Thank you,” I say, straightening my spine. “Let’s go buy some motherboards.”
“I love it when you get feisty,” he whispers.
I can’t even glare at him because Xian Smith has turned around, and he’s watching us approach. So I put on my business face.
“Hello, Mr. Smith. I’m sure you remember Eric.” I don’t plan on explaining why he’s here. “Thank you for flying in from California to meet with us.”
“Ms. Engels, it was my pleasure,” he says silkily. “I’m glad you were feeling well enough to suggest lunch.”
“Oh, I feel just fine, thank you. And lunch is a big priority for me lately.”
I’m tired of people commenting on my pregnancy. But I’ve also reached a point where I feel like it’s never going to end. That I’ll always be this size. That I’ll never bend over again.
“Follow me, please,” the ma?tre d’ says, and I waddle toward a perfect table for three.
Eric pulls out my chair with a flourish. “Thank you.” Now that he’s had thirty-six hours to sober up, he’s a perfect gentleman.
I’m seated directly across from Xian Smith. Now that Max has shared his suspicions, I’d wondered if Mr. Smith would seem even more sinister to me than he did before.
If I’m honest, he’s too beautiful to be truly terrifying. He has the smoothest, most flawless skin that I’ve ever seen on a man, and intelligent dark eyes. But his gaze is too knowing to make me comfortable, as if he can see more of me than I can see of him.
“Do you come to New York often?” I ask.
“Four or six times a year,” he says with that unblinking stare. “I prefer New York to California, but I have more West Coast clients than East Coast.”
“I’ll bet,” I say easily.
“Where did you grow up?” Eric asks, picking up his menu at the same time, as if the question isn’t truly interesting.
“Oh, where didn’t I?” He laughs. “Military brat.”
“Mmm,” Eric says noncommittally.
“Have you eaten here before?” Xian asks.
“A few times.” But never with a hacker who was trying to ruin me. “The scallops are wonderful.”
After everyone orders, I feel I can finally dispense with small talk. “Before the food arrives, I need to ask if you can still help me with my motherboard situation. We’ve had a rough go of it.”
He nods stoically. “I heard about the fire. So unfortunate.”
“Yes,” I say as goose bumps rise on my arms. Were you the cause of it? “Back in August, you offered to help me produce motherboards at a seventeen percent savings. And I should have taken you up on it.”
“Yes, you should have.” He gives me a small smile that only increases the size of my goose bumps.
“Mea culpa,” I say. Although I’d rather kick him under the table. “Could you help me shore up my production now?”
“I can,” he says quietly. “Although I’m afraid the seventeen percent discount was for a three-month lead time.”
“At this point I only have a six-week lead time. That’s when I run out of inventory.”
Another stoic nod. “The shorter time frame is still possible. But the discount will only be eight percent.”
I make my mouth into a tight line, which is not difficult to do, considering how fed up I am with the whole problem. “If that’s the best you can do, I will have to accept that.”
“We’ll need a signed contract immediately,” he says.
“My legal team is ready when you are,” I reply, picturing Whitbread’s jowly face. If that man knew what I was doing right now, he’d have a litter of kittens.
“Bread?” asks Eric, passing me the basket. “Ooh, herbed butter.”
At least one of us is happy.