Chapter 18
DEXTER
When I’m not with Holly, I’m working. Keith and I are still neck-deep in closing that major deal, and everything’s on track. No distractions, no screw-ups allowed.
So when Reed Knight, CFO and managing partner, a quiet bastard with a mind sharp as a knife (and the only thirty-six-year-old I know who can match me curve for curve on a BMW GS) knocks on my office door mid-afternoon, I know it’s not a social call.
I don’t have time for a chat. Not that Reed’s ever been the chatty type.
At six foot four with tattoos sneaking past the cuffs of his dress shirt, he doesn’t exactly invite small talk.
“Hey, Reed, now’s not a good time,” I say. “I’ve got the presentation to finish.”
“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important.” Jaw set, shoulders tight, his voice is dark.
Something’s wrong. “What happened?”
“You’re not gonna like this.” He hands me his tablet.
I take it, and the headline hits me like a punch:
Swan Estates in Talks for Complete Renovation
Through Macro Enterprise
Swan Estates is our target, the account I’ve been living and breathing.
Their headquarters are here in New York, but they still flew us out to walk multiple sites together to evaluate firsthand a phased, capital-intensive redevelopment across their portfolio.
We were introduced to their new account manager as my long-term contact prepared to retire, and met with several board members during the visit.
Landing them wouldn’t just be a win, it’d be the crown jewel in my portfolio. A multimillion dollar celebration.
After that upstate trip, I was sure Swan was ours. But judging by that headline, Macro Enterprise is gearing up to crash the damn party.
I check the source and relax: NYC Business Gossip.
“Oh, c’mon, Reed.” I toss the tablet on my desk. “You actually believe that garbage? NYC Business Gossip isn’t exactly Pulitzer territory.”
“Exactly,” Reed says, calmly swiping at the screen. “That’s why I checked. It’s not just them. A bunch of legit sites are saying the same thing.”
I pick the tablet back up.
He’s right. It’s not just one website reporting the deal. Multiple big news sites carry a similar headline and large chunks of text that go into more detail.
Macro Enterprise is a giant firm led by a lousy little crook of a CEO who clawed his way to the top using every dirty trick in the book. Everyone knows it. But the guy is wrapped in enough legal armor to keep them in the clear. They play foul, but they play smart.
And I don’t want them anywhere near Swan.
I dial Keith’s extension and put him on speaker.
“Keith speakin’.”
“Maybe you can tell me why there are reports that Swan is also in talks with our top competitor,” I say, handing the tablet back to Reed.
“Feck’s sake! Reed told ya, didn’t he? I’m gonna kill him.”
“Don’t blame Reed. He’s doing his job. I need you do yours.”
“Relax. What’s the problems? I’ve got it sorted.”
“Explain to me how.”
“It’s obviously a power play. I’d say they probably leaked some horseshit story about meetin’ with Macro to chance gettin’ a better deal out of us.”
“They’re already getting a good deal. What more do they want?”
“Well, according to the article,” Reed cuts in, “Macro lowballed the price per square foot and sweetened it with VR walk-throughs. Flash over substance. That’s how they got in.”
“They’re offering a lower price because they’re using shittier materials.” I scoff. “Who spilled our fucking numbers?”
“Feck knows. I offered the bloody 3D walk-throughs as well,” Keith assures me. “Even bragged about that LA tech firm we just partnered with. Cutting-edge renderin’, exclusive rights to us.”
“Did they seem interested?”
“Yeah, they wanted it right away. I told ’em it would take a week or so to get the specs in, but I’d have it over to ’em as soon as possible.”
“Then call them and find out what the hell their problem is,” I order. “I’m not handing this deal to Macro over pocket change.”
“Will do.”
I hang up, pissed, and turn to Reed. “See if you can figure out where the papers got their sources. Backtrack it. Either someone on their end leaked it… or someone on ours. And it better not have been us.”
“I’ll find out.” He closes the door behind him.
Before I can get back to the damn pitch, there’s another knock.
“What’s it this time?” I snap.
The door opens.
And there she is. Shiny blonde hair swinging in a high ponytail, strappy heels, tits pushing against a yellow summer dress, every curve and unmistakable detail on display—clearly enough to fuck with my focus. She’s not wearing a damn thing under that dress. My dick is awake before I even blink.
“It’s a bit chilly,” she mutters, rubbing her arms.
I don’t respond. Yeah, I got the memo.
I don’t look at her, simple as that.
“Someone’s grumpy today.”
“Hey, Holly. Now’s not a good time.”
“Clearly. Sounds like you could use a break.”
She walks in, carrying a drink tray. It lands on my desk before she drops into the chair across from me. The bounce is subtle, but effective. Then the dress shifts. And I forget what day it is.
“I’ve got a pitch to finish.” I turn back to my screen. “And Macro is trying to snag Swan Estates, our biggest potential client.”
“I know, I saw the article. That’s why I brought reinforcements.” She nudges two drinks toward me. “Organic, before you complain. Double espresso. Water.”
I eye the offering, nod, and push my keyboard aside. “Fine. Ten minutes. Then I’m back at it.”
She watches me take a sip and lifts her own coffee, wearing that smug, lopsided grin. “Figured you’d cave.”
She shifts her legs, showing off those damn thighs.
My cock twitches angrily.
Goddamn. It’s like a switch flipped. A few days ago, I didn’t even know that she had those thighs (or the rest of what’s wrecking my focus.). I could pretend she was just Holly, my friend, my co-parent-to-be.
Now? Now I can’t not notice. Or not remember her mouth on my skin. Or that sound she made when she wrapped herself tight around my cock, and whispered my name.
Shit.
I’m turning into a full-blown creep. Next stop: restraining order.
“When do you find out?” I ask.
“I was going to take a test tomorrow. By then it should show.”
“What time?”
“I don’t know, probably first thing. Why?”
I pause. “Because I want to be there.”
She’s watching me now. I remember what I promised her, and she remembers too, I can see it. That ex of hers really screwed things up for the rest of us. And if I screw this up, I’m done.
“Unless… you’d rather I wasn’t.”
Her expression softens. “Dexter, I’d love you there. Really. But you don’t have to. It’s just me in the bathroom, trying to pee on a stupid little stick.”
“I want to.”
She goes quiet, still watching me over the rim of her coffee. She’s trying to decide if I mean it.
“You pee on the stick,” I say firmly, “and I’ll make breakfast.”
Holly snorts. “You really just said that like it’s totally normal.”
“It is. Compared to that art gala four years ago? This is nothing. Remember that night?”
“I don’t.” She takes a drink, eyes everywhere but on me. “And don’t you dare remind me. Thanks.”
Holly had lost a client—a jerk, his loss—gotten blatantly drunk on tequila, and shamelessly asked me to kiss her.
I’d just carried her dead-drunk ass back to her apartment, laid her on her couch to sleep it off, pulled a blanket over her shoulders and adjusted the pillow under her head (and no, I had not undressed her).
Right when I got up to leave, she grabbed my shoulders, yanked me back down, and slurred out—basically begged me—to prove to her that “men with dimples can kiss.”
Her ridiculous little theory.
“Well? Go on! Prove it. Prove my theory wrong,” she’d said, happy and eyes glassy, pouting her lips at me like a duck.
“Holly, how many men with dimples have you actually kissed?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. She must have kissed at least twenty guys with dimples to come up with a theory like that. Or fifteen. Minimum ten.
“Two,” she slurred. “Okay… one.”
Jesus Christ.
“Two…including you. Once you kiss me, that is. So go ahead… kiss me.”
She closed her eyes and, yeah, puckered up like a drunk little duck.
I dared her to say it again, sober. She didn’t. Of course she didn’t. To this day, she insists she never made any sort of request in my direction, especially not of the kissing variety.
But she remembers. Of course she does.
My shoulders ease at the memory. She always had this lively, optimistic, straight-up way about her, and our kid is lucky to have her as a mother. Fucking listen to me. Our kid. I’m talking like it already exists.
“So.” Holly takes another sip of her coffee, leans back in the chair. She swallows and looks back at me. “What are you going to do about the Swan Estates thing?”
“What I always do: crush the competition and make sure they know they’d be fools to go with anyone else.”
“Damn right. Show them who’s boss!” Holly flashes me that bright, trouble-making smile, and stands. “All right, I only came by to cheer you up. Now that you’re properly caffeinated and complimented, I should get back to my actual job.”
“Thanks, this helped.”
She shrugs like it’s no big deal. “It’s what best friends are for.”
Right.
She rounds the desk and leans down to me. For one brief second, I think she’s going to kiss me.
But she doesn’t.
Instead, she puts her arms around me in a quick hug.
I inhale the scent of her skin, sweet and fresh.
And… yeah. She has tits. Message received, loud and clear. Gorgeous tits. Soft, full, and now smashed nipple-first against me. The reel starts playing: her under me, her breath catching, those perfect nipples scraping my chest while I thrust… and thrust… and—
Whoa. Pump the fucking brakes.
It’s just a hug.
A nice, normal, innocent—totally derailing hug.
She’s going to drive me insane.
If this goes the way it’s going, I’ll be in a padded room, begging someone to switch off the part of me she keeps waking up.
She pulls back and tweaks my nose, grinning like she’s not walking out of here with every ounce of my focus in her pocket. “Don’t work too hard, hotshot,” she says, heading to the door. “Dinner later?”
“Not tonight. Bike ride with the guys.”
“Raincheck then. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I watch her leave.
She’s got no idea what she does to me.
Or maybe she knows exactly.