Chapter 27
DEXTER
AUGUST
Conference calls like this don’t happen before a presentation.
Competitors are kept apart, ideas and plans stay confidential, and numbers don’t cross rooms.
That’s how a pitch is supposed to work. That’s how every pitch I’ve ever been in worked.
But that’s not what’s happening here.
Rumors about the deal have been swirling for weeks, and while Keith has been tracking what’s coming from the outside, Reed has been verifying whether any of the leaks originated internally.
We’re still thin on facts. What doesn’t sit right is the timing: My long-standing contact at Swan retires, someone new steps into the role, and not long after, Macro is suddenly in the running.
I met the new project manager. During our upstate trip, Scott Sullivan was prepared, kept things moving, didn’t try to impress me. Nothing about him raised alarms, but he was still new to the role. Two date changes made sense in that context. Somewhat.
When another request to move the presentation hits my inbox, I don’t email back. I call. Every change buys time, and right now, that time works in Macro’s favor, not Swan’s.
And certainly not ours.
Swan responds quickly. They decide the simplest way forward is one conversation, with everyone present. Today. I glance at my watch. In three minutes.
I respect the move. Unconventional, yes. Skips the back-and-forth, also yes. But it’s not without risk.
If we walk out of this call on the wrong foot, no presentation will fix it.
This call decides it.
When I step into the conference room, the screen is already set up. Reed has positioned himself near it, arms crossed, watching the techs wrap up final checks. Keith is at the table, back straight, flipping through notes on his tablet.
“Any gaps before we dial in?” I ask, sliding into my seat.
“This is about the presentation date again?” Reed glances up.
Keith gives an exasperated sigh. “Yup. Swan’s tryin’ to push it back. Again.”
Reed doesn’t react much. “That’s the third time.”
“It’s a tactic,” I say. “When the timeline keeps shifting, someone’s playing for time. My guess: Macro is behind, and Swan is giving them cover.”
Keith shakes his head. “They’re feckin’ brutal. Actin’ like we’ve got nothin’ better to do than piss about with scheduling. Sorry for dragging ya into this, boss.”
“No need. They mess with my team, they mess with me. Simple. We’ll let them know we’re not the ones to jerk around.” I give Keith a pointed look. “No matter how much you enjoy it.”
Keith grins. “Ah, now! It’s grand when it’s a woman doin’ the jerkin’. Not when it’s some office donkey acting the maggot.”
Macro’s head account executive is Mitch Underwood.
Bony face, always chewing Tums. We used to butt heads when he worked for another firm.
His tricks, then as now: talking an hour around simple questions till no one remembers what was asked, citing industry awards he had nothing to do with, and pretending every delay is part of the plan.
Sure, he’s smooth, smug, full of corporate polish.
But guys like him always crack the second the scaffolding so much as creaks.
One of the young tech guys gives Reed a thumbs-up, signaling the setup is complete. Reed checks the screen once more and gives a small confirming nod. The techs slip out.
“We good to go?” I ask.
“Yes.” Reed takes the seat across from Keith. “They said eleven. Let’s see if they show their hand.”
Keith grins. “Right on the dot.”
I look at my watch, dragging the laptop closer and clicking into the meeting room. “Let’s see who’s ready to play.”
The shared screen lights up with the usual virtual waiting room.
A few seconds tick by before a feed connects.
Scott Sullivan, project manager at Swan, appears on-screen.
He looks momentarily caught off guard, straightening his tie as his camera comes into focus, like we’ve interrupted him mid-bite.
“Mr. Thorne,” he says. “Didn’t expect you quite yet.”
“Good morning, Mr. Sullivan,” I say, voice easy. Reed and Keith follow suit. “We’re ready to go. Didn’t want to waste anyone’s time, since the timeline seems to be such a moving target lately.”
He clears his throat. “Right. Of course. I’m not sure Mr. Underwood’s joined yet.”
That’s Mitch Underwood to a tee. He’ll sit back and make people wait before he dials in. He’s not the boss over there, but he sure times his entrance like one.
“He can join us when he’s ready,” I say. “We’re not here to twiddle our thumbs. Mr. Sullivan, I’d appreciate some context on why the presentation is being pushed again.”
“Oh. Of course.” Sullivan straightens in his seat, hands folding as he prepares to answer.
A faint sheen of sweat glints at his temple.
He may be the face of the account right now, but like Mitch, he’s not the one who’ll sign off in the end.
That’s up to the board of directors. They’ll decide who wins the pitch, which lets me address the issue head-on.
“Mr. Thorne, with a project of this scale, we need to be deliberate. There are still elements we want to review before locking anything in.”
“And that can’t be done on the current timeline?”
Sullivan shakes his head, a flush creeping up his neck. “This isn’t a small renovation, Mr. Thorne. When you look at the full scope, we’re talking about billions in exposure. We need to make the most informed decision.”
“I’d expect nothing less,” I say. “From where I’m sitting, though, the delay doesn’t read as caution alone.
It reads as pressure on pricing.” His face tightens, but I continue, keeping my voice even.
“If that’s the play, fine. Negotiation is part of the process.
But there’s a line between due diligence and handing one side a strategic edge at the other’s expense. ”
Sullivan sits back, considering me. “With respect, Mr. Thorne, I think you’re reading too much into it.”
“Maybe. But I’ve been doing this a long time. When patterns start to form, I trust my instincts.”
He opens his mouth, closes it again.
Whether Swan is stalling to let Macro catch up or simply hoping to squeeze a better deal, I don’t need to spell it out. The message is clear.
Just then, Mitch’s face jumps onto the screen. Right on cue.
From the looks of it, he’s dialing in from a yacht. He looks smug as ever, too relaxed for someone on a high-stakes call. He adjusts his tie, straightens his cufflinks, and offers a slow, rehearsed smile that sells bullshit.
“Morning, gentlemen,” he says, not a hint of hurry in his voice.
“Mitch.” I lean back. “Appreciate you joining.”
“Apologies for the delay.” He casually checks his watch. Of course it’s a Hublot, an oversized, skeleton-dial monstrosity that’s a perfect match for the man wearing it. “Wow, starting on time? That’s rare.” Mitch’s smile implies that punctuality is for smaller rooms.
“Not where I sit,” I say.
Keith lets out a quiet chuckle.
Mitch’s expression tightens for a split second. “Well, good to see everyone. Mr. Sullivan, appreciate the call.”
Sullivan gives a restrained nod.
“I was just asking Mr. Sullivan why the presentation is being pushed, again,” I say. “Want to shed some light on that?”
Mitch shrugs. “We all know how important this renovation is. If you’re comfortable rushing your presentation, that’s your call. Personally, I think thoroughness matters.”
“I’m not rushing. We’re prepared.”
Mitch’s polite smile doesn’t touch his eyes. “Then what’s the issue?”
“Time. Three schedule changes isn’t being thorough. It’s poor planning.”
Sullivan clears his throat. “Gentlemen, I understand this is frustrating. I can assure you, any changes to the schedule are considered carefully.”
“I appreciate that,” I say. “We’ll work with the new date—within reason. Any further push means winter conditions, slower structural work, and conflicts with other client projects. Costs rise. That’s not in anyone’s interest.”
“Veiled threat,” Mitch says, mock-offended. “How unbecoming.”
“Not a threat. Just business reality.”
Everyone in the industry knows my record: I promise and deliver on schedule. I don’t bump one client for another. Overlaps blow the budget every time.
Reed backs me up. “From an operational standpoint, this date locks in labor, material, and capital. This schedule is the most efficient path. Move it, and you reopen all three. There’s no upside in rescheduling.”
“Any delay only adds risk,” Keith confirms. “Numbers don’t lie. That’s the truth of it.”
Sullivan fidgets, clearly torn.
Mitch sees it. He straightens, trying to keep control.
“As you know, Mr. Sullivan, you’re a priority with us, no matter the schedule.
And financially, our plan is still the significantly smarter choice.
Better margins, leaner overhead, guaranteed efficiency…
” He keeps going, padding his pitch with empty assurances.
I bite back the urge to call him out. He shouldn’t have any knowledge of where my numbers land, not unless someone fed it to him.
But this isn’t the time to chase the leak.
Sullivan is practical, but he’s not in bed with Mitch.
From the look on his face, he’s just as tired of him as we are.
He allowed the holdup for the purpose of securing improved pricing, but he hadn’t anticipated Mitch’s delays postponing the start date to that extent, and for the responsibility to land squarely on him.
So I hold. Let Mitch circle. He’s not ready and trying to buy time.
Sullivan’s eyes haven’t left him.
“Then why the delay?” I ask when Mitch finally winds down. “If your numbers are set, there’s no reason to stall.”
Mitch blinks, caught, then holds his smile a second too long. “Well… yes. They’re set. But there are other factors.”
“Walk us through what’s still holding you up.”
Mitch’s smile thins, and disappears. “I don’t need to explain my process to you.”
“Then explain it to the client. Or don’t. The picture is clear enough.”
“Gentlemen,” Sullivan interjects, clearly done with the posturing and ready to move on. “Let’s stick with the original time. Friday, October twenty-second, 10 a.m.. Can you confirm, Mr. Underwood?”
Mitch studies the screen and refocuses. “We… can make that work.”
I glance at Keith and nod.
“Friday, October twenty-second, 10 a.m. it is,” Keith says, smooth as ever. “Thanks for meetin’ with us today, gentlemen.”
Sullivan ends the call immediately. Mitch stays on. “That was a low blow, Thorne.”
“That’s your interpretation. Good luck with your prep.”
I end the call before he can speak again.
Keith barks out a laugh.
Reed stands, letting out a short breath, shaking his head. “You had him before he even opened his mouth.”
“How the hell did ya see that comin’?”
I shrug. “Didn’t. Just a hunch.”
“I knew Mitch was stallin’, but I couldn’t figure out the angle,” Keith says. “No wonder you’re the one runnin’ this place.”
“Damn right.” I get to my feet. “Handle your end. We hit the road tonight.”
The rest of the morning flies by. Meetings, calls, the usual, I have little time to think about anything else. That changes just after one, when my office door swings open—and in walks Holly.
She looks good. She looks like summer sin in heels. Her hair is windswept, falling into her eyes before she impatiently pushes it back. Red lipstick. Beige pencil skirt. That white, tight button-up blouse is doing a piss-poor job of leaving anything to the imagination.
“You need lunch,” she declares.
“You need to learn how to knock,” I say, typing the rest of my email before hitting Send. “What if I was on a confidential call, or jerking off?”
She raises an eyebrow. “In your office?”
“I’m a man. Where don’t we?”
“What do you say if anyone walks in?”
“Depends. If it’s Reed: ‘Not now. I’m rubbing one out.’ If it’s Keith, I’d ask him to hand me a tissue and shut the damn door.”
She snorts. “You’re disgusting.”
“And yet, here you are, bringing me food.”
She holds up the brown paper bag like a trophy. “Your favorite. Triple-decker BLT from that bougie organic shop, with avocado and those salty, oily pita chips you pretend not to like… and Oreos. Here. Eat.”
She slides the brown bag over and gestures with her hand, open, dig in.
Now I’m suspicious. Holly only brings me my favorite lunch when she’s about to drop a bomb—or confess that she’s already lit the fuse. And Oreos on top? That’s her way of softening the landing.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
I arch a brow. “Okay. Then what do you want?”
She pouts, all mock innocence. “Why do you always think I have an agenda?”
“Because you do.” I look inside the package and eye the Oreos. Double stuffed. “This is the kind of peace offering that comes before a favor. Or after a fuck-up.”
She shrugs, not even denying it. “Fine. I’ve been taking ovulation tests.”
I raise a brow.
She hops up on the edge of my desk, long legs swinging, beige pointed-toe pumps tapping lightly against the drawer. Her eyes lock on mine. “To track when the timing’s right.” When she crosses her long, smooth legs, her pencil skirt hikes higher than it should.
I catch nothing but skin.
No lace peeking out.
Is she not wearing panties?
Nah. Can’t be.
“And now would be a really good time to…” She pauses, giving me a pointed look.
I halt with the coffee halfway to my lips. “Fuck?”
“Make a baby,” she corrects, all prim and proper.
I take a sip, watching her, and put the coffee down. “You brought me lunch to ask for a quickie in my office?”
“Obviously.”