ALEX
One of my life skills is fooling people into thinking they have my attention. Peter Whitbread—the blowhard who serves as my general counsel—is sitting across from me with a to-do list as long as my arm. And I’m nodding in all the right places.
Or at least I hope I am. Because my baby was kicking a moment ago, and I’m far enough along now that I could feel it—a little whisper of sensation in my belly.
Kick again, sweetie. I’m listening.
She’s being coy, now. Figures.
I’ve made it to week nineteen. Bingley tells me that my daughter is the size of a cucumber.
“…contracts which alter our exposure to libel as interpreted by the seventh district court.” The CFO takes a breath.
“Excellent, Peter,” I interrupt. This man could go on all day. “Is there anything pressing, though? I have to be across town in an hour.”
Frowning, he flips his notebook closed. “Well, I was looking over your charts in preparation for the board meeting. I see that the pre-orders for the Butler aren’t really sufficient to cover such a large marketing budget.”
My blood pressure doubles immediately, because Whitbread has been the most vocal opponent of The Butler, and he shows no signs of shutting up.
“The pre-orders are irrelevant, because there aren’t any reviews for the product.
Once the tech bloggers start to test it, that’s when the buzz begins.
We shouldn’t even look at pre-orders for another month. ”
Then he asks the question that’s guaranteed to make me insane. “What does your father think?”
“I have no idea,” I snap. “And it’s completely irrelevant.” My father spends the bulk of his time on his VC firm in California. He’s still on the board of ECM, but that’s his entire involvement.
Whitbread doesn’t believe it, though. He thinks my father still calls the shots. Either that, or he just says these things to irritate me.
“Look,” I demand. “Do you have a legal issue with The Butler? Because that’s where your expertise starts and stops. There are a dozen people on my staff more qualified to weigh in on the financials, thanks.”
At first he only blinks, because I don’t usually clap back so directly. Then his expression darkens. “I’ve been at this company a long time, little miss. The reason we’re still here is that we don’t bet more on a new product than we can afford to lose.”
“The reason we’re still here,” I say quietly, “is because I’ve stopped the bleeding.” Every cable company saw a slump as streaming became more popular. But I’ve turned the ship around. “Furthermore, pet names are an inappropriate form of address.”
“Oh, please.” He actually rolls his eyes. “I’ve known you since you had pigtails and braces.” Which is factually untrue. “It’s a term of endearment.”
“Then save it for someone who finds it endearing.” My voice is ice cold. But I am done with this man second guessing me in meetings. No matter that he’s a good lawyer who keeps us out of trouble. I will not be treated like a pre-teen by this entitled ass.
“Well.” Whitbread pushes back his chair and stands suddenly. “Don’t let me keep you.” He marches out of the room and flings the door shut behind himself.
I put my head in my hands the moment he’s gone. Lashing out at him was probably stupid. Not that he doesn’t deserve it. But I shouldn’t give his criticism so much weight.
He doesn’t matter, I remind myself. He’s just bitter that I’m sitting in the CEO’s office instead of him. There’s not one person on the board who thinks he has the vision to run this company.
I’m out on a limb with The Butler, though. And he knows it. This product has to be a success. If it’s not, the company will lose a pile of money. But worse than that, my credibility will suffer. My next big idea will be harder to launch. And I’ll have nobody to blame but myself.
Sixty seconds later, Rolf rushes into my office. “Got a minute before you go? There are messages. First of all, it’s raining hockey players…”
“Hockey players?” I sit up straighter.
He places a message on my desk. “Eric Bayer called. He doesn’t have your cell number, apparently. And I wouldn’t give it to him.”
“Oh.” I feel my pulse quicken. He called. That makes me feel like a teenager waiting for a prom date. And that’s ridiculous, because we were never going to be a couple.
“So, here’s his number.” Rolf slides the paper toward me.
“And then—this afternoon is hockey themed, apparently—Nate Kattenberger’s assistant called to invite you to the Hamptons benefit that they throw every year.
Hockey players at a cocktail party. And some kind of golf thing.
I wrote the website address down right here. ” He slides another paper toward me.
“Thank you. Now, who’s this visitor?”
“That’s the weird part.” Rolf braces both hands on my desk. “He just got off the elevator and asked to see you. His name is Xian Smith, and he said it was urgent.”
“Seriously?” I’d missed my meeting with him in Hawaii, by virtue of my early departure. And he’s called twice to ask for other meetings. But I just haven’t found the time. And urgent implies that we have business together. Which we do not. “How did he get in the building?”
Rolf shrugs. “No idea. He has a visitor’s badge, too.”
“Bring him in. And then take a seat as well.”
Rolf disappears, and for a moment I wonder if I’ve made the right call. It takes balls to talk your way into the CEO’s office. And now I’m rewarding that behavior.
But I had agreed to meet with him under other circumstances. So asking security to escort him out would be over the top?
“Ms. Engels.” I look up to see him framed in my doorway. He’s so imposing, and I’m not sure why. He’s a tall man, but slim. His expression is flinty, though. I have no idea why I find it unsettling. “Thank you so much for allowing me to impose like this.”
“I have five minutes,” I say, just to remind him that I know I’ve been manipulated. But it sounds bitchy, so I stand up to shake his hand. “I’m sorry I was unable to keep our meeting in Hawaii. I left the conference earlier than I’d planned.”
“That is perfectly all right. Medical problem, I heard?”
A tingle of unease runs down my spine. But I keep my face impassive. “Turned out to be nothing. Have a seat.”
He sits down opposite me, and Rolf casually takes the other chair, a pad of paper in his lap.
“I’ll get right to the point, Alex. I was impressed by your keynote in Hawaii. But not everyone can be trusted to manufacture The Butler. And I think you’ll be making a grave error if we don’t work together.”
Oh please. It’s the classic hard sell. “What sort of grave error?” I ask, just to hear what he’ll say.
“Change is coming to Shenzhen—both political and social. The older players will no longer be reliable.” He says all of this in a voice that’s slow and serious.
Like the sound of someone predicting the end of the world.
“And their new rivals will be overrun with demand. I can help you navigate this shift and bring your Butler to market without delay.”
Sure you can, pal. He makes it sound like I’m Goldilocks, skipping through the forest alone. I’ve been working closely with overseas manufacturers for a decade, though. And he’s not the first dude to underestimate me.
“That’s very kind, but I’m already set for suppliers. Delivery begins in two months. Surely you realize that my manufacturing needs are already met?”
“Are they, though?” he asks slowly, his brown eyes boring into mine. “Needs change. Loyalties shift. You may find that you need the assistance of someone new.”
I feel like I’ve been threatened, and I can’t even explain why.
“Mr. Smith,” I say with as much bravado as I can muster.
“I hope we will get a chance to work together. Perhaps next year, or the following one. The Butler will not be my last product launch. And you are a very interesting man.” That’s putting it nicely.
“How kind of you to say so. But I believe we shall work together sooner than that. Do not hesitate to phone me if you are in need of assistance.” At that, he stands gracefully, drops a business card on my desk, and then calmly exits the room.
Rolf and I blink at each other for a moment. “What was that?” I whisper as soon as I’m sure he’s really gone.
“No idea,” he whispers back. “He’s flashy. But a little creepy, too.”
No kidding.
“Shall I summon your car?” Rolf looks at his watch.
“Yes, please. And do me a favor? Call downstairs and ask security who authorized Smith’s pass.”
“Will do.”
When I’m alone in my office again, I confront the two phone messages. It’s so tempting to call Eric back. I’d love to hear his voice, and I’d love to see him, too.
But we’re finished as a couple, so I’m not sure what good it would do.
Then there’s Nate Kattenberger’s invitation to the Hamptons. I should probably say yes. Nate has been one of my best friends for over a decade, but I’ve been dodging him lately. I’m still embarrassed about our hookup. Neither of us ever wants to be reminded of that again.
But—and this is the truly embarrassing part—during my darkest time this past spring, I was terribly rude to his new fiancée, Rebecca. I apologized profusely afterward. But I’m still embarrassed.
Let’s just say I’ve given the two of them a wide berth these past few months, in spite of the fact that they’ve both been very gracious about the whole disaster.
At some point I have to show my face again, though. Nate and Rebecca are planning their wedding, and I intend to cheer the loudest when they are pronounced man and wife.
So now I type in the URL for Nate’s charity event, just to see if I’d like to go. Raise money for the Boys' and Girls’ Clubs of Brooklyn! There’s a slideshow of last year’s event, showing hockey players on ice and on the golf course.
When the third photo slides onto my screen, though, it makes my heart drop. It’s a photo of Eric Bayer in a suit and tie, with a beautiful young woman on his arm.
The photo is a year old, of course. But it drives home the point that I don’t want to run into Eric socially. I have absolutely no interest in watching him pick up another lucky woman to take back to his hotel room.
I’ll send a check instead.
I fold Nate’s message in two and drop it into the recycling bin. Eric’s message, though. I can’t bring myself to throw it away. Instead, I open my top desk drawer and slide it inside. I’m not quite ready to be his friend, I guess. The memory of his hot kisses and his sexy smile is still too vivid.
It will probably be vivid until I’m eighty-five years old. It really was that hot.
“Your car is downstairs!” Rolf calls.
“Thanks!”
I close the drawer on the message, get my bag and go.