Chapter 11 #2
“There is a lot of upfront cost in setting up farms to harvest electricity.” I shrug, lifting one palm to run it absentmindedly down my jaw.
“Yes, it’s cheaper long term, but most companies are either reluctant to front the investment, or they simply don’t have the resources.
Then there is sourcing or creating the right machinery to be able to use it—a lot of the companies that produce manufacturing equipment don’t even make machines that run solely on electricity yet, so we had to make a lot of it ourselves.
It will take us a good twenty-five years to see the financial savings, but it will be worth it in the end. ”
I want to add that I actually give a damn about the environment too, but something tells me she won’t believe it, or might even think I’m saying it to try and look good.
I mean, I have a private jet and my cars are definitely not electric, so I won’t be chaining myself to a tree anytime soon, but I do my bit to make sure the business doesn’t add to the footprint.
Especially considering it operates on such a colossal scale.
My attention is dragged momentarily away by the background shout of a worker, but when I look back at her, she’s staring at me with something I can’t decipher. And that pisses me off again, because I can always read people.
“All your manufacturing plants are like this?”
“Not yet. Some of the more brick-and-mortar manufacturing locations are still fuel-run, but we’re about seventy percent electric across the business. We’ve pledged to our stakeholders to be carbon neutral across the entire umbrella in the next five years.”
“That’s…” She shakes her head, chewing softly on her plush lower lip. “That is very cool.”
Holy hell. A compliment. Even if it does look like it pained her to give it. “It is,” I agree. “Want to get closer?”
“Yeah, I do.” She nods rapidly.
I lead her over to the edge of the printer where a slim steel chain link ropes off the service ramp up to the controls. Unclipping it, I guide her onto the steel and clip it back behind us. Halfway up, her step falters and her hand shoots out to the railings on one side.
“Okay?” I lean sideways to catch a glimpse of her profile as she scowls down, tutting. Following her gaze, I see the tip of her boot is wedged into one of the perforated holes in the metal. “Here, I’ve got it.”
Without waiting for permission, I slip past her, feeling her shoulder brushing my chest. The proximity lends me a waft of soft jasmine that reminds me of the vines that creep over the sprawling pergola at our family home in The Hamptons.
It makes me think of sunshine and lazy beach days.
My father rarely left the city to stay there with us in the summer, so they’re my happiest childhood memories.
Just me, Mom, Mason, and Emily, doing normal family things.
“It’s okay, you don’t—”
She stops talking as I lower myself onto one knee in front of her, curling my fingers around her denim-wrapped calf.
My ears prick at a rushed intake of breath from above, and I force myself not to dive headfirst into whatever that was about.
Instead of drawing attention to it, I slide my hand up to the back of her knee and use my other to lift her chunky sole out of the hole.
With the boot settled back onto the steel, I drop my hands, feeling her heat stain my palm as I prop my forearm on my knee and glance up.
The apples of her cheek are flushed with copper as she stares, lips parted.
She blinks suddenly, and rearranges her face, tearing her gaze away.
Something primal flares in my chest, because I know what women look like when they’re turned on, and that was unmistakable.
So, even if she doesn’t want to be, she is attracted to me on a physical level—at least to some degree.
Like I’m handling an easily spooked animal, I again don’t point it out.
I’m sure there will come a time when I need to prod again, but for now I’m enjoying how genuinely interested she seems in the work we do here.
“Don’t worry, I’m not about to produce a ring,” I tease, brushing off the weight of the moment as I rise. A clearing noise erupts from her throat and her cheeks burn brighter. “You think you’ll be okay for the rest?”
“Yeah, thanks,” she mutters, attempting to push past me.
I forget to move on account of the large deep green shipping container being slowly transported past, causing her to pile into my chest. My hands leap automatically to her upper arms to steady her, but my focus is wholly snatched away by the flashing orange light and audio warning as the straddle carrier tracks slow progress.
“What are you—let go of me!” Pepper snaps, and I blink down, realizing that she had been struggling to get out of my grip.
“Oh, sorry. Come with me.” I drop her arms and slip past her, rapidly striding ahead to meet the carrier, my eyes glued to the twelve-digit series number stamped along the corrugated steel.
“Stop!” I lodge my hand in the air in its path, not quite wanting to put the possibility of being turned into a Chase-shaped pancake out into the universe by stepping in front of the giant machinery.
Luckily the driver spots me quickly, and the soft hum of the electric-powered machine dies with its progress.
“Mr. Walker?” The familiar voice calls out from high above, and I glance up to see my plant manager Simon traveling down the caged stairwell that leads to a network of escalated walkways high above the manufacturing floor.
The ones I designed to reduce the travel time between different parts of the plant.
“I need to know where this container came from.” I point at the steel crate hanging in the air in front of me, and see the grey slashes of Simon’s brows pitch together when he exits the stairwell and starts to lumber over with his uneven gait.
“Sacha?” Simon wastes no time calling up to the middle-aged lady in the driver’s seat. “Which warehouse did this come from?”
The woman frowns and leans forward to snatch a clipboard off the floor of the cap, pulling her spectacles down from the top of her head to squint at it.
“Warehouse eleven!” she calls back after a few seconds.
“What is it?” Pepper cuts in at my side, her arms folded across her chest.
I suck in a heated breath, nostrils flaring as flames of fury begin to lick at the inside of my lungs. I take great care to steady the shake in my hand when I point at the serial number on the shipping container. The same number that’s been part of the list burned into my brain for weeks.
“That is one of the shipments that went missing.”
Grim chocolate eyes meet mine, a look of plain comprehension written bare for anyone to see. “This goes way deeper than we thought, doesn’t it?”
I steeple my spine, trapping hold of the heat raging warfare in my chest, honing it into a weapon. Using it as fuel for my already unwavering resolve.
“Yes.”