Chapter 11
OSCAR
For the third time in an hour, I check my phone. No messages from Alice. Not that I expected any. The image of driving away from her yesterday is still fresh in my mind — the way she couldn't push me away fast enough, despite my attempts to help.
"You're still checking for her messages?" Cole observes from across my desk, tapping his pen against his legal pad. "She made it pretty clear where things stand between you two."
I set my phone down. "I'm just making sure she doesn't need anything. I care about all of my employees."
"Right." His tone is knowing, but he mercifully changes the subject. "I've updated the board presentation with your notes about preserving Rooted Pantry's brand integrity. It's unusual, but I see why you don't want to dismantle what Alice has built."
Since the laser tag fiasco, I've been throwing myself into work, reviewing every aspect of Rooted Pantry's business model, financial statements, and long-term strategies.
Not just because it's what I always do with acquisitions, but because diving into spreadsheets and market projections is infinitely preferable to thinking about Alice's clear disdain for me.
"The board isn't going to be thrilled about abandoning our usual playbook," Cole continues. "Halston especially wants those quick returns."
"Halston can wait for his returns," I reply, more sharply than intended. "Rooted Pantry isn't another failing business that needs to be stripped for parts. It's thriving. It just needs the right resources to scale properly."
Cole studies me for a moment. "When did you drink the Kool-Aid?”
That makes me frown. “I’m being genuine.”
“Yeah, I know you are. I know you actually believe what you’re saying.” He laughs out loud, and it only serves to further my annoyance. "The board's waiting. Are you ready to defend this new approach of yours?"
I grab my tablet and stand. “Yes. I am."
My phone buzzes with a text from one of my assistants as we head toward the boardroom.
Ms. Mackie has requested to join the board meeting.
Something warm flickers in my chest, quickly followed by a wave of annoyance that Alice didn't message me directly. Still, the fact that she's inserting herself into this meeting doesn't surprise me in the least. It’s not like her to let such a crucial event slip by without trying to influence it.
"Alice is coming to the board meeting," I tell Cole.
He gives me a sidelong glance. "That should make things interesting."
Walking into the boardroom feels like entering a negotiation where I'm suddenly on the wrong side of the table.
The board members — seven men and two women, all accustomed to my usual cutthroat approach to acquisitions — are already seated.
Alice sits near the far end, her ankle carefully positioned under the table, a portfolio of documents in front of her.
She's wearing a sharp navy blazer, her hair pulled back in a no-nonsense bun and a pair of crutches leaned against the wall behind her.
Our eyes meet briefly as I enter, and the detachment in her gaze is worse than any outright hostility could be.
"Mr. Glynn.” She acknowledges me with a nod.
"Ms. Mackie." I take my seat at the head of the table. "I'm glad you could join us. How's the ankle?"
"Functional," she says curtly, effectively closing that line of conversation.
Halston Peters, my longest-serving board member, clears his throat. "Let's begin. Oscar, we're all eager to hear your integration strategy for Rooted Pantry. Please, go ahead whenever you’re ready."
I launch into my presentation, laying out a vision that preserves the core of what Alice has built while strategically expanding key elements. It's a deliberate departure from my usual approach, and I can see the surprise on several faces.
"As you can see from the projections," I continue, "maintaining brand integrity while expanding production will yield stronger returns than aggressive restructuring."
"This is… unexpected.” Halston leans forward. "Your usual approach has always been effective, though. What's different about this acquisition?"
I glance at Alice, who's watching me intently. "Rooted Pantry has cultivated extraordinary customer loyalty through their commitment to quality and their overarching mission. Disrupting that would destroy the very value we purchased."
"But the immediate returns—" Halston begins.
"Will be solid, just not spectacular in the first quarter," I interject. "But by year three, we're projecting growth that exceeds our portfolio average by fifteen percent."
Jack Andrews, a newer board member, shakes his head. "Oscar, come on. Why shake things up? You’re gambling here.”
I can nearly feel Alice tense from across the table. This is the moment where I'd typically back Jack's play — he’s right, I’ve used my usual approach successfully dozens of times.
Cut costs, boost short-term profits, satisfy shareholders. But looking at Alice, seeing the barely contained tension in her posture, I make my choice.
"I've reviewed those protocols," I say calmly. "And they don't align with our strategy for this acquisition. I am willing to hedge my bets and say that there is a way to have the best of both worlds. We can boost profits gradually without sacrificing what makes the brand unique."
There are murmurs around the table, most of them uncertain. Alice is watching me with interest, her face unreadable.
"I’d like to move on," she says to everyone. "I'd like to talk about the San Diego expansion opportunity."
“Oh.” This wasn’t planned. Though it’s been tossed about the last few days at Rooted Pantry, I didn’t plan on making a proposal to the board today.
What can I say, though? I promised Alice she would still retain power in the company; I’m not about to block her from making a presentation.
“I feel that it will add to the plan you just outlined,” she continues.
Nodding, I sweep my hand in a gesture for her to go ahead. "Please do."
Alice presents the San Diego processing facility plan with a passion that transforms the dry data into a compelling vision, and I find myself watching her more than her slides, captivated by the spark in her eyes.
"The location is ideal," she explains. "It would cut distribution costs and create capacity for three new product lines we've been developing."
"What's the timeline for ROI?" asks Halston.
"We project break-even at eighteen months, with significant profitability by year three," Alice responds.
Halston frowns. "That's slower than standard for acquisitions in this portfolio."
"But substantially faster than industry average," she counters without missing a beat. "And the long-term benefits to brand growth and market share are considerable."
"Perhaps," Brendan says dismissively. “But there are more immediate returns to be gained elsewhere." He glances at me as if expecting support.
I can see Alice bracing herself, also expecting me to side with them.
It's what I would have done in the past. But something about seeing her fight for her company — the way her eyes flash with conviction, the slight tremor in her voice that only someone who knows her well would notice — makes my decision easy.
So what if we’re taking a bit of a gamble by doing things her way? It’s not as if I can’t afford it.
"Actually," I say. "I think Alice's San Diego proposal has significant merit."
The room goes silent, and Alice's lips part slightly in surprise.
"But the standard approach—" Brendan begins.
"Isn't always the right approach," I interrupt firmly. "I didn't build a billion-dollar empire by applying the same formula to every situation. Each business has its own DNA, its own path to maximum value."
I hold Brendan's gaze until he concedes with a nod. “We’ll take a vote.”
The San Diego proposal passes, though not unanimously. As the meeting concludes, Alice keeps her face turned away from me, though I’m not sure what she’s hiding.
The board members file out, several clapping me on the shoulder with murmured congratulations on the acquisition, though I notice Halston's grip is a bit tighter than usual, his eyes a tad suspicious. When the room empties except for Alice and me, an awkward silence falls.
With a nod at me, she gathers her crutches, which she awkwardly positions under her armpits.
"Need a hand?" I offer, approaching her.
"I'm fine," she says automatically, then pauses. "But thank you. For the help the other day, and for backing me on San Diego."
"I meant what I said. It's a solid plan."
She studies me for a moment, as if trying to solve a particularly difficult puzzle. "I know you said you’d back me creatively and on Rooted Pantry’s vision, but I didn’t…”
“You thought I wouldn’t agree with you on the San Diego facility because it’s new?”
“Um… yeah.”
I consider deflecting, but there's something about the direct way she's looking at me that demands honesty. "Maybe hearing your presentation reminded me of someone I used to be. Someone who cared about building something meaningful, not just profitable."
A flicker of something crosses her face — surprise, maybe even a hint of the warmth we once shared. But it's gone so quickly I might have imagined it.
"Well, whatever the reason, the team appreciates it.” She shifts her weight, wincing as she puts pressure on her bad ankle.
Instinctively, I reach out to steady her, my hand on her elbow. She doesn't pull away immediately, and for a brief moment, we're standing closer than we have in twelve years, close enough that I can smell the faint scent of her strawberry shampoo, still the same one she used in college.
Her eyes catch mine, and we stare at each other, time slowing down to a steady drip. The colors brighten, and I find myself being sucked into her gaze, drawn into–
“I should get back to work.” She abruptly steps away – not an easy feat in her condition.
“Of course. Same.” My face heats up. What the hell did I just do?
Was I really standing here staring at her like some love-struck teen?
“Can I help you back to your office?” I ask, though she’s already halfway out the door.
“I’m fine,” she says over her shoulder. “See you later.”
“See you later,” I say to the already empty doorway. For someone who is injured, she sure did book it out of here fast.
Did I scare her off?
It’s a stupid question. Of course I did. Everything about our relationship is tense, loaded, dynamic in dangerous ways.
It’s kind of ironic that I was thinking about cutting her loose from the company. Alice isn’t the problem. I am.
Or, rather, my heart is.
Because it doesn’t matter how much time goes by, or what circumstances change between us. A part of me will always belong to her, whether we like it or not.