Chapter Two Derek
CHAPTER TWO
Derek
The Westwood Industries offices were only ten blocks away from the coveted corner office I occupied at MasonCorp headquarters, but today they felt like they were miles away.
The kind of miles where every step felt like wading through quicksand.
I knew I should’ve felt confident. Hell, I’d been told—by more than one person—that I was one of the best in the business.
But the nervous energy coursing through me today wasn’t so easily dismissed.
My division head, Marty, had assured me this meeting with Edward Mason was a formality.
Just a box-ticking exercise. But the way he said it made it sound more like a job interview.
A job interview for a job I already had. A job I excelled at.
Which, of course, begged the question: Why was I so nervous?
“All you have to do is waltz into that office and pull one of your Derek Carter specials, and you’ll be golden,” Marty had said with a grin that was a little too smug for my liking.
The Derek Carter special he was referring to was my signature move of taking projects that no one knew how to handle and turning them into money-printing machines.
When I joined MasonCorp six years ago, I was desperate to prove myself and put some distance between my career and my parents’ corporate legacy.
Attaching myself to the most difficult, unsexy projects was a risky maneuver for an advertising newbie, but it paid off.
Frequent promotions, hefty paychecks, and a reputation that made me one of the most sought-after ad executives in the business were the fruits of my labor.
The number of rival corporations that had tried to lure me away from MasonCorp—and the extra zeros those offers added to my potential salary—could attest to that.
None of this explained why I had to make a taxi trip across town to pitch to Edward Mason, whose office was usually five floors above mine.
“I don’t even understand what the point of this meeting is.” I leaned on the doorjamb of Marty’s office, killing time before my scheduled appearance.
“You know Edward Mason.” Marty swiveled in his chair to face me. “He doesn’t believe in resting on your laurels. You’re only as good as your next project. No one’s safe. Not even me.”
Marty’s last statement nearly made me choke on my own skepticism. If he was worried about losing his position, then I definitely needed to pull the biggest Derek Carter special out of my back pocket. Fortunately for both of us, I had it.
One thing Edward Mason was known for was ruthlessly trimming the fat and driving profits. My latest project was set to do both.
Miller’s Cove.
In the mid-nineties, MasonCorp had made a hefty land purchase of a small town in Florida.
Technically, it was three small towns combined.
The original plan was for MasonCorp to develop lucrative commercial and hospitality projects, but somewhere in the last thirty years, the projects had fallen through.
What hadn’t fallen through was the annual property tax bill.
Not only was the property not being used to its full potential, but it was also costing MasonCorp money. Two things Edward Mason despised.
Current tourism trends gave Miller’s Cove the potential to be the country’s (and possibly the world’s) next coveted vacation spot. All it needed was the right person to sell it. That person was me.
Every step I took toward the reception area on Westwood’s sixty-seventh floor had me feeling more confident about my plan.
The pitch was airtight. My track record was flawless.
And I was ready to impress Edward Mason like my career depended on it.
After giving my name to the receptionist, she directed me to wait in a chair closest to her desk, her eyes lingering a little too long as I walked away.
I ignored the way she’d subtly checked me out—I was used to it by now—and seated myself, feeling like I could conquer the world.
That feeling lasted all of ten seconds. Because that’s when I saw her.
Jasmine Morgan.
Someone I hadn’t seen in what felt like a lifetime. The last time I’d seen Jasmine, she had been a teenager. But she wasn’t a teenager anymore. She was all woman, and seeing her here, today of all days, made my heart stop before it began to hammer in my chest like it was trying to break free.
She was thirty now. Thirty. How had that much time passed? And how was it possible that the years had been so kind to her?
Jasmine had always been beautiful, but the woman sitting across the room from me was stunning in a way that made my head spin.
The way her formfitting sheath dress clung to her curves was mesmerizing, but it was the confidence in her stride as she moved across the room that really got to me.
Her skin, a warm golden brown, was flawless.
Her dark mahogany-hued hair fell in shiny waves past her shoulders, bouncing slightly with each step.
And those hazel eyes—the ones that used to sparkle with mischief and laughter—were currently shooting daggers in my direction.
The sight of her brought back years of confusion and anger.
Emotions I’d spent five years in therapy trying to untangle before I gave up out of sheer frustration.
Jasmine Morgan was a walking, talking reminder of everything that had gone wrong between our families.
And while her family had survived the turmoil intact, mine had not.
My parents’ divorce had been a trainwreck, one that left lasting scars. So what did she have to be angry about?
I took a deep breath, willing myself to push the past aside. This wasn’t about Jasmine. This was about Miller’s Cove. About proving myself to Edward Mason. About solidifying my place at MasonCorp.
“—Miller’s Cove, Globeworks, Prime Motors, North Star Communications.” A young man’s voice broke through my thoughts. He was leaning over a stack of files on the receptionist’s desk, rattling off names that sounded vaguely familiar.
“Cliff Enterprises & Radiant Intelligence?” the receptionist replied, confirming my suspicions.
The fact that Miller’s Cove was on Edward Mason’s radar only boosted my confidence. If he was looking at it now, I had chosen the right project to champion. An involuntary smile curled my lips as I leaned back in my chair, feeling like the smartest man in the room.
That confidence wavered when I felt Jasmine’s eyes on me again.
For a brief second, I caught a flicker of something familiar in her expression—something softer, something reminiscent of the girl I used to know.
But it disappeared as quickly as it had come, replaced by a look that could only be described as icy disdain.
Well, this was going to be interesting.
“What! Little Jazzy?” my older brother, CJ, shouted across the net, slapping the ball I’d served to him with his paddle, nearly sending it careening toward my face before I served it back to him.
Christopher Raymond Carter, Jr., was born three years before I was and six months after our parents were married.
Our parents met as college students while studying abroad in the Caribbean.
We were raised in an affluent suburb in New Jersey, attended the best schools, and had every advantage our parents could give us except being raised by two people who were actually in love.
Their divorce when we were adults shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but I know it affected us both deeply.
CJ will tell you it didn’t affect him at all, but neither of us has had a relationship last longer than three months.
We met nearly every weekend for the last four years to play pickleball.
We both had intense corporate careers, Chris as one of the most sought-after corporate litigators in New York, which left us little time for personal lives.
At least, that’s the excuse I made. My brother was my role model in every way that mattered, especially since we’d both been estranged from our father for the last thirteen years.
When our parents dissolved their company and their marriage fell apart, CJ was my rock.
He shielded me from a lot of the ugliness during the divorce proceedings, insisting that I focus all of my energy on college. As a result, he was the only person I could depend on, who understood what I was going through. I’d never admit this to him, but he was the man I modeled my life after.
My big brother was almost forty with no signs of intent to get married or start his own family. If he wasn’t in a rush, I figured I had plenty of time.
“She’s not little anymore,” I replied with a grunt as I dove to return his volley, but after bouncing once, it sailed past me.
“That’s game, punk.” He chuckled and grabbed his towel. “That’s two in a row. Seeing Jasmine again must have really gotten to you.” He smirked and squirted water into his mouth.
“You’re my older brother,” I quipped and threw my towel at him. “Don’t you want to congratulate me on nailing my pitch to Edward Mason and not focus on ancient history?”
“Nope.” He wrapped me up in a sweaty headlock and poked me in the abs with his pickleball paddle. “You don’t need me stroking your ego. Plus, I’d much rather hear about what happened when you saw Jasmine after all these years. Is she still cute?”
“Cute” wasn’t a descriptor I would have used for the Jasmine I saw today. Puppies were cute. Cupcakes were cute. “Breathtakingly beautiful” would have been more appropriate, but definitely not words I would use to give CJ more ammunition.
“She looks the same.” I shrugged. “Just older, I guess.”
“You guess?” he chuckled. “So you still have that same crush on her that you always did.” He raised an eyebrow.
“Crush?” I scoffed. “Jasmine was a kid when we knew her, and the last time I saw her, she was seventeen and I was twenty-one. Are we gonna go through this again?” I made a desperate attempt to change the subject.