The CEO – Adrian
THE CEO
ADRIAN
Ican’t believe this shit…
I could count on one hand the number of times I’d been kicked out of an event in my life.
One.
Tonight.
“I’m so sorry, sir, but you can’t just trespass at a private romance event—especially not one at this level.” A blonde shook her head at me and my bodyguard as the hotel’s security escorted us through the exit. “It’s a safety issue, understand?”
“I’m not used to being told no.”
“Well, that’s a personal problem.” She crossed her arms. “You don’t have a ticket or an active registration for our party, so try to submit your acting application a lot earlier next year, okay?”
I shot Tyson a confused look.
“I came here to talk to someone,” I said, trying one last time. “Well, two someones.”
“Did these someones know that in advance?”
“Given my status, they don’t need to.” I glared at her. “They should be honored I’m even taking the time out of my day to track them down.”
“Okay, you wannabe Christian Grey.” She stepped back and signaled for the hotel guards to shut the doors. “Have a good night.”
I stared at the doors as they shut, knowing—just knowing that they’d open back up within seconds. And then that woman and the woman who’d ratted me out would apologize.
“Um, I don’t think they’re coming back, Mr. Sinclair,” Tyson said. “Want me to get the car?”
“How do they not know who I am?”
“You’re very private and you don’t typically attend events, or—”
“It was a rhetorical question, Tyson.”
“Oh.” He shrugged. “Stay here, then. I’ll be back with the car in five.”
The entire event had been a waste of my time.
Except for the seven minutes I'd spent with the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen.
She'd uttered more nonsensical sentences than anyone I'd ever met, but her face was already etched into my brain.
I could still envision her perfectly—long dark hair that fell past her shoulders, a pouty pink mouth I couldn't stop thinking about, and her eyes were a lighter shade of green than mine.
I should’ve gotten her goddamn name…
Tyson swore he overheard her say it was “Solar,” but I refused to believe that. There was no way…
The headlights of my town car flashed from the street, and I made my way toward it.
Moving into the backseat, I pulled out my phone and texted Benjamin.
Where are you?
Benjamin
Um…at home.
Good. I’ll be there soon, so open the door. I have questions.
Sir, you promised that you would never show up to my place unless it was an emergency.
This IS an emergency…
The moment I walked into Benjamin’s apartment, I instantly regretted not making him meet me at the office or at my penthouse suite.
“You’re in your late thirties, Benjamin.” I leaned against his kitchen table. “I think it’s time to stop wearing fuzzy onesies to sleep…”
“This man is in my house,” he muttered to himself. “He’s in my house, uninvited and talking about my pajamas…”
He has a point.
“My apologies.” I tried to ignore his bright red butt flap as he paced the floor. “Tell me everything you know about Slow Burn.”
“Well, it’s a very popular trope in the romance genre,” he said. “Those stories have a lot of angst and yearning for hundreds of pages and the spicy payoff at the end. We stock thousands of them.”
“I’m talking about the Slow Burn bookstore, Benny.” I crossed my arms. “The one you said I underestimated in my notes, remember?”
“Oh.” He nodded. “Oh, yeah, that… You might be okay after all.”
“I will be okay. I just want to know why there would ever be any doubt.”
“Romance readers are shifting back toward smaller, more intimate spaces,” he said. “Independent shops. Neighborhood stores. Places where the employees know what they read and can recommend something without checking an algorithm.”
“Our employees recommend books all the time.”
“That's not the part you were supposed to focus on.”
“We’ll have plenty of intimate spaces for them to read at Sinclair Street.” I shrugged. “There are two entire floors dedicated to romance books, reading pods galore, and multiple beverage stations.”
“And ten additional floors for the other genres.”
“What's your point?”
“You're not exactly intimate, sir.” The look on his face gave me pause.
“If Slow Burn survives the rest of this year and the first two quarters of next year, she'll be positioned perfectly for the shift. Publishers will send her more events, more exclusives, more authors. Readers will follow.”
“And?”
“And eventually some of them stop crossing the street to you.”
“I see.” I clenched my jaw. “So, all I need to do is make sure that Slow Burn can’t keep up with me for the rest of the year?”
“If you want to be vicious…”
“I want to be a winner.”
“Then, yes, sir.” He nodded. “You’d need to do that.”
“You could’ve said that this morning,” I said, moving off his table.
“Compile our best marketing and promotional team and tell them I want the most aggressive opening one hundred eighty days we've ever planned.”
“How aggressive?”
“I want readers to forget there's another bookstore across the street.”
“Will do. Anything else?”
“Yeah, actually.” I cleared my throat. “I need the tech department to find a way to get all the security footage from the Parker Hotel between nine fifteen and nine twenty-four.”
“Why?”
“Because there was a woman in the grand ballroom.”
“There were thousands of them.”
“Well, there’s only one I need to see again.”
He gave me a blank stare.
“She was talking to me during those specific minutes,” I said. “Get all the still frames of us together, and have my researchers find out who the hell she is.”
“You pay me to handle your book business, Mr. Sinclair,” he said. “Not play Cinderella games.”
“I’ll give you a twenty thousand dollar bonus for handling this as soon as possible.”
“I’ll figure out who the glass slipper belongs to by tomorrow evening.”
“Make it noon.”