Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78313 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78313 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
“The SEC’s on my ass.”
“The Ess-EE-What?”
“SEC. It’s an acronym for . . . let’s just say they’re Wall Street’s watchdog.”
“What’dya do?”
“Wish I knew,” I say, rubbing a hand over my neck. “Supposedly I got an inside tip on a tech company a while back, but it’s news to me.”
Dave grunts. “So, nothing to worry about.”
“There is if whoever’s making shit up about this ‘inside tip’ is a better liar than I am truth teller.”
“Bullshit,” Dave says on another round of hacking. “Since when do you just grab your ankles when shit gets rough?”
I wince. “That’s nice, Dave. Very introspective.”
“Intro-what?”
“Never mind.” I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Look,” Dave says with a hefty sigh. “I ain’t your family. I got no right to lecture you, but you’re the most stubborn son of a bitch I know. You always got everything you ever wanted—haven’t you?”
Almost. Almost everything.
I don’t say it, though. I’m not sure there’ll ever be a good time to tell Dave how much I used to long for him to adopt me.
I smile a little at the memory. I was a stupid kid, thinking if I just talked a good game and never gave up, I’d be worth the adoption hassle.
Nope.
It’s cool, though—we’ve got a good thing going on.
“Hello?” Dave asks grumpily.
“Yeah, still here.”
“So you gonna fight this SPT or what?”
I smile. “SEC. And yeah, I suspect she’d like nothing more than a good fight.”
“She?” Dave laughs, a cackling, dry sound. “Hell, boy, why didn’t you say so? There’s not a woman alive you couldn’t get to do exactly what you wanted and have her thinkin’ it was her idea. Doubt this one’s any different.”
“She is,” I mutter, spinning idly in my chair. “She fell for exactly none of my bullshit yesterday.”
“Yesterday. You gave up after one day? Ain’t like you. You’ve always been stubborn as a mule, digging your teeth in, lighting a fire under every bush . . .”
I go still at his words, letting them sink in. Mixed metaphors aside, Dave’s got a point.
Persistence is my ace in the hole—the thing that’s gotten me where I am today.
Have I gotten so lazy, so complacent, that I’m giving up after a single afternoon of getting shot down?
Fifteen years in the foster system couldn’t keep me down. Nor could the Yale legacies who’d tried to make it clear I didn’t belong.
I get what I want by fighting for it. And what I want right now?
Lara McKenzie on her knees, begging me to forgive her for the false accusation.
Well, okay, the on her knees part is a different fantasy entirely. One I’m not completely ready to give up on.
“Dave, you’re a damn genius.”
“Yeah, yeah. So when’ll the TV be here?”
I shake my head with a grin, telling him I’ll get right on it. I hang up, then grab my desk phone to call my assistant.
Kate picks up on the first ring. “How’d the meeting with the Sams go?”
“’Bout like you’d expect.”
“Did they—”
“I’ll fill you in on everything later,” I promise, interrupting. “But first, any chance I can talk you into getting Dave another TV by tomorrow?”
“Oh, jeez,” she says, and I hear the efficient clack of her keyboard. “What happened this time? His favorite hockey player get traded again?”
“It was a baseball emergency.”
“Mmm. Okay, I’m on it. What else can I do? I feel useless, and you know that’s not my jam.”
I smile. I do know. Kate Henley’s been my assistant for five years, and I’ve learned that her tiny, tidy package hides an administrative powerhouse.
“No, nothing yet . . .” I break off. “Actually, yes. If you were trying to sell someone on the magic of overpriced Starbucks beverages—”
“Mocha Frappuccino, extra whip, extra chocolate shavings,” she says without hesitation. “You can’t go wrong. Your Tuesday barista’s Karen, right?”
“Yeah, but I’ll take care of it.” This is one challenge I need to undertake on my own.
“But—”
“If you’re fishing for shit to do, Matt started trying to manage his own calendar again. He’s got himself triple booked for three o’clock but is too scared to tell you.”
“Are you freaking kidding me?” Kate makes a hissing noise. “Okay. I’m on it.”
Kate hangs up on me, as I knew she would, and I text Tuesday-barista Karen, ordering two mocha Frappuccinos.
Lara McKenzie thinks she saw Don Juan yesterday?
She hasn’t seen nothin’ yet.
4
LARA
Week 1: Tuesday Afternoon
I’m pulling my stapler out of my box of office crap when there’s a knock at the conference room door.
I glance up, lifting my eyebrows in surprise when I see the last person I’d expect leaning against the doorway.
Ian Bradley’s dressed impeccably in a light-gray suit, black tie, and holding two frothy concoctions.
I click my stapler twice and study him, trying to figure out his game. His expression’s friendly, but his blue eyes are calculating.
“Mr. Bradley.”
“Ms. McKenzie.” He doesn’t move.
“Would you like to come in?”