Decisions need to be made, connections need to be fostered.
But most of my brain—no, myheart—is at my apartment.
What happens when you leave again?
“That’s all I have,” Dan, my COO, says. “Do you have anything for me?”
I wrench my brain to the present, work my way through my list with Dan. “Any word on the buyout?” I ask as he starts packing up.
There was an attempt a few weeks back—another company trying to short our stock so they can come in and buy us out and take over.
It’s a cowardly way to do business.
But it’s not the first buyout effort I’ve thwarted.
If I sell—and I’d be hard-pressed to part with a business I built from the ground up, especially one that does work thatis valuable and helps a lot of people—it won’t be because I’m pressured into it.
“The rumors are swirling again.”
“If they materialize into something concrete, let me know.”
He nods, we exchange goodbyes, and I call Pascal, telling him about the rumors and the previous attempt at a buyout.
It may not be connected since I’ve fended off far too many of those.
But there’s a niggling in the back of my brain that tells me these are all pieces of the same puzzle.
The drive, the buyouts, the sudden reappearance of Briar back in my life.
“Too much of a coincidence,” I mutter.
“I agree,” he says, and I expect him to hang up now that business is concluded. He’s a busy man and always working on a dozen things at once. But today he lingers on the line. “When are you heading home?”
“Why?” I ask, alarm slicing through me. “Do I need?—”
“She’s fine,” he says.
I exhale. “Then—” I break off.
He doesn’t reply for several moments. Then he sighs. “I can’t believe I’m about to do this shit.”
“What shit?”
“Meddle,” he mutters.
“I mean,” I say as I recline back in my chair, “isn’t that kind of your job?”
“I only meddle when it comes to personal safety,” he grumbles. “Not with…”
“What?” I press.
“Not with shit that gets me involved in messy romantic situations.”
I snort. Because I know that for the lie it is. Pascal has meddled with businessmen and hockey players and CEOs and stubborn fucks who refuse to get their heads on straight, alike.
“Just lay it on me so we can move on,” I grind out.
“Briar needs a trauma therapist. And she needs space.” A beat. “From you.”
