“My lunch hour?” I never take lunch breaks. Everyone knows this.
Thatcher meets my gaze without flinching. “Working through lunch isn’t healthy,” he states, as if this is an indisputable fact. “You need time to recharge, especially before the board presentation.”
“And what exactly am I supposed to do with an entire hour?” I ask, although tiny butterflies flutter inside me at his concern.
“Well,” he says, a hint of his usual brightness breaking through his professional demeanor, “I thought we could use that time to focus on you. Not work-work, but like…what makes you tick as a CFO? Your preferences, your pet peeves, the things that help you work best. I want to be the kind of assistant who anticipates what you need before you need it.”
“You’re inviting yourself to my lunch break?”
“Technically, it’s both our lunch breaks,” he points out, his professional demeanor cracking slightly to reveal the same spark of mischief I saw in the man who approached me at Lior’s wedding. “And since they happen to coincide, we might as well make the best use of our time. Efficiency is important, right?”
His logic is impeccable, and the proposal perfectly reasonable. So why does my pulse quicken at the thought ofsharing an hour with him, without the protective barrier of my desk or glass walls?
I should say no. I should maintain my distance, should keep our interactions confined to necessary business matters. Instead, I hear myself say, “That’s…acceptable.”
His grin breaks free then, bright and immediate, before he catches himself and tries to rein it back in. “Excellent. I’ll make sure everything’s arranged.” He takes a step toward the door, then pauses. “Oh, and the board presentation files are already compiled and loaded onto your laptop. I added some color-coding to make the key points stand out. Nothing too dramatic, I promise.”
I watch him return to his desk. Through the glass, I expect to see him pull out the usual stack of sticky notes, but he turns to his computer and starts typing away. I should be doing the same, but all I can see is the man from that fucking bathroom.
Pierce Dellcourt is the master of self-control. Why do I seem to want to lose it in the presence of a man I barely know?
After the first couple of meetings of the day, I get lost in the numbers and barely notice life outside my office until the door crashes open with unnecessary force, announcing my brother’s arrival.
He’s carrying a manila folder and a tablet, his smile the kind that makes shareholders nervous.
“What are you doing here, James? And how did you get all the way up to this floor unannounced?”
“That’s a question you’d know the answer to mere months ago. You’ve lost your edge if you don’t know how to figure out the way to the top floor, big brother.”
“What do you want?”
“I’ve been doing some digging,” he says, settling into thechair across from me like he owns it. “VSE’s distribution network is impressive. Shame about those exclusivity contracts coming up for renewal next quarter.”
My stomach drops. “How do you know about those?”
“I know lots of things.” He opens the tablet, showing me a list of VSE’s top-ten distribution partners. “Dellcourt has been in talks with several of these companies. Offering them…alternative arrangements.”
“You’re poaching our partners?”
“I’m offering them better deals.” He shrugs. “Business is business. But it doesn’t have to be this way.”
“What do you want?” I snap.
“A distribution deal with VSE. Exclusive rights to the Eastern Seaboard.” He leans forward. “You convince Lior to sign, and I’ll back off your partners. Refuse, and by this time next year, VSE won’t have a distribution network left to speak of.”
“Lior will never agree to that. You’d be taking a forty percent cut of our operations.”
“Then I suggest you find a way to convince him.” James stands, smoothing his tie. “You’re the CFO. Show him the numbers. Make him see that a partnership with Dellcourt Holdings is better than watching his company bleed out slowly.”
“And if I refuse to play your game?”
James’s smile turns cold. “Then I start with the smaller partners. The ones who can’t afford to say no to Dellcourt’s money. One by one, they’ll fall. And when Lior asks his CFO how he let this happen right under his nose?” He pauses at the door. “Well, I’m sure your history of questionable loyalty will speak for itself.”
“What is this really about? Business? Or are you still wanting to prove something to Dad?”
“Maybe.” He shrugs. “Or maybe I just enjoy watching you squirm. I’ll be generous and give you two months, Pierce. Convince Lior, or watch everything you’ve built here crumble.”
The threat hovers over me as he leaves. Through the glass, I watch Thatcher smile at a passing coworker, sunshine personified, and for the first time in years, I wish I were still the kind of man who didn’t care who got hurt.
