“Did you not just hear me? I need to leave.” We make it to my office and he follows me in, plopping down in the chair across from mine at my large desk.
It’s been three months since I took over as CEO and I still mourn the loss of what was supposed to be my new life. My soon-to-be boss was somewhat sad when I told her the news that I would not be joining her company, but was in awe when she learned it was because I was named CEO of my current company. I hadn’t told her it was a family business otherwiseshe would’ve been less impressed. I figured there was no use in explaining as it didn’t matter anymore, and promised to keep in touch.
My mood ever since has been complacent and curt to pretty much everyone. And they all notice. I think the staff assumes it has something to do with my new position and that once I settle in as CEO, I’ll magically turn into this exuberantly happy woman. I guess they’ve missed my entire life as I’ve always been surly and generally dislike most.
“Are you going to spit it out or are you just going to sit here annoying me all afternoon?” I drop into my chair and it bounces. The hydraulics are obviously shot and a new chair is in order.
“Why are you always so cranky? You have an awesome life. You should be out celebrating with friends, drinking and dancing with all of your extra thousands in your bank account.”
“I don’t have friends,” I reply.
“Or a boyfriend.” I scowl at him, hoping to send him running, but he only laughs. He’s the one person not afraid of me. “Anyhow. I want to talk about our submission for the Pecan Festival. October is only one month away and we have yet to decide on our entry.”
San Saba, along with being the pecan capital of the world, is host to one of the biggest pecan festivals in the nation. Each and every year, all of the pecan farmers in the region enter a pecan style dish into the annual contest. There are always two top contenders in the contest; Regal Pecans and Steele Nuts Farm, our biggest competitor in both the contest and business sense.
“Really Santi?Thatis the most important thing to be thinking about right now? I have an important lunch with one of the largest national grocery chains and you’re worried about a dish for the pecan contest? My plan was to not enter anything because honestly, I really don’t care.” Santi’s jaw drops so wide, a bird could build a nest in it.
“Sister! How dare you say that. We have to defend our title. We can’t have Burke Steele swooping in and stealing it. Nuh uh. We’re entering.” He picks up his phone and immediately begins scrolling.
“What are you looking at?”
Without taking his eyes off the screen he answers, “Ideas for the contest. Burke Steele will not take our trophy.”
I can’t help but roll my eyes. I’ve always disliked the pecan dish contest. It’s a silly waste of time simply to say you were the winner of coming up with the most inedible, disgusting pecan dish. We’ve seen things from a basic pecan pie to roasted turkey with a pecan crust. It’s absolutely vomit inducing and I’m grateful that at least we have never entered into thewhat the hell is thatspectrum. Our winning dish last year was a simple pecan-cranberry cheese ball with lightly salted crackers made from ground pecans. I admit that it was really good, but I would much prefer to market that and possibly sell it as another division of our company, but Dad has been strictly and solely focused on the nuts, never wanting to branch out –no pun intended. And if this meeting goes right, we will be doing exactly that.
“If you insist on this ridiculous contest, you are fully in charge. I want nothing to do with it. I have other things on my plate and don’t have time for a sillywhose dish is worst. I’ve really got to focus on this meeting so you go play Betty Crocker and I’ll handle the adult stuff.” I stare at my phone, willing the clock to change so I can leave.
“Found it!” He proclaims excitedly like he just hit gold. “This is it. This is what we’ll be entering.” He flips the screen so I can read it and immediately I gag.
“Ancho chile spice pecan pie? Santi, that sounds horrid. And we can’t go stealing someone else’s recipe off the internet. It kind of defeats the purpose of developing new dishes.”
“I know that, you doofus. It’s simply the idea. We’re going to experiment with various spices and come up with our own version. Ooo, maybe cousin Alfredo will send us some red chile from New Mexico.” I shiver thinking about our earthy pecans dusted in spicy red chile.
Santi stands, still hooked to his phone, and continues to mumble as he walks out of my office. He doesn’t even acknowledge me as he leaves and that is just fine with me. I don’t want to hear any more of his hair-brained ideas. I need to focus on this pitch and nail it.
I’m still twenty minutes away from needing to leave, but I decide to get to the restaurant early and maybe down a quick drink to help with my nerves before the meeting. I grab my purse, throw my phone inside, and scurry from my office as fast as my heels will take me. My heart jumps in my chest and I remind myself that I’m a bad ass bitch and while I may be stuck in a job that isn’t exactly ideal, that it doesn’t mean that I can slack on it.
It may not be what I dreamed of but I will make sure to be the very best.
I enter the restaurant and immediately point towards the bar, letting the hostess know I won’t need to check in. Once I’ve swallowed down my liquid courage, I’ll return to be seated. Fornow, I just need to get the alcohol pumping through me and hopefully help my knees stop shaking.
This will be my first major deal as CEO and I want to show the world that I didn’t just get the job because I’m the boss’s daughter –or because my brother sold me out. I know that’s probably what many people think, and they wouldn’t be wrong. 75% of the reason why I got the job is because of who my father is. The other 25% is based on my intelligence and hard work ethic. That percentage should be flipped but I know my dad too well. He would have gone through an entire family tree before letting the company go to an outsider.
I weave through the tables, all packed with people making deals, and eye the crowded bar. I squeeze my way in and lift my hand to get the bartenders attention. It takes a few tries but when he spots me, he rushes over to take my order.
“Can I get two fingers of bourbon? Neat and with just a splash. Thank you.” He winks inappropriately and my face contorts.
Ever hear the sayingyour face speaks a thousand words? Yeah, I’m pretty sure that it was invented for me. While I may not be a big talker in ways of gossip, my face does otherwise.
The bartender sets my drink down in front of me and asks, “Would you like me to start a tab for you?”
I reach into my purse while shaking my head. “No thank you. I’m meeting someone.” I slide the twenty to him and tell him, “no change.” He takes it with a dip of his chin and returns to tending the bar.
“Wait.” A deep voice bellows practically in my ear and a large body bumps into mine.
I jolt forward and bourbon sloshes over the edge of my glass and onto my hand and bar. Precious drops are wasted and if it wasn’t packed or unsanitary, I would suck up the puddle from where it sits.
“Excuse you,” I bark and look over my shoulder at the offender.
