“Let’s wrap this up,” I tell the lawyers when I return and sit on the edge of the sofa. No point getting comfortable.
“We have one week before the exclusivity clause lapses, which means the company goes back on the market,” the lead attorney says. “Problem is the executive team is carrying more debt than they disclosed.”
“So get us an accurate version,” I say, irritated. When I signed on, I figured the dozens of attorneys and advisors would handle the details, but things are turning out to be anything but easy.
“We’re working on it. But even if we get a complete accounting…” One of the lawyers looks up and trails off.
I turn in my seat to follow his gaze out the doors to the patio.
Marrying your best friend is a blessing and a curse. She knows your dreams, your ambitions, your secrets.
She also knows your weaknesses.
My fiancée, still in her high-heeled sandals, appears from the direction of the master bedroom.
In a purple bathing suit and a wispy cover-up that covers zero fucking things up, she’s a witch. A siren. A magnetic north pole.
She tugs off the cover-up and tosses it on a chair. Then she bends over, unfastens her shoes, and steps out of them.
Ignoring every male gaze on her, she takes one step at a time down into the pool, then dives, reappearing a moment later. Her copper hair is darkened and hanging in a wet curtain down her back.
A vein pounds in my forehead as I rise, dragging my gaze back to the lawyers. “We’ll pick this up tomorrow.”
The lead attorney shifts forward. “But, Tyler, we need to finish reviewing the—”
“Later. You can see yourselves out.” My tone is final as I reach for my belt with one hand and turn my back on them. “I have a prior engagement.”