The woman sucks in a breath before going silent, recognition widening her eyes, and then she brushes a flaxen wave from her forehead, chewing the inner corner of the juiciest rose-colored mouth I’ve ever seen.
Funny how a moment ago she was so brave, standing up for a man she’d never met and now she’s a deer in the headlights. Doe-eyed and all.
“What’s your name?” I ask. A work badge hangs from her neck, but I can’t take my attention off her pleasing almond-shaped gaze with their spray of dark lashes and ocean-blue irises. A chorus of wild flowers, sun-dried cotton, and fresh air fills my lungs. She smells like a morning in the countryside, and for the briefest moment I’m transported to childhood summers at my grandparents’ country home in Surrey.
She swallows, straightens her shoulders, and tips her chin upwards. “Sophie Bristol.”
She doesn’t ask my name. I imagine she doesn’t need to.
“Thank you,” My gaze skims past her delicate shoulders toward the break room doorway, “for … that.”
Her full lips press and she offers a slight nod. “You’re welcome.”
“I’m not vegan by the way,” I add.
Her nose wrinkles. “I’m sorry?”
“You told them I was vegan. But you should know, I’m very much a carnivore.” I give her a nuanced wink and earn a reserved smile from her pretty mouth in return.
With that, I’m gone.
I don’t stick around—I don’t have the time. I’m officially running late for a meeting with the board of Ames Oil and Steel, one in which I’m attempting to make a record-shattering, unheard-of offer. Not that I need it. As the richest man in the world, I don’t need much of anything, personally, professionally, or otherwise. Acquiring businesses has become more of a sport in recent years. I’d compare it to climbing mountains. You start with the smaller ones and work your way up to the tallest.
Ames Oil and Steel is about to become the Mount Everest of my career.
I head to the elevator, press the button for my private floor, and swipe my key before heading to the private boardroom.
The second I stride through the door, Broderick greets me, throwing his hands in the air and mouthing something along the lines of, “What the hell?”
The projector screen behind him is filled with a bevy of middle-aged faces with impatient frowns, all of them video-conferencing from a stuffy-looking room in Philadelphia.
“Ladies, gentlemen, esteemed members of the board, I hope you weren’t waiting long.” I smile. I’m told I look halfway pleasant when I smile. When I’m not, I’ve been told I’m akin to an expressionless marble statue and people tend to grow uncomfortable when they think they can’t ‘read’ you.
I take a seat at the head of my forty-foot mahogany table. Broderick slides me a legal pad emblazoned with the Westcott Corporation logo, along with a pristine Caran d’Ache fountain pen—only the best for my note taking. It was my father’s favorite brand. I’d hardly call myself sentimental or superstitious, but some things are worth an exception.
“Mr. Westcott, we assume you received the agenda for today’s meeting?” Someone from their team breaks the east coast silence.
Broderick slides me a printed email.
“Have it right here.” I give it a quick perusal, speed-reading the bullet points and identifying the words that matter. “And I can already tell you that half of these items are unnecessary. I know your time is valuable. As is mine. So I propose we both stop wasting it, and you tell me the number you want on the check. I can have my CFO authorize it before close of business today.”
I’m met with a few chuffs, and a handful of them exchange unreadable stares.
Unprofessional, but I’m willing to turn the other cheek because once I buy them out, I’ll never have to see their sour faces again.
“Mr. Westcott, as we all know, you’re well aware of the legacy clause in our contract,” Nolan Ames, the man at the head of the table with a 51% stake of his family’s company, folds his hands.
“I’m well aware. Yes. Thank you.” I bite my tongue and hope he doesn’t pick up on the condescension in my tone. This absurd legacy clause is the only thing holding up the takeover and so far neither of us have been willing to budge. It’s difficult to see eye-to-eye when your opposition is an incredulous asshole on a power trip. “But from one businessman to another, I’d like to remind you that everything is negotiable.”
He leans forward in his oversized leather chair, head tilted, polite smile painting his aging face, and he clears his throat. “My great-grandfather founded this company.”
I nod, as if I’d never heard the name Ames along the likes of Astors, Rockefellers, and Rothschilds. I listen, silent as if I’ve no idea what it’s like to run a company founded by generations of familial predecessors.