“Here she comes,” David announces.
I rotate my chair, turning to greet the late CAO and try to force some color back into my face when I realize whom she is.
Son of a—
“Beckham King, I’d like you to meet my daughter, Abigail Peterson,” Daniel says.
Too bad I already have.
“Nice to meet you, Abigail,” I say, extending my hand. We shake, our palms gliding together professionally, a stark contrast to the way they explored each other’s bodies three or four weeks ago.
A raucous Saturday night between the sheets with a drunken Abigail led to breakfast in bed the following morning and the proverbial exchanging of numbers. She texted me four days after that, likely when her impatience got the best of her, but I never replied.
Abigail doesn’t flush or fidget or fling herself into her chair. She’s poised. A picture of grace. But what I’m sure her father doesn’t see from his end of the table is the fire in her hazel eyes, the one that says she’s going to eat me alive while the suited bastards watch.
I tap my fingers against the polished table and smile, refusing to let her shake me. This could get messy, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.
“Here you are, Abigail.” I slide a handout toward her and begin my presentation, speaking for a solid fifteen minutes before Abigail interrupts me.
“Mr. King, I’m looking at your estimate here.” She sits up, but the sharp pitch of her voice tells me she’s aimed at me, seconds away from firing. “It feels a little high. Is this the best you can do?”
David gives his daughter a reassuring nod. He’s proud of her. And he should be. Four gruff, middle-aged men hadn’t had the balls to question me yet, and she’s wasting no time.
“I can assure you, we’re the most reasonable in the industry,” I say. “My brother, Dane, and I have worked tirelessly in reducing manufacturing costs and lead times. We have an exclusive contract with a manufacturer based out of Iowa. Their central location allows them to reduce shipping costs, thus reducing the final cost of the product. We pass that savings along to our clients.”
“So you wouldn’t mind if I did a little shopping around before we sign anything?” Abigail bats her lashes.
“By all means.” I call her bluff. “If you can find someone lower than us with the same superior product, please let me know. We’ll match their price and give you an additional five percent discount.”
“What makes your product superior?” Harris asks.
“Workmanship. Warranty. Rigorous testing,” I fire back. “And at the customer service level, you’ll be working closely with myself and my brother. We’re always a phone call away. A client contract this size ensures you won’t be working with any lower level employees who have to play phone tag to get answers for you when you need them. Our biggest competitors can’t offer that, and with a project this size, ten years is a long time to be communicating via middlemen.”
The four of them scan the handouts again, flipping pages and nodding and pursing their lips.
“If you turn to the last page,” I say, “You’ll see where I’ve broken down the ROI. Per my calculations, your project will pay for itself within the first ten to twelve years. And I’m sure we can all agree that it’s a sound investment, especially when we figure that fast-food is an evolutionary business model that won’t be going away anytime soon.”
“That’s exactly what I said the other day, didn’t I, Abigail?” David says to his daughter. “Almost word for word.”
“Great minds.” Her voice is flat, she looks my way.
“This is rather convincing,” David says. “I hope you don’t mind if I have my daughter put together a few more estimates? And then we’ll meet again with our board and take a vote.”
“By all means.” I rise. “Gentlemen. Abigail. Thank you for your time today.”
“I’ll walk you out.” Abigail gathers her things and follows me to the door.
She says nothing as we amble out of the conference room and head down the hall toward the elevators.
“You’re going to give us one hell of a deal.” There’s sugar in her tone but poison in her words.
“If this is an attempt to extort my company because I didn’t call you back the other week then…”
“This isn’t extortion, Beckham. This is karma.”
“Resentment isn’t a good look on you.” Dane would kill me for speaking this way to a prospective client, but I’ve got this. “You’re a beautiful woman, Abigail. You have no business wasting your time with someone like me.”
Her face softens for a second, her eyes dragging from my eyes to my mouth before she sighs and stares at the gray wall behind me.
“I don’t commit. I have fun. I thought I made myself clear when we met?”
The thought of settling down and becoming a family man makes my cock shrivel and wilt. It’s not going to happen. In fact, I’m so sure it’s not going to happen that I’ve taken permanent measures to ensure it.
I wouldn’t know the first thing about being a cookie-cutter husband and soccer-coaching father. I may have entertained the idea once.
Like an imbecile.
But never since and never again.
Her hazel eyes roll, and she tucks a strand of her sandy blonde hair behind her ear. “You did, but I just thought we had fun. I thought–”
“I would love to have a professional relationship with you,” I say. “You’re clearly a successful woman who knows how to handle herself in the boardroom. I admire that about you.”
My words are scripted and my fingers crossed that she doesn’t notice.
“It’s rude not to text someone back.” She won’t give up.
“You can’t take that personally. It had nothing to do with you and everything to do with me. I’m not sure how I can make myself more clear here?”
Her mouth hardens.
“I’m sorry.” I say, running my hand along the side of her arm. “I would be a lousy boyfriend. I don’t deserve someone like you.”
It’s the truth. No self-respecting woman deserves me as a boyfriend, but that’s something I’m absolutely okay with.
Her breath suspends until my hand falls. The elevator behind me dings, and I step on. She clutches the handouts across her chest, watching until the doors slam shut.
A week from now, she’ll be calling to finalize the deal on behalf of her impossibly busy father.
And…
That’s how it’s done.
Chapter Six
ODESSA
I lock up my temporary office and head outside. Beckham never returned from his afternoon meeting, but I spent the last half of the day setting up social media accounts. Tomorrow I’ll be working with Devin to brainstorm ideas for the new website. I have a few I need to run by Beckham and Dane, but by the end of next week, we should have our concept nailed down and a test site to explore.
By the time I turn the corner on the sidewalk, Beckham is barreling toward the building, head tucked and on his phone. He doesn’t see me at first, locked in a heated conversation, but once he does, he mutters something and ends his call.
“Cutting out early?” he asks.
“Early? It’s five. On a Friday,” I say. “I’ll be back first thing Monday morning. We’ll go over everything I did today, and we can discuss the website.”
We’re blocking the sidewalk like a couple of assholes, throngs of five o’clockers rushing past, bumping us with shoulders and bags. I’m not sure what else to say to him, so I give him a quick wave and tighten the strap of my bag over my shoulder before heading home.
I peek around my shoulder when I get around the next block, making sure he isn’t chasing after me again or following me home like some crazy stalker.
He’s nowhere to be seen.
I’ll think about being nicer to him tomorrow.
***
My key sticks in the lock to my apartment. Jeremiah used to call the landlord about it every other week, but all she’d do was spray WD-40 into it and call it good. He was going to fix it himself. Two weeks ago. The day before he left.