The Billionaire Next Door (Billionaire Bad Boys #2)(3)
The board had tried to keep Reese from becoming CEO, citing disapproval over Reese’s playboy lifestyle. The good news was Reese had ended up with a wife—now ex-wife, soon to be his wife again (long story)—but at the moment, Tag was having a hard time finding his own silver lining.
He didn’t consider futility a compliment.
He lifted the report in front of him—the one he’d received months ago. Filled with spreadsheets, numbers, and projected targets, it was seriously structured. And seriously pissing him off.
“Why the f*ck did they give me this if they weren’t going to follow through?” The cover read “Fiscal Projections for Food and Alcohol.” The word fiscal was enough to give him hives, but he’d pored over those sheets, those numbers, until his eyes felt like they were going to bleed.
Tag preferred to do things his way, and his way consisted of two main elements: his gut and people. He could rely on himself for decisions and his interactions with the staff to ensure his decisions were carried out. Spreadsheets and charts didn’t translate into good business in most cases. He could relate better to an employee over a beer than he could by sending a memo.
“I came in prepared to discuss numbers, and Frank brushed me off,” he continued, still grinding his teeth over the wasted time.
“Need I remind you how undesirable it is for them to watch your every move? Care to have the paparazzi chasing you around? Parts of you highlighted on social media with a hashtag?” Reese’s wry humor was showcased with a slow blink.
But even the mention of the Twitter debacle and Reese’s nefarious #ReesesRocket hashtag didn’t cheer Tag up.
“Yeah, well, I don’t care what they say. I’m going to make the profits sing.” Tag stood from the desk. “Acceptable loss doesn’t factor in to my plans for Crane Hotels.”
Reese’s lips curved into an almost proud expression reminiscent of their father. Tag pulled in a breath and stood straighter.
Over the years since Reese had been clamoring for CEO, Tag was content to run GRS. He’d risen in the ranks by paying attention and talking to everyone who worked for him. He’d learned how to invest his inheritance, part of which he’d retained since he hadn’t blown it on a college degree.
Tag was self-made, self-confident, and self-aware. He worked for Crane not because he needed to, but because it was his purpose. He had a part to play in preserving their family’s legacy and in no way took the task lightly.
“I’m doing things my way,” Tag stated. “This”—he held up the report, then dropped it into the wastebasket by the door—“is bullshit.”
Reese followed him to the door and flipped off the light. They walked silently through the hall and out into the reception area where Reese’s secretary, Bobbie, was typing, her fingers flying over the keyboard.
“Look forward to hearing more.” Reese slapped Tag’s shoulder. “Don’t let ’em get to you.”
That gave Tag pause. Reese was almost laid-back since he’d been married to Merina, which wasn’t easy to get used to.
“Thanks, bro.”
Reese vanished into his office, where he could be found most of the time. The Cranes—their father, Alex; Reese; Tag; and Eli, who was currently overseas serving in the Marines—were in this battle together. Tag liked everything about that. The way he could count on his family to be on his side and the way he’d rise to any challenge they set forth. The Cranes would never bail on each other.
He waved to Bobbie, who acknowledged him with a brief nod; then he collected his coat and scarf from the coat rack next to the elevator.
He rode down to the lobby and strolled through a sea of white leather and past shining windows. Gorgeous as the Chicago home base for Crane Hotels was, Tag preferred his home office, where he could focus on something other than the purring of the receptionist’s phone and the pompous chatter of the suits occasionally prowling the floors. When he wasn’t there, he was visiting one of the hotels to oversee a grand opening or cut the ribbon on a new restaurant.
The Windy City was living up to her name today, the cold slapping him in the face as he strode out onto the sidewalk. He pulled up his collar and plunged his hands into his black coat’s pockets, welcoming the chilly bite of February.
Crane Tower stood exactly three blocks west of the Crane and was Tag’s proudest accomplishment. His brother may own a mansion, but Tag had purchased an entire damn building. He’d bought it from his father quietly so as not to draw too much attention to the sale a year ago. His penthouse was at the top floor, forty-nine, and overlooked a sea of buildings. He liked the vantage point. He loved being on top. Ask any of his past girlfriends.
Well, dates. Girlfriends was a strong word.
Crane Tower’s doorman, a middle-aged guy whose name Tag did not remember, pulled open the door as Tag was angling to walk inside. The respite from wind was brief though, blowing his hair over his face and temporarily blotting out the vision of a woman exiting the luxury apartment building.
He swept his hair behind his ear and stopped dead in his tracks.
She was blond.
Petite, which put her at least a foot shorter than his almost six-and-a-half feet tall, and wearing high-heeled, knee-high boots that met the edge of a long dark coat, belted at the waist. The wind chose that moment to bless him, parting her coat and revealing gray leggings beneath a super short black skirt. She closed the coat over her like Marilyn Monroe trying to push down her dress and then she caught him looking.