Moonlighter (The Company, #1)(93)

“There are things I don’t like about the contract from the Thai company,” he grumbles.

“Then mark it up like you always do. And let me get on with my day.” You grumpy old turd.

“When will I see this second contract?”

“After lunch, I hope. Tomorrow at the latest. Is there anything else?”

He’s silent for a moment, probably because he’s tossing another dart at the photo of me I imagine he keeps on his office wall. “Send it over when you can,” he says, before hanging up.

And just like that, another fun call with Whitbread ends. When we send out the employee satisfaction survey at the end of the year, I hope he doesn’t fill his out.

“Bingley?” I ask the Butler on my desk. “Have I received any more calls?”

“No, my queen! You are free to go to lunch. Your dining companion is a Mr. Xian Smith, and you will lunch together at The Modern on East Fifty-Third Street.” I know all that already. Until Bingley adds: “Table for three.”

“Three?” I ask. “Who’s the third person?”

“Apologies, oh great one. That information is not on your calendar. The reservation was altered just two hours ago by Rolf.”

“Rolf?” I shout.

But he can’t hear me, because my office door is closed. And a glance at the phone shows me his line is lit up. That means I have to heave this very pregnant body out of the chair to go figure it out myself.

I put both hands on the desk and rock forward until my feet reach the rug. There should be a tool for this. I’m picturing a crane-like device, suspended from the ceiling. The Pregnant Power-Assist. A woman could rent one for her third trimester.

Take my money.

Waddling out of my private office, I spot Rolf on the phone. “She has no availability that week,” he says, my calendar up on the screen in front of him. “No availability at all,” he repeats. “You can email her if you’d like to communicate directly. Thank you.” He punches the button to disconnect the call.

“Who’s trying to see me?” I ask.

“The CEO and lead programmer for Maximum. That channel you—”

“Canceled. I remember.”

“They want to plead their case.” He shrugs. “I suppose I could fit them in if you want me to.”

“Nope. I already told them we don’t want their sexist crap that nobody watches.”

“So,” Rolf frowns. “If they made sexist crap that people watched, you’d still carry their channel?”

“Perhaps,” I admit. “It would depend on their numbers, and how far up the barf meter I found their content. Hey, Rolf? Why did you change my lunch to three people?”

“Oh. Your security team emailed to ask for that.”

I feel a frisson of fear. “Do you know why?” Usually my guard sits at the bar or waits just outside.

Rolf shrugs. “I figured you’d know. The car is downstairs, by the way.”

“Okay.” I go back into my office for my coat and bag. Up until now I haven’t let myself get nervous about meeting Xian Smith again.

When I emailed him on Sunday, asking if his offer to manufacture still stands, he’d replied immediately. He offered to fly in for lunch. And, sure, it’s a little unusual to sit down to a $138 tasting menu with a man I suspect is trying to hijack my company and all of New York’s elite.

But my job is confrontational even on the best days. I have competitors. I have detractors. Business is a battlefield, and I’m accustomed to the clashing of swords. My security team never asks for a seat at the lunch table, though. That’s a little nerve wracking.

I refresh my lipstick and then head out again. “Hold down the fort, Rolf. I’ll be back in time for the finance meeting at two-thirty.”

“Feel free to bring back leftovers,” he grumbles. “I’m trapped here taking calls from all the people who want your attention.”

“Poor baby,” I tease. “What a shame that none of the hundred restaurants within a two-mile radius will deliver. Oh wait…”

The phone rings again. He gives me a sour look as he answers it. Everyone is a grump today. Except for me, of course, the one who has to dine with her alleged enemy.

I’m still feeling rock solid as I descend the elevator and arrive at the side door, where the head of building security greets me with a smile. “G’day, Ms. Alex,” he says. “Your car is waiting to the right.” He points through the window and then holds the door for me.

“Thank you, Mr. Mendes!” As I march outside, Duff gets out of the car to open the rear door for me.

And then I do a double take. Because that’s not Duff at all. It’s Eric Bayer. He’s wearing a gorgeous charcoal suit with a crisp white shirt and a blue silk tie with puffins on it.

I already know I’m in trouble. It’s hard to hate a man in a puffin tie. I don’t know why. It just is.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Engels,” he says primly. “The drive to the restaurant should be less than fifteen minutes.”

I come to a halt in front of the open door. “Eric, what are you doing?”

“Taking you to lunch.”

“Why?”

“Would you get into the car, please? This is not a secure location.”