Reluctantly Yours(2)

“There’s an actual season for dry cake and misery?” I ask, deadpan, then take another sip of my whiskey.

She ignores my jab.

“I know you’re working on Voltaire Telecom and the importance of that acquisition is not lost on me, but you need to find balance. Besides, it might do you some good to have a woman on your arm at business dinners. I sat alongside your father for thirty-five years, so trust me, I know how it works.”

I hum around a sip of my whiskey. I know she’s right in some respects, but I refuse to give her any encouragement.

“Tessa Green. She’s thirty and a lawyer with Cooper Stanley Williams. She’s smart and beautiful. The least you can do is meet her for lunch. I’ll have Chloe set it up.”

At the mention of my mother’s assistant, the muscles in my shoulders tense. It’s an automatic response. Chloe Anderson tests my limits with every encounter. She’s been my mother’s assistant for two years, and though I rarely see her, my mind easily conjures her image. Her fiery red hair always pulled up into a knot on her head, allowing access to her slender neck. Those crystal blue eyes, which I find on most occasions pinning me with a disapproving glare, are other worldly. For every inch her petite frame is lacking, she makes up for it in snark and bite. She’s a pint-sized human carrying out my mother’s agenda, which on occasion, like setting up blind dates, only makes my life more difficult.

The fact that my mother would request for her to set up a reservation for a lunch date that I have no interest in going on only fuels my dislike for her. It’s unwarranted, but nonetheless, it’s my only defense mechanism at this point.

“I’m sure Tessa is a nice woman, but I’m not taking her to lunch. My calendar is already full with business meetings.”

She hums her disapproval. It’s a trait we share, apparently.

“Have it your way, Barrett.”

It’s a parting shot. A warning that this discussion and her plan to set me up with every fertile woman she runs into isn’t over.

She smiles sweetly before leaning in to kiss me on the cheek. I watch as her retreating back is swallowed into the crowd of gowns and tuxedos.

With my mother off my back for now, I scan the crowd until my gaze lands on the large, bald head of Fred Hinkle, President and CEO of Voltaire Telecom. The shine bouncing off his head is like a North Star guiding me home. My feet immediately start moving, my eyes scanning the periphery to avoid being trapped into another conversation with Kristy.

Fred Hinkle and the acquisition of his company, Voltaire Telecom, will secure SCM’s place at the top of the media industry. To the company it was when my father was running it. It’s the only goal I’ve had for the past seven years. Every meeting, every deal I’ve made, every acquisition I’ve completed has been in pursuit of restoring SCM’s legacy. Now, I’m so close. There’s no way I can take my eyes off the ball now.

The shiny, gleaming ball that is Fred Hinkle’s scalp.

“Fred.” I place a hand on his suit-clad shoulder. He turns from the group he’s talking to, his jovial smile dropping when his eyes recognize me.

Fred doesn’t like me. He thinks I’m an arrogant businessman buying and gutting other businesses at the expense of the hard-working people who have made them what they are.

It would be hearsay but he told me that himself when I tried to book a meeting with him.

‘A vulture preying on the weak’ is what he likened me to.

He’d be right. I have had to make decisions along the way that cost workers’ jobs but it wasn’t personal, it was business. Decisions that were right for my company in the long run.

He also does not want to sell Voltaire Telecom voluntarily. His company is in trouble. Banks are calling on their loans, investors want payouts and his stock is plummeting. He’s desperate for a cash injection. A takeover is inevitable, and I’ve put SCM in the perfect position to do it. Fred has a crumbling empire, but he’s got enough time and wherewithal to be able to choose who is going to pick up the pieces. I need him to choose me.

But there are plenty of other companies that are jockeying for the same position.

The man talking to Fred is Ryan Shaw.

If I’m a vulture, then Ryan is a leech.

His company, Shaw & Graham, is SCM’s biggest competitor. Competition is healthy. That’s not my issue with him. But, whenever I’m at the table with a company for a deal or merger, he’s on my heels trying to beat me to it. The man doesn’t have an original idea. He waits for me to make my intentions known, then tosses his hat into the ring.

“Mr. St. Clair.” Fred’s use of formality is his way of keeping me aware of the situation. He’s in his sixties, and that generation always had their own way of doing things. Like the fact that he won’t take a meeting with me so I’ve reduced myself to stalking him at an event I knew he would be at. While it is questionable if he will be at the gala or fundraiser of the week, I knew he wouldn’t miss his daughter’s wedding.

“St. Clair.” Ryan gives me a nod and a smirk.

“Shaw.” I respond with my own nod, but I keep my attention on Fred.

“Mr. Hinkle, it was a beautiful wedding. Amber looked stunning. I’m sure you’re a proud father tonight.” Amber and I went to prep school together, and our mothers are friends. That’s the only reason I was invited to this wedding. That and I’m sure with a million more important things to do, Fred didn’t bother to monitor the guest list.