The Price Of Scandal(48)

My stomach let out a shameless whine. But not of its usual bowel distress variety. This was raw, primal hunger. Derek pushed the handle down on the French press, and the scent of fresh coffee invaded my nostrils.

It was hard to be angry when a man who looked like Derek was feeding me breakfast outside on a perfect Miami spring morning. But I’d still give it my best shot.

He set a plate in front of me and unfurled a denim blue cloth napkin, tucking it neatly onto my lap.

“I can take care of myself, thank you very much,” I complained, reaching for a knife and fork.

“You’re welcome,” he said, pretending my thanks were sincere. “But I believe you proved yesterday that you are, in fact, incapable of such a task.”

“Someone’s grumpy in the mornings,” I said, shoveling the perfect bite of egg, meat, and English muffin into my face. “Oh my God, Cristoff’s hollandaise!”

“To restate my point from last night, which you are probably too exhausted to recall, you need to stop trying to prove to the world that you can do everything. You’re going to micromanage yourself into an early grave.”

I chewed in silence and stared at him. Obviously, the man had a point. Perhaps even a marginally valid one. But that didn’t mean I could just snap my fingers and rid myself of responsibilities.

“Derek,” I sighed, gratefully accepting the delicate glass mug of coffee he handed me. “Even if you have the slimmest point, I don’t have the time to start the offloading process. Training. Follow-up.”

“I’m hearing problems, not solutions,” he said, cutting into his breakfast.

I threw a grape at him. Smugly, he popped it into his mouth.

“Emily, love. It takes a visionary to run a company like yours. And you can’t have visions when you’re too busy sweating over the details. If you run yourself into the ground, Flawless will flounder, I’ll have an ugly little imperfection in my track record of unblemished successes, and everyone who ever said that you can’t will win.”

“You forgot to mention that in that particular instance, I’ll also own half of your company,” I pointed out.

“So you can understand why I’m motivated.”

I squinted out at the turquoise waters of the bay and sighed. “You are exceptional at pushing my buttons,” I mused.

He preened. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said about me.”

I snickered and sipped my coffee. I could hear Cristoff destroying my kitchen. The man cooked to Metallica and threatened anyone who interrupted him with physical violence. Jane was half in love with him.

Unhurried mornings were nice. I wondered if it was because of the sleep or Derek.

I felt downright cheerful.

“I say this with all the love, lust, and adoration that I feel for you,” my platonic bed buddy began. “You need to pick a lane. This stock offering is going to set you and the next three generations of your family up for life. Maybe it’s time to revisit the question: What do you really want?”

“Look,” I said, biting into the most perfect strawberry in the history of strawberries. “Nothing’s changed. I want to grow Flawless. I want to see this IPO through because, not only is it the next step, but now it’s a matter of pride. I also want to show every single naysayer out there that they were so wrong they owe me public apologies.”

Derek took a sip of freshly squeezed orange juice. Cristoff had freakishly strong hands.

He was quiet for a long moment, watching me as if weighing my answer. “If that’s what you want, then that is what I’ll help you get,” he said simply. “Money. Power. A legacy.”

It sounded a little empty, a little unimaginative when he said it. “Why am I sensing disapproval?”

“Money, power, and legacies are fine for some people. Most people. I think you’re not being honest with yourself. Perhaps you’re throwing yourself headfirst into work so you don’t have to think about how unfulfilled you feel.”

He dabbed his smug mouth with a napkin, and I contemplated tossing him in the lagoon and leaving him for Steve to deal with.

“Perhaps you’re wrong about me, and I’m just another power-hungry executive clawing her way to the top.”

“Now, let’s not get testy,” he teased.

I wanted to stab him with my fork, but I didn’t want to ruin my eggs with blood splatter. I had priorities, after all.

“Since you’ve made it abundantly clear that you’ll stay the course, that is where we’ll focus our efforts,” he said.

“So pleased that’s settled,” I snarked.

“I can tell from your vivacious conversational efforts that you’re already feeling better. Let’s try not to drop into a dead faint again today.”

I flipped him off in an immature yet satisfying gesture of disdain.

He grinned at me, and I found myself beaming right back. Sleeping next to the man had done nothing to lessen his effect on me. I doubted spending fifty years married to the man would dilute his sex appeal.

That would be one lucky, perpetually infuriated wife, I predicted.

“So what’s the diabolical plan of public manipulation today?” I asked.

A string of expletives exploded from the kitchen behind me.

“Isn’t it interesting how Cristoff doesn’t feel the need to tone down his badassery,” Derek mused. “Yet he is still wildly successful.”