Tangled (The Tangled Series)(11)

No matter how fine an ass it might be.

“Yes,” my father says, “and have you seen some of the stuff she’s come up with in these two weeks? She’s the first one in and the last one to leave—every day. She’s fresh and thinks outside the box. She’s come up with some of the most innovative investments I’ve ever seen. My instincts are telling me to give her the ball and see what she’ll do with it.”

What are the early warning signs for dementia, exactly?

“She’ll frigging fumble—that’s what she’ll do!” I yell. But I know from experience dramatics will get me nowhere with my father, so I pinch my nose to try and calm down. “Okay, Dad, I hear what you’re saying. But Saul Anderson is not a client you pass someone off to just to see if they can cut it. He’s someone you give to your best and brightest. Someone you know can take him all the way to the end zone. And that’s me.”

Isn’t it? I wonder as uncertainty clouds his features.

As my father’s silence stretches on, my stomach twists in my gut. It’s not that I have a daddy complex or anything, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the pride my father takes in my performance at the office. I’m his right-hand man. His go-to guy. When we’re down by two with five left on the clock, you can bet your ass I’m the only one John Evans will pass the ball to.

Or at least I used to be.

I’m accustomed to having his undivided confidence. The fact that confidence seems to be wavering is…well…it f*cking hurts.

“Tell you what.” He sighs. “We’ve got a month. Come up with a presentation. Have Kate do the same. Whoever can knock my socks off gets a crack at Anderson.”

I should be insulted, really. What he’s asking is the equivalent of telling an Oscar winner he’s got to audition to play a frigging extra. But I don’t argue. I’m too busy planning my next move.

So, you see what I was saying about life?

Just like that, Kate Brooks has changed from a woman I couldn’t wait to do the nasty dance with to someone I can’t wait to crush under my boot. My adversary. My competition. My enemy.

It’s not her fault. I know. Now ask me if I care.

Nope—not even a little.





In full-out combat mode, I return to headquarters—otherwise known as my office. I give Erin a few orders and work the rest of the afternoon. Around six o’clock, I have Erin call Kate into my office.

Always keep the home-field advantage. Play on your own turf. Remember that.

She comes in and sits down, her expression unreadable.

“What’s up, Drew?”

Her hair is down, framing her face in a long glossy curtain. For a second, I imagine what it would feel like tickling my chest, draping across my thighs.

I shake my head. Focus, Evans, focus.

She’s wearing a dark burgundy suit with matching heels. Kate is into the high heels. I think because she’s naturally petite, the height advantage they give makes her feel more confident at the office.

Guys love heels. We associate them with all kinds of fantastic sexual positions. If you want a man to notice you, you cannot go wrong with a pair of shiny four-inch stilettos, I swear.

As my eyes continue to roam over her from head to toe, a problem, shall we say, arises. Although my mind recognizes that Kate Brooks is now my rival, apparently my cock hasn’t gotten the memo.

And he, judging from his reaction, still wants to make friends.

So I picture Miss Gurgle, my fifth grade science teacher, in my mind. She was a beast of a woman. A retired female wrestler—not the bikini kind. She had a mole on her right cheek that was so big, we were sure it was the head of a twin that hadn’t separated in the womb. It was disgusting but strangely hypnotic at the same time—you couldn’t help but stare at it. It jiggled when she spoke, like a bowl full of Jell-O.

I shudder slightly, but it does the trick. All’s clear down below.

“Saul Anderson is coming to the city next month,” I say at last.

Her brows rise. “Saul Anderson? Really?”

“Really,” I tell her, all business. No more pleasure for her. “My father would like you to put together a mock presentation. A run-through, as if you were really going to pitch a client. He thinks it would be good practice for you.”

I know, I know…you think I’m a scumbag. I’m not even giving her a fair chance. Well, get over it. This is business. And in business—like war—all is fair.

I expect her to be excited. I expect her to be grateful. She isn’t either of these.

Her lips press together in a tight line, and her expression turns serious. “Practice, huh?”

“That’s right. It’s not a big deal; don’t put yourself out. Just throw something together for him. A hypothetical.”

She folds her arms in front of her chest and tilts her head to the side. “That’s interesting, Drew. Considering your father just told me he hasn’t decided who’s getting Anderson yet. That it would come down to you or me, whoever put together the more impressive strategy. The way he explained it, it sounds like a very big deal.”

Uh oh.

When I was twelve, Matthew and I snagged a Hustler magazine from a convenience store. My father caught me with it in my room before I’d had the chance to hide it under my mattress. The look on my face at this moment is very similar to the one I wore then.