by Max Monroe
It’s all a bunch of bullshit if you ask me.
My drive and success have never been and will never be motivated by accolades or attention. And truthfully, if Page Six never mentions me again, it’ll be too fucking soon.
But nonetheless, here I am, ready to have dinner with the tenacious Rosemary Cook of the Times.
If that woman called my office one hundred times, she called it a thousand.
Not to mention, she managed to snag my personal email address and inundate my inbox with messages. All sort of nice. All kind of friendly. All pushy as hell.
Somehow, I found myself admiring her stubborn tenacity, and I agreed to do this interview—something I almost never do.
It only takes one instance of getting stuck in an interview with a woman named Tina who tosses out questions about your cock size and sexual preferences like she’s making it rain with dollar bills at a strip club to become prudent with journalist requests.
When I check in with the hostess, she leads me toward a private, white-cloth and candle-lit table at the back of the restaurant where my redheaded dinner companion is seated and ready to dive right in.
I stop on my side of the table and glance down to find a wrinkled legal pad, and the first page is absolutely filled to the brim with questions.
God help me. This woman came real-fucking-prepared.
Internally, I sigh.
“Mr. Ives,” she greets with a bright, megawatt smile, jumping up to stand and shake my hand. “Thank you so much for meeting with me this evening.”
“You’re lucky. I don’t normally negotiate with terrorists, Ms. Cook,” I say, offering a little smirk, and she blushes.
“I can be persistent,” she admits, and my respect for her blossoms a little more. It’s always refreshing to come across someone who doesn’t falter or apologize when called out for actions they’re proud of. “And, please, call me Rosemary.”
I gesture for her to take a seat and do the same for myself.
“So, Mr. Ives, what brought you to Chelsea this afternoon?” she asks after I order a scotch on the rocks from the server.
While I might’ve agreed to the interview, I didn’t necessarily make it easy on her. This afternoon, I officially tossed the ball in her court—giving her barely three-hours’ notice for an interview over dinner.
An asshole move? Possibly.
But it made her prove just how much she wanted this interview.
I didn’t create a thriving business without understanding how to test people’s drive and willingness to follow through.
“I had a few errands to run on this side of town.”
“Errands?” she asks, and amusement flashes within her gray eyes. “What kinds of errands does a successful man like you still run for himself?”
“I’ll have you know, I prefer to run most of my own errands when I have time. And when I don’t, I pay people to pretend I did them,” I tease. She laughs, thankfully. I’ve had more than one interview in the past where the journalist didn’t understand my sense of humor, and it made the resulting article pretty interesting. “Today, though, I was ordering flowers to be delivered for my mother’s birthday next week.”
Instantly, a visual of the beautiful woman at the Willises’ floral shop filters unbidden into my brain.
Gorgeous brown eyes. Long brown hair. Full, intensely pink lips, and the kind of body that could get a man in trouble.
It took every ounce of strength I had to fight my grin as she nearly broke the damn computer while she placed my order, but her fumbling only added to her charm.
Honestly, I’ll be pleasantly surprised if the bouquet actually makes it to my mom next week.
Maybe I should head back in tomorrow and order another…just in case.
The pure thought of another encounter with the awkward goddess with the big, brown doe eyes nearly makes me laugh out loud, but I swallow it back and revert my focus to the interview.
“Flowers for your mother, huh?” A soft laugh leaves Rosemary’s red-painted lips. “That’s really sweet.”
“There’s a reason she tells me I’m her favorite son.”
She quirks a brow. “You have brothers?”
“Only child.”
“Successful and funny.” Rosemary’s lips crest up into a grin as she taps the end of her pen on her notepad of questions. “Shall we get started?”
Oh, here we go…
I gesture a nonchalant hand toward her and mentally brace myself for the inquisitive onslaught.
Rosemary doesn’t disappoint.
Before I know it, she’s balls deep in her journalist spiel. “With a net worth just over one billion dollars, you were just named one of Forbes richest men in the world,” she states. “How does it feel to have amassed such wealth by the age of thirty?”
“That’s a fairly ambiguous question and not the easiest to answer.”
She quirks one perfectly shaped brow. “And why’s that?”
“Because the wealth isn’t my priority. I mean, sure, it’s great to have such financial stability, but the money has never been the focus.”
“What’s the focus?”
“The advancement of technology,” I answer without hesitation. “Fuse was developed from a passion for creating secure software platforms and collaboration tools for companies all over the world.”
Rosemary nods and jots down a few notes. When she eventually meets my eyes again, a sly smile spreads across her lips. “From what I hear, NASA is one of those companies Fuse has collaborated with…”
“It appears you’ve done your research.” I grin and take a sip of the fresh glass of scotch the server sets down in front of me.
“How long has NASA been a client of Fuse?”
I smirk at her very forward question. “When it comes to my alleged clients, I never kiss and tell.”
She furrows her brow. “So, it’s possible they’re not a client and it’s all just hearsay?”
“Like I said, I never kiss and tell.”
NASA is one of our clients. But Rosemary doesn’t need to know that information.
A small laugh leaves her lips. “You make interviews incredibly difficult.”
I shrug. “So I’ve been told.”
“Do you mind telling me a little bit about how you went from a college student at Yale to the CEO of a company that grosses enough money to get your name on Forbes’ list?”
“Three credit cards. Ten thousand dollars in debt. And a three-year diet of ramen noodles and Kraft Mac & Cheese.”
The space between her bright-red lips grows exponentially. “You’re not serious.” My bluntness has clearly surprised her, but this isn’t a question I’ve ever avoided. I want other people to know it’s possible to be where I am. That it’s possible to be a regular guy with a vision and seemingly no means to make it happen and to make it happen anyway.
“Oh, but I am,” I retort. “The company you now know as Fuse was founded on credit card debt and sweat equity. I worked seven days a week, eighteen-hour days for the first year and a half, just to get cash-flow positive.” I grin. “Though, the change in the bottom line probably had more to do with the ramen noodles than anything else.”
She ignores my lame joke. “That’s quite impressive, Mr. Ives.”
“That’s what it takes to build a company like mine, Rosemary. It’s not a secret formula or a political connection or a trust fund. All of those things are helpful,” I say with a laugh, “if you’re fortunate enough to have access. But they’re not necessary.”
“You’re obviously passionate about this topic,” she states, and I nod. But before she can continue, my phone rings from inside my pocket.
“Sorry,” I apologize and pull it out to see Evan Willis’s name flashing across the screen. “Actually, I need to take this. Excuse me for a minute.”
“Of course. No problem.” Rosemary nods, and I get up from the table to walk toward the front of the restaurant and out the entrance door.
The fr
ont sidewalk is crowded and loud, even more so than inside Motel Morris, so I let the call ring to voice mail as I find a quiet alleyway about fifty feet up the block and step inside.
I dial Evan back, and I don’t even wait for him to say hello before jumping in.
“How goes it in Austin?”
“It’s so good, I’m not sure you’re ready to hear it.”
I grin and lean back against the warm bricks on the east side of the alley. It’s amazing how well they hold the heat of the summer sun even after the light is gone. “Is that so?”
“You bet your ass.”
Evan Willis has been one of my best friends since I was a precocious kid growing up in Brooklyn. We went to elementary, middle, and high school together, hung out on the weekends, and did every organized sport known to man as a duo. Hell, when my dad was relocated to Tampa during high school, I lived with Evan’s family for six months so I could finish my senior year without having to switch schools.
We attended college together at Yale, and, while I was building Fuse from the ground up, he was in my corner as my biggest supporter. He’s officially the CFO of my company and runs the secondary headquarters in Austin, but if you asked me to tell you about Evan Willis, I’d tell you he’s my chosen brother.
“So…” he starts. “You know a company by the name of TechLete Industries?”
“Does a bear shit in the woods?”
“I’ve never seen it, but I have to assume, given the parameters of a bear’s habits and habitat, that, yes, a bear shits in the woods.”
“God, Evan. You’re such a dork.”
“You asked. I answered.”
I roll my eyes. Evan is so funny, so smart, so likable. He also has the brain of an accountant, built to focus on the most minute of details. Sure, it comes in handy in his role as my CFO, but it also makes conversations with him sometimes go like this.
“Back to TechLete. Why’d you bring them up?”
“Because they’re one of Fuse’s newest clients.”
I don’t even have to look at a financial report to know that client alone will bring in seven-figure numbers. No doubt, Evan just snagged a big, fat, successful fish from the potential client sea.
“I think you’re right,” I retort on a laugh. “I wasn’t prepared for that news.”
Evan chuckles too. “The additions they want to our security and collaboration software are arduous, but I’m confident we can have them up and running in about three months.”
Three months? Not even I would have promised to have them running in three months with changes to the structure of the software, and I’m a lunatic who’s willing to work nights and weekends. Evan’s got a fiancée to answer to.
“You do realize that’s a lofty goal, right?”
“Yeah, well, I’m a lofty kind of guy,” he says cockily, obviously high on the achievement of landing such a big company. “A lofty kind of guy who can make big things happen.”
An annoyed laugh escapes my lips. “Yeah, yeah. Now put your dick away and tell me what team you’re putting on this job.”
“Matt Franks, Lee King, and Sara Miyagawa.”
Our best Austin team, without question.
“It sounds like you have everything under control, then.”
“Aw…you sound disappointed,” he teases. “Are you sad I’m not asking you to hop on a plane and head to Austin to help me figure this out?”
Always the fucking smartass.
I chuckle. “I’m just thankful the junior varsity hasn’t bitten off more than they can chew.”
“Oh, come on, Milo. Junior varsity? Pretty sure we lowly folks in Austin brought in a higher figure than you professionals in New York did last year.”
I bite my lip and shake my head. Giving shit to each other is one of our favorite pastimes. “Austin is a burgeoning market. In New York, we actually have to set the ball before we spike it.”
Evan laughs. “Don’t worry. You’re the face of the company, buddy. We’ll keep you even if we don’t really need you anymore.”
“That’s cute, sweetheart. Should I start checking financial records for new life insurance policies that have been taken out on me? Keep an eye over my shoulder for potential hitmen?”
Evan snorts. “I’d never leave such a ridiculously obvious paper trail.” I roll my eyes as he laughs. “So, what are you up to? Still slaving away at the office?”
“Nah,” I respond. “I’m at a restaurant being interviewed by a shark. What about you?”
“A shark, huh? As in doo doo doo doo doo doo?”
“Shark as in a crimson-lipped woman from the Times.”
“Ahh. I’m heading home to sit on exactly one hundred conference calls with Sadie to talk to all sorts of fucking people for the wedding.”
It’s my turn to laugh. “I think you might have it worse than me.”
“Tell me about it,” he mutters. “I love my future wife, but a man can only talk wedding venues and caterers and party favors so much before his ears start to bleed.”
“Does this mean you guys finally set a date?”
“Yep,” he says. “The wedding is July 13th. In New York. And oh, by the way, you’re my best man.”
I smirk. “Pretty sure you’re supposed to ask me if I want to be your best man…”
“Yeah, but I don’t care what you want in this scenario. It’s my wedding day, goddammit, and if I have to wear a penguin suit in eighty-degree heat, then so the fuck do you.”
I laugh. “Thanks for updating me on my future plans, bridezilla.”
“No problem.”
“I’m guessing Bruce Willis & Sons will be handling the floral arrangements?”
“Betty officially started losing her mind after I got off the phone with her a few hours ago,” he says through a sigh. “No doubt Maybe is getting quite the laugh right now at my expense.”
The mention of his kid sister’s name makes me smile. It’s been ages since I’ve seen the pip-squeak. She was several years younger than us, cutely awkward, and followed us around with a notebook, a book, and a soda in hand at all times. The thought of her takes me back to the nostalgia of our childhood—a time in my life I enjoyed immensely. “How is Maybe, by the way? Is she going to be in town for the wedding?”
“She’s already in town, dude. Finished up her master’s at Stanford and moved back to New York earlier this month.”
“She already finished her master’s degree? What is she, eighteen?”
Evan chuckles. “She’s twenty-four, man.”
Twenty-four? Maybe is twenty-fucking-four? Jesus.
“Damn. Time flies.”
“Tell me about it,” he says. “Speaking of which, I was hoping you could do me a favor.”
“Honestly, after not firing you during our earlier conversation and agreeing to your demands to be your best man, I’m already in the middle of a couple,” I tease. “Not sure I have time for any more.”
“Fuck you, dude,” he retorts back on a raspy chuckle. “And the favor is more for Maybe than for me.”
“Ah, well. I guess I can free up some time for the kid, then. What’s she need?”
“She’s trying like hell to get her foot in the door at a New York publishing house. She has the skills, but you know how shit is in that industry.”
I hum. “You’re a nobody until you know somebody.”
“Exactly,” he agrees. “I was hoping you could call in a few favors with some of your connections. Possibly find her some interview opportunities. Once she has a foot in the door, she’ll be able to seal the deal, I’m positive.”
“Of course,” I respond without hesitation. “I’ll definitely see what I can do.”
“Thanks, man. I really appreciate it.” His tone is equal parts grateful and relieved. I haven’t seen their dynamic in person in years, but it’s apparent Evan still comes from a positive place in fulfilling his brotherly role. “Anyway,” he continues. “I gotta go. I need a minute to prepare myself for the hell that
is wedding planning the instant I walk through the door. I’ll send you Maybe’s number so you can give her a call.”
I chuckle. “Good luck, man.”
“Same to you. And I hope you’re not on your period. I hear sharks can smell blood.”
“Fuck you very much for your concern.”
He ends the call mid-laugh, and I’ve barely hung up the phone when it pings with a text.
Evan: Here’s her number: 555-150-0200
Maybe Willis’s number.
Good God, it feels like it’s been forever since I saw Evan’s little sister.
Surely, she’s not the same knobby-kneed, braces-afflicted, acne-faced, starry-eyed adolescent I remember, but hell if I can picture what she might look like at twenty-four.
Quickly, I add her to my contacts, but right before I can slip my phone back into my pocket, the damn thing vibrates in my hand again. I feel like a bartender at fucking happy hour.
Mom: Emory is officially in labor! She’s at St. Luke’s Hospital and is supposed to have the baby soon!
Emory Black is my cousin on my mom’s side, the daughter of my aunt Eileen. Aunt Eileen married a rich Southerner of Creole descent and ended up in New Orleans, so Emory and I didn’t grow up right around the corner from each other, but it’s safe to say we’re close despite the distance.
Our mothers made it a priority to spend holidays together even after the passing of their parents, and as only children, Emory and I had no choice but to be friends.
All of this to say, I’m absolutely certain if I don’t show up to meet her bundle of joy at the hospital, my feisty cousin and my mother just might kick me in the balls.
I mentally pencil in a trip to the maternity ward in the next couple of days.
Mom: Also, stop acting like you’re the bastard son of a negligent mother and call me.
Only she could get away with calling me a bastard and make me grin at the same time.
Me: I don’t know, Mom. I recall a couple of uncovered outlets making an appearance in my childhood, and I don’t really look like you OR dad. What’s a boy to think?
Mom: !!!
