Taking a Chance on Love: The Youngers Book 2

by Iris Morland

  By ten a.m., Anthony could have kicked a bunch of puppies.

  Which is exactly what everyone thinks I do regularly, he thought darkly as he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temples. His company, his baby, the thing he’d poured everything into—his blood, sweat, but absolutely no tears because Anthony never had a reason to waste time on tears—was suffering under the cloud of a huge PR nightmare.

  It had started a few weeks ago. A few innocuous posts on social media—nothing new there. The Internet was a vast cesspool of nonsensical opinions. Anthony never paid attention to people blathering about shit they knew nothing about, especially in regard to Bertram, Sons, and Co.

  Until one post had suddenly caught fire and been shared over fifty million times, making the company out to be some evil villain intent on animal torture. Newspapers and blogs and news stations had been calling the company nonstop. And Anthony had watched, rage pulsing through him, as his company’s stock had slid down, down, down, and the boycotts against their products had only intensified.

  Anthony wasn’t about to let some hippie freaks who conflated animal testing with actual torture destroy what he’d built. He would go down fighting, and by God, he’d take those bastards down with him, too.

  Cara, his assistant, knocked on his door as she stepped into his office. “I’m so sorry I’m late,” she said as she placed his espresso on his desk. “Tyler was sick all night and I couldn’t get him in to see his pediatrician until later—”

  Anthony waved a hand. He didn’t need the details. “It’s fine. Have you gotten the draft from Society yet?”

  “I haven’t checked my email.” Cara’s hair was frazzled, a stain of indeterminate origin on her suit jacket. She looked wild-eyed and on the edge of tears.

  If Anthony had feelings, he’d feel sympathy for her difficult morning. But Anthony disliked feelings. He hated tears especially. People who wanted to manipulate you into doing what they wanted used tears. He didn’t trust anyone who cried.

  “As soon as you get it,” he said as he grabbed his coffee and tablet, “send it to me. I want this done by the end of the day.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Soon thereafter, Cara followed him into the conference room, where Anthony was having an emergency meeting with his board of directors. This whole stupid social media thing had exploded in their faces with such speed that even Anthony, who prided himself on staying ahead of the curve, had been surprised. And then so angry that he could’ve happily strangled anyone within a ten-foot radius.

  The table was filled with men who were, on average, at least twenty years older than Anthony, members of an old guard that invested in companies just like Anthony’s. When Anthony had been in his twenties with only two dimes to rub together, he’d jumped at the chance of selling stock in exchange for financing. It was one of the main reasons he’d been able to expand Bertram, Sons, and Co. into a multibillion-dollar company.

  Anthony sipped his espresso, Cara typing notes next to him, as his board of directors debated how to counteract a phenomenon that most of them found immensely puzzling. Most of them weren’t active on social media; many had smartphones but still preferred phone calls over texting or email. To them, hearing about some campaign going viral was akin to being told about something in Japanese: it was a foreign language that made zero sense.

  “It’ll blow over,” said Bruce Weaver, one of Anthony’s first shareholders. Although they’d once had a respectful business partnership, things had soured after Anthony had fired Bruce’s son Ryan a year ago. Anthony hadn’t regretted the decision one bit.

  Bruce added, “These things always do. What company doesn’t have controversy? I can name at least half a dozen within the last month. Consumers have short attention spans.”

  “I’d be inclined to agree, except that this drama has only worsened.” Stan Jameson, the oldest of the group, pointed to the documents in front of them. “Did you see how much our stock has dropped? I’ve never seen anything like it, and I’m old as dirt.”

  The group chuckled, except for Anthony. He barely restrained himself from tapping his fingers impatiently on the tabletop. He hated talk. Either you acted, or you figured out your next step.

  “We need to make a statement. And I don’t mean what we’ve been doing.” Anthony leaned forward. “Not these statements that dance around the issue. Clearly not addressing it is only making things worse.”

  The room collectively disagreed. Anthony felt his headache worsen as his board hemmed and hawed.

  “What would we say?” one asked.

  “That’s like adding gasoline to the fire,” added another.

  “The best thing we can do is say nothing. Do nothing. Keep doing as we’ve been doing, which has worked for years. Changing how we do business because of some hypersensitive consumers would be catastrophic,” said Bruce.

  “Obviously doing nothing is hurting us,” said Anthony, trying to keep his voice level. “We need a different strategy. I’ve already spoken with Society about doing a feature about the company, emphasizing how we were the first to create products without parabens, sulfates, etcetera. And that we’re moving away from animal testing, as we decided nine months ago.”

  “And go against what we, the board, have decided?” countered Bruce.

  “What decision? I’ve heard what you think, but you aren’t the only board member.” Anthony smiled grimly as Bruce’s face turned a little purple. “Besides, I don’t need the board’s approval for PR matters. That was established when we all agreed on the bylaws.”

  A few members muttered to each other.

  Finally, Stan spoke up: “Do whatever you think is best, Anthony. You know this company better than all of us put together.”

  Anthony couldn’t help but gloat internally at that win. Ever since he’d ousted Bruce’s asshole son, Bruce had tried his damnedest to screw Anthony over. This victory might have been small, but at least it was a victory.

  After the meeting ended, Anthony headed back to his office. He’d just glanced at his email when his office door opened. Already irritated, he became even more annoyed when he saw it was Bruce coming inside, not Cara. The older man shut the door and stalked to Anthony’s desk like a lumbering bear.

  Anthony motioned for Bruce to sit, a thoroughly ironic gesture. “You wanted to discuss something?”

  “Once again, I would advise you to do nothing,” said Bruce, ignoring Anthony’s invitation to sit. “You’ll be making a huge mistake by giving these people the satisfaction of being noticed.”

  “Considering I’ve already talked about it in the media, I fail to see how another interview would hurt.”

  “You think you know everything, don’t you? You may be the CEO, but that doesn’t make you a dictator, either. You’re going to hurt this company irrevocably with your actions.”

  “And I say that the current strategy is the reason why we’ve lost millions already.”

  Bruce pointed a finger at him. “Don’t think that you’re immune, Bertram. The same people who made you CEO can take you down. Remember that.”

  Anthony didn’t rise to the bait. Shrugging, as if Bruce had just suggested they go golfing, he replied, “Do as you wish. You aren’t the board.”

  Bruce scowled before marching out of Anthony’s office.

  Cara, whose desk was right outside Anthony’s office, stood up when Bruce went barreling out. Her eyes widened.

  Coming to stand by Anthony’s door, she opened her mouth, ostensibly to ask a question, when he cut her off. “Has Society sent over the draft yet?”

  “Oh, oh, yes. They just did,” she stammered.

  “Send it over. I want to get this out.”

  Cara was smart enough not to comment on Anthony’s choice to continue against what the board—aka Bruce—thought the PR strategy should be. If Bruce wants me out, then he’ll have a hell of a fight to get there, Anthony thought.

  After Anthony, Bruce held the most shares in the company, but Bruce
would need more than half the board to agree before they could vote Anthony out. Bruce would have an uphill battle to manage that particular coup.

  Anthony sat down heavily in his office chair, putting his feet up on his desk. His headache had only increased since the meeting. Opening the forwarded email from Cara, he read through the Society article, noting changes he’d like to see before sending it to Cara and his in-house PR team.

  Normally the company’s actual PR folks would handle this, but this controversy had gotten so messy that Anthony wanted to oversee it all himself. Maybe it was micromanaging on his part, but he didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was righting this ship that had begun to sink with alarming speed.

  It was late in the afternoon when his office door opened. “Have you heard of knocking?” he barked.

  “Is that any way to greet your ex-wife?” a dulcet voice asked.

  Anthony smelled her floral scent before he saw her. He’d always know that scent. Elise still wore the same perfume he’d bought her for their first wedding anniversary even though they’d been divorced for two years already. Anthony had a feeling she did it simply to irritate him.

  This shit day’s going from bad to worse, he thought sourly. He didn’t get up at Elise’s entrance, and he didn’t offer her a seat, either. She didn’t deserve the courtesy.

  Cara burst into his office. “Mr. Bertram, I’m sorry, I told her you were busy—”

  “I’m sure you did,” he interrupted. “Cara, please close the door behind you.”

  When his office door closed with a click, Anthony returned to the documents on his desk, not remotely interested in giving Elise the attention she craved. If she wanted something—which she most certainly did—she would have to tell him herself.

  He heard her sit down across from him in the same seat that Bruce had refused to use. Why is today the day everyone seems intent on bursting into my office? he thought darkly. He X’ed out some numbers on the paper in front of him with a bit more force than necessary.

  Elise clucked her tongue at him.

  Glancing up, Anthony couldn’t help but notice that despite everything, she was still beautiful. Damn her.

  Wearing an emerald-green dress that showed off every curve yet somehow remained demure, Elise exuded sex appeal in a deceptively simple package. She never wore red lipstick—only pinks and pale plums. She preferred to put her hair up rather than leaving it down, the honey-colored strands soft as silk and the color completely natural. Her sweet façade had been what had attracted Anthony in the first place. It had only been later that he’d seen her capacity for inflicting pain.

  “Is this how you treat guests?” she asked, amused. “I thought I’d taught you better manners than that.”

  He set his pen down and waited, a dark eyebrow raised. Like he’d thrown down a gauntlet, Elise then set her purse, a small clutch with gold trim, on his desk. Anthony knew that he hadn’t bought her that purse, so Ryan must have. The thought made him want to punch Ryan Weaver all over again.

  Not because Anthony still loved Elise. Far from it. The moment he’d caught her cheating on him with Ryan, who also happened to be his former vice president and best friend, his heart had turned to stone. He’d divorced her before she could explain why she’d decided screwing his then–best friend had been a good idea. No, he’d hated that the two of them had made him look like a fool, that they’d conducted their affair right under his nose.

  He would never let anyone make a fool of him again.

  He couldn’t help but notice the giant diamond on Elise’s finger along with the wedding band. She’d gotten Ryan to marry her quickly, that was for sure.

  “Why won’t you answer my texts? I’ve texted, called, emailed. Is your phone dead?” asked Elise. She pushed her bottom lip forward in a pout.

  Anthony laughed darkly. “I hate to break it to you, but I was ignoring you. Now, unless you have something you actually need to tell me, get out. I have work to do.”

  To his immense annoyance, she laughed. “You’re such a brute, Tony. You always were.” Her eyes sparkled.

  He gritted his teeth at the sound of her calling him Tony. She was the only one who’d ever used that name with him, and now hearing it on her lips only made him hate her more.

  “You always were terrible at compliments,” he said.

  “Only because you’re worse at them,” she countered. Probably realizing his patience was at an end, she said, “I want more money, Tony.”

  He snorted. “Of course you do. The thousands I paid you already to keep your mouth shut wasn’t enough?” He gestured toward the giant ring on her finger.

  She flushed, covering her left hand. “You know very well that your lawyer screwed me over, and it’s not enough to support me.” Her voice was stiff to the point of sounding prissy.

  “Ryan doesn’t give you money?”

  She stiffened. Anthony hadn’t meant to bring up her latest husband, but with Elise, his self-control tended to dissipate.

  “He doesn’t give me money because he’s still out of work. Because of you.” Her eyes narrowed. “I want more money.”

  “Or what? You’ll fuck another man while we’re married?” Anthony sneered. “Wait, you already did that.”

  Elise’s cheeks turned bright red. “You ass,” she hissed, standing and grabbing her purse. “This is why I left you. You’re heartless. A brute, less than human—”

  “I distinctly recall that I divorced you after I found you naked in our bed. With another man.”

  The memory of that moment had forever seared itself onto Anthony’s mind. He pushed the memory away, refusing to allow Elise to sink her claws into him again.

  “I want more money, or I’m going to the press and telling them everything,” she said.

  Slowly standing up, Anthony rounded his desk and towered over Elise. “You wouldn’t dare,” he said silkily. “You don’t have the balls to ruin your reputation like that.”

  “Do you want to chance it?”

  Her voice wavered, and he knew she was bluffing. Disgusted, he pointed to the door. “Get out of my office. If I see you in my building again, I’ll have security toss you out.”

  Her spine went ramrod straight. “Fine. You’ll be hearing from my lawyer, then.”

  Anthony didn’t even flinch when Elise slammed his office door behind her.

  3

  Thea shivered as she peeled off her sodden jacket, trying to find a light switch inside the darkened cabin. The rain continued to fall, pounding on the roof above. Thea finally gave up on trying to find a light switch and turned on her phone to use as a flashlight. Her bladder was about to explode, and it didn’t care one bit if she couldn’t see to find a bathroom.

  Luckily there was a bathroom with just a toilet and sink on the first floor. After relieving herself, Thea ventured into the kitchen. She switched on the oven light, which provided enough illumination that she could get a better idea of her surroundings.

  It was close to midnight. She’d planned on arriving earlier in the evening, but a late start coupled with a rainstorm that had turned the twisty forest roads into mud had slowed her down considerably. She’d almost thought about turning back, but her four-wheel drive SUV and her own stubbornness had forbidden her.

  Her stomach growled, although fatigue pressed on her more than hunger. She wanted to crawl into bed and sleep for an entire day. Why was it that sitting on your butt in a car was so exhausting? Yawning, she went and brought in the groceries she’d brought with her and began to put them away.

  It took her a long moment to realize that there was already food in the fridge. And food on the counter. Thea frowned. Had Ted, the cabin owner, not cleaned up after the previous people? Considering she’d had to put down a deposit in case she trashed the place, that hardly seemed fair.

  She wrinkled her nose when she saw that whoever it was had left breadcrumbs all over the counter. And was that deli meat in the fridge? Gross. She threw it into the trash along with
some cheese, mayo, and everything else she never, ever ate. Good riddance.

  After she’d put her food away, she wandered into the living room. She finally found a light switch, and when she flipped it on, she saw that there were books on the side table. She frowned. The books were all boring nonfiction tomes about economics, which sounded like terrible choices to provide your guests. Or the last guy was the most boring person ever and had left them behind.

  It was when she saw the boots by the front door that she froze. They were huge compared to hers, so clearly they were men’s boots. She crouched down to inspect the boots, and her blood turned cold when she touched the mud on the boots and found it wet. If the mud was still wet, then the wearer had been outside fairly recently. And if the wearer had left them here within the last few hours or so…

  She stifled a scream when she heard footsteps upstairs.

  Oh God, what the hell? Who would be out here in the middle of nowhere?

  Thea’s mind whirled, her heart pounding so fast that she felt dizzy. What if some serial killer had come to kill her? But then why leave his stupid boots right there for her to see them? Maybe he knows it doesn’t matter once he slashes my throat.

  She’d unconsciously moved backward toward the kitchen, when she heard footsteps at the top of the stairs. Her heart seized in her throat. If she ran out the front door, he’d hear her and if he caught her—

  Sprinting as quickly and quietly as she could, she grabbed a butcher knife from the knife block in the kitchen before hiding inside the pantry. Her only hope was that the intruder didn’t notice her things everywhere. Or at the very least, he wouldn’t think to open the pantry door.

  Thea held her breath when the kitchen light turned on. She heard the fridge door open and then the intruder muttered something. She frowned. Why was he rifling around in the fridge?

  “What the hell?” a male voice said.

  Thea heard his footsteps depart into the living room, but to her horror, he returned to the kitchen. She clutched the knife. She could call 911, but she was so far away from civilization that once the cops showed up, she’d be long dead, her body thrown into the nearby creek.