“What do you mean?”
“When you’re the CEO. What happens to her then?”
I clear my throat. “I’m not sure.”
“Do you think she’ll stick around? I mean, she didn’t work with you before. Hell, she didn’t even work in Manhattan,” he points out. “You think she’ll head back to the West Coast?”
My gaze settles on a spot far in the distance as I ponder this. Will she move back to California? Wouldn’t she stay here and take a spot with Jones + Gallum?
“She’ll have to stick around,” I say, my tone lacking any surety at all. “She’d have to be invested at this point, don’t you think?”
My friend looks at me. “Invested in the company? Or invested in you?”
“Well, I meant the company.”
“Did you?”
Did I? My mouth goes dry as I consider the very real possibility that she’ll leave. It’s nothing to me. Or is it?
“What are you? A shrink?” I recover, lifting off the chair. “Go play doctor with your wife.”
“My wife,” he grins. “I think I’ll do that.” He stands as I head for the door. “I’ll take a look at this and get back to you in the morning, Carver.”
“Thanks, Noah.”
“Any time.”
Chapter Thirteen
Amity
My nose turns up at the shot of espresso on my desk. “I don’t even like this.”
“Then why did you have me bring it?” Hallie asks, a hand on her narrow hip.
“I need the caffeine. I’m so sleepy.”
“Well, there’s more caffeine in regular coffee than in espresso.”
“That’s not true.”
“Oh, but it is. We did a campaign at my last job for a coffee company. It was in the ‘fun facts’ section of the brochure,” she says, making a face. “I hate marketing. I’d much rather be on the less people-y side of business.”
Furrowing a brow, I take a sip of the drink. “I like people. Just not when I’m so exhausted. My patience runs thin.”
“So why are you so tired?” she asks.
“I haven’t been able to sleep since I got to New York.” I yawn, despite the espresso. “It’s too noisy here or something.”
“You were raised here,” she laughs. “Your penthouse is on the top floor of a however-many-story building. It makes no sense that you can’t sleep here.”
I shrug.
“Maybe you’ve been slaving over this presentation too much.”
“I keep telling myself it’s just for a couple more days, and then I can get back to a regular schedule.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“Think about it, Am. If you’re the CEO—yeah, you’ll get more vacation time and more pay and you’ll control the destiny of the company. But . . . do you think you’ll work fewer hours than you do now?”
“My dad did,” I say, sticking out my bottom lip. “He would be home every night for dinner.”
“I’m sure, but that was ten years ago. The landscape in the Northeast has changed a lot since then.”
My father warned me about this very thing when he called a couple of months ago to let me know he was retiring.
“The business has changed a lot, Amity. It’s wide open for someone that wants to put in the work and make a name for themselves.”
This is the opportunity I’ve wanted—to come in, guns blazing, and make my mark on the world.
I yawn again.
“Hold that thought,” she says, looking at her phone. “I need to go sign for a delivery.”
Going back to the PowerPoint I’ve been working on since last night, I enter some additional language. It’s straightforward, showing clearly—backed up with hard data—why Jones + Gallum needs to be revamped from the ground up. I know Carver prefers expansion, but he’s wrong. Unless the Board is blind, they have to see it. They have to choose me. Even with the strong numbers right now, the restaurants will go under within five years if measures aren’t taken to retool while we can.
Dad didn’t even realize it was this bad. He called me from the Bahamas last night and I filled him in. You could’ve heard a pin drop. I didn’t ask if he was going to tell Carver’s father; I don’t think he will. This is my realization and my information to exploit. He knows that.
“This thing is heavier than it looks,” Hallie says, lugging a big box and plopping it down on my desk. “What in the heck did you order?”
“I didn’t order anything. Are you sure it’s for me?”
“Amity Gallum. That’s you, right?”
“Obviously.”
“It was overnighted too. But I can’t find a return address on it.”
Digging through my desk, I come up with a pair of scissors. I slice the top open. After pulling a Styrofoam lid out of the box, I recognize the bright red lettering immediately.
“Hanley’s!” I shriek.
“What’s that?”
“Look!” Lifting a jar of honey, a bag of coffee beans, and a loaf of bread from Berta, my favorite baker at the Farmer’s Market, I look at Hallie and almost cry. “Look at this.”
“It’s food.”
“It’s not just food,” I say. “It’s some of my favorite things.”
I dig through the rest of the paper and find a small baggie of basil, a couple of avocados, and some walnuts from the nut guy. My heart is so full seeing this thoughtful package from my friends.
“Here’s a postcard,” I say, lifting it from the bottom.
Dearest Amity,
We hope this taste of home helps you get settled in your new old home. We miss you around here. Make sure you come see us if you’re ever on the West Coast again.
Good luck with the proposal. We’re cheering for you!
Much love,
The Hanley Family
“Aw,” I say, blinking back tears. “This is so sweet.”
“You must have made an impression.”
“I’m going to call them.” I look at the clock. “They just opened, so I know they’re there.”
“I’m going back to my desk. Call me if you need me.”
The phone already ringing in my hand, I give Hallie a little wave. When the line answers, I hear Mrs. Hanley’s sweet voice sing through the line.
“Hanley Market. This is Roberta. How can we serve you today?”
“You already have,” I giggle. “I just got your package. Roberta, that was so kind of you.”
“Amity! Oh, dear, how are you? How’s New York?”
“It’s good. Big. Busy,” I laugh. “I was just thinking a couple of nights ago I could use some honey and—boom!—you delivered.”
“It was so sweet of that young man to call and have us send it to you.”
My hand stills as I look at the items spread across my desk. What did she just say?
“What young man? What are you talking about?”
“The young man that called. He ordered those things Saturday morning. Frank just happened to be around and answered his call. He said he was a friend of yours and you could really use some of your favorite honey. Said you were feeling a little under the weather. He didn’t want to give his name for the card and Frank forgot to write it down from the credit card. You know how he gets.”
“I can’t believe him,” I whisper. I look at the items again, all my favorite things, and feel my heart skip a beat.
“What’s that, dear?”
“Oh, nothing, Roberta. I just wanted to say thank you. Everything was delivered in perfect shape.”
She babbles on about me visiting and how they fed more mouths this weekend than they ever had before and how Frank was applying for a grant to have the city help offset some of the costs.
Just hearing her voice lightens my soul. I close my eyes and imagine I’m in her kitchen, squeezing the moisture out of the mozzarella she makes almost every week.
Before I’m ready, we’re saying our goodbyes and the line goes dead. I place the cell phone on m
y desk and sigh.
I try to absorb what Carver has done. In the midst of this proposal situation, he took time out of his life to think of me. And not like he thought to bring me a cup of coffee, he tracked down Hanley’s and placed the order. Himself. And if I hadn’t called, I wouldn’t have known it was from him at all.
Lifting the bag of coffee beans, I bring them to my nose. I can smell the pleasant, familiar aroma through the bag. It reminds me of my house on the beach and working alongside Roberta.
Somehow, my soul feels a little more put together. I grin. “Carver, Carver, Carver. What am I going to do with you?”
“I have suggestions.”
I look up to see him standing in the doorway. He’s wearing a navy blue suit and crisp white shirt. A black skinny tie hangs down his chest. He strolls into my office and shuts the door behind him. “What do you have there?”
“Oh, just a package someone sent me,” I wink. “Lots of amazing things here.”
He lifts up the jar of honey.
“That’s what you wanted to get a taste of the other night,” I tell him.
Slowly, his eyes lift to mine. “I think you’re a little mistaken.”
My cheeks heat as I pick up the rest of the items and put them back in the box. “Thank you, Carver, for this. It was one of the sweetest gestures someone has ever done for me.”
“You need new friends if this is the best you’ve ever gotten.”
“I heard we are friends now.”
“I thought that was a fair assessment since I’ve had your pussy in my mouth.”
“Carver!” I laugh. “Oh my God. Not here.”
“Can I have it later then?” he grins devilishly.
“I mean don’t talk like that here.”
His face twists in mock-thought. “I guess that’s not very becoming of the future CEO, huh?”
“No,” I say, shooting him a pointed look. “The future CEO should not be blushing when a subordinate makes a lewd comment.”
“Oh, baby, I didn’t blush.”
I laugh, closing up the box from Hanley’s, ready to change the subject. “What are you working on today?”
“Probably the same thing as you. Speaking of which . . .” He runs a hand through his hair, scrubbing at his scalp. His eyes divert to the floor. “I’d like to talk to you about the proposals.”
My heart does a somersault as I try to discern what he’s getting at. “Why?”
“I just want to talk about some things with you.”
“Did something happen?”
He looks at me and calms me with a simple smile. “Not yet.”
I push a button on my desk phone so the incoming call has to stop. He waits for my reply, but I don’t give him one.
There’s something different between us now, something more comfortable. Something less offensive. I’m not sure how I feel about that. I don’t want to hate him. I’d venture to say I never wanted that. It was just easier. The feelings that are starting to replace the disdain are ones I don’t think will be as easily shed. And that concerns me.
“Let me take you to dinner tonight,” he requests, shoving one hand in his pocket. “The proposals are due tomorrow. Let’s talk things out before then.”
I can read between the lines. He wants to talk it out before the Board makes their selection and both of our worlds change—one for the better, one for the worse.
“I need to work late. How about we pick up some dinner and meet at my place?”
“That way you get the dirty dishes this time,” he nods.
“Yes. And I don’t have to travel home late.”
“You could’ve slept in my bed,” he laughs, heading for the door. He pauses before he exits and looks at me. There’s a softness in his eyes that warrants an easy smile from me. “I look forward to seeing you tonight, Amity.”
He’s gone before I can reply.
Chapter Fourteen
Carver
She’s changed from her work outfit into a pair of yoga pants and a tank top. While I thought she looked best naked and second-best in a tight skirt that shows a lot of leg—I was wrong. Her perky ass all tight and round in that workout gear, her hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, is the best I’ve ever seen her. She looks comfortable, content . . . happy. It makes me consider things I shouldn’t be considering right now.
Standing on her tip-toes, she reaches high into a cabinet and pulls down a couple of plates. The bags from the bistro around the corner are sitting in front of me, along with a bottle of wine. I hated not knowing what kind she likes to drink, so I got what Olivia recommended.
I need to do better.
It’s a natural thought, one that makes me cringe. The truth is, I don’t know if I need to do better or not. As sad as it seems, she’s a girl I used to know that I’m in competition with now for a single spot that we both covet. Sure, I’ve slept with her once. I’ve definitely considered a life where I see her regularly and not just for sex. For conversation and dinner and games of chess. I’m just not sure that’s possible. How the pieces of this big, fucked up puzzle work is beyond me.
“Here we go!” She turns around, two large pink plates in her hand. “I know they’re pink, but I love them. My mom brought them to me from Nice.”
“They’re . . . pretty,” I offer, making her laugh.
“They are.”
We fill our plates and head to a glass-topped table that overlooks the city. Despite it being eleven at night, the city is still hustling. Headlights, taillights, billboards—all of it glows from below. After we’re settled and have taken a few bites, I try to go down the road I came here to navigate.
“Are you ready for tomorrow?” I ask, taking a sip of wine.
“I believe so. I feel good about my presentation. What about you?”
“Same.” I take another bite of the chicken and consider my next words carefully. “What are your plans afterwards?”
Amity lays her fork down and takes up her napkin. She blots her lips, refusing to look me in the eye. “Are you asking what I’m having for lunch tomorrow? I’m not sure, Carver.”
“That’s not what I mean and you know it.”
“Honestly, I plan on coming out on top tomorrow. After that announcement is made, I really don’t know what my life looks like.” She looks at her food. “I hate not knowing, not being able to plan.”
“Yeah,” I say, blowing out a breath. “Me too. I wish this whole thing was over.”
She looks up at me through her thick lashes. “We’re both adults. I just keep telling myself that things will be okay, one way or the other.”
“Do you believe that? Really? One of us won’t be named CEO tomorrow.”
For the first time, she doesn’t give me a snarky retort. She just toys with her napkin as she thinks. “My Dad taught me to not have a Plan B. He said if you have a backup plan, it takes away some of your drive to go get what it is you really want.”
“Mine taught me the same thing,” I grin.
“So if you’re asking me what I plan on doing if something happens and I don’t get named, the answer is . . . I don’t know.” She picks up her fork again, but just holds it next to her plate. “I haven’t thought about it.”
“Do you think you’d leave? Would you want to go back to California?”
“I’m not sure,” she admits. “My father, much like yours, I’m sure, has set me up for this moment all my life. I went to school with this exact goal in mind. I took an internship at a place I loathed because it was the closest in structure to Jones + Gallum, and I wanted to be able to put it on my resume. I’ve studied data, stayed up night after night . . .” She gives me a sad smile as a realization hits her. “I’ve done . . . everything you’ve done.”
“I remember being a little boy and getting to come to work with my father every now and then. He wouldn’t bring me often, but when he did, I felt like it was a really big deal. As I got older, I could anticipate the times he’d ask me to come. It was usually
Spring Break or around Christmas when most of the staff was gone. I’d study up, eavesdrop on his conversations when he worked from home at night, listen to the things he’d tell his mom. Try to get a leg up, you know? Then when he’d bring me in, I’d try to work one of those little gems into a conversation and impress my father. I’ve just always wanted him to be proud of me.” I feel my cheeks heat as I realize what I’ve said. “And that sounded like a stupid thing to say, didn’t it?”
“Not at all,” she whispers. “I think every person wants their parents to be proud of them. I can’t imagine why you’d think yours might not be.”
“Oh, they are. I’m sure they are. They’re just a lot harder to crack than yours. And I’m a lot less pretty, so that probably doesn’t help.”
She doesn’t laugh at my joke, doesn’t even attempt a smile. Instead, her brows pull together. “You’re one of the most talented people I’ve met,” she says softly. “You can pick up anything—a baseball bat or a report from the Stock Market—and do great things with it. Never let something someone else thinks, even if it’s your own parents, make you doubt yourself, Carver.”
Her words shoot straight to my heart and wrap them around a part of me that’s never been touched. I’ve never been quite good enough, quite smart enough, quite the worker my father wanted me to be. Even now, knowing what I’m proposing tomorrow, I haven’t heard from him. I wonder if he even cares or if he thinks that since he’s retired, it’s up to me to make it on my own.
“Thank you, Amity. That means a lot to me.”
“I mean it.” She stands and takes measured steps around the table until she’s standing next to me. She hesitates a split-second before wrapping her arms around my shoulders. She starts to smile. “I’ll be so honored if you’ll be my President.”
She yelps as I lunge into action, sweeping her off her feet. “Carver!” she giggles, her legs dangling over my forearm in a threshold carry.
“I’ve had about enough of you,” I tell her, watching her face come alive.
“This is unbecoming of an underling,” she teases.
“That’s it. We rectify this tonight.”
“How do you figure?”
“We fight it out or fuck it out. Your choice.”
Imperfect Love: Battle of the Sexes (Kindle Worlds Novella) Page 7
