by DL White
"Yeah, well…" Vincent pushed himself up from the chair, grabbing his copy of the report as he turned to leave my office. "Let me know if you need a closer. If we get the bid, we need to hit the ground running and break ground as soon as possible."
I picked up the phone at my desk and started dialing, waving Vincent out of my office. The line rang in my ear, and then picked up.
"Thomas, it's Trey Pettigrew. I need to meet with you and Ms. Whitaker. The bid is maybe a couple of weeks away. If we're doing this, we need to move."
By the clock on the wall, my watch, and the knot in my stomach, it was nearing 7 o'clock. I'd arrived at Miller, after rushing through my morning meetings, after noon. We immediately went into a closed-door session to define the remaining contract terms.
Per Vincent, I was under orders to be amicable and generous but not give away the whole store. Whatever it took, within reason, to get the deal done, I was authorized to approve. If Pops got mad, he got mad. He'd get mad all the way to the bank, once the project was complete.
Miller didn't get the same memo. Though he'd come forward on a great many sticking points, he dug in his heels on the others. Which was why, seven hours later, I was irritated that I was still in a drab, grey conference room staring at an eerily calm, collected Thomas Miller.
And a flustered, frustrated Esme in the middle. I felt bad for her, but this was the job. This was what Miller hired her to do. Besides, I was the one being nice.
I scrubbed a palm down the side of my face, then cupped my chin in my hand. "I've hit a wall. I'm starving, I'm tired, and I feel like we're talking in circles. Can we table this? I feel like I'll have a better head on some food and sleep."
"Maybe you're right," he said, once again agreeable, but not where it mattered. "Let's round up in the morning."
Thomas stood, pushing his chair away from the table and, without a word, walked out of the room. His crisp white dress shirt still looked ironed, a testament to how he never folded his arms or even rolled up the sleeves. The guy was eerily calm all the time. Even when I called him to inform him that the hospital bid was coming in as few as two weeks, and we were nowhere near ready, he had no emotion for me. There was no sense of urgency.
There was a lot about Thomas Miller that got directly under my skin, and the more time I spent with him, the less I wanted to do business with him. If Pops wasn't chomping at the bit to acquire this firm, I'd have walked away a long time ago. This was not work that a CEO would typically be involved in, and I resented being put in the position. If it were not for Esme, I'd have turned this process over to Vincent. Or an underling.
Esme's strong, brave front collapsed as soon as Miller left the room. She listed to one side, leaning on one elbow with her head cradled in her palm. Her eyes were closed, showing off her expert eye shadow application, and she appeared to be breathing deeply.
"You straight?" I asked her quietly.
Her eyes fluttered open, then settled on mine. "I'm also tired. I'm also starving. And that man—" She whispered the last two words, pointing one of her long nails toward the open door. "Is on my last nerve. There's no reason he can't revert to the original sale price that he and your father discussed. The company isn't worth any more or any less today than it was six months ago."
"Really?" That struck me as odd. "Like… value is flat? Pettigrew rises and falls depending on the season, how much work we have contracted, what the economy is looking like. His numbers have never changed?"
Esme shook her head. "Not that I have seen. The numbers that Miller gave me have stayed static since the agreement was first drafted earlier this year with Saul."
She reached for a stack of spreadsheets that we used for reference. "No adjustments for seasons, no ups, and downs. No projected salary increases, no adjustments for expenses that vary like taxes and insurance and materials."
She flipped through more pages, her brow becoming more wrinkled with each page. "I know we don't need exact figures, but these numbers look artificially good. Do you know what I mean?"
I knew exactly what she meant.
"I don't know why I never noticed that before."
"Miller is friends with your boss over at Benning, I'd bet. Golfing buddies, probably. They showed you what they wanted you to see,” I said. “Anyway, his finances aren't your concern. The contract is written around agreed upon numbers. But as soon as this deal closes, his bills become mine. And if he's using dummy numbers, that could be a problem for Pettigrew."
Esme's eyes flicked up to mine. She was picking up everything that I was putting down. "We need to get out of this room," she mouthed.
I couldn't agree with that sentiment more. I picked up my bag and began packing. Esme did the same, sliding her stack of notes and her laptop into a bag in seconds.
I walked out behind her, pulling the door to the conference room closed behind us. She swiped us out of the office suite, then out of the front door.
"Meet me at Brew Bar in a few minutes," she tossed over her shoulder as she walked to her car.
"Whoa." I grabbed her by the arm, forcing her to stop marching away from me. "What's up?"
"I don't want to talk anywhere near here. And I don't want security cameras catching us chatting it up out here either."
"So, we're going to have coffee and muffins and chat like I'm one of your sisters?"
"Well, do you have a better idea?"
"A hell of a better idea." I pulled out my phone and sent a text to hers. "Meet me there at 8 o'clock."
She pulled out her phone and stared at the text, then raised her head to land a quizzical stare at me. "Where is this?
"My place. Drop your car out front, tell the valet that you're visiting me. Go up to the tenth floor. I'll text you the code to unlock the door."
"Where will you be?"
"Picking up dinner. You'll get there before I do, so make yourself at home. Do you want me to order something for you?"
"Trey, I—"
"You know what? There's this new chicken dish on the menu that I think you'd like. I'll get that and some rice and vegetables. See you at eight."
I walked away before she could argue. When I got into my SUV, she was in her Jetta, setting the phone in its dashboard mount and tapping through screens.
GPS. Good.
Tonight's Stupid Human Trick: get through the evening without trying to sleep with Esme.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Esme
* * *
Meeting Trey in midtown at 8 o'clock meant flying home to take a lightning-fast shower, fluff my hair, refresh my deodorant and perfume, not to mention my Fenty lip color, then shooting back up I-75. My saving grace was that it was after rush hour and mid-week. And that O'Neal wasn't home to slow me down.
I swerved into Twelve88 Luxury Condominiums with minutes to spare. The valet was pleasant when I dropped my car out front, but I noted the rise in his brows as he took my key and handed me a tag to retrieve the car later. I walked inside and went to the elevators and the tenth floor.
I arrived at 10028 and pressed the buttons on the door in the order that Trey had texted me. The lock clicked, then whirred. The door swung open to reveal dark grey tile in the entryway leading into an open concept living area. The kitchen, dining room, and living room were one big space, with floor to ceiling windows from one wall to another.
"Well, alright, Mr. Pettigrew. This is nice."
I dropped my bag on a saddle leather couch the shade of an almond, kicked off my flats, and walked across the spotless off-white handwoven rug to stand in the window. Trey had an enviable view of the pool and patio below. His floor was high enough to get a view of the city lights at night.
I pressed buttons; lights turned on and off, dimming and brightening. I pressed another button, and the electric shades lowered and then rose again.
The dining room wasn't much except for a small round table and 4 tufted chairs sitting around it. A bright yellow vase held an explosion of colorful silk flowers. The
kitchen was sparse but tidy with stools lined up against one counter, stainless steel appliances, and glossy, granite countertops. A glass carafe French press sat in a corner, next to a black lacquer box that I assumed was for bread, because next to that was a toaster oven.
It was a nice place, but… impersonal. Chic and upscale, but there was nothing about this condo that screamed Trey Pettigrew, except for the smattering of family photos in frames along the mantle above the fireplace. The decor was more corporate apartment than a grown man in his domicile. I knew him as a man with a casual, laid back style. This condo was pretentious and stiff. No wonder he was building a house to call his own.
I headed back to the living room, where I investigated his bookshelves filled with business books, mysteries, and architecture manuals. I sat down on the couch and dug through my bag, unpacking the materials that I'd brought with me— my laptop with database access to Benning systems and my notes from our discussions. I thought Trey was right to trust his suspicions. I needed to find a way to prove him right before Pettigrew got too far in.
By the time I heard rustling in the hallway, I was elbow deep in spreadsheets. I got up to open the door and found Trey holding several brown handled bags. His grin when I stood in the entryway to his place burned a warm glow in the pit of my belly. I should not have been so giddy to him smile, but I was.
"You found me. Good."
"You seem surprised," I quipped as he walked past me. I closed the door and followed him to the kitchen, where he was already pulling plastic containers out and lining them up along the counter.
"I thought you might let your Esme-ness take over and not show up. Suffice it to say…” He paused, his arm deep inside a brown paper bag. "I'm happy you're here."
"I decided that I was hungry, and I'd let you buy me dinner."
Trey pulled a square container out of the bag and held it, reverently, in his hands. "My boy Ken said hello, and that you will love the dish he created specifically for you." He handed me the container.
"This Ken guy knows who I am? And made my dinner?"
"He was my roommate at Georgia State. The best food you've ever tasted comes from his kitchen."
"He's the guy with the new restaurant you mentioned."
"Yep. Got a surprise for you. Open it."
I groaned, fighting a frown. "I'm scared. I feel like this surprise involves food that smells like standing water."
"Would you open it? Damn."
I removed the lid and peered inside at beautiful rolls, all lined up and nestled close together. "Something smells good in here."
"These are teriyaki chicken sushi rolls. All cooked. There's chicken, cucumber, and rice rolled in sesame seeds." He pointed to a few others. "There's nothing raw. Vegetables, smoked salmon, cooked shrimp."
"Oh. I thought sushi was like...raw fish."
"Sushi can be anything you can roll in some rice and sesame seeds. If you still don't want that, I also got some stir fry chicken and vegetables and a ton of rice."
"It looks amazing. And it smells delicious. Thank you for arranging this for me."
I tipped my face up to his. He met me halfway and gave me the first kiss he'd given me since he dropped me off at my house more than a week ago. Because it had been so long, I went in again for another, longer kiss.
"Is it sad that I've missed your lips?" He asked.
"If it is, then I'm sad, too." I kissed him again, then pulled back to catch his eye. "Trey, did you peek at my list?"
"What? I haven't seen it since the day you dropped it. Why?"
I turned around, marched to my bag, dug around in the side pocket, and pulled out the well-worn, folded, unfolded, scratched out, and heavily edited list. Without unfolding the bottom half, I walked it over to Trey.
"Try an exotic dish," he read aloud. "Sushi is exotic?"
"If jumping over lasers is an extreme sport, sushi is exotic food. It counts."
"Aight. I guess we're crossing off another item on the Never list."
It was not lost on me, as we pulled out plates and forks and glasses for wine and settled in for our meal, that we were approaching the bottom of the list. There were a few fun things left and some big ones. I wasn't sure how I'd approach them. Or, more to the point, approach Trey about them.
He didn't seem the type that could be scared off. Trey was the type to be gentlemanly and decide that the privilege of deflowering a woman, however performative, should not be granted to him.
And then I'd be frustrated and, honestly, pissed because by now there was no one else I wanted to touch me.
"What are you thinking?"
Trey and I sat on the floor between the couch and the coffee table. Paper plates, plastic containers, and bottles of sake and plum wine filled in the spaces around my stacks of paper and notebooks.
"I'm thinking that we need Miller's true financials."
"We do. Do you think he cooks his books?"
"Maybe not cooked. Definitely heavily finessed to make Miller Design look more appealing."
"Wouldn't he be more agreeable if he was trying to dupe me into buying his company with fake numbers?"
"I think it's a reverse psychology thing. If he tries hard to keep his company from you and make it harder to acquire him, you might want it more. You might push harder. You might give in where you'd normally fight."
"Miller isn't a traded company, so his financials aren't public."
I set my wine glass down on the table and pulled my legs under me, then turned to lean an elbow on the supple leather of the couch. "I can access them."
Trey blinked, then ran his tongue between his lips before asking, "Like… through Benning?"
"Yes. We have platforms that we use to research potential and current clients, monitor the market, especially for comparison. It pulls financial statements, investor information, credit reports. If there's something to see, it'll find it."
"I get the feeling, though, that logging into Benning's system to look up their client wouldn't be received well."
I pondered that. "Probably not. Maybe that's why I haven't logged in yet. But I have a username and a password for a reason, and if there's nothing to hide, there's no reason to be angry at me for logging in to take a look. You need accurate, updated numbers to decide if acquiring this firm is in your best interest."
"True. But I'm not about to ask you to risk your job, Esme."
"If you ask Miller for updated numbers, do you think he'll give them to you?"
He bit out a short laugh. "No. I know for sure he wouldn't give them to me."
"So then I'm not waiting for you to ask me to run the numbers."
"It's not your job to save me from acquiring a lemon of a company. You could be fired, and you know it."
"Then I'd be fired for doing the right thing, and any company that would fire me for that doesn't deserve me as a valuable employee. If he's hiding something from you, it's unscrupulous and could be grounds for a lawsuit if you were petty enough. And think about what Saul would say."
"He'll have something to say, one way or the other. If I sign the papers, and Miller turns out to be a dud, I'll hear it. If I don't sign these papers, I'll hear it."
"So, what do you want to do?"
I appreciated that Trey appeared to take his time and consider that question. Once I logged in and started looking, there was no turning back. He shifted his weight, turning his body toward me, his bottom lip caught in his teeth, then reached over to grasp one of my hands, clutching it in his, sweeping his thumb over my skin.
"It's crazy how much I've missed you."
I smiled, recognizing the sharp turn in conversation topics. "You've seen me, Trey. Several times. We talk every day."
"I miss you in between. I miss being alone with you, being able to speak my mind about how goddamn sexy your thighs look in those leggings."
He leaned in and brushed his lips across mine, so light and airy that it made me twitch with the longing to kiss him until I pressed my lips to his.
"I'm starting to see why you invited me to your place."
Trey kissed his way from my mouth to the spot below my ear that made parts of my body stand at attention while the rest of me went soft. "I'm still not asking you for sexual favors." He pulled back, but only long enough to look me in the eye and add, "Are you offering?"
I laughed. "Not… yet."
"Yet? So you might eventually?"
A few beats later, I answered. "Definitely eventually."
A long, loud groan rolled from him as his body seemed to overtake mine. I cackled in laughter as he urged me back until I was lying on the handwoven rug that I'd admired earlier. Trey hovered above me, then lowered his body to mine. My body seemed to move without my brain urging it to; my arms and legs closed him in, holding him in position.
"You seem to always be erect, Trey. I'm starting to feel some concern for blood flow through the rest of your body."
"It's only when you're around." We kissed, sharing a long, slow, romantic moment. "Or when I think about you. Or when I'm on the phone with you, and your voice is doing that husky thing–"
"What husky thing?"
"When you're tired, your voice is like… lower. Kind of gritty and smoky, like a sex line girl. It hits the lower register. It hits my lower register if you know what I'm saying."
To emphasize his point, Trey ground his pelvis against mine. All it took was a whimper and a thrust in kind to make Trey sit up, then pull me up with him.
"What? What's wrong?"
"Nothing. You trust me?"
"You always ask me that when you're about to suggest some fuckshit. I'm not going to the roof."
"No fuckshit," he said, laughing. "Do you trust me?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Come with me." I let him help me up, then he grabbed both of my hands and pulled us through the living room, the dining room, and the kitchen.
"What about all this stuff we left out?"