But it works, because now we’re always ready at least an hour before he’s scheduled to appear.
We work the day away, Arnold comes and goes with all the boxes, and I give a tour to two cute little old ladies who want to talk about the architect who designed the building. The phone rings non-stop and I make about a thousand copies of some annual report for the upcoming shareholders’ meeting.
Late in the day, Miranda finally makes an appearance. I’m pretty sure she skipped lunch because she’s been holed up in her office all day, licking her wounds.
“Elle, can you take this upstairs, please? It’s very important.” She doesn’t say it’s the summary Colton demanded, but we all know it is. “I’ve got to go because my daughter gets out of volleyball practice at five thirty sharp.” She glances at the huge wall of clocks in the lobby foyer that highlight six different major time zones over the globe.
Miranda’s not all bad. I can see that in the way she prioritizes her kids, just like Dad did for me. I still don’t think she’d be a good fit for him, though. He’s done his time raising kids, and I was not an easy child. He deserves someone past that stage, I think, someone he can travel with at the drop of a hat, sip wine with, and enjoy the finer things mid-life can offer.
I take the report, a single sheet of paper. I turn to grab a file folder and slip it inside, letting Miranda know that I recognize the importance this paper holds for her. “Sure thing, Miranda. Hope Isabella’s practice goes well. Have a nice night.”
She nods her head, a grateful smile on her face. A moment later, she’s got her purse on her shoulder and is booking it for the doors.
Most people leave around five, though it’s not a strict eight-to-five workplace. Tiffany and I usually work until six to make sure any last mailings hit the post office and to be backup if any executives need clerical help after their own assistants leave.
The last hour of our day is usually easy-peasy with less phones, less people, and less work. Which means we can get into more trouble, but not today.
“I’m going to run this up to Mr. Wolfe’s office. Be back in a second,” I say. I’m going for a no-big-deal tone, but inside, my belly’s flip-flopping in excitement.
When I delivered the report before, the one that got Miranda in trouble, it’d been to Mr. Wolfe’s assistant. Now, with it being just a smidgen after five, there’s a chance she’ll be gone for the day and I’ll get a peek inside his actual office.
I wonder what it looks like? Sleek and modern like the building? Traditional and dark like an English pub? Or somewhere in between?
The thought of finding out thrills me.
Or maybe the assistant’s gone and he’s in his office, and he calls out to me to bring him the report. And he lays eyes on me and falls hopelessly in love—or lust, I’m not picky—as soon as he sees me.
“Not so fast,” Tiffany says sharply. “This is your chance, a once-in-a-lifetime shot. You need to take advantage of this.”
I quirk a perfectly sculpted brow her way. “Advantage of what?” I question like I wasn’t just thinking that I might learn something about Colton by seeing his office. And definitely not like I was fantasizing about him swiping all the contents of his desk onto the floor in a mad rush to make room for me to stretch out so he can take me.
“Okay, here’s the deal. If Colton is there, I dare you to actually talk to him, flirt for real, make it obvious and apparent that you are thirsty as fuck for his dick. Sit on his lap or something,” she says, thankfully laughing because I’m definitely not doing that. “If he’s not . . .”
She hums, tapping a burgundy-tipped finger to her lip, and I wonder when she got her nails done because we usually go together. But then I remember her saying she had to get away from Ace over the weekend and figure she must’ve gone then.
“If he’s not there, I dare you . . . to leave a mark,” she says finally.
My brows knit together. “Huh? Leave a mark? What does that mean?”
She nods like a bobblehead, her bun threatening to topple off her head. “Dealer’s choice, but the reward is congruent with the risk.” She steeples her fingers like a maniacal villain, the architect to my fun. “Leave your panties on his desk or in his chair? I’ll buy drinks all weekend and brunch on Sunday, plus get your next mani-pedi. Ass print on the desk? Drinks on Friday. Selfie in his chair? One drink. Or go evil. Move everything one inch to the left, and I’ll give you a mani-pedi for that if you can pull it off. Put a mustache on the fancy self-portrait he’s got on his wall. That’s worth a drink. Or come up with your own idea. I can’t wait to see what you do!”
Her excitement is contagious, alarmingly so.
“How do you know he has a self-portrait on the wall?” I ask, a good dose of jealousy already licking through my veins.
Tiffany smirks. “I don’t, but I’m thinking it’s a damn good guess. You in?”
She holds out her hand.
I know she’s serious, but still this isn’t a silly dare. This could cost me my job.
I can feel my heart speeding up. Anticipation and excitement, danger and risk are playing against sanity and brains.
I already know which one is going to win, so I shake her hand.
Chapter 3
Colton
The canyon stretches out before me, the morning sun casting the oak trees and grasses in a soft golden glow that ironically reminds me of home. It makes no sense. The family estate is in a part of England that is much, much greener than the vista outside my office . . . but the connection’s still there.
Maybe it’s the smell?
On mornings like this, the dew just starts to evaporate off the oak leaves right when I take my morning tea break on the balcony outside my office. It carries with it a scent that reminds me of home, with its thickets of oak so dense that you couldn’t walk through them without wearing trousers and a long-sleeved shirt.
I only have a moment to gulp my tea down with the busy day ahead, and I should be focusing on this afternoon’s important meeting. But somehow, my presentation isn’t what’s running through my head as I stare unseeingly across the expanse of green.
“Bloody hell, Colton,” Father growls, looking me up and down. “Out on the town, and you get yourself completely arseholed in front of the paps. Just how long do you plan on this gallivanting, anyhow?” He holds up the sleazy tabloid with my face plastered across it. It’s page twenty-two, not like it’s the cover, but that makes no difference to Edwin Wolfe.
“It wasn’t like that,” I protest, keeping my back ramrod straight. Slouching in front of Edwin Wolfe is something I learned not to do at a very young age. “I didn’t even finish the pint!”
“You were photographed in a pub!” Father shouts, a vein in his forehead bulging grotesquely.
And that’s the crux of it. It’s not that I was there, it’s not that I was drinking. It’s that I was photographed doing so. Image is everything, after all. At least to Father.
“Edwin!” Mother protests, and for a shining moment I think she’ll be on my side. A voice of reason in the fray. I should know better by now. “Don’t let Colton stress you out, dear. Your heart, you know.”
There’s nothing wrong with my dad’s heart. He’s healthy and robust, definitely enough to give me what for. But our shouting stresses Mother, though she’d never admit it.
She turns to glare at me, disappointment written in the tremble of her lips. “Why can’t you just do as expected? Like Eddie?”
Ah, yes, my brother. Edwin Wolfe the Third, or Eddie, as he chooses to be called. As if that’s a proper English name. But he can do no wrong in our parents’ eyes. The good son, the obedient son . . .
The two-faced bastard who got me into my most recent cock-up because I was at the pub to get his knackered ass out at the bartender’s behest. Just my luck that he’d been taking a piss when the pap came through.
“Very well, Mary,” Father says, tossing back the remainder of his scotch and setting the empty tumbler on t
he blotter of his desk. “Colton, I don’t know what I’m going to do with you just yet . . . but I cannot let you besmirch the Wolfe name any longer, boy.”
The dismissive nickname rattles me out of my dark memories as it sends a bitter heat through my heart. I know I wasn’t perfect, but I was hardly the hellion that my parents made me out to be, no more than Eddie was the saint they painted him as.
Still, I knew when it was time to go, and go I did. I jumped over the pond to make my name and my own fortune, intent on returning home triumphant to toss my success right in Dad’s smug face.
Today is a large step in that victory and what I should be focusing on. Not the past, but the future and the opportunities it holds.
“Sir?”
As I leave the freshness of the morning outside for my air-conditioned office, I turn to see my secretary, Helen, standing in the doorway. A professional and very competent woman, I honestly couldn’t imagine the business success I’ve had here in the States without her assistance. American business etiquette can be very . . . confusing. Though I occasionally use the slight cultural differences to my advantage. My father might have been a difficult man to grow up under, but if there’s one thing he taught me, it’s how to use power to benefit myself.
“Yes, Helen?”
“It’s time for the meeting.” She’s holding out a stack of bound presentation files, the framework for my pitch to the board.
“Thank you, Helen. Wish me luck.” I don’t need luck. Fortune favors hard work and preparation, but the American saying amuses me.
I sit down in the boardroom for our weekly meeting. I have a flash of Father’s face talking down to me. Once, it hurt me deeply. Now, I use it.
It fuels me, motivates me for what I’m about to do, and in my lap my fist clenches. I’ve been banging away at my computer for weeks on this seed of an idea.
I know I can do it.
I’ll see you soon, Father.
Up at the front of the room, Daniel Stryker, who all but thinks he’s going to be the new HQ2 Regional President, is pitching his idea.
“So just as HQ1 is strategically positioned for the best coverage of the West Coast, setting up HQ2 in my proposed site allows us better connections throughout the East Coast and even into Europe with the localized shipping hub. And with the current business friendly administration in the State House, I just can’t see why we’d pass up striking when the iron’s hot, so to speak.”
His last little joke, a not-particularly-clever dad joke twist on his last name, earns a chuckle, and around the table, there’s polite applause as Daniel tries not to look too smug. He’s failing spectacularly at it, might as well be waving like the bloody queen as he sits back down.
At the head of the table, Allan Fox, Chairman and CEO of the company, beams. “Very interesting, indeed. Thank you, Daniel.”
I can read the room and know that this decision is already half-made before I even begin my presentation. But I believe in what I’m proposing, for more reasons than I’ll discuss today. Still, it’s time for me to shine.
Allan meets my eyes, and I swear there’s the smallest hint of pity there, but he perseveres. “Colton, I believe you’re up next.”
I stand up, reaching into my pocket and pulling out the thumb drive I’ve copied my presentation to before slipping it into the USB slot on the laptop connected to the screen behind me. The bound packets Helen worked so hard to put together work their way around the table simultaneously, and as my fellow board members open the cover and see the first notes of my plan, in front of them and behind me, a murmur begins to work its way through the room.
“Gentlemen, if I may?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow and hushing the room. Allan nods, and I begin. “The facts are in. Despite the comfort and ease of staying local, the world is more interconnected than ever. And while the Internet has allowed us to shrink the world exponentially from what it used to be, we need to grow beyond the comfort of American backyards. We are a global organization, and acting as such will only serve to grow our market share. But to effectively do so, we need to look at the big picture. We need a more local presence overseas.”
I click to the first slide, which is a simple listing of time zones. “Case in point. No offense, you all work hard, but it’s sometimes damned difficult to try and work with a European customer when they’re just finishing up their day as we’re finishing our morning coffee . . . or tea.”
My self-referencing joke earns a small smirk from Allan, who nods. I click to the next slide, running through my ideas quickly, how an international HQ2 would give Fox better impact in foreign markets, how it’ll connect us to our customers better, make us more efficient, and more.
“And perhaps I’m being a bit biased here, but I believe that the London area would position us best for this opportunity,” I continue. “With the ability to draw on the Commonwealth’s business connections . . . well, that’s fifty-three nations and roughly two and a half billion potential customers we just plugged into.”
The last sentence drops, and silence reigns over the entire boardroom.
“Colton, that’s a remarkable idea, but how many of these countries are financially relevant to our pursuits?” Jim Roberts, one of the board members who’s just slightly younger than Jesus, asks. Hence his less than politically polite terminology.
“Jim, they all have something to offer,” I promise him. “Either as customers or as potential suppliers of materials, goods, or even information. We already ship approximately twenty-five percent of our large-scale sales to our European customers, and if we had a local presence, that could be exponentially larger. The key is a London HQ2. And if we pass them up, we’re giving up, well . . . a lot of money.”
And now I’m speaking their language. Nerves and change are one thing, a hold back to progress. But bottom-line financials can overcome a lot of resistance. The board members’ faces look significantly more interested now.
Daniel, who’s been quiet this whole time, speaks up. “And just how do you know that we can find a headquarters in London that won’t break the bank? It’s not exactly a city known for inexpensive real estate.”
I flash him a respectful smile, one brow jumping up before I school myself. Daniel is a worthy adversary in this situation, both of us wanting what’s best for both Fox and ourselves.
“To an outsider, maybe. I do have rather useful resources there, however. I even have a couple of locations in mind that would be more than suitable for Fox HQ2.” It’s as much as I’m willing to divulge just yet, though I can see the interest flare in Daniel’s eyes. He’d love to scrutinize the sites I have in mind, no doubt about that.
“And I assume you’d want to be the president of this venture?” Allan ventures.
I chuckle lightly, looking him in the eye. “Well, I would certainly toss my hat in the ring on that. At least I can properly say that I know how to use a roundabout. Though I’m sure you’d make the decision based on many factors.” It’s a kindness of formality because we all know I’d be the best fit for a leadership position in London.
There are murmurs around the room and conversation quickly breaks out. “I know that globalization wasn’t exactly what you’d expected with this HQ2 proposal. But this is an idea we should consider carefully, along with the remaining locations. As Daniel pointed out, London can be expensive, and we don’t want to lose our bollocks in a bad deal.”
I lean forward, placing my hands on the table and meeting each pair of eyes around the table. “This has the potential to revolutionize Fox Industries, so I challenge us all to think big, think toward the future, and be brave.”
Allan nods. “I think that’s a fair request, Colton. Okay then, that’s the last of our location proposals, but I move that we delay the final vote on the HQ2 site until we have some time to do further research. Colton, I’d like the exact figures on our shipping and customer base in the UK specifically and then Europe at large.”
I dip my chin in recognition, wishing I’d h
ad the exact figures and not an approximation for this initial presentation. Internally, I curse the reams of spreadsheet figures Miranda brought me, useless drivel that I couldn’t sort through in time for the meeting today.
But his desire for the numbers to crunch, and his openness to even the idea of going abroad, is greater than I could’ve hoped for.
When the meeting’s over, I feel more secure than ever as I listen to the post-meeting chatter and head out into the hallway.
“Colton!”
I pause, turning around to see Daniel just emerging from the boardroom, a tight smile on his face. He offers his hand, though, shaking mine politely. “Daniel . . . nice presentation in there.”
Not that I think he really cares about meaningless compliments, especially from me, but a gentleman’s always polite in the face of his rivals.
“Thanks. You too,” Daniel, who’s always a cool customer, says. “Actually, I wanted to congratulate you. That was impactful and passionate, if not unforeseen.” There’s a small dig in the words, but it’s almost like he’s furious with himself for not predicting my play.
“I do believe what I said is the best path forward.”
“I can tell,” Daniel says, his smile not fading at all. “Not that I’m going to back off on my plan, but I do wish you good luck.” He manages to make ‘good luck’ sound like a curse. “Nothing’s better than having two good plans to choose from.”
Daniel walks down to his office, and as he gives me his back, I can tell that despite his nice words, the man’s dangerous. A predator. A wolf, just like me.
But he’s right. When I win, it’s going to be all the sweeter to have taken down a man as good as Daniel and not win by default.
Walking toward my office, I can’t help but notice Ricky and Billy, two of Daniel’s cousins or relations or whatever who work in building security, giving me some tough looks.
The Dare Page 4