The Billionaire's Board

by Lark Anderson

  Chance’s mouth twitches to the side as though he’s amused. He rises from his chair and says, “An innovation meeting? On a Sunday?”

  Sunday? Holy mother of Jesus, it’s Sunday. And that’s NOT Chance Crawford.

  “Oh no,” I gasp, my eyes grow wide as my glasses slide halfway down my nose.

  Gabriel Icor is walking towards me, hand outstretched. As though I’m supposed to touch him!

  He is the twenty-eight-year-old grandson of Icor Tech’s founder and has been running the company for just over four years, since his father passed away.

  I take a step back, startled, and look for an escape.

  “You don’t have to rush out,” he says. “I’m glad for the company, actually.”

  Gabriel isn’t dressed in a suit, which is what he’s wearing in every image I’ve ever seen of him. Instead, he has on blue jeans and a white cotton tee-shirt. A tee-shirt that clings to his tightly-toned physique.

  This is the first time I’ve ever seen him in person, and as far as I know, he’s not scheduled to be at the meeting. Now, standing here in the boardroom, on a Sunday, I am staring at one of the richest men in the world, a billionaire, having to apologize for being a fucking idiot.

  He’s in front of me now, donning a friendly smile. “I’m Gabriel. You may have heard of me.”

  “Of course! I mean, yes, sir. I mean…” I look down at his hand, knowing I must complete the formality, no matter how embarrassed I am, but instead of completing the handshake, I accidentally grab his right hand with my left hand, creating the most pretentious looking shake imaginable.

  “May I have your name?” he asks.

  “Oh, uh, yes. My name is Remi. Remi Stone.”

  Gabriel chuckles. “No need to be nervous. You know what they say about the early bird.”

  He frowns. “God, that’s so cliche, sorry. My granddad was full of sayings like that.”

  “Yes. I mean, I’m sure he was. I mean—”

  “STOP!” He gestures frantically with his hands. He’s apparently very articulate with them when he talks. “Stop being nervous. I’m just like everyone else.”

  No, he most certainly is not. He is tall, tanned, well-muscled, with dark hair and a sexy five o’clock shadow and two baby-blue eyes. He is NOT AT ALL like anyone else. He’s a 10 for crying out loud. Oh, and he has billions of dollars.

  “I’ll try, sir. It was nice to meet you.” I turn, sweat pouring down my face, and begin walking on shaky legs.

  “Wait!” Gabriel calls from behind. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  Ask ME a few questions? Gabriel Icor wants to ask little ole Remi a few questions? What dimension did I wake up in? This is stranger than the whole Avengers timeline bullshit.

  I turn to him, swallowing nervously. “What would you like to know?” I ask.

  “How do you feel about the company? About the processes?”

  “The processes?”

  “Yes, I feel things have gotten a bit stale around here. We need to keep up with the times. If we fail to adapt, to evolve, we will eventually become obsolete.”

  Is he really saying this? I think to myself. I want to tell him the truth, tell him what I found, but I’m scared. My hands are shaking. And why is he looking at my feet like that?

  I look down, and a wave of horror washes over me. I’m wearing one black shoe and one pink shoe. I had traveled the whole twenty minutes from my apartment to work completely unaware I was wearing mismatched shoes.

  “Oh, I…oh, wow.”

  Gabriel purses his lips to stifle his laughter, but the look on his face gives his amusement away.

  “When I woke up today, I thought I was going to be late for the Innovation Meeting. Then I got attacked by the Godzilla of all cats. I forgot my coffee. I haven’t eaten. A dog jumped on me, slobbering on my,” I look down, suddenly growing even more mortified, “but I’m here, a whole 23.7 hours early. If you’re wondering what the early bird gets—just take a look.”

  He stares at me a moment, donning a sly grin before finally saying, “How about the early bird gets treated to breakfast?”

  CHAPTER 2

  That shirt did nothing wrong to Remi…

  I follow Gabriel Icor to the elevator, hopeful that he will indeed take me to get food and not to a looney bin. But really, who can blame him if he does? After all, I show up on a Sunday, hair unkempt, mismatched shoes, slobber on my breast, and unable to form a proper sentence.

  We step inside the elevator, and he pushes the button for the fifty-seventh floor, and I sigh in relief. I’m pretty sure there is no looney bin anywhere on the upper levels of Icor Tower.

  Gabriel looks over at me, and I estimate he’s somewhere in the ballpark of 6’3. A giant compared to my below average 5’3.

  “Have you been with the company long?” he asks.

  Be calm. Answer his questions.

  “Two years, sir.” I manage to get out after entirely too much thought.

  “Please, call me Gabe.”

  He wants me to call him Gabe? Like, not even his full first name. A nickname.

  “Yes, sir. Oh gosh, I mean, I…uh.”

  He chuckles, looking at the floor.

  How on Earth have I managed to make such a fool of myself?

  “What is your position at Icor Tech?”

  “I’m…I am a program manager. I oversee certain programs in Mechanical Engineering.”

  His eyes light up, an impressed look spreads across his handsome face. “Wow! I mean, you look young. I hadn’t expected you to be a program manager.”

  “I’m twenty-three.”

  Gabe’s brow wrinkles in confusion. “Twenty-three?” he asks, eyeing me suspiciously.

  Oh great, he thinks I’m a nut that can’t even figure out my own age. Wait! Did I get my age wrong? No…I’m pretty sure I’m twenty-three.

  The elevator door opened, and he gestured for me to exit first.

  Stepping out onto the landing, my breath catches in my throat. It looks as though the whole foyer is encased in golden decadence.

  “I know, it’s tacky,” he says sheepishly. “My grandmother’s doing.”

  “It’s nice,” I say, ogling the fine art hanging on the walls. I swear on Kibbles, it looks just as lavish as the Vatican.

  “Follow me.” He saunters down a hall to the left, and I realize he’s taken me to his actual apartment.

  I follow closely, but not too close. I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared in my life, not even during finals week in college.

  He walks with a swagger, the sexiest gait I’ve ever seen. His shirt is half-tucked into his jeans, revealing the hint of a worn, brown leather belt. He looks more like a ranch hand than a billion-dollar heir.

  He brings me to a huge kitchen that belongs in a fine dining restaurant. The appliances are huge, some I don’t even recognize. An oversized island, larger than some family-sized dinner tables, sits in the middle, and I swear there’s a walk-in freezer off in the corner.

  “What would you like to eat? Are you a bagel and cream cheese kind of girl, or a yogurt and fruit?”

  “Yogurt and fruit,” I reply, clutching my laptop bag as though it’s my security blanket.

  “Take a seat. I promise not to keep you waiting long.”

  Is my company’s billionaire CEO really making me breakfast?

  “How do you take your coffee?”

  “Black. No! Cream and sugar.”

  He puts a cup under a fancy contraption, and within a minute, he has it ready, sitting in front of me with a coffee caddy.

  I take a sip as he goes to the refrigerator, which looks like a small cave, and soon the countertop is stacked with various yogurts that all looked completely foreign and very expensive.

  I chose one with strawberries, something safe and familiar, and he holds up a piece of bread with a cocked eyebrow.

  “Please,” I say as I twist the top off the jar of yogurt.

  Who buys yogurt in gla
ss jars? I think to myself, studying the packaging. Fancy, high-classy people do, that’s who.

  Gabe puts the bread on a conveyor toaster and grabs his own blueberry flavored yogurt.

  “This meeting must be a big deal to you,” Gabe says as he scoops a spoonful into his mouth.

  God, his mouth is perfect.

  It takes me a moment to realize I’m staring, and of course, I overreact, and a large gob of yogurt falls onto my slobber stained black shirt.

  I look up to see Gabriel staring at me, his brow raised, a slight smile playing on his lips.

  Oh, no! Oh, no, no, no!

  I turn a dozen shades of pink and reach for a linen—my hand clashing with Gabriel’s.

  “Well, I guess I should let you take care of that yourself,” he says, releasing the linen.

  “There’s a bathroom right over there.” He points to a large wooden door that looks like it belongs on a castle.

  “Well, there’s already dog slobber on my shirt, and nothing I do in that bathroom is going to get it clean, so I’m just going to finish my yogurt and hightail it outta here.”

  “I was hoping you wouldn’t be in too great a hurry.”

  I swallow, saying a silent prayer to whatever is keeping me upright and functioning. Gabriel Icor wants to spend time with me. Remi Stone. Genius nobody.

  I push my hair behind my ears, reposition my glasses, and dabbing at the slobber and yogurt stains on my shirt.

  “Don’t be embarrassed,” he says. “I live where I work, and I have considerable help. I imagine you must have to wake up super early to get ready to catch the subway.”

  “No subway for me. I walk to work. It’s about twenty minutes away. This was actually a pretty important day for me. I mean, tomorrow is.”

  “Oh?”

  I don’t know what I should say, or how I should say it. I don’t want to offend him, calling his systems and processes inefficient, but it’s the truth.

  “Are you going to make me beg?”

  The thought of Gabriel Icor begging makes the temperature rise at least ten degrees, and I start fanning myself with my hand. “Oh, God, please,” I say without thinking, and suddenly, Gabriel is staring at me.

  I wish I could say this is the first time I’ve ever blurted something out without thinking—but it seems I’ve made a habit of it over the years. This is by far the worst instance of my blurting.

  Gabriel puts down his yogurt and leans on the island, the muscles of his arms bulging. He’s smokin’ hot, making me breakfast, and listening to me babble. I must be trapped in an episode of the Twilight Zone.

  Suddenly, my hands are in his, and he’s staring deeply into my eyes.

  “Remi, please, I beg of you, tell me why tomorrow is so important to you.”

  I sit there, gawking at him, completely mesmerized by his touch.

  Then, he giggles. “You’re nervous. I get it. Let’s start over, and you can pretend like I’m a janitor.”

  His hands withdraw, and I focus on what he just said, so I can properly answer his question. But his suggestion has its flaws, and now I’m imagining him without his shirt on, sweating, as he mops the floor.

  “So, what has you so eager to be on time for the meeting?” he asks again.

  I exhale, trying to get my thoughts in order. “Well, Mr. Custodian, it’s just that I’m so young, and most of them already have a negative outlook on millennials. I just don’t want to give them more ammo.”

  Gabe frowns.

  “I didn’t mean to make it sound like they are bullies or anything, quite the contrary. It’s just that—I feel like I don’t exist to my superiors.”

  He smiles. “Believe me—I know exactly how you feel. I’m young, and it doesn’t matter what I’ve accomplished when I walk into a room with people who have been in the business two decades longer than myself. It’s like I’m relegated to the kids’ table.”

  I picture Gabriel sitting at a ‘kid’s table,’ without his shirt—Oh, Lord, what’s wrong with me?

  “So, how’d you become a twenty-three-year-old program manager?”

  “Well, I don’t mean to brag, but my brain’s kind of big. Like, super big. Gigantic.”

  Gabe let out a sigh of relief. “Oh gosh, I’m so glad I don’t have to pretend like I don’t notice. I must say, I’m a bit nervous about it. Is there going to be a ‘Reasonable Accommodation’ request that I enlarge the doorways or something?”

  “I assure you, all my requests will be within reason.”

  He pulls his phone out, glancing up at me every few moments as he types into his keyboard.

  “Wow…I guess I owe you an apology.”

  “An apology?”

  “I thought you were lying about your age. Women sometimes do that, ya know, but I see here, all your information checks out.”

  He holds his phone up for me to look at, and I see the picture on my badge, to the right of it my general information filed with HR.

  “Level with me. How the hell did you get that position at my company at such a young age?”

  “Your headhunters. They circle the ivy league schools, and cases such as mine are rare. They set me up to intern, and I did exceedingly well. After I obtained my bachelor’s, I received tons of offers from other companies, but Icor Tech is where I really wanted to make my mark. When I finally graduated with my masters, I was fielding offers left and right, but I decided to stay with Icor Tech on the condition they gave me a program manager position, but I’m still treated like a child due to my age.”

  Gabriel walks around the island, taking a chair next to mine. He sits so close to me, I can feel his breath washing over my neck. My heart’s thumping so loudly in my chest, I’m positive it could register on the Richter Scale. I struggle to regulate my breathing, so he doesn’t get to witness me hyperventilating over his close proximity.

  “So, why were you at the Innovation Meeting?”

  I clear my throat, then I clear it again, and again. Finally, I say, “Well, sir, I was there to brief a database I’ve been developing to shortcut some of our redundant processes.”

  “So, what you’re telling me is that you’re a mechanical engineer briefing on business analytics? Did we put you in the right position?”

  God, don’t be an idiot! He doesn’t care about your boring job. He has people hired to care.

  “It’s a little more than that,” I say with downcast eyes.

  “Gosh, I must make you really nervous.”

  I reach out to touch his forearm, a natural reaction that leaves me mortified. “Oh, ummm…It’s not that. I just feel like your time is important. And I’m wasting it.” I awkwardly fold my hands on the island in front of me, disallowing them from wandering further.

  “Nonsense. I could have just sent you on your way back home. I invited you up for a reason.”

  It’s as though his words push a crushing weight off my chest, and I’m suddenly calm. I smile. Something about Gabriel makes me feel at ease. Like he is actually interested in what I had to say.

  “Well, I had decided to go a little bit beyond the scope of the presentation.”

  “Oh, really?” He turns, facing me squarely in the chair. “How so?”

  “Well, I couldn’t help but notice that some of the systems we use are inefficient and not as capable as other platforms.”

  “Which ones?” He spoons a yogurt-covered blueberry into his mouth, raising his brows.

  I pivot my chair towards him and pick up my handbag that’s sitting at my feet.

  “Would you mind if I pulled out my laptop?” I ask.

  “Not at all, I love visuals.”

  What’s unfortunate about how he says this, though, is his line of sight. Pivoting to face him puts his gaze directly on my breasts while he’s mumbling about how he loves visuals. I realize this immediate, hoping it will pass over unnoticed. But Gabriel soon realizes his folly.

  “Oh gosh! I sound like a creep.” He turns to face the island, and now we’re both sitting aw
kwardly as I navigate my satchel.

  “It’s okay, we all like visuals,” I say, trying to play it off.

  Gabriel’s staring at me now, critically, then he bursts out in a fit of laughter.

  Way to up the creepiness factor, Remi!

  With shaky hands, I pull my MacBook Pro from my bag, turning it on to even more laughter from Gabriel.

  “Really?” Gabriel says, looking at the image of The Golden Girls that appeared on my screen.

  I smile, though it is more from nostalgia than humor. When I was growing up, I watched The Golden Girls with my mother each night. That was before she passed, when I was seven.

  “I learned everything I know about love from Blanche Devereaux.”

  “That minx.”

  I turn to him, surprised. “You know her?”

  “I used to watch it with my grandma. It has probably given me unrealistic expectations of older women in bed.”

  My eyes grow round. I certainly didn’t expect to hear that coming from his mouth.

  Gabriel Icor, my billionaire boss, just told me he has expectations of older women in bed.

  A worried look flashes across Gabriel’s face. “Oh no, you’ve gone pale. I’m sorry. It was just a joke. Forgive me.”

  “Well, to be fair, I guess I started us down this path.”

  “Yes. Yes, you did. We’ll stick with that when HR calls us in for questioning.”

  I can’t help but smile as I pull up the slideshow presentation I had ready.

  He slides his hand to the touchpad, and for a moment, our fingers connect before I retract my hand, vowing never to wash it again.

  “Oh,” he says, his face a display of confusion, “you’re recommending Expressions?”

  “Yes,” I say, nervously. “I’ve figured out that it can help us streamline some practices and eventually save us—”

  “Millions of dollars,” Gabriel cuts in.

  Well, that kind of takes the wind from my sails.

  “Yes, sir. How do you know that?”

  “Because I’ve also been looking at Expressions, but my old, crusty board can’t seem to see at my level.”

  Maybe I should be happy we’ve come to the same conclusion, but right now, all my work looks unnecessary.

  “Oh, so all this—”