I removed myself.
I fucking hate it.
I’m the one who left, and I feel abandoned, which is bullshit. I don’t even know where that particular feeling gets the nerve to show up and camp out like a boulder in my gut. It’s familiar and heavy and I want to take a sledgehammer to it. Familiar, and to what, exactly? I don’t remember my mother. I don’t remember her leaving. I couldn’t miss her in the first place, because I didn’t know her.
Now the secretary’s desk out in the anteroom is empty, waiting for someone else who won’t bring a little palm tree figurine to remind her of the beach. If the new person brings tropical candies, it’ll be a monumentally asshole-ish coincidence.
A meeting reminder pings on my screen. Ten minutes to some all-hands gathering for the division. They invited me. It made my heart tick up to be summoned to a meeting. I ran the meetings at Summit, and I almost never put everybody in a huge, fancy conference room with an agenda.
I might as well be early.
I’m barely outside the door of my anteroom when footsteps hurry to catch up with me.
“Mr. Leblanc. Mr. Leblanc.” She’s a movie-set secretary. Busty. Blonde. Bold lipstick. Mug of coffee in her hand. She approaches with a bright smile. “This is for you. I didn’t add any cream or sugar, but I’m happy to get it for you, if you’d like.”
It’s not my coffee. Even if I couldn’t tell from the color, I could tell from the smell. An aching urge curls through my palm. I want to throw it against the wall, and then I want to leave this place and go to the warehouse by the docks. They can all get in line to throw punches at me.
Except I can’t, because I’m banned. Because I lost my mind and kept hitting a guy after he was down. Because Bristol appeared in my office one day and changed everything.
And even if she hadn’t placed a fake fifty-thousand-dollar order for the coffee beans I insist on keeping, we should still have some. There was a box of it at the old Summit offices. It must have been lost in the move.
Like Bristol was lost in the move.
“No, thanks.” I can’t summon a smile for the secretary. “That’ll be all.”
She leans in, her hand coming to rest on my elbow. “My name is Candace, Mr. Leblanc, but you can call me Candy.” Jesus Christ. “Mr. Winthrop said you didn’t have a secretary, so he’s assigned me to you.”
It’s not quite as blatant as a wink, but her breathy tone is making plenty of suggestions.
“With anything you need.” Call-Me-Candy winks.
“Right.” I shift my weight away from her. “I’m looking for Conference Room A.”
“I’ll show you,” she chirps, and we’re off. Candy cuts in front of me to lead, shaking her ass far more than can possibly be necessary. I don’t care. When I look at her, I feel nothing. I don’t want her. Don’t want anything to do with her. She’s as wrong as the new office.
I push down the creeping sense that my clothes don’t fit and there’s something strange in the air. If I ever felt like this before, I could’ve walked into any bar near Wall Street and found a beautiful woman to fuck. Somebody who’s just like me—hot and addicted to work and only wanting a single night of physical release. Even better if she likes it rough.
Thinking of fucking some faceless one-night stand makes my stomach turn. I haven’t fucked anyone since Bristol. I don’t want anyone but Bristol.
Bristol. Bristol. Bristol. Every heartbeat sounds like her name. Every footstep.
Goddamn it.
Candy turns the corner and stumbles in her red-soled high heels. I reach to steady her out of sheer habit, and she twists her body so her breasts press against my arm.
It doesn’t put a dent in my anger. It doesn’t turn me on. All I feel is a bitter irritation like shitty K-cup coffee. I set her back on her feet.
“Well, here we are.” Candy gestures to the meeting room, her smile in place.
It’s buzzing with people. They notice me, and I’m sucked into a round of handshakes. I recognize some of the names they give. I’ve seen more than a few of their faces as experts on CNBC. I’ve read their names in the paper.
“Will Leblanc. Pleased to meet you.” My own name feels damn near worthless in this room. It’s a compliment that I’m here at all. I know that. My billion-dollar business is a mom-and-pop shop compared to Hughes Industries.
The only person who made me feel like I was worth anything was Bristol.
Mitchell Hope, the serious one at the dinner I took Bristol to, elbows his way into my latest introduction. “Excuse me. Will. We’ve got to talk.”
He barely seems to notice the guy he’s just cut off, who shakes his head with an easy grin and turns away.
“I think we’re about to have a meeting, Mitchell.”
“Sure. But look.” Mitchell moves to my side and holds out a tablet so I can see it. “I spent the weekend running the numbers, and in my analysis, there are several areas just poised for expansion. This column here—”
His fingers fly over the tablet. It’s too much information for the time we have, but Mitchell barrels on like he has to tell me or he’ll die. He’s halfway through his thoughts on the next column when he takes a breath and glances at my face, eyebrows raised.
I know that look. He’s just realized that he probably talked for too long and he’s trying to gauge whether I’m irritated. My brother Emerson is the same way. Not good with people. That’s how everyone else would describe him, which is half-true, half-bullshit. He’s good with people he cares about, but he has to work at social graces. Art was always more important.
For Mitchell, that’s clearly the numbers.
I look back down at the tablet. “And for this section, the profit margins…”
“We’re not anywhere near the ceiling.” There’s relief in Mitchell’s voice. “I thought we could sit down and get into the details, because there’s some exciting prospects here. This afternoon, maybe?”
People are taking their seats at the big meeting table. “We’ll set a time after the meeting.”
“Great.” His face lights up. He takes a seat near mine at the table.
Greg Winthrop, who I wanted to murder for flirting with Bristol at that goddamn dinner, swoops in to shake my hand and pat my shoulder. “You ready to go?”
He doesn’t wait for my answer before he strides to the head of the table. “How’s the sound on the call?” Greg asks. Someone on a giant speakerphone in the middle of the table confirms. A secretary nearby lifts her hands over the keyboard of her laptop, preparing to take notes.
This is a hell of a lot more formal than the meetings we had at Summit.
Greg runs through the meeting agenda. There’s an actual agenda. “Oh,” he says, toward the end. “It’s Maxine’s birthday today. Let’s all say happy birthday to Max.”
There’s scattered applause across the table, and then quiet settles in.
“As you all know, Summit Equity is now officially part of the Hughes Financial Division.”
More applause. Louder. I give them a vague smile, ignoring the heat climbing up my face. The bruises from the warehouse haven’t totally faded, but they’re all looking at me now. I guess this is the way they do things at Hughes. Things that could have been discussed in emails are announced at huge meetings.