Dozens of men and women are lingering around me. Some at the high top tables near the large floor-to-ceiling windows that look over the edge and onto the crystal clear harbor below. It’s breathtaking, and at one point in my life I may have enjoyed this room, but right now I’m irritated.
I look back to my tablet, to the one thing I have a vested interest in, my work, and ignore the hum of small talk and the faint sounds of laughter from the other side of the room. There are two companies I’m interested in. They’re the reason I’m sitting here. On paper, they’re nearly identical. I want to see the people. They'll tell me which of the two is worth investing in. People run a business, and if I can’t have faith in the men and women heading the company, then I have no interest in investing.
I glance up as a small, delicate hand gently brushes my forearm. Her thin fingers and glossy red nail polish make her hand look extra dainty resting easily on my dark grey custom-tailored Armani suit. I clear my throat and turn my head slightly to look at the woman who takes a graceful seat on the barstool next to me.
It takes great effort not to stare at the cleavage she’s obviously put on display. Her form-fitting black dress has a plunging neckline, with a sharp “V” that travels too far down to be professional.
She practically purrs, “I was hoping you’d buy me a drink.”
I huff a small laugh and smirk at her. That’s a cheeky come-on I wasn’t expecting and I can appreciate her charm; the drinks are free for the conference. And I can tell from the soft blush across her cheeks and the sweet grin on her lips that she already knows that.
She’s beautiful and refined. Her confidence is alluring, but it does nothing for me.
“I’m waiting on a colleague.” I’m short in my response for a reason. I don’t want to open doors for discussion.
If we’d met in this scenario three years ago, things would be different. I’d have taken her upstairs to my bed in the penthouse suite and given her what she’s looking for. I wouldn’t have thought twice about it. I would’ve satisfied the both of us and moved on to the next sweet little thing looking to sink her claws into a wealthy man.
Things change. People change.
I have no room in my life for complications anymore. I don’t mix business with pleasure. I lead a private life for good reason. And if my parents' failed marriage and brutal divorce taught me anything, it’s that I should never trust anyone. And I can’t afford to let anyone in. Not now. Not ever.
The little minx gives me a tight smile and gathers her clutch in a white-knuckled fist before sliding off the barstool. I don’t mind her disgruntled departure. I’m used to it, and I prefer it that way. I could apologize for being blunt and to the point, but I’m not sorry. And I don’t make apologies.
There are only two people in this world I’m close to. My father, and the man who just walked into the room, Trent Morgan. He cocks a brow and watches the woman pull her dress down a bit more as she gives me the cold shoulder and stalks off without a word.
A sly grin forms on his cleanly shaven face as he takes her seat and looks at me. “Already pissing people off. You couldn’t wait for me to start the party, could you?”
I let out a deep rough chuckle. I’ve always liked Trent. He’s nearly a decade older than me as he approaches forty, but we’ve gotten along since day one. Which isn’t the case for most Parker-Moore executives.
I’ve always taken this business seriously. After seeing my mother shred my father after his stroke and try to steal the business out from under him, I knew anyone and everyone who thought they could try to take it from me would. And I was ready for them.
I’m not sure if Trent liked the fact that I was ruthless in business and didn’t trust anyone even at such a young age, or if he was just relieved that his new twenty-two-year-old boss wasn’t some spoiled brat who didn’t give a fuck about the business he’d just inherited.
But seven years later, he’s my closest ally. He’s my only ally.
He signals to the bartender for a drink before looking down the bar at mine. “I’ll take care of that for you,” he says as he picks up the glass. The napkin sticks to the bottom as he brings it to his lips and downs the drink in a single swig.
“Stressed?” I ask him with a cocky grin.
“I am,” he answers without looking at me. I know why he’s anxious, I’m just waiting for him to say it. He smiles at the bartender as he orders another Jack on ice. I got him hooked on my drink of choice. He turns to face me before he says, “We need to choose, and neither of them look like they can handle our influx.”
He has a right to be upset. We bit off more than we can chew. We have the manufacturing capabilities, but the sales just aren’t there. Hiring out isn’t paying off like it should. “Our profits are shit for the retail division,” Trent says, accepting his drink and taking a modest sip.
“I’m aware,” I say and nod, rapping my knuckles on the bar, “and that’s a fixable problem.”