Page 61 of Heated Takeover

“You know,” she continues, and for the first time I find myself wishing she’d be on her way. I love Margaret, but I’m struggling right now. I’ve got more feelings than I know how to handle in her company, and I’d kind of like to be alone with those feelings. “Between the three of us, I have heard there have been some strange goings-on inside Mission Events.”

“Oh?” my father asks, and I simply swallow in response. The last time I was with Marcus and we were actually talking about work and the business, I know better than to divulge any information regarding company business. Besides, I have an invisible NDA wrapped around my throat, tightening like a noose. I won’t be opening my mouth about business matters.

“It’s about your sister and that dopey husband of hers,” she whispers, though I wouldn’t call her voice quiet.

“Reese?” I ask. Honestly, that was the last name I was expecting to hear in this conversation.

“She’s very meddling when it comes to ME, isn’t she?” The question comes out more like a statement. “No offense, James, dear.”

“None taken,” he says. “She does have a way of sticking her nose too far into business that isn’t hers around here. As wild as it sounds, offering Garrett a job instead of her was the smarter business move. Of course I never said that.”

I smile, but honestly, I am curious what exactly Margaret is getting at. She’s right though; Reese does have a tendency to get into things that she shouldn’t, especially considering she doesn’t actually work for M.E. But the allusiveness of her statement has piqued my interest, and not just in a "what the hell did my sister do now” sort of way.

Before I can say anything else, Margaret is too-da-loo-ing and ushering my father out the door. Just as they leave, Dylan walks in.

“Good Lord, that woman wears enough Chanel No. 5 to smother everyone on the floor, doesn’t she?” Dylan says, waving her hand in front of her nose. Then she smiles at me and plops down in the chair. “Hey babe. I figured out the table settings for the pig party. Trust me, it wasn’t easy. You wanna have lunch?”

“Actually, that sounds great,” I say, pulling out my salad. And as Dylan yammers away about steak knives and beer mugs, my mind swirls. There’s a storm brewing. I can feel it. And I don’t just mean in the Miami forecast.

Chapter 24

Marcus

I hate charity galas.

Let me rephrase that. I obviously don’t have an issue with charity itself. I have always given generously. I don’t believe people of good fortune should just assume they deserve wealth any more than anyone else does, even when it’s earned. Some people don’t have the luxury of coming from money, being born into good families, or the right cities. Some people face challenges or tragedies in life that change the trajectory of their lives and their success.

All that said, it’s the gala part I hate. Rich people coming together with open wallets, some more open than others, wearing stiff, expensive clothes and dining on over-the-top cuisine. Which, when you think about it, is ironic, considering everything is for charity.

Still. As the CEO of one of the leading companies in the hospitality industry, I am expected to be at the charity gala. Not just this one, but all of them. But this time, I’m not stomaching it alone. If the company I am inviting accepts, I won’t have to stomach it at all. It might even be enjoyable.

“How do you feel about a Ducati?” Tucker walks into my office– the ME office–without knocking, not that I am surprised. He has half a sandwich in one hand and his phone in the other.

“Why? Are you getting a bike?” I ask.

“Not a bike,” he says in disgust. Then he turns his phone around, his eyes practically shining. “One of these.”

“Will you even fit in that?” I make a dry jab at his size while walking over to my office mirror to straighten my tie. As I look at my reflection, I frown. When did I get so gray? I understand that I’m not exactly young anymore, but I don’t actually feel old. I work out every day. I can still run a nine-minute mile. I’m in better physical condition than half the men in the company. In the city, even. The hair around my temples does not agree that I’m a strapping young buck anymore though.

“Fuck you. The Panigale V4 Superleggera Centenario is a 248-horsepower road configuration. Two hundred and forty-seven with the race kit, which is obviously a necessity.”

“A necessity?” I echo, ignoring my hair and focusing on the tie. “Do you know the definition of necessity, Tuck?”

He ignores me.

“Carbon fiber, MotoGP aerodynamics. Ash, it’s basically like Ducati said: What if we build a MotoGP-style machine that can be registered for the streets?” He grins, and I give up on the mirror altogether.

“Sounds like a bad idea,” I mutter.

“What’s eating you?” he asks, shoving his phone in his pocket and taking a bite out of the sandwich.

“Just because I have no interest in riding a bike around the city like a fuckboy doesn’t mean something is eating at me,” I snap. Then I hear my tone and look back in the mirror.

“When the hell did we get old?” I ask, and Tuck appears behind me in my reflection.

“Sneaks up on you, doesn’t it?” he asks.

“Yeah. I suppose it does. But it doesn’t change anything,” I say, making my way to the door.