Page 66 of Heated Takeover

“Yeah, we know,” Dylan says.

“You remind us daily,” Charlie adds.

“You’re the director of events, and the teacher’s pet,” Dylan adds, and I shoot her a look. Because while she may know a thing or two about my history with Marcus, Charlie does not. Nobody does. So she needs to keep it zipped.

“He does have a thing for you,” Charlie says, and I hold my breath.

“We work together closely,” I state, then realize that doesn’t exactly make it sound any less intimate. I might as well have just said we’re sleeping together.

“Mmm-hmm,” Charlie says. “How close?”

I am saved by the bell when the elevator dings and the doors open. Thank God.

“As close as the events director and the CEO should,” I state, making my way towards the boardroom. Dylan and Charlie follow on either side of me, and we make a sort of triangle shape as we walk through the hallway.

“Why do I feel like it’s a different closeness than you would have had with your father if he were still the CEO?” Charlie presses curiously.

“Umm, because Marcus is not my father?” I argue back.

“He’s certainly old enough to be,” Charlie chuckles.

“Yeah, he is,” Dylan mutters with some spice in her tone, and I fire off a second warning look to which she only smirks.

We round the corner towards the boardroom. Despite the conversations, suspicions, and the friendly yet pointed banter towards my job, I keep my chin up. Whether or not I am going to the gala as the director, I am still in charge of planning things. So I will be leading this meeting, and I feel pretty good about that.

But the moment I step inside the boardroom, I stop. I stop hard enough that Charlie and Dylan literally run into me. It is like a caboose slamming into the backside of the rest of the train, and my glasses slide to the tip of my nose. For a moment, I just stand there stunned, trying to process what I am seeing. Am I just seeing things? Is my imagination playing tricks on me? The person sitting at the head of the table locks eyes with me, and her voice fills the conference room. I realize I’m not in fact dreaming, but this is a nightmare.

“Knat, you did decide to attend after all,” Reese smiles, and Garrett laughs like the dummy he is. Everyone else at the table tenses, refusing to look up.

“Of course I’m here,” I state in an attempt to gather myself. “I’m the director of events.”

“Such an odd title for you,” she cocks her head to the side and smirks.

I realize I am blocking everyone else’s way and step over to the table, setting my things down on the opposite end. I should be sitting at the head of the oval table, not the back. Clearly, Reese has invited herself to that position, and honestly, I don’t want to be anywhere near her.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“M.E. might be owned by someone else now, but I am still a part of this company,” she says. Months ago, Dad gave her standing written authorization to observe planning meetings for major family-company events when he could not attend. It let her sit in, not run meetings or threaten employees. Nobody has formally revoked it, probably because nobody expected her to use it.

“Besides,” she waves off, “this is the biggest gala of the year. You think I’d miss out on the planning?”

For the first time, the rest of the board dares to look up at me, though sheepishly. It’s not because I’m an intimidating person. I get along well with everyone sitting at this meeting. As I look around the table, I see Nate, the chief fundraising officer. Jess, the director of philanthropy, who handles major donors and VIP guest lists. Nikki from PR. Elise, the auction specialist, and then there is Dylan, Charlie, and Tuck. Everyone here is from M.E. They know about the relationship or lack thereof between Reese and me. I think they’re just scoping out who has the biggest gun and where the emergency exits are.

“Well, Marcus informed me that he would be a couple minutes late, and to go ahead and start without him,” I say. “So let’s do that.”

I pull out my tablet, still standing, and open my mouth to begin when suddenly Reese stands up.

“So I want to address the color scheme,” she says, and I stare at her.

“The color scheme?” I echo. What the hell is she doing?

“Yes. It says on here you have purple, green, white, and yellow for the tablecloths?”

I click my tongue to avoid sighing loudly.

“Actually, the colors are Midnight, Verdant, Alabaster, and Sunflower,” Dylan says with evident annoyance.

“Gross, why?” Garrett asks, and I have to remind myself that he does, in fact, work here.