Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 108489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
“Chop, chop.” I clapped my hands twice.
I wasn’t the nicest person in the world. I liked to think I was good enough to at least warn her to take her shoes off before she walked away. But before I had a chance, Edie turned around and stormed toward the door, falling flat on her ass.
The only solace in her unfortunate scenario, as I leaned against my desk, watching her pull herself up on unsteady feet, was that I didn’t laugh.
Then again, I didn’t spare her the humiliation because I liked her. I hadn’t moved to help her up for a different reason.
I was hard as a stone, and moving would have given that away.
“You failed your first lesson at balance. Big surprise.”
“You’re failing at life, Rexroth!” She galloped out of my office, her face red with humiliation.
I rearranged my package as soon as she left and shot a text message to Sonya.
Edie Van Der Zee had started to feel like an itch. Luckily, I was going to scratch her out of my life first thing tomorrow morning.
And then the morning arrived. It was the kind that reminded me why I fucking hated talking to people. One where everything was chaotic, everybody was loud, and everyone was on my ass, firing questions, begging for attention, and asking for shit.
“Mr. Rexroth, you have the Duran-Dexter file on your desk. Can you sign it for me?”
“Trent, you have a conference call at three.”
“Can you go to a charity event in Palo Alto next week? Someone needs to, and Jaime is too busy with Mel and the new baby.”
“Trent—why is Luna here?”
“Rexroth—are we still on for drinks on Saturday?”
“Rexroth.”
“Hey, T-Rex!”
“Trent, darling…”
I came to a stop in the middle of the hallway, ignoring the throng of colleagues, and squatted down to Luna’s eye-level, my voice rusty from lack of talking. She was clutching Camila’s hand, a faraway look in her eyes. Dragging her into the office with me every Tuesday was a terrible idea, but Sonya seemed hell-bent on it and I wasn’t the fucking expert.
“How about tacos for lunch?” I brushed my thumb on her cheek and handed Camila some cash. “Take Luna to pick up some bagels and meet me in my office.”
“Why? Where are you going now?” Camila’s thick, Spanish accent made a cameo, which meant she wasn’t pleased with me.
I’m going to get an eighteen-year-old kid fired because I’m too selfish to trust myself not to fuck her raw in her father’s office if she gets anywhere near me.
“Board meeting. Should be quick. Just voting on something and then I’ll be out.” I patted Luna’s head and pressed a kiss to her forehead before rising up and gently squeezing Camila’s shoulder.
Turning on my heel toward my office, I saw Jordan Van Der Zee appearing from the sliding residential glass elevator doors, his daughter shadowing his steps. He was holding her like she was a convicted criminal again, and I tried not to lose my shit over it—again. Today, Edie was wearing a navy sailor dress a size larger than her tiny frame. At knee-length, it was conservative, but still highlighted her killer calves. A little gymnast that could bend to a man’s every need.
Whoa. Backtrack this shit, fast, Sir Perv-a-Lot.
She seemed to be a completely different person around her father. Away from him, she was confident, feisty, and a fucking headache. But now? Her eyes were on the floor, and her two nose rings were the only faint glimmer of her black, rebellious heart.
Badass, my ass.
Jordan nodded me a hello, and I returned the gesture. We met at the custom designed gold doors leading to the boardroom. I saw my three friends behind the fishbowl walls, hunched over the long, bronze table, discussing something among themselves.
“Reconsider.” Jordan smoothed his Armani tie. A statement, not a request. Not a fucking chance. I didn’t trust this man with a plastic spoon, let alone my company. In the six months since we’d been in business together, he’d killed four out of the five big deals I’d brought to Fiscal Heights Holdings. He’d slacked off on all of my big accounts—purposely—and blatantly tried to designate the greenest, least-experienced brokers for my clients. A week into our work together, I’d had my first unfortunate encounter with him. I’d overheard him talking on the phone on my way out from the office.
“No, not Rexroth. Let’s send someone else to try to save the Drescher and Ferstein account,” he’d said. An account I’d brought in, thank-you-very-fucking-much. I waited, loitering behind his office door like a General Hospital character and hating it. “He’s too…you know what. Too hood. Too angry. Not very talkative. I don’t want him anywhere near this account. Ask Dean to talk to them. He’s the kind of pretty boy charmer their CEO, Helena, would appreciate.”
And that was it. That’s when I knew Jordan Van Der Zee wasn’t only a racist, but that he wanted to push me out of the company. He had another thing coming, and it was going to boomerang straight into his face.