Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
While true, the reminder is only a mild damper on my appreciation for the scene playing out in front of me.
Before I know it, Riley is telling Grace it’s time to go, I’m kissing Grace on the forehead, and they’re out the door, heading to school. I look around the kitchen, feeling like the energy dropped by ninety percent with their exit. I take a deep breath, and a sense of rightness settles over me.
I didn’t think Riley was the right nanny for us, but I’m changing my mind. I even wish I could participate in the pizza-movie marathon party too, though it’s not my usual style. But it’d be infinitely better than going to what promises to be a boring and unneeded dinner with an investor who needs a bit of handholding before making the decision to sell to Blue Lake. It’ll be a waste of time, stroking his ego and paying for his fancy meal and whiskey, when I could be at home.
A sharp, stabbing pain shoots from my foot up my shin, and I jerk beneath the table. I glare at the three other people seated with me and easily find the culprit because there’s only one person who would dare to shove their stiletto heel into my foot. And it’s not Mrs. Timmons, who is wearing sensible block heels, nor Mr. Timmons, who has on Oxfords.
I grit my teeth and scowl at my sister, Kayla, who stares right back, unbothered by my ‘what the fuck’ glare. In truth, her face is utterly placid, her smile as charming as ever. It’s only in her eyes that she’s screaming at me to get my shit together… now.
I tune in to what Mr. Timmons is saying, annoyed with myself that I zoned out. I don’t do things like that, especially when it’s my acquisition on the line.
“I just never thought the day would come when…”
Jesus fuck. Is he still droning on about how he thought he’d eat, sleep, breathe, and die in his office and never dreamed he’d end up selling ownership to a vulture capital company—ahem, I mean venture capital—like Blue Lake?
Yes, he is. Timmons thinks he’s the first man to ever devote himself to his company, as if he discovered sacrificial company building and quite possibly capitalism.
He’s blathered his way through cocktails, the salad course, entrees, dessert, coffee, and now another drink, and while this is a Big Deal—yes, with capital letters—to him, to me, it’s simply the next contract, the next negotiation, the next deal. And there will be another after this, ad infinitum.
Fortunately, he’s sipping the barest remainder of his expensive brandy so this dinner will be coming to a close any minute. Especially if I have anything to do with it.
“I know change can be difficult, but the zeros on the check help alleviate some of that,” I say dryly. Mr. Timmons blinks, his face immobile, and I realize my attempt at humor is ill-placed and unwelcomed. Trying to save the moment, I add, “As does the ability to prioritize things you’d like to focus on, like your lovely wife, family, and the other potential business opportunities you’ve mentioned.”
Mrs. Timmons reaches out, taking her husband’s hand with a soft smile. “It’s time, dear. Mr. Harrington knows it, I know it, and though you don’t want to admit it, you know it too.”
He stares at the way her thumb is tracing back and forth over his hand and then sighs. “Okay, Harrington. Send me the contract. I’ll sign it.”
I give a clipped nod. “It’ll be in your inbox tonight. We’ll take good care of what you’ve built,” I vow.
He huffs out an ironic laugh as he unflinchingly looks me in the eye. “No, you won’t. You’ll strip it down, sell the pieces, and divest completely once you’ve sucked it dry. I know that, so let’s not pretend this is a pretty transfer of ownership. I know what you do.”
I’d feel offended except what he said is the truth. Blue Lake Assets isn’t in the business of running textile factories, which is what we’re buying from Mr. Timmons. We’re not going to come in like financial saviors, reassuring the employees that they’ll have jobs under our ownership, and take over his existing contracts with buyers. We’ll do exactly what he said—use what he’s built to maximize our profits however it works best for us, and when we’re done, Timmons Textiles will cease to exist.
But Mr. Timmons will be a wealthy man. A very wealthy man.
“Be that as it may, it is what’s best for you and your company,” I reply coldly, “and mine.”
His nod is as much of an agreement as he’ll give, and he places his napkin on the table. Mrs. Timmons quickly follows his lead, doing the same and rising when Mr. Timmons pulls her chair out. “I’ll be expecting to hear from you. You’ll have the contract back by Monday.”