Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 61939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and held it out for me.
I stared at it.
It was a doodle of a suited man who looked suspiciously like me—with a knife in his neck. The words “you’re welcome, everyone” were scribbled on the handle.
“This is groundbreaking work from Miss Stone.” I rolled my eyes. “Truly.”
“Look at her words at the bottom…”
I glanced down and read her handwriting.
Offshore accounts.
Private investor payouts?
Quick private sale…
No escrow.
Handwritten & old records = Bernie Madoff vibes
Ponzi scheme?
Sweet Seasons might be a Ponzi scheme.
“No.” I dropped the sheet like it was on fire. “She’s wrong.”
“The cafes are a front, Harrison.” His voice trembled. “That’s what the private investors see but…it’s all backed by a pyramid scheme—well, a Ponzi scheme…”
The world blurred around me, and all I saw was gray.
I don’t fall for things like this. This type of thing doesn’t happen to me.
The fuzzy record-keeping. The fake jobs. The missing payroll. All that missing money…
As much as I needed this to be wrong, it was the only thing that made fucking sense.
That old bastard scammed me…
“Where is Mr. Lewis these days?” I asked. “Where the hell does he live?”
“I would tell you, but I think you might kill him.”
“Will, not might.” I gritted my teeth. “You think he knew?”
He shot me a look.
“Of course he knew.” I rubbed my temple. “How much of this company is propped up by the scheme?”
“Half of it,” he said. “The payments to the fake investors will stop in about six months, and then…”
“It’ll hit the news and everyone will think I was at fault.” I shook my head. “So, profit-wise, we’re not within striking distance of Starbucks?”
“We’re not even close.” He shook his head. “We’re at the starting point with prettier stores and fancier cups.”
Silence.
“Don’t tell Andrea you know anything,” I said. “Don’t tell anyone. Just have them keep finding alternate answers and bring me anything that Andrea has written and worked on the moment we get back.”
“You mean, help you draft a mass layoff and restructuring plan…”
“No.” I shook my head. “I want her notes.”
“You can’t possibly still want to helm this disaster show, Harrison,” he said. “This will take a lot longer to correct and there’s no guarantee you’ll be able to fix the core issue.”
“Our goal is to destroy you-know-who, so yes.” I looked at him. “I am going to continue running this, and we’re going to figure this out and win like always.”
He looked wary, but he nodded.
I picked up Andrea’s sheet and folded it before texting her.
Push our meeting to nine tonight.
Be there on time.
Thank you.
TWENTY (B)
ANDREA
“Welcome back, Miss Stone.” The doorman greeted me once I stepped out of the town car that evening. “Mr. Cross is expecting you.”
“I’m sadly aware.” I feigned a smile as he led me to the elevator and pressed the button for me.
Looking up at the numbers, I silently warned myself not to let him touch me, not to give in no matter how good his mouth felt against mine.
Or how damn good his fingers felt deep inside me…
Everly
FYI: I placed some pepper spray in your bag when I dropped by your job today. Use it if necessary
The pink lipstick tube you gave me?
Yup. He’ll never see it coming…
I held back a laugh as I arrived at his level. Stepping off, I took a deep breath before knocking on his door.
No answer.
I knocked again.
Nothing.
I started to scroll down to his name, but his door swung open, and I did a slow double take.
I’d never seen this man in anything except businesswear, and the sight of him in a white V-neck shirt that clung to his abs and light-gray sweatpants was short-circuiting my brain.
“Good evening, Miss Stone,” he said.
“Mr. Cross.”
“Is there a reason you’ve shown up wearing ripped jeans and a T-shirt?” he asked. “I told you this meeting was professional.”
“Then have you looked in the mirror to see what you’re wearing?”
“Fair enough…”
He lifted a wine glass to his lips and took me in for a few seconds before stepping back to let me inside.
“Follow me,” he said, walking me past rooms I’d explored before. He stopped in front of one I’d missed.
It was a windowless office with huge screens that flashed photos of buildings and businesses he’d taken over. On one of them, images of him, Aaron, Ciara, and that other guy slid by one by one.
“Have a seat,” he said, and I obliged.
He refilled his glass from a waiting wine bottle and looked at me.
“Would you like something to drink before we start?”
“Just water,” I said. “I don’t think I should drink alcohol around you.”
His lips curved into a smile and he slipped out of the room, returning with a glass carafe and a glass.
“Here you are,” he said, setting it in front of me.
He settled into his chair, watching me take slow sips—not saying a word.