Who is ready to meet Carver Jones in Battle of the Sexes? He’s a handful, friends. Ha!
I have an excerpt for you today as a little getting-to-know you. Read on …
“There’s a woman here to see you, Mr. Jones,” Marisa chirps through the line.
“Send her in.”
Swiping a set of files from the corner of my desk, I spread them in front of me in a haphazard, I’ve-been-doing-this-all-day, kind of way. Not that I haven’t been working since before the sun came up. I have. But that’s not the point.
The point is this: first impressions matter most. It sets the stage for every other interaction, regardless of the relationship. And the relationship I’m about to have with Amity Gallum, as co-CEO’s of Jones + Gallum, will be the most important one in my life.
Hell, it might be the only one in my life, but that’s irrelevant.
The door handle flicks. I bow my head and appear to be so invested in the numbers in front of me that I don’t hear it. I’ll force her to break the ice. I don’t break for anyone.
My stomach begins to knot as I wait for her to say something. I imagine her standing in the doorway, a load of binders in her hand, as she looks at me over the top of those clunky glasses she wore when we were kids. I hope to God she upgraded those in the last twenty years.
Frustration grows with each second she doesn’t bother to speak, and after more moments than I care to admit, I finally look up.
One thing is clear—this isn’t Amity Gallum. There’s no way this stunner is the braces-wearing, freckle-faced, nerdy little girl I knew in elementary school. No. Freaking Way.
After making a quick mental note to tell Marisa to not assume I know who is here to see me, I feast my eyes on the voluptuous visitor. My lips twist into a smirk as I try to keep myself composed. “Good afternoon,” I say smoothly.
“Yes, it is.”
It takes every bit of effort I can manage to keep my jaw from dropping. Even after all this time, I recognize that voice.
Black stilettos do nothing but extend long, lean legs that are capped off with a black skirt. A white top, rounded at the chest by a full set of tits, has a tailored black jacket on top. Loose, blonde curls touch her shoulders.
She. Definitely. Upgraded.
“Can I help you?” I grin, rifling through all the ways I can–and hope to be–helping her later.
Her blue eyes pin me to my chair, clearly unamused by my reaction to her “fuck me” body. “No, but I can help you find a restraining order if you don’t stop looking at me like that, Carver.”
“Like what?” I grin.
“Like you’re a ten-year-old boy that wants to pick me for Seven Minutes in Heaven.”
“You still think about that?”
“Yes,” she smiles. “You come to mind any time any guy is being an asshole.”
With a half-laugh, I try to rebound. “That’s no way to talk to your boss.”
A fire lights up her eyes. “Let’s get one thing straight: you are not my boss. We are co-CEO’s of this company.” Her narrow shoulders throw back, her mouth forming a tight, thin line. “If you think you’re going to bend me over, you have another think coming.”
“Do you prefer another position?”
“I don’t like you,” she glares. “I won’t like you. And,” she says, storming in and getting comfortable on the sofa across from my desk, “if you get in my way, I will make you pay.”