Page 62 of Negotiating Tactics

I wasn’t sure if it was his age, or, more than likely, the fact that he just didn’t give a fuck, but he would tease and talk shit without a second thought.

And as much as I liked to pretend otherwise, I enjoyed it.

My brothers were the one good thing that Prescott had given me, even though it had taken me years to come to the realization.

Still, I was staying in town, and as part of that, I wanted to try to build a relationship with them, maybe find just a hint of the family that I had been so desperate for as a child.

“They have the best burgers here,” Beau said as we sat.

“Sounds good. Two burgers,” I said to the waitress, who jotted the order down and walked away without a word. After she was gone, I faced Beau. “Why are you inviting me to lunch?”

“Because I feel like you are finally at the point that you won’t bite my head off for trying to hang out with you,” Beau said.

“I never bite your head off,” I countered.

Beau smiled with skepticism. “So, you’ve forgotten about the first time we met?”

“I haven’t forgotten,” I responded.

The memory came without effort.

My mother had died the year before, and the days since had been an unbreaking string of work broken up by a few hours of sleep followed by more work.

That particular day had been shaping up to be like the others.

Except that day, my sperm donor, the one who had given me nothing but twenty-three chromosomes and a last name, had dropped into my life like a grenade.

Not personally, of course.

No, that shit-heel couldn’t be bothered to come see me himself.

Instead, he’d sent a courier—a fucking courier—to summon me for a meeting.

I’d gone to the meeting with full intention of breaking Prescott’s fucking jaw and telling him what a piece of shit he was.

Had been about to do just that when Beau stepped in.

“Don’t interfere,” I’d said, my focus squared on Prescott. “The old man and I have shit to settle.”

“Interfere?” Beau had said, his eyes mischievous behind his glasses. “I’m trying to get a better view.”

That had disarmed me completely, and I slammed out of the office, determined to have nothing to do with any of the Wilders ever again.

Yet here I found myself sitting across from Beau, and even more surprisingly, happy about it.

I thought back to that meeting, again remembering that Prescott hadn’t had a chance to say a single word before I’d gone on the attack.

Maybe that was why he’d sent that letter.

I wasn’t sure because I still hadn’t read it, not sure I was ready to hear whatever Prescott had thought was important enough to leave for me after his death.

Wasn’t sure I ever would be.

“So, who do I have to thank?” Beau said after he took a huge bite of his burger.

“Thank for what?” I asked, taking a bite of my own.

“You seem chill. Centered. And I know Wilder DNA well enough to know that there’s definitely a woman involved,” he said.

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