Page 117 of One Wealthy Wedding

“You have to eat.”

“Sorry, Mom,” she says, sticking out her tongue.

I lean in. Her eyes widen. “Do that again, and you won’t like what happens next.”

“Promise?” she asks, but her voice is higher than usual. I stand and start pulling ingredients from the fridge.

“Come on, show me what you’ve prepared on the company. I’ll make you dinner. I remember you liking pasta with vodka sauce, right?” A flash of memory comes to me—Cat helping my mom make sauce, and then me squeezing a tomato down her shirt.

“I do,” she says. “Good memory.”

I flash her a grin. “I’ll try to keep the tomatoes to myself this time.”

Her eyes fly wide, and she laughs. She covers her mouth.

“Why do you do that?” I ask.

Her hand lowers. “Do what?”

“Cover your mouth when you laugh.”

She stills. “I never noticed. It’s instinctual, I guess. A holdover from my prior life.”

Suddenly, I want to break something. “Well, don’t do it around me anymore. I’m adding it to the list.”

She looks like she wants to argue for a second, but instead, she says, “Okay, Theo.”

“You need graphs,” I say, pointing at her laptop with my fork.

“Graphs,” she says flatly.

She finished her dinner quickly, and I notice with no small amount of pride that she scooped up every bite of sauce. And now I’m talking her through a presentation that will be far better than the emails she just sent to the board.

“People like graphs.”

She squints. “Is this how you got so rich? Because honestly, I don’t see it.”

I laugh, letting my fork clatter into the bowl. “No, you brat. Stop mocking me while I help you.”

“Is that what you call this? I’m sure the graphs will win them over. You’re right.”

I growl under my breath at her. “Stand up. Time to practice.”

“Honestly,” she grumbles, but she stands. “This is totally the wrong outfit.”

My gaze rakes over the silk camisole and the sleep shorts. Her nipples are pebbled against the silk. Her bare legs make me think about how they felt wrapped around my waist, her weight pressing into my cock, her sighs in my ears.

“It’s fine,” I say shortly, shifting in my seat before I can get too turned on. “When you enter the room, you need to own it. The presentation we’re preparing will get you the meetings, and they’ll take place at Kings Lane, which means your turf, but the guests will be in the conference room when you arrive. You need to project as soon as you step through the door.”

“The meetings will take place at Kings Lane?”

“Of course they will.” I frown. “Unless you have a fiftieth-floor conference room with views of the Hudson that you’ve been keeping from me?”

“I hate you,” she says, but a smile is pulling at her lips.

“Right back at you,” I say, grinning at her. “Okay. Control the room. Start with the hard facts. Profit is down. Retention is down. That sort of the thing. Hit them with the numbers, not opinions.”

She blows out a breath and squares her shoulders. “Peterson International has been in decline since Gregory Peterson took over. Free cash flow represents only 20 percent of what it was the year before he became CEO.” Her voice strengthens as she continues.

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