Page 10 of Baby for My Billionaire Rival

Jake

Ifeel like a total fool walking into the first class of our second two weeks of the MBA. I was dreading coming back all day yesterday, not wanting to get the stares and looks from my classmates. I can’t be sure it’s not partly my fault since I’ve sort of become the weird, quiet guy who keeps to himself. I thought I wouldn’t mind it too much, but I’m starting to think this whole, “I don’t need friends,” thing was more of a front than a reality.

I was so glad to get away from this environment and be back on the farm, working with the plants, tending to my animals, and being around family. Where I could be myself without apology. For a few days I even thought, “To hell with it! I’m not going back!”

However, all it took was a few calls from investors for me to realize how entirely out of my element I still am.

See, my dad passed away about a year ago. Unexpected. Heart attack. Working way too hard and smoking way too many cigarettes. I took up the torch of the business after he was gone. Trouble was, I was the behind-the-scenes guy and he was thebusiness guy. He fielded the calls, went to the meetings, and schmoozed with people. He had a knack for that kind of thing.

I just don’t. But being the oldest boy in my family, it’s my job to take up the reins and move forward. My brothers work on the farm and do the dirty work. And my mom still keeps the house, bless her heart. The grief, though, has hit us all in different ways.

If I can finish my MBA and follow in Dad’s shoes, I feel like that will make me closer to him somehow.

And Simmonses aren’t quitters. Period.

In an attempt to fit in better at school, I thought maybe taking a different direction with my clothing might make me stand out like a sore thumb a bit less. However, this polo shirt was made for guys who golf and I’ve never picked up a club in my life. The light green shirt with a yellow emblem makes me look more like an Easter Egg than a grad student. I’ve also slicked back my hair with some of my brother’s pomade.

“Aren’t you just darling? Like a fresh batch of speckled puppies,” Mama said on my way out the door this morning.

If I had had time to change, I would have done so on the spot. No one wants to be told they’re looking “darling” when going on trial in front of a jury of their peers.

Still, though, I keep to myself. After the first day, I made sure to stake my claim on a spot further back in the room. I don’t need to be up front with all the action. I just need to take my notes and mind my own business.

As I pull out my notebook and pen, a chill runs up my spine before I even hear her or see her. But I know she’s just walked in.

Caroline.

It’s an unspoken fact to everyone that we are enemies. We know how it started, but no one else does. At least not from my perspective. Maybe they know hers. How she made a mistake and tried to apologize, but I just wasn’t having it. If people think I’m an asshole for that, well, then so be it.

I try to stay out of her way and she stays out of mine. And that fact that she’s the social butterfly of the class makes it painfully obvious to everyone that she avoids speaking to me.

I don’t look her way as she walks down the central staircase of the lecture hall. But in my periphery, I see she’s being followed by Amy Trilby and a couple other girls from our cohort. I feel her eyes on me, making my heart lurch. I wish I could just disappear, become a pile of dust and a glop of pomade. It was so childish of me to think I could ever pretend to be one ofthem.

I finally dare myself to look up and our eyes meet. Warm brown eyes, crinkled at the corners. Is she smiling? I can’t tell.

As soon as she sees me looking, she looks away. And so do I. That was obviously a mistake. We can go back to our mutual hatred in three… two… one.

“Let’s talk ethics, huh?” Fig says, taking a seat on the front of her desk.

We’ve been discussing corporate responsibility for the last hour or so which has put everyone on edge. I don’t have anything to worry about, at least not that I’m aware of. Daddy went green around the time Al Gore was president. Too bad he couldn’t get himself off those cigarettes too.

“Products to consumers,” she says. “How the product gets into the consumers’ hands. Now we’ve discussed employee treatment, we’ve discussed pricing, but what about the actual product?”

A hand with a pen between its fingers goes up in the first row. “What about if we’re not dealing with a physical product?” one of the bros asks.

I shudder to think I might be able to fit in with one of them today in my pastel.

“Okay fine. Actual products or in the cloud or in the –“ Fig crosses her arms. “You know what I mean, Schwartz. The question still stands.”

Crickets.

Fig looks over the rim of her glasses. “Oh, come on. This group? Quiet. Malarkey.” She scans all of us, then gestures to Caroline. “Gladstone. How do you get your product in the hands of your customer?”

Caroline sits up straight, her blonde curls bouncing. I roll my eyes. Just those curls bouncing make me annoyed. Only women in movies have hair like that. Well, women in movies and Caroline Gladstone. “You have to identify your customer and clientele base before you can think about distribution.”

“Good answer, Gladstone,” Fig grins.

I’ll hand it to Caroline, she may give off dumb blonde energy, but she’s anything but. Her answers are always on the money, even when Fig calls on her out of the blue. I’m… begrudgingly impressed. But I’d never admit it to her.

---