Page 5 of Some Like It Hott

“Me neither, until my grandfather died.”

“But if you don’t show up?—”

I nod. Trust Franklin to immediately grasp the situation. “As far as I can tell, if I don’t hear Weggers read the letter, the clock won’t start ticking on whatever bullshit project I’ve been assigned postmortem. I’ll have to pay the piper eventually, but hopefully it won’t happen until I’m installed in that managing director’s office, with you safely by my side.”

It never hurts to remind people what’s at stake for them. And indeed, Franklin’s eyes get wider at the mention of the managing director’s office that we will both be enjoying in a few short weeks.

“Why are we still talking about this?” I ask him.

“We’re not,” he says. “We’re talking about how I’m about to confirm your Sagrada reservation and call your car for lunch with Damon and Ella.”

“Good man.” I grab my messenger bag—laptop inside—and head for the door.

As I step outside my office, I see a small gathering of people, and my mood—already sour—shifts for the worse. One of the men is David Olafssen, who has been a thorn in my side since we were just-out-of-college analysts fighting for the best assignments. It’s definitely no better now that we’re seasoned senior veeps jockeying for the same promotion.

Because of the big client I just scored, I’m winning at the moment—assuming I can get this merger pushed through relatively quickly and before David comes up with something to outmaneuver me. And I know I can get it through—because I’m that good. I just need to keep my head down and work like a dog for a few more weeks, and I’ll have done it.

I’ll have proved, once and for all, that my grandfather was wrong. I can succeed in New York finance.

“Nice work, Hott,” David calls out, and damn, it feels good. For about 2.2 seconds, until he says, “I’m hot, too, big man. Just brought in AmbiScreen.”

Damn it. AmbiScreen is at least as big a player in tech as MegaStar is in entertainment, and a win right now could put David back in the running for the coveted promotion.

But I’m not worried.

I didn’t get as far as I’ve gotten by letting a little competition put me off my game. In fact, I thrive on competition. I eat it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

I shrug. “Now things get fun,” I say.

“Preston Hott,” a voice says behind me, at about mid-back height. I spin and?—

Oh, shit.

It’s a short balding man wearing a cat-who-swallowed-the-canary expression.

Arthur Weggers, my late grandfather’s irritating little attorney, stands there with a sheet of cream paper in his hand. I recognize that cream paper. I have nightmares about that cream paper.

“How did you get in here?” I demand. Security should be better than that.

“You can thank me for that,” David says cheerfully. “He was downstairs arguing with security, and I asked him what he was here for. When he said it was a legal matter concerning you, I knew you’d want me to send him up.”

Of course David sent Weggers up. While there are plenty of people at Grantham-Hoyer who would be happy to sell me out,David has the most at stake—and he’s happy to play dirty. The idea that a lawyer wanted to serve me with papers probably made his entire day.

I can’t let Weggers read that letter.

“You want me to read it? Or do you want to?” Weggers asks, all wide-eyed innocence.

“I want to tear it into shreds and flush it down the toilet?—”

“Let the man read your letter,” David says, all mirth. He leans against the wall, the picture of relaxed nonchalance. Settling in for the show.

I grit my teeth.

“Thank you,” Weggers says to David.

“Someone call security,” I command, but I’m surrounded by people who are bored and jonesing for some drama—and who wouldn’t mind if I got taken down a notch—so no one does.

In case Franklin hasn’t heard the commotion, I pull out my phone and text him:Get security up here right now.

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