Page 52 of Tender Offer
Preston takes my face in his hands. “I don’t want to think about the man I have to be for other people. This is me—the real me. I know we don’t have much time together, but I want you for however long you’ll have me.”
“Preston. I have to—”
“All I want is the real you, Puff. Not the you that you give to everyone else. Can you do that?” I pull away to object but fall short at his silent plea. “I just fired someone who only got close to me for personal gain. I can’t take more deceit.” His jaw tenses. “Please, Puff. Give me the real you.”
He rises to his knees at my nod and seals his body to mine.
I want to tell him everything before we get too deep, but it’s too late. There’s no doubt in my mind I’ve fallen for him. Our lives are too different for anything to go beyond the time we have left. If I tell Preston I’m not Heather, it will crush him. Should he decide to toss me away like everyone else who tried to use him, I have no safety net out here. I only want him, but would he see it that way?
We only have six more months before I fly back to California. Until then, I’ll give him what he wants.
I can give him me.
Chapter 27
Preston
Now
“Idon’t give a shit what you thought! I’m the CEO. I expect an update before the end of the week. Am I clear?”
The line goes quiet. I’m a patient man, but I won’t repeat myself.
“Crystal clear, Mr. Donnelley,” Simon quips through his veneers, no doubt mentally cursing me for the formal salutation I demand.
It’s only a matter of time before he whines to my father. I give him a head start by slamming the headset into the base.
Prick.
Nonna would light me up with a wooden spoon if she heard me talk like that to an elder. Lionara Parisi is seventy-eight, but I still need to dodge the trajectory of her wrath. Then again, if shewere here, she’d probably turn her spoon and sandal on Simon Nottidge for messing with her grandson.
It’s rare for me to raise my voice, inside of the office or out. But my father does it all the time, and if his lackeys insist on testing me, consider class in session.
I’m no longer the scrawny kid who was forced to sit in the back of conference rooms before getting shipped off to boarding school. I grew into my gangly body, and now I fill out tailored suits and size thirteen shoes.
I tower over men like Simon who made me feel small growing up. It must be a mind fuck for the ones who are still around to call me boss. My edict is an iron fist when tried, and Simon will get a lesson he’ll never forget.
The next phase of our sustainability initiative rolled out six months ago. A profitable portfolio of hotels and resorts satisfies shareholders, but I want to do more than line pockets. The Donnelley Brand underwent an overhaul in the last five years to be more environmentally conscious. We reduced our water and energy consumption with new systems. Reliance on single-use plastics is now a past practice, with alternatives in place sourced from companies that champion responsible disposal.
Investing in local economies through food procurement was an initiative implemented across all properties. General managers had a full year to work with their food and beverage managers and create a plan to source food from regional producers where possible. Only one was dumb enough to defy me and think he’d get away with it.
“Motherfucker,” I mumble over the report KD provided me. Thousands of dollars wasted on flying in food that was available at nearby farms.
Simon Nottidge is an arrogant shit who’s too mediocre to be anything other than ordinary. Placing him in charge of our New York hotel was an act of grace my father bestowed upon hislongtime friend. Simon was fresh out of failing through an MBA bought and paid for by his family’s legacy, and my father knew he would never reach the executive suite without his help.
Stephanie saunters through my open door with a tablet in hand. “I rearranged your schedule and set up a call with your brother first thing tomorrow,” she says to the device in a tone more pleasant than my roar of a few seconds ago. Her eyes lift to the navy suit coat I tossed over the sofa hours ago, then to the papers scattered across my desk. “Can I help?”
“No, thank you. That will be all tonight.” I peer down at the Manhattan report, my palms pressed into smooth wood.
A headache the size of a pain in my ass strums the vein protruding against my forehead. I ignore it and glance up through black-rimmed glasses at Stephanie, who’s still in the same spot.
“Your feet stuck?” I eye the heels she walked in with that haven’t taken her back through the door.
She became my executive assistant after Marie retired last year. Stephanie is savvier with technology and keeps pace with my demanding schedule, but she doesn’t hold a candle to the woman who was around since I learned how to walk.
Marie told me stories about my mother and a different version of my father, one I’ve yet to meet. How she survived his wrath for so long is a testament to her pure heart. Marie stuck by my father after my mother’s death, even when he hired a revolving door of second assistants to fuck. I’ll never understand her loyalty to my family, but I’m happy she moved to Suffolk to be with her son and grandchildren.
I lift a brow at Stephanie, who seems determined to pluck the only nerve I have left today. She casts her mascara-lined grimace at me, and I punt it right back.
