Page 97 of 6+ Us Makes Eight (Baby Makes Three)

Sophie Madison

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Jude

If I weren't rich, I would have had a much harder time getting through the day.

People could say all they wanted, but money made shit easier. Die mad about it, was what I told them. They were probably happy with their fifty grand a year and fuel-efficient cars. But that didn’t work for me, which was why I worked so damn hard for everything.

Maverick said I told others to do the hard work, but at least I had the damned ideas to begin with.

I’d started the day with a workout, as I did every Tuesday. I met my trainer at the gym, spent a good hour busting out some frustration, and then had my chef cook an egg breakfast before my driver took me to work. Most of the time I drove, but the worst thing after an arm workout was working a stick; my ’69 shift had a really heavy wheel.

All was well until I sat in front of my computer and read my own emails, instead of letting my assistant do it.

Maverick had been up my ass for the past few months. He wanted to tighten things up, and that included not letting assistants see too much behind the scenes since not all of them had signed NDAs. Maverick and I worked too hard to have some weasel selling secrets.

Right out of college, we’d started this brokerage company from the ground up. We’d met in college—the oh so original roommates story. He’d thought I was some punk with tattoos, and I’d thought he was a rich brat from the valley, but both of us were wrong.

I guess he’d been partially right about me though. I’d had a full sleeve of tattoos back then, but now I only had two. The main difference, though, was that I’d become worth billions of dollars.

I continued sorting through my emails, seeing that the ones from the stock account managers didn’t look as good as normal. However, I chalked that up to the sudden influx of bankruptcy in some big toy company. This job was all about connecting dots and making shots in the dark. So I saved notes for a meeting later with Maverick; we never made decision about the company alone.

Our team was small, but efficient, with no need for a board and seven partners. There was just us as partners and principal owners. Nonetheless, we were starting to see some lag thanks to our two old-fashioned senior brokers—proof of why we needed someone new and fresh to help make good choices. Someone preferably right out of college so that they could actually remember shit. It took a lot to keep a company running, so hiring new and qualified people was important.

I rose from my desk to get the stack of paper applications from the mail. Maverick liked being old-fashioned, claiming it made it easier to see things like resumes, letters of recommendation, and work history when it was written down.

“Besides, computers crash,” he always reasoned.

The manila folders were thick and landed on my desk with a thud. I groaned to myself and settled on the couch, ready for a long afternoon. The packets were so thick because we required so much, including photos of the applicants to weed out any moles or potential spies. This was a cutthroat industry and everyone had a price for their secrets, or even their company’s secrets. So there were always people willing to work for rival companies to bring down their former company. Our methods ensured that never happened to us though. We did background checks on applicants before they even had their initial interview.

As I continued sorting through the applications, none of them stood out to me. They all simply had the regular stuff—clean college records, internships, short starter jobs.

I was just about to call it quits when my eyes landed on the application for a Henley Cates. I read the resume first, seeing that she’d done multiple short internships at other companies, a few even bigger than ours. The applicant pool was specifically for a corporate lawyer—someone who could fight our battles before we even knew they existed.

Henley Cates seemed good, and that was before I even got to her picture.

Damn.

If I’d had her in the office now, it wouldn’t have been good for anyone, especially me. She was stunning. Just looking at her photo, I began to have inappropriate thoughts about wrapping her red hair around my fingers. Her face was soft and sweet, the kind of innocent look I shamefully wanted to defile. I knew not to hire someone based on looks, but whoever made that rule hadn’t seen Henley. Plus, I’d never been one for following rules…

I stood with her application in hand, prepared to match it with the file number on our online portal to set up an interview. But after further thought, I decided to talk it over with Maverick first.

As if on cue, he walked into my office without knocking.

“What if I had been jacking off?” I said as he shut the door.

He scowled. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’d seen it. We need to talk.” His movie-star good looks were twisted in frustration. Even his suit jacket was undone—a rare sight. Sighing, he poured himself a scotch, also strange considering he never drank during the day.

He took a seat in the chair before my desk.

I crossed my arms. “I have to talk to you too. About the applicants.”

“I fucking forgot about that,” he said after downing his drink. He ran a hand across his face and through his hair, which wasn’t as well kept as it usually was.

“How about another drink?”

He nodded and held out his glass. I poured him more scotch and took some for myself while he stewed for a moment.

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