Page 12 of Miss Matched

He shuts the door behind him, but not before giving a final, heated look toward Tiffany’s desk.

“If she were my assistant—”

“She’s not.” I cut him off, giving him a stern look. He’s a workplace harassment case waiting to happen, and that’s only if Tiffany’s girlfriend doesn’t knock him square in his gut first.

Samson lets out an annoyed sigh and sinks into one of the chairs across from me. He undoes a button on his jacket and runs the pads of his fingers over his perfectly slick blonde hair. If I could fire Samson without the board complaining about cutting ties with one of our largest share holders, I would in a heartbeat.

There was a time Samson wasn’t the slippery person sitting in front of me. When we met, we were fresh out of business school, partying hard at a dive bar in the worst part of the city. His band was playing, and we bonded over old-fashioneds and our mutual desire to build a real estate development empire. About a year after starting Vincent Development, I brought him on, thinking it would help to have a friendly face in a sea of snakes.

At first, I was right. But money changes people. Some more than others. So, as business exploded, the shaggy-maned drummer disappeared, and I learned trust wasn’t just something to be earned, but kept over time.

“How did the meeting go?” he asks.

“You know how it went.” I glare at him. “Thanks, by the way.”

“I tried to call you.”

“I’m aware.”

Samson folds his hands on his knee. “I tried to warn you to be more careful. If you wanted to party at Nirvana, you could have just asked me. There are discreet ways—”

“That’s not my scene.” I cut him off again. He’s making my skin itch. “Stacia and I were picking up some paperwork, that’s all.”

“Of course,” he says with a wink.

“Cut to the chase. What do you want?”

I lean back in my chair and watch him scan my office like he’s already arranging his furniture in his head. Even when he isn’t smiling, there is a grin in his eyes.

Plotting.

Planning.

Destroying.

What he does best.

“I’m offended you’d think I want anything. I’m here as a friend. We were that once, right? Friends?”

My teeth grind against each other. “Friends don’t sell stories to the press to weasel shares.”

“They also don’t sleep with the other one’s girlfriend.” His stare is direct.

We’ve come full circle, just like we always do. He doesn’t trust me, and I don’t trust him. I could explain for the hundredth time that his ex was the one who came onto me, that she’d insisted she was single, that she’d purposefully sought me out, and that I felt like shit once I learned the truth. But it hasn’t gotten us anywhere in the past, and it sure as hell won’t get us anywhere now.

“What’s the plan, then?” he asks.

His foot taps against the leg of my desk, and I realize he’s anxious about being cut out of the meeting last night. I was under the impression he showed up this morning to gloat, but maybe it’s information he’s after. Clearly, the board hasn’t updated him, and it isn’t sitting well.

I spin my chair toward the wall of windows that line my office. The whole city is laid out beneath us, and there’s a perfect view of the water.

“Zac,” he presses.

“Damage control,” I say.

Samson lets out an irritated breath. “I assumed as much, but what’s the plan? With this circus, I assume they want to create some space between that article and the company. Just until the dust settles, of course.”

So that’s what this is about. A power play. Samson is hoping the board will use distance as a tactic for saving the company. And in that void, he’ll graciously step in and take my place.

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