Page 7 of Handling the CEO

I knock briefly and I notice my VP getting up from her chair and opening the door for me. Her guest’s long dark brown hair, slightly curled around her shoulders is flowing down her back. A bold colored dress looking amazing against her caramel skin tone and a black blazer catches my eye. However, she isn’t turning towards me at all, like I don’t even matter. I frown.

“Jon, so glad you managed to handle that emergency in the hangar.” Michaela winks exaggeratedly as clearly, she had to invent something, so Ms. Jara didn’t realize we completely blew the meeting with her. “Let me introduce you to Dahlia, the most talented programmer in aerospace,” she continues sweetly, sucking up to our guest.

Dahlia Jara picks up her Prada bag off the floor and slowly rises from the seat, and as she turns to me, all I can see again is... brown eyes full of fire. The surprise in her gaze matches my own as the hot shop assistant from last week somehow transforms into the hottest woman in the world in a figure-hugging dress, red lips, and wavy hair. The daggers in her eyes return abruptly, however.

“Hangar emergency, was it?” she asks in a similar tone to Mike’s, but clearly spotting a cover-up from a mile away.

Michaela slowly looks from her to me and back and continues the intros.

“Jonathan McMaster, our CEO here at McAv Aviation.” As I just continue to glower at Avril—uh, DJ—Dahlia and she at me, my VP gently tries for a fake cough, and I wake up and offer her my hand in greeting.

Little minx looks at my palm like it’s something off the bottom of her shoe but shakes it, her long delicate fingers with fuck-me red nails I vividly remember scratching my back encompassed in my large hand.

We hold the handshake as the heat we had last week uncoils between us. An electric field is palpable and flares just as the last time at the shop, despite the death glares.

How did I think she would ever be boring?

Mike makes a funny throat noise again, interrupting our stare-a-thon.

“Ms. Jara was just telling me about the latest software she is working on—what was it? Weather predictor?”

“Yes,” Dahlia says slowly, breaking away and looking at Mike, “an improved weather predictor reading and processing data from thousands of satellites. It uses statistic interpolation to predict up to 3 days in advance exact conditions in a certain area.”

The software sounds fantastic, but something about her makes me just want to poke the bear and I ask.

“We are already using the best-in-industry weather predictor. What makes your software worth our time? The customers of our private jets expect the best. How would yours surpass that?” I know, dick comment, but expecting that flash of fury in her makes my blood heat up. I can feel my VP’s face pale as she is shocked by my rudeness.

Dahlia opens her mouth to answer immediately and probably blast me all over the office, but I can see she first takes a breath in a practiced stance. Suspect I was milliseconds away from getting eviscerated, and now just the tint in her cheekbones showing her ire.

“Though ‘Cloud9’ is an adequate software,”, she winces as ‘adequate’ is clearly not adequate at all in her view, “my code’s data accuracy would ensure circa 10% fuel reduction and better cancelation preview.”

I hear Michaela gasp in the background as she is checking a ping on her phone but overhears Dahlia’s statement, which could save us millions if accurate.

“In that case I suppose you wouldn’t have an issue if my team checked your predictions and statistics,” I volley with contempt. Ms. Jara assumes quite a lot if she thinks I will just take her at her word when ‘Cloud9’ is used throughout the aviation industry by all airlines as the benchmark weather software.

She licks those sultry lips and tilts her head, probably preparing to bite mine off.

“If your team are experts in probability calculations, they can obviously have a look. My software, however, is my own. I expect full control and ownership of all programming.”

Ownership of the code? Full control? That does it, again this woman is getting my blood pressure through the roof.

“Listen here, Ms. Jara, anything you code on as part of this job is work product so belongs to my company,” I growl as I make an aggressive step towards her.

“Listen here, Mr. McMaster,” she imitates my tone and holds her position out of sheer arrogance, “your company requested this meeting. I could go to any other of your competitors. Look at Hove’s code if you want and tell me who else can replicate that for you, but I won’t hold my breath. My code is my own. You can rent exclusive usage, but trust me, it won’t be cheap. I really like my Louboutin's,” she throws at the end, making my eyes go to her shoes, taking her in as I go.

Fantastic boobs I spot under that blazer, grab-able waist and long legs in those stilettos make me want to toss her on Mike’s desk. Better yet, drag her into my office and eat her up.

Or maybe just continue this little fight, as it is her feistiness that captures my attention just as much as her body, maybe even more so.

She gives me a brazen once over as well, but before she can throw some more vitriol at me, my friend interrupts.

“Loving this deathmatch you both got going on here but would appreciate it if you could please stop before you start throwing furniture at each other,” my VP says, clearly needing to arbitrate between us.

We shamefully move back from each other, looking at nothing in particular, but Mike continues, “Just got a news alert you really need to see, Jon. Sorry Dahlia, but this affects you too.”

DJ

Whatwerethechancesof me running into Him again, and what were the chances of him being the CEO of the company I was in discussions with? Pretty high, it seems. He still pushed all my buttons, and I had to resort to every angry management technique I know to not remove the head off his massively wide shoulders. That jackass assumed I would just work for him like a good little worker bee. I am a goddamn rock star, not here to be told what to do by his Holy Hotness.

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