Page 51 of Christmas in Vines

“As sure as I am in your ability to grasp the terms and conditions,” Dad said sternly. “You don’t get to dictate what happens in my company, Winslow. Now, please, sit down and let us go on with the meeting.”

Maxwell’s mouth twisted, but his father took his seat and gave us a collective stony look. “Go on then.”

Chamberlin began defining the terms of the buy-in and the powers Maximillian would have when he became a partner, and he outlined the offers Winslow had put on the table to expand our business. As the lawyers spoke, Maxwell’s smug smirk grew haughtier and self-assured and when we opted to have coffee at the table instead of going to the break room, he got veritably arrogant.

“Are we clear on these terms?” Paula asked, her sharp eyes flicking from Maxmillian to his son.

“Yes, yes,” Winslow huffed, and gave her a ‘give-me’ motion to the papers in her hand. “Just let me—”

The door pushed open, and I looked up to see—Tyler walking in, only this time, instead of a set of dusty jeans and thick coat, he was in a sleek blue suit and had blond hair. He was not alone. Another man came in with him, an older man in a dark suit and leather briefcase followed him.

Tyler’s eyes—the same shade of blue-green that had haunted my dreams of late—met mine and I held in a breath. His gaze was soft, apologetic, even tender, before his eyes slid away and they grew sharp.

Maxmilian’s face turned dark. “Who the devil are you to walk into a private meeting?”

“Has he signed the papers already?” Tyler asked Mr. Carmichael.

Stunned and confused as I was, Mr. Carmichael replied, “No. Why do you ask?”

“Because if he put one strike on that dotted line, Mister Clarkston, your company, the one you built up with your blood, sweat and tears, would become just another cog in the Winslow machinery,” Tyler said smoothly. “And I can prove it.”

Launching to his feet, Maxmillian slammed his hands on the table and practically roared. “Who the hell are you?”

“Cole Vega,” Tyler said, his eyes flickering to me and then to my dad. “Your secret investor who holds twelve percent.”

My ears were ringing. What the hell was this? A dream? A nightmare even? Was I hallucinating somewhere?

I mutely watched as the man, a lawyer, I presumed, took out a sheaf of papers and handed them to Dad while Tyler—well, Cole—took his seat with the board. “Those, Mister Carmichael, are the true state of your shareholder’s shares at the moment. A sheet Winslow was going to show you after he signed your contract. You’ll notice many shareholders have sold their shares to him because in true hostile takeover style, he went to buy them behind your back while waiting for the golden goose to lay its egg.”

Splotchy with red spots, Maxmillian growled, “That is a lie.”

“No, it is not,” Cole said calmly. “Even Herman has handed over his shares because you promised him a partnership in your newly founded, or, well, pardon me, to-be newly founded corporation. Isn’t that right?”

“Speculation and lies,” Herman spat, “There is no proof of this.”

“Oh really,” Cole said while pulling out a flash drive from his pocket and taking out a tablet from his briefcase. “I beg to differ.”

As he plugged the device in, a cold shiver ran down my back; this was not going to be good, I knew it.

Audio filled the air.

“…When are you going to start on it?”that was Maxwell’s incensed voice. “I gave you all the details you needed, Dad.”

Details? On what?

“Calm down, Maxwell,”Maxmillian said calmly. “We’re working on it. The offers have been sent, and some of them are taking the money. In due time, we’ll have enough to force our hand.”

“Well hurry the hell up.”Maxwell snarled. “They need to know you cannot cross a Winslow and get away with it.”

“Your father is right, Maxwell,”Uncle Herman said. “We’ve laid the groundwork, buying out the other shareholders and now we almost have enough. When they take our more than generous offer to buy in, your father’s shares, combined with mine, will be enough to take over Clarkston’s Ciders when the papers are signed.”

Cole clicked off—or possibly paused, “Does that sound like someone you know, Mister Clarkston?”

Dad was quiet for a long time before he said, “Herman? Is that you?”

“No, of course not,” Herman snarled. “That is some bullshit he conjured up. Frankly, I cannot see why you believe him.”

“Oh, is it? Maybe this one will make it clearer.” Cole replied then jabbed another button.

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