“Of course you are, Wilder. But what’s made this company so successful is the male-female dynamic from your father and me.”
“So, from that, should I take it that you’ve hired a woman?”
“Yes. We’ve hired a female co-CEO to help you run the company. I love you, Wilder. You’re my son. You’re incredibly bright and talented. But, when it comes to women, you don’t have a clue. You don’t understand their wants and needs.”
I’m mortally offended by this. I know women’s needs very well, but it’s not like I can vocalize this to my mom. I mean, no guy wants to share his sexual expertise with his mother.
My brow goes up. “That’s a very sexist thing for you to say, Mom.”
My dad smothers a laugh.
My mom throws an annoyed glance at my dad and then looks back at me, her brows furrowed in annoyance. “I meant that you don’t understand their wants and needs when it comes to the actual items. That can only come from being a woman. And having both a male and female viewpoint helps enormously with the business we’re in. My view comes from a woman’s perspective—of actually wearing and understanding the product, the issues of materials and comfort as well as the look. Your father’s perspective is in sales and focused on branding. Together, we’ve been a formidable team. I want that for you.”
“I’m not marrying this chick.”
“Of course not!” My mother’s laugh tinkles around the room.
“Your mother just wants you to have a counterbalance, Wilder,” my dad says.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before now?”
“Because we weren’t sure that we were going to find the right person to fit the role.”
“And, now, you have?”
“Yes.”
“Just out of curiosity, what would you have done if you hadn’t found the right woman for the job?”
My mother’s shoulders lift. “We would have crossed that bridge when we came to it.”
I know my parents love me, but this sure does feel a lot like betrayal, and it tastes bitter as fuck.
“We’re not doing this to hurt you, Wilder. You know we’ve only ever had your best interests at heart.”
“Mmhmm.” I fold my arms over my chest. “And how long will I be co-CEOing for?”
My mom’s brows draw together. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, how long will I have to share my job for?”
My parents glance at each other and then back at me.
“Well, we’re not sure…exactly,” my mom answers.
“So, that means, I will one day have the company to run alone?”
My mother looks at my father again. But he’s looking at me.
“Yes,” he says decisively. “Wilder, you know the company will be yours when your mother and I are gone. And you can do as you choose with it then.”
“Well, I’m hoping you don’t go anytime soon, and I’d quite like to run the business solo well before then.”
“Let’s put a pin in this for now.” My mother claps her hands together, ending the conversation.
Put a pin in it? Jesus fucking Christ. We’re talking about my life here, and my mom wants to stick a pin in it.
But I know that pushing the issue right now will get me nowhere. I need to tackle this again—and soon—but at this moment in time, I need to deal with the crap they’ve just dropped in my lap.
“So, when do I get to meet this mystery woman?” Who’s stealing half of my company.
Okay, she’s not actually stealing it, but she’s definitely stealing half of my job.
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” I echo.
“Yes, she’s coming in first thing tomorrow morning to meet with you. And then, afterward, in the weekly meeting, we’ll formally announce her new role along with your step up as co-CEOs.”
Co-CEO. The word makes me want to vomit.
If I didn’t love my parents, I would legit strangle them right now. With my bare hands.
A day. I’ve got a motherfucking day to get my head around this…this curveball that they’ve thrown at me.
“I know you’re worried about this, Wilder, but Morgan is great, and you do actually already know her,” my mom says.
That brings my head up. “I know her?”
Please God don’t let it be someone I slept with. Not that I do much sleeping with the women I have sex with. I’m not one to hang around after the deed is done.
“Morgan told us that you went to Northwestern together,” my dad says.
Morgan. Northwestern. Went together.
This isn’t sounding good.
And knowing my fuck rate at Northwestern, my odds of not having screwed this chick are diminishing by the second.
I swallow past the dryness in my throat. “What’s her surname?”
“Stickford,” Mom says. “Morgan Stickford.”
Ah, hell.
Morgan Stick-Up-Her-Ass-Ford.
Relief and dismay sweep through me in equal measure.
Relief because I definitely didn’t sleep with her in college.
Dismay because she hated me in college.
Which was a shame because she was a pretty thing. Well, her face was, which was always on show—as her hair was habitually tied back into a ponytail—unlike her body, which was always covered up with ugly-ass big sweaters.
And she was so damn serious all the time. Hence the nickname Stick-Up-Her-Ass-Ford.
She never went to parties. She spent all her time either in the library or with her nose stuck up the professors’ asses.
I never once heard of her socializing or saw her with any friends. She was a stuck-up bitch who thought that she was better than everyone else. Me included.
Morgan Stickford took an instant dislike to me from the word go without even bothering to get to know me.
She came to the conclusion that I was an overprivileged, womanizing man-whore.
Okay, so I did have certain privileges growing up because of my parents’ success, and, yes, I had a job to walk straight into out of college, but believe me, my parents made me work for it. Nothing has ever been handed to me. I’ve earned everything I have.
And, sure, I liked ass. I still do. But, back then, I was young and horny. Hot college girls were everywhere, and I made sure to screw almost all of them.
Except for her.
Because she took one look at me and thought she had me pegged. When, in actuality, she knew fuck all about me.
Did it annoy the shit out of me? Sure, it did. But I wasn’t going to lose sleep over a stuck-up bitch who went around and made snap judgments about people she barely knew.
But then that was nine years ago. A lot can change in nine years. Maybe Morgan Stickford has changed.
Well, I hope to fuck she has because, for the short-term—until I get rid of her—I’m stuck with sharing my company with her.
Even though I had a shitload of work to get through today, I couldn’t focus on anything after the nuclear bomb my parents had dropped on me.
So, I did what every other person in my position would do.
I stalked Morgan online.
I might have known her back in college—not that I really knew her that well—but I definitely don’t know Morgan now.
I don’t know what she’s been up to in the last nine years. Or if she’s still a massive bitch.
And do you know what I got for spending my day researching her?
Fuck. All.
She doesn’t have a Twitter or Instagram account. She does have a Facebook account—well, if it’s hers. I could only find one account for a Morgan Stickford in Chicago. But that was locked down tight—just like her legs had been in college—so I figured it had to be her.
After my unsuccessful Morgan stalking, I sent the boys an SOS text and asked them to meet me at Doyle’s. It’s an Irish pub that’s popular with the after-work crowd. I like it there. The feel is laid-back, and the food is great. Not that I feel like eating. But drinking? I definitely feel like drinking. That shows how stressed I am. I rarely drink during the week.
I push through the door into Doyle’s. I see Cooper’s already here, sitting at the bar, sipping on a beer.