Page 34 of Return Billionaire to Sender

“The firm’s not actually for sale,” Lawrence says as soon as the waiter leaves. “It’s a family-owned business and the father wants to pass it on to the son.”

“I don’t understand. I thought these were negotiations to buy it.” I pass on the mussels, even though I desperately want to try them. But if this is a split check and I don’t eat any, maybe I’ll get out cheaper. How did I not think of the expense of being here? What will I do when I run out of money? I know that my friends would help me out if I asked, but I really don’t want to do that. They’ve given me so much already.

“The father says he’s open to selling but he’s not at all open to it, and everybody in the world knows it,” Nisha says, pink hoops swinging. “He just wants to sit down with Malcolm and educate his son what a negotiation looks like. Basically, it’s a free consultation session that the owner is trying to pass off as a series of purchase negotiations. We think he also wants to see what Malcolm might do with the company. Spoiler alert: Malcolm would break it apart, fire everybody, and use the infrastructure for his own purposes.”

“And all the people would lose their jobs?” I ask.

“Yeah. But that’s what the owner will have to do, eventually, too,” Nisha says. “Trucking is dead. Most of those people will be out of work in five to ten years either way.”

“Why is Malcolm wasting his time with this whole thing if he knows the man’s just using the sessions to educate the son and pick his brain?” I ask. “Malcolm doesn’t strike me as somebody who would be into…”

“Charitable acts?” Lawrence offers with his trademark impish grin.

Coralee chuckles.

“He’s not,” Walt says. “Malcolm thinks he can change the guy’s mind. Pretty unlikely.”

Coralee raises a fork. “Malcolm has done the impossible before.”

Walt leans in and says, “Malcolm is an expert at getting people to do things that they never intended to do. Let that be a warning to you.”

I nod.

A bread basket comes. It smells amazing. People pass it around without taking any, but I go for it, slathering on a creamy layer of butter and chomping right in like a barracuda. It’s pure heaven.

“Malcolm negotiating is a thing of beauty,” Nisha tells me. “He’ll try and reshape the man’s thinking about the situation. Get it so that it’s him and this guy collaborating together against the realities of modern trucking.”

“Wow,” I say. “He just doesn’t strike me as a people person.”

Nisha shrugs. “You know how some comedians and actors and musicians can be really shy, but when they get up on stage it’s like they’re a completely different person? It’s like that.”

“My advice to you, though?” Coralee says. “In terms of your work with him? Keep him out of your head. Once he starts repeating things you say and askinghowandwhatquestions, that’s how he gets into your head. And then he reshapes your thinking and makes you his bitch.”

“Oh,” I say. “Yikes.”

“Elle will be fine,” Nisha declares confidently. “Don’t forget—she’s a master of emotional intelligence. He won’t be able to reshapeherthinking.”

“Do you have actual lessons you’re teaching him?” Walt asks. “Emotional intelligence type things?”

“Yes,” I say. “I am definitely trying to raise his emotional intelligence…in a way…”

They’re all looking at me, waiting for more.

“Malcolm Blackberg. Probably not the most eager student you’ll encounter,” Coralee says.

Walt snorts. “There’s nothing wrong with his emotional intelligence. He just hates everybody.”

Lawrence does that jokey thing people do when they put their hand to their mouth and cough and say some words really fast. “Cough-understatementoftheyear-Cough,” he says.

Nisha smiles. “You have quite the job ahead of you.”

It’s subtle, but they’re all letting me know that I can speak freely.

I put down my knife. “I know what I am,” I say. I’m thinking here about what the real Stella said to me in the elevator. “There are the coaches who help executives who want to build their skills, to guide leaders who are excited to learn and grow. And then there are the coaches who are sent in as a slap on the wrist. A punishment.” I close one eye and tilt my head, giving them a fun smile—I’m channeling my friend Tabitha here. “Am I that second kind of coach? Yes. Yes, I am.”

I can feel the group relax now that I’m talking real.

Nisha laughs. She has an easy, bell-like laugh that I love. “Erp!” she exclaims.

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