Page 34 of Boss of Me
His eyes glitter at me as I back away clutching the plate. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist.”
I don’t know if he’s talking about himself or the dessert. Either way, I need to get out of there while I still can.
“Goodnight, Mr. Ransom.”
“Goodnight, Marlowe.” His darkly wicked voice trails after me. “Sweet dreams . . .”
Chapter Nine
gunner
Does this windbag ever shut up?
Seriously. Does he ever come up for air?
Seated at the head of the conference table, I glare at my senior VP of global quality assurance. He’s discussing the rollout of new government regulations, and I swear he hasn’t paused for a single damn breath. Has he always been this long-winded? What the fuck?
As he launches into another spiel, the last thread of my patience snaps.
“Enough.” My voice cuts through his babble, shocking him into frozen silence.
Nervous laughter sweeps around the Texas-sized conference table.
“Thank you for your update, Prentice,” I say with strained civility. “It’s been informative, but we need to move on to the next item on the agenda.”
“But I wasn’t finished,” he blusters, tapping his watch. “I still have two minutes allotted?—”
“You can email us the rest of your update,” I snap. “We’re moving on.”
This draws snickers from several other members of the senior executive team. We meet every Friday to review company priorities and address any issues that may have cropped up over the week. It’s a good way to keep the lines of communication open and make sure everyone’s on the same page. I implemented the practice when I started the company six years ago. The temperature check meetings—aka “temp-checks”—are absolutely essential to our organizational effectiveness.
So why do I feel as antsy as a Catholic schoolboy forced to sit through catechism class? Why do I want to strangle every last person at the table?
I rake an annoyed glare over their faces. “Whose asinine idea was it to schedule these meetings at two o’clock?”
There’s a ripple of uncomfortable throat clearing.
“Yours.” Maverick smirks at me from the opposite end of the table. “It wasyourasinine idea.”
I glower at him.
His pale blue eyes gleam with smug amusement. I hear a few furtive coughs and snickers.
Leaning back in my chair, I let my eyes circle the table, resting briefly on each face. “From now on, we’ll meet at ten o’clock.”
Surprised exclamations erupt around the room.
Maverick merely chuckles and shakes his head.
Sedonia Larson, our chief financial officer, rolls her eyes as if to sayThe crazy white boy is acting up again. Which is what she’s been saying about me since college.
“Ten o’clock doesn’t work for me,” protests our senior VP of corporate development. “I have a standing weekly appointment with my acupuncturist.”
“Not anymore. Pick another time. That goes for all of you,” I growl, looking around the table. “I’m making an executive decision, and I expect you to adjust your schedules accordingly.”
There’s a general murmur of confusion and disagreement, but one look at my face warns everyone to back down.
I don’t particularly care if they get angry. My brother and I have made them richer than their wildest dreams. They enjoy the best corporate perks and the prestige of working for one of the top global security firms. If they have to put up with my occasional bouts of assholery, that’s merely the price of admission.
