It doesn’t deter me. “I might have leaned in, but you want my mouth as much as I want yours. It’s going to happen sooner or later, consequences be damned. But remember this. Whatever happens between us,youdeserve to succeed.”
She blinks, and I push off, sliding back to my side of the car. “And one more thing,” I growl. “I. Do. Not. Pretend.”
I focus on the road ahead, but I feel her eyes on me.
After several beats, she pushes the tablet across to me. “We’re pitching this wrong.”
I dip my sight, scanning through her scribbles and calculations. “Enlighten me.”
“This family isn’t afraid of losing money. They’re afraid of losing themselves. Their name. Their story. Everything they’ve built.”
I study the numbers in front of me, the picture slowly forming into a crystal-clear option we haven’t considered before. “Go on.”
“We position this as a legacy partnership, not a takeover. We promise to preserve their brand identity. We offer a phased acquisition.”
She taps the screen, pointing to numbers in tiny cursive and continues, “Sixty percent now, the rest after three years.”
I look at the numbers and then at her. “With them staying on the advisory board?”
She nods eagerly, a ghost of a smile lighting up her face. Then she points at another formula. “I tried with two years, but that wouldn’t work for Vireon.”
No Excel spreadsheet, no Airtable, no complicated projections. She did it all with a back-of-the-hand calculation.
I let out a laugh. “Jesus, Roxy, it’s brilliant.”
“I know.” She practically buzzes with excitement.
I meet her gaze, making sure she doesn’t think my next words are platitudes or a ploy to let her guard down. “You’re brilliant.”
She studies me from under her lashes, her cheeks pink. “Thank you. What now, though? We should call Corm.” Her fingers drum faster.
I shake my head. “It’s a good plan. We pitch yourversion.”
“Stop scowling,” Roxy admonishes me, whispering.
We’ve been here for two hours, and we haven’t spoken a single word about the actual deal.
Not one.
Hearthstone Foods welcomed us with smiles, cider, a tour, more smiles, more cider, and then a detour to their “heritage shed”, full of sepia photos and rusted jam pots.
It’s like these people accepted the meeting just to fuck with us.
“That’s my normal face,” I mutter.
“I know.” She sighs. “Try to smile.”
For the fifth time, the patriarch, Graham Miller, launches into another story about the original apple press.
Roxy stands beside me, nodding like this is the most fascinating thing she’s ever seen.
I bite back a groan.
Of course she’s patient.
Of course she’s composed.
Of course the universe hand-picked the one woman who irritates me and inflames me in equal measure.
