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8
Walker
I pushed my hand through my hair, messing up the carefully laid strands with twitching, annoyed fingers.
Today was shit.
I had my phone ringing off the hook from investors wanting their questions about my standing with the company answered. They were all concerned about rumors that I may not even have a stake in it since my father’s death, let alone the controlling share that would give them the good-faith reassurance needed to back me and the company. I had no idea where the hell the rumors had come from, but I couldn’t afford to let them take root.
A few hours and several calls later, I’d assured the most skittish investors that my recent marriage to a long-time love was the security needed to keep my hold on Royal Technology.
All was well. Mostly.
But as I leaned back in my chair, rubbing the bridge of my nose, I still wasn’t at peace. I had a hell of a full plate in front of me. New hires to vet, old hires to scan and deem keepers or sackers, not to mention going over a list of new warehouses that needed approval before being built.
It was all work that other business owners would say was layman’s work, too trivial to be dealt with by the head of the company. But if there was anything my father had taught me over the years, it was that if you wanted things done right, you had to do them yourself. Of everything he’d instilled in me, that was the lesson that had stuck with me my entire life.
Of course, my father had also worked himself to death, so maybe following in his footsteps wasn’t the best idea.
Mid-thought about how haggard I probably appeared at the moment, I grimaced as my personal cell rang. Grumbling only until I saw who it was, I answered.
“Grant. Aren’t you on set?”
He’d flown back to L.A. for some reshoots; it was still fairly early over there—for a party-boy movie star, at any rate.
“Nah, taking a break,” he said easily. “Wanted to call and make sure you were handling business all right.”
I shook my head, but my lips twitched up in a smile. Well, whatever haters might say about him being a one-trick show pony, Grant always looked out for the people he held most dear.
“Settling in as well as possible,” I said, holding my cell between my shoulder and my ear so I could go through paperwork as we talked. “I was already doing a lot of this work before Dad died, but there’ve been a few long days getting caught up to speed on everything now that it’s just me. No one else is reliable enough to handle a lot of this—”
“Dude!” Grant interrupted. I could imagine the look of utter boredom on his face. “I don’t mean work business; I meant business with Macks. How are you two doing?”
Oh. That. How were we doing?
It’d only been a week, so logically there shouldn’t be a lot for me to really comment on. But there was so much. The words came before I could hold them back.
“She drives me fucking crazy. She’s not exactly the most put together person on the planet.” Yet I can’t get her out of my mind—and not in the bad way.
Grant laughed. “Yeah, that sounds a lot like a man who’s lying to himself. Trust me, I’ve studied psychology and shit.”
“She’s more distracting than I thought she would be,” I admitted.
“Distracting…?”
“You know, pulling away attention. Distracting.”
“Because she’s not ‘put together?’”
No. Because everything about the woman is equal parts tempting, frustrating, and charming.
There wasn’t a space in my house anymore that didn’t have a trace of Mackenzie in it. Her fruity shampoo tended to linger in the bathroom hours after her lengthy showers, and her clothing led trails like breadcrumbs through the house more often than not. Shoes here, a t-shirt there, a jacket strewn over a chair—it was maddening, making me hyper-aware of her presence permeating my life. It usually led to a confused mix of agitation and arousal that I wasn’t prepared to deal with at this point.
I cleared my throat, not answering his question. “Listen, Grant. I have to go.”
“Sure, sure, lover boy.”
My thumb jammed the ‘end call’ button, cutting off his amused laughter.
