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Would we still have been friends? Would we have been more than friends?
Well.
I sigh, my eyes moving towards the young executive, who is flapping his arms around in an attempt to explain the financials on the screen.
One quick glance at them tells me all I needed to know, and I stand up, my chair scraping back loudly.
The other members of the board turn to stare at me.
I don’t pay them any heed, nodding towards my assistant in a silent order to remain and follow the rest of the pitch. Tucking the envelope under my arms, I stuck my hands in the pockets of my pants and stroll out without so much as a goodbye.
This investment decision could diversify my portfolio, but I am not completely sold on how high the current CEO levered the company. Nor am I in a mood to get into any discussions at this particular moment.
My driver is waiting outside, and I slide into the backseat of the Rolls-Royce, bidding the doorman a good day.
As the car purrs to life, I stare outside, the envelope lying on my lap. I don’t enjoy being driven around. I prefer my own hand behind the wheel, but on business-related meetings, I have to maintain my image.
Feeling the pangs of hunger, I redirect the car to a restaurant I am quite familiar with – and for good reason.
Fergus is lounging behind the bar, having taken over from the bartender, and he doesn’t look particularly surprised to see me.
“You look like someone slugged you with a dead fish,” he comments from across the room when I enter, resting his elbows on the bar.
I give him a blank stare, “Why are you so weird?” He shrugs. Taking off my coat, I sit down, “Give me something strong.”
Fergus eyes me with an unholy gleam in his light blue eyes, “Day drinking, are we?”
As he fixes me a long island iced tea, I stare gloomily at his black outfit, “What is with you and black? I’ve never seen you wear any other color.”
Fergus glances over his shoulder at me, smirking, “The ladies love it.”
I take the drink he hands me and sip at it, “It’s a wonder you haven’t contracted some nasty disease with how much you sleep around.” Fergus grins.
“It’s my Irish luck.” He makes a face. “I had a dry month, though.” Shaking my head, I glance at the menu.
“My condolences. Why isn’t the pasta you made the other day on the menu?”
My friend frowns now, and one could tell that he takes his work very seriously when he wears that serious look on his face.
“There’re a few kinks I’m still working out in it.”
“That’s a pity,” I remark. “I have a yen for it. Give me a bowl of shrimp soup, then.”
Fergus nods at one of the waiters passing by, and the boy rushes into the kitchen. It pays to be the boss. Leaning against the bar, he informs me, “I’m thinking of buying up the restaurant on Maine Street. Thought I would tell Ian to see if he can look at the management chain there.”
“Ian?” My confusion must be shown on my face, because Fergus continues.
“I know he’s a Crisis CEO, but I want to take over the whole chain of restaurants and I hate anything to do with management meetings and what not. He can deal with the upper management and I can go ahead and do what I do best.”
I throw the remaining drink down my throat and then say, considering, “You want to take over Wellingtons? I did hear rumors that they’re edging towards bankruptcy.”
Fergus bares his teeth in a smile.
“Exactly. Now, what’s that?”
I stare blankly at the envelope that I have unintentionally brought inside with me.
I let Fergus slide out the documents and watch him carefully as my soup arrives. His face doesn’t show any flicker of reaction. Instead, he glances at me.
