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“Because like the entitled baboon he is, the thought that I—that Blake Avery—could be a woman, never even crossed his mind. He marched in here uninvited and assumed I was having a dance in my daddy’s office.”
“I take it you didn’t correct him?”
“Oh, nooo.” An evil smirk stretches my lips. “And what would I pay to be there when he realizes what a fool he’s been. But enough about Gabriel Mercer.” I shift my hipbones forward on the ball to lie my back on it for a spine stretch. “I already spent half my day talking about him, and the man surely doesn’t deserve that much of my time.”
I close my eyes and drop my head back on the ball, the phantom of MGM’s scent still clouding my brain. He smelled like privilege and danger. The personification of the ruthless corporate alpha who dominates every boardroom. Sticking that Post-it note to his chest wasn’t my best idea. Now his scent is registered in my receptors and it’ll be hard to shake off. Same as the feel of his toned pecs under my fingertips.
“Earth calling Blake.”
Evan’s voice startles me, and my lids flutter open.
My friend and colleague blinks at me. “Where had you gone?”
To a dark place I’d better not return.
“Nowhere. I was just relaxing for a second.” I straighten back up on the ball. “Did you speak with Cara about Apex?”
“Yeah, the marketing team is brainstorming, they’ll have pitches for you by the end of the week.”
“Good.” I stretch my arms over my head. “And where are we on the IPO?”
To open more locations and bring my company to the next level, I’ve decided to take Bloominghale public in the fall.
“The investment bankers are still working on the due diligence. They’re combing through our balance sheets of the past ten years.”
“Anything they need from us?”
“We should start thinking about the S-1 Form.”
The first step in going public is the filing of an S-1 Form with the SEC. This includes providing detailed information about our company, the proposed stock offerings, and their pricing structure.
“They want me to write it?” I almost fall off the ball at the idea. “You know I’m not good at that kind of stuff.”
“Not the technical aspects, but they want your input on the vision.”
“I’ll dig deep into my mission-statement wisdom.” Gosh, I hate doing this part of the job. “Is there anything else we need to do before lunch?”
“Not if you’re sure Gabriel Mercer isn’t about to go to the mat with us.”
“Death and taxes are the only certainties in life. If there’s nothing else you need me to sweat on, I’ll go shower.”
My COO still doesn’t look happy with me, but he lets me go without further comments.
Forty-five minutes later, I’m seated at an outdoor table at one of the quaint neighborhood restaurants overlooking a cobblestone street when my best friend calls me.
Marissa and I met seven years ago at a start-up boot camp in Silicon Valley, a weekend event where various incubators, VCs, and angel investors were giving seminars on how to make it as a young entrepreneur. I was nineteen and fresh out of high school. She was twenty-eight and already working at WeTrade, an investment app that makes trading stocks super easy even for the most technology-averse users, and with no fees or commissions.
Despite the age gap, we clicked immediately and since we got back to New York—she lives and works in Brooklyn—we’ve been in each other’s lives.
I finish chewing on a bite of seared wild salmon and pick up. “Hey, you.”
“I’ve made a decision,” Marissa says without preamble. She’s a tech nerd to boot and sometimes forgets common social rules, like greetings.
“Okay. What decision?”
“Not over the phone. We need to talk about it in person—on one condition,” she quickly adds.
“Shoot.”
