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Parker & Sons has always been a boy’s club. It was my granddad who set that precedent nearly eight decades ago. Even though the company carries our family name, it felt like an impenetrable fortress that I had to infiltrate bit by bit. I put in the hours, showed them my worth, and earned my place as vice president. My uncle gave me his 49% stake in the company before he died. But the controlling share, the one that truly mattered, has always been out of my reach.
And hearing Wes talk about it so casually feels like a slap in the face—my face, specifically—the one that should have been at the helm all along.
“Knack for swooping in, you mean,” I murmur, more to myself than to him. But Wes hears it, of course, and his eyes narrow slightly, a glint of something sharp lurking within their depths. Is it satisfaction? Or perhaps a challenge?
“Is that what you think?” He asks quietly. “That I just swooped in and took what should’ve been yours?”
“Isn’t that what happened?”
The question escapes me before I can stop it, laced with all the pent-up frustration I’ve felt since Dad announced his retirement and subsequent decision to sell his shares—not to his dedicated daughter, but to Wes Andrews, the one person who’d made it his life’s mission to one-up me at every turn.
Wes doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, he studies me, as if trying to read between the lines of our lifelong competition. And there’s so much to read, too much history, too much left unsaid.
“Let’s just say I saw an opportunity, and I took it,” he replies finally.
I snort. “An opportunity for what?”
Before Wes can reply, the bartender returns and eyes my empty glass. “Would you like another?”
“Sure,” I reply glumly.
“Make that two,” Wes chimes in from beside me. His proximity sends a wave of awareness through me as our elbows brush against each other on the bar top.
“I’ve been thinking about scheduling a retreat for the leadership team next week,” he says nonchalantly. “It might help ease the transition.”
“An executive retreat, Fiona,” he adds, elongating my name as if he’s got all the time in the world. “It could do us some good.”
“Us?” I scoff, turning to face him. “Since when did we become an ‘us,’ Wes?”
“Since I became a part of Parker and Sons,” he shoots back, his grin maddeningly confident.
“Right,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “Because every family company needs a snake in their midst.”
“Come on, Fi. It’s just a weekend. Team building, fresh air... You might enjoy it,” he teases. A flutter dances in my chest at the challenge gleaming in his eyes.
“Fine,” I concede reluctantly, eager to end this exasperating exchange. “One retreat. But don’t think this changes anything between us.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replies smoothly. Then, leaning closer, he whispers, “And for the record, I meant what I said earlier. You look absolutely stunning tonight.”
His words hang in the air between us, an intimate secret shared amidst the bustling bar. Then, in a move that leaves me breathless, he presses a gentle kiss to my cheek. The warmth ofhis lips lingers even as he strides away, leaving me in a state of stunned silence and undeniable anticipation.
As the bartender sets our drinks down, I grab mine and take a long sip, letting the burn of the whiskey settle my nerves. When I glance over, Wes is already heading to another part of the bar, the crowd parting for him as if he’s royalty.
I turn away, gripping my glass tighter.
My head is a mess of contradicting thoughts—resentment bubbles up at the idea of him intruding on my family business, taking what I worked so hard for. Yet there’s an undeniable pull, an attraction that’s been simmering beneath the surface since... well, since forever.
The lingering warmth from where Wes’s arm brushed against mine still pulses, marking me with confusion as potent as a brand. This is the same Wes who used to torment me in the playground by pulling my pigtails, and now he’s upending my world in an entirely different way.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, breaking my train of thought. It’s a text from Eliza, my sister, letting me know she has arrived. Once a month we meet for drinks to catch up and the timing of tonight’s meeting couldn’t be more perfect.
Rejuvenated, I navigate my way through the bustling crowd of the bar. The loud chatter and clinking glasses gradually recede as I spot Eliza in our usual corner. Her welcoming smile and open arms are the perfect antidote to my frayed nerves. As I slide into the booth next to her, she scoots over, inaugurating our ritual with a knowing smirk.
“Spotted you playing verbal ping-pong with Wes Andrews,” she teases, sipping on her mojito.
“Playing implies it’s a game I enjoy,” I quip back, but there’s no real heat behind the words.
