Battle of the Sexes

Chapter Three

Amity

Carver's eyes scorch my skin as his gaze travels from my red-soled heels to my pink-painted lips.

I take him in. Same cocky grin, same look of pure mischief buried in those deep brown eyes. There are lines etched around his mouth and at his temples. I hate that it almost makes him better looking. That somehow the older he gets, the bastard looks edgier. More debonair. Sexy as sin.

Sitting behind a heavy, stately desk, he looks the part of the man in charge. His grey suit fits over his shoulders in a way that makes me wonder if he didn't end up playing football or something in college. The dark locks he always kept in a surfer style that his father hated is now cropped tight around his ears and cut close to his head. It's a powerful, dapper look. But it's just that—a look. An illusion.

"Oh, Amity. You've hurt my feelings," he teases.

I don't dignify that with a response.

"You don't like me?" he prods.

"Stop with the games, Carver. I only came in to say hello."

"Did you think I wouldn't remember you?"

"I just wanted to let you know I was here. I didn't want you to think you could just show up to the board meeting and talk out of your ass," I says. "I want you to prepare so I know I beat you at your best. It'll just make victory a little sweeter."

The grin slips from his face just enough for me to know I've gotten to him. He leans across the desk, folding his hands in front of him. "Wow. What turned you into such a bitch?"

"Men that think they're superior because they have a penis and I don't."

"I'll let you borrow mine."

I almost fire back with a quick retort, but I think better of it. Instead, I relax back into the overstuff leather cushion, and like I have all the time in the world, cross one leg over the other. His gaze snaps from my eyes to the little sliver of panties he may have caught if he was quick enough. With a swallow so hard his jaw clenches, he puts his hands under his desk.

"You okay?" I ask, laying one arm along the back of the sofa. "You seem a little ... tense."

"I'm just a little ... stiff," he grimaces.

"I bet. God, you never change."

"Consistency is key. That's what makes me the right choice for CEO." He works at his tie—a long, silky black piece of fabric going from the hollow of his throat to below his belt when he's sitting. Something about the way he works it, how he moves his head back and forth in frustration, is captivating. "What's your plan, Gallum? How do you intend to persuade the board to name you CEO?"

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you."

"Fair enough." The tie releases and he wraps it over his hand. "Did you read the instructions from the Board?"

"I did." I watch him wind and then unwind the fabric like he's a hypnotist. "I got the email from them a couple of days ago. We're supposed to put together our proposals detailing our vision for the company and present them in two weeks."

"That's right." The fabric is placed alongside his computer. "Can I make a suggestion?"

My brows pull together. "While my first instinct is to say no, why not? I'll play."

"Marcus Abrams. Do you remember him?"

"I think so. Wasn't he the kid that locked me in the bathroom at your birthday party?"

Laughing, he nods his head. "That's right. I can't believe you remember that."

"Of course I do. It was traumatic."

My attempt at a blank face isn't quite successful. Those memories are some of the best, and worst, of my life.

Carver watches me carefully and I can see the questions on the tip of his tongue. I've never discussed with him why I transferred schools my sophomore year, why I stopped coming around and hanging out when our parents played bridge. I never talked to him about any of it. Humiliation will do that to you. Besides, if he were truly curious, the answer wouldn't be that hard to uncover. He'd just need to think back to his actions.

I'm grateful when he doesn't derail the conversation.

"Marcus, who has married Priscilla Cowell, run Cowell and Abrams Enterprises. They're one of the best marketing firms in the country right now. Salvo has suggested that because we are both so invested personally in Jones + Gallum, that whoever isn't chosen as the CEO will most likely be offered another position. I'm guessing that's this office."

"So, you get to stay here and I'll take over my father's."

He ignores me. "Our restaurants have so much potential, and Marcus understands that. We've talked about it from every possible angle. I know you haven't been around as much, but if you'd like to talk about things, he'd be a good one to hit up."

"Sure," I say, a little taken aback by his sudden nicety. "I'll hit up your good friend for information so I can beat you at the most important battle of our lives. Sounds like a solid plan, Carver."

"It is a solid plan," he insists. "We are stagnating. The Board isn't wrong. We need to do something big."

"We need to do somethingsmart."

"You sound just like your father," he groans.

"And you sound like yours."

A heated standoff takes place in the air over his desk. He falls back in his chair with a heavy sigh. "It's absolutely inconceivable that we've been reduced to this."

"To what?"

"To ... this. Me and you, sitting in my office, arguing about the potential direction of this business when the Board should've done what was needed a week ago. We'd be that much further along."

"I had travel time. Sorry about that," I shrug.

"We're going to have to work on your attitude problem."

"I don't have one. It's just you that brings out the ugly side of me."

His eyes darken, the corner of his lips upturn. "From where I sit, there's nothing ugly about you."

"Nice try," I say, ignoring the way my thighs clench together. "I hope your management abilities are better than your interpersonal skills."

"I've come a long way since those seven minutes in the closet." He smiles at me so devilishly that even though I don't want to react, I shiver. "If you'd like to be reintroduced to my abilities, the closet is over there, sweetheart."

I get to my feet, plant my hands on the desk, and bend forward. "Fuck. You," I whisper before pressing off and heading towards the door. The sound of my heels clacking against the tile mixes with the low rumble of his laugh behind me.

I might swing my hips a little, knowing he's watching my ass.

I might enjoy knowing that he is.

I also might use it against him.