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“So glad you could make it on such short notice,” I say to the woman sitting in one of twelve leather chairs. Her commanding presence overpowers Presley’s charming façade. Then again, it’s not often we get women who look like Danica Moreau in Portland.

“It’s my pleasure.” She stands up and shakes my hand from across the table. Strong and sturdy. Excellent. One thing my father always taught me was that you can learn a lot from a person’s handshake. All right, so back then he meant a man’s handshake, but the same can be said about all people from my experience. “I’m always looking for excuses to come visit the west coast. You have more breathable air than we do back east.”

I don’t take a lot of stock in my American heritage, but whenever East Coast bigshots like Danica Moreau compliment my city, I’m inclined to puff myself up. Of course we have wonderful air. Of course we do.

“This is my assistant, Ms. Ada Oduya.” I shake hands with a lovely woman wearing a colorful blouse and skirt that makes me wonder how Alessa would look in such visually stimulating patterns. I’m half-tempted to ask Ms. Oduya where she gets her makeup as well. The bright red of her lips and the pink on her eyelids match perfectly with her dark skin. “I’m afraid my usual assistant couldn’t make it. Besides, Ms. Oduya has never been to Portland.”

“Make sure you give her a bit of a break this evening, Ms. Moreau,” Presley says with a fresh smile in Ms. Oduya’s direction. I can already hear it now.“I made sure her break from Moreau was good and hard, if you know what I mean, Jules.”One day, my business partner will stop hitting on every beautiful woman who comes into our offices, but today will not be that day. “Portland’s a small city, but we have plenty to do.”

A sunglassed man flexes his muscles in the corner. Ah, that’s right. The Moreaus are big on personal security. I had bodyguards as a kid, but since opening my enterprise I don’t go out with them unless there’s a big to-do to attend or I’m vacationing in a very public place. Presley is even more laissez-faire about her security. She will stumble drunk through Old Town and make friends with every panhandler she comes across. They love her because she’s loose with the Benjamins and loves to buy out the old stock from Voodoo Donuts to pass around. This is assuming, of course, she had a fun night at the nearest strip club.

“My assistant Vern will be joining us soon,” I assure the table. “My other assistant Alessa will also join us as soon as she starts the afternoon shift.” This meeting had to be done right afterlunch to accommodate Moreau flying in earlier this morning. I would like Alessa to sit in on the whole meeting, but we don’t always get what we like.

(Unless you are me. Recently, I’ve been getting everything I like from Alessa. Ask me what we did last night in my hot tub. Go on. Ask.)

“We can go ahead and get started.”

“Sounds good.” Danica swings one leg over the other and folds her hands in her lap. A golden wedding ring glistens on her left hand. I went to a lot of executive weddings last year, but Danica Moreau’s hitch at the Justice of the Peace and the subsequent to-do in Czechia was not something yours truly was invited to.

I was, however, invited to and attended Etta Coleman’s wedding back east. I bring this up because that’s who walks through the door with her wife as personal assistant.

What. The. Hell.

Coleman and Moreau are in the top position to help Presley and me fund our next big venture. Coleman and Moreau are, for lack of a better term, rivals. They’re both in the same line of business, even if they don’t always tarry in the same industries – Moreau is more hospitality and technology-based while Coleman gets her kicks from publishing and hedge funds. But they both have vested interests in funding the next greatest and latest ventures around the world. Why not? Presley and I have a wonderful track record of getting projects off the ground and making our other investors millions of dollars without lifting a finger. Of course, Coleman and Moreau both want a piece of the Bradford & Marcon pie if they can swing it.

Suffice to say, both women knew they would be meeting with me this week… a day apart. Coleman wasn’t supposed to be here until tomorrow!

“Ladies!” Etta Coleman says with a surprised smile on her young face. Out of all the businesswomen in this room, she’sthe only one who is completely self-made, and it shows in her unrefined manners and expressions. Oh, she’s very good atmimickingher new peers like Danica Moreau and myself, but we old-money girls can smell new-money coming from the other side of the tracks the moment they put a single toe on those rusty rails. “Didn’t know it would be a full house this fine Tuesday morning.”

The confusion, irritation, and frustration mounting in the conference room almost throw me off my game. That never happens.

“We seem to have had some scheduling confusion,” I grumble. Vern. Damnit. He never messes up like this. In fact, he had assured me more than once that Moreau was scheduled for Tuesday and Coleman for Wednesday. Yet here I am, looking into the young faces of Etta Coleman and her busty brunette wife.

When Vern walks into the room, he does a double-take. Apparently, he’s also shocked.

He also looks at me with the biggestoh shit!face I have seen on this man.

“Jamie,” Etta says to her wife. “Please tell me we don’t have the wrong day. We seem to have been misled.”

Her confusion is the worst in the room. On the other side of the table, Danica Moreau chuckles and exchanges a quintessential mean girl look with her biggest rival on the East Coast.

“It says Wednesday right here, hon.”

“Can I see?”

Jamie hands over the tablet. Etta Coleman scrolls through the email from my office and looks up at me, her girlish façade finally crumbling. Ah, there’s the power-hungry capitalist who made herself a billion dollars in only a few years.

“Well,” she says with a devilish smile. “I’m always up for a challenge, anyway.” She looks to Danica Moreau and her equally confused assistant. “If you’d like, we could come back later when she’s done throwing you out, Moreau.”

“Careful, Coleman. Those be fighting words.”

“Ms. Coleman, er,Mrs. Coleman.” Vern clasps his hands together after putting his things down on the table. “I have no idea how such an error was made, but I take full…”

“Vern,” I say. “Hallway.”

Poor chump is scared witless. He thinks I’m firing him, doesn’t he?

Well, maybe.