Page 74 of Moonlighter

Or at least I hope I am. Because my baby was kicking a moment ago, and I’m far enough along now that I could feel it—a little whisper of sensation in my belly.

Kick again, sweetie. I’m listening.

She’s being coy, now. Figures.

I’ve made it to week nineteen. Bingley tells me that my daughter is the size of a cucumber.

“…contracts which alter our exposure to libel as interpreted by the seventh district court.” The CFO takes a breath.

“Excellent, Peter,” I interrupt. This man could go on all day. “Is there anything pressing, though? I have to be across town in an hour.”

Frowning, he flips his notebook closed. “Well, I was looking over your charts in preparation for the board meeting. I see that the pre-orders for the Butler aren’t really sufficient to cover such a large marketing budget.”

My blood pressure doubles immediately, because Whitbread has been the most vocal opponent of The Butler, and he shows no signs of shutting up. “The pre-orders are irrelevant, because there aren’t any reviews for the product. Once the tech bloggers start to test it, that’s when the buzz begins. We shouldn’t even look at pre-orders for another month.”

Then he asks the question that’s guaranteed to make me insane. “What does your father think?”

“I have no idea,” I snap. “And it’s completely irrelevant.” My father spends the bulk of his time on his VC firm in California. He’s still on the board of ECM, but that’s his entire involvement.

Whitbread doesn’t believe it, though. He thinks my father still calls the shots. Either that, or he just says these things to irritate me.

“Look,” I demand. “Do you have alegalissue with The Butler? Because that’s where your expertise starts and stops. There are a dozen people on my staff more qualified to weigh in on the financials, thanks.”

At first he only blinks, because I don’t usually clap back so directly. Then his expression darkens. “I’ve been at this company a long time, little miss. The reason we’re still here is that we don’t bet more on a new product than we can afford to lose.”

“The reason we’re still here,” I say quietly, “is because I’ve stopped the bleeding.” Every cable company saw a slump as streaming became more popular. But I’ve turned the ship around. “Furthermore, pet names are an inappropriate form of address.”

“Oh, please.” He actually rolls his eyes. “I’ve known you since you had pigtails and braces.” Which is factually untrue. “It’s a term of endearment.”

“Then save it for someone who finds it endearing.” My voice is ice cold. But I amdonewith this man second guessing me in meetings. No matter that he’s a good lawyer who keeps us out of trouble. I will not be treated like a pre-teen by this entitled ass.

“Well.” Whitbread pushes back his chair and stands suddenly. “Don’t let me keep you.” He marches out of the room and flings the door shut behind himself.

I put my head in my hands the moment he’s gone. Lashing out at him was probably stupid. Not that he doesn’t deserve it. But I shouldn’t give his criticism so much weight.

He doesn’t matter, I remind myself. He’s just bitter that I’m sitting in the CEO’s office instead of him. There’s not one person on the board who thinks he has the vision to run this company.

I’m out on a limb with The Butler, though. And he knows it. This product has to be a success. If it’s not, the company will lose a pile of money. But worse than that, my credibility will suffer. My next big idea will be harder to launch. And I’ll have nobody to blame but myself.

Sixty seconds later, Rolf rushes into my office. “Got a minute before you go? There are messages. First of all, it’s raining hockey players…”

“Hockey players?” I sit up straighter.

He places a message on my desk. “Eric Bayer called. He doesn’t have your cell number, apparently. And I wouldn’t give it to him.”

“Oh.” I feel my pulse quicken.He called. That makes me feel like a teenager waiting for a prom date. And that’s ridiculous, because we were never going to be a couple.

“So, here’s his number.” Rolf slides the paper toward me. “And then—this afternoon is hockey themed, apparently—Nate Kattenberger’s assistant called to invite you to the Hamptons benefit that they throw every year. Hockey players at a cocktail party. And some kind of golf thing. I wrote the website address down right here.” He slides another paper toward me.

“Thank you. Now, who’s this visitor?”

“That’s the weird part.” Rolf braces both hands on my desk. “He just got off the elevator and asked to see you. His name is Xian Smith, and he said it was urgent.”

“Seriously?” I’d missed my meeting with him in Hawaii, by virtue of my early departure. And he’s called twice to ask for other meetings. But I just haven’t found the time. Andurgentimplies that we have business together. Which we do not. “How did he get in the building?”

Rolf shrugs. “No idea. He has a visitor’s badge, too.”

“Bring him in. And then take a seat as well.”