Page 29 of Never Dance with the Devils (Never Say Never #6)
KAYLA
G reg and I stand as the conference room door opens, revealing David Jessup and his surprisingly small entourage.
It’s only him and one other person—a tall, blond man in a charcoal gray suit and red tie, that’d I estimate to be close to thirty-five, maybe thirty if he’s spent some time in the sun.
Lounging on a boat, because nothing about him says outside labor.
“David,” I say by way of greeting, extending a hand.
We shake and then he half turns, gesturing to the other man. “Kayla, I’d like to introduce you to Brent, my legal representative, but more importantly, my son. I thought the two of you might get along .” He smiles brightly, putting a dash of extra emphasis on his last words.
I barely stop the flare of my eyes. He’s got to be fucking kidding me.
Is he trying to play matchmaker? Or does he think his law-school-polished son, who’s probably done all of a dozen contracts in his professional life, is going to help him get favor on a deal our legal team of experts has gone over with a fine-tooth comb? Newsflash, neither is going to work.
My guard up, I extend my hand to Brent next. “Nice to meet you.”
My dad taught me that you can tell a lot about a person by their handshake—their intentions, how they perceive you, how they want to represent themselves—and when Brent barely grasps my fingers, giving me one of those weak, don’t want to hurt the little woman, type of shakes, I instantly hate him.
That conclusion is only solidified when, with a smile slicker than a lying politician’s, he takes a moment to let his eyes lick over my face, down my body to my toes, and then back up before saying, “It’s so nice to meet a girl with the full package—beauty, brains, and personality.”
Is he serious? As Grace likes to say… in the year 2025 of our queen, Taylor Swift, is he seriously talking to me that way?
Because I haven’t been a girl in well over a decade.
As for the rest, I have my mother’s beauty, my father’s brains, and more personalities than Brent could probably count.
Which one he gets today will be determined by the words coming out of his mouth, and Brent is definitely not starting off well.
He’s his father’s son, distilled down to a particularly concentrated form of country-club, frat-boy, big-shot misogyny.
I don’t say anything—yet. Nor do I smile to let him off the hook.
No, I simply look him solidly in the eye, blinking calmly and letting his words fall to the floor at his feet, graciously giving him a chance to replay them in his head, discover that they were in grossly poor taste, and apologize in a way that will allow us to proceed with the work we’re here to do today.
Instead, he laughs uncomfortably, glancing toward his dad for guidance, a sign I take as a show of weakness. Need Daddy to save you from the Italian leather-loafered foot you stuck in your own mouth? He manages to stammer out, “Uh, I meant that as a compliment.”
Does he think explaining it makes it any better?
“No, you didn’t,” I state plainly.
He recoils and his brows knit in confusion, like he fully expected me to apologize for misunderstanding his intention and thank him once he explained his comment to me. “Excuse me?” he scoffs.
He glances to his dad again, and then to Greg, expecting to find support from the other men in the room, and while his father may be fine with what he’s saying and how he’s representing not only himself, but Jessup Enterprises, I trust that Greg is on the verge of calling security to escort the two Jessups out.
I consider that myself as well, but hopefully, it won’t be needed.
If I threw out every potential deal because I didn’t like one of the company representatives, I wouldn’t be where I am, nor would Blue Lake’s asset portfolio be what it is.
Still, I will not let Brent’s inappropriateness pass without consequence.
“You thought the charm you’ve always been told you possess would let you walk in here and say whatever you want.
I assure you it does not. Or that I, as a woman, would allow your posturing to go without comment.
I will not. In fact, it would serve you well to remember that this is my conference room, and you are asking me for money that Jessup Enterprises desperately needs. ”
“We’re not desperate,” David interjects, not offended on his son’s behalf but on his company’s.
I slowly cut my eyes to him, skewering him in a glance.
“I’m sure you’ve heard the expression don’t put all your eggs in one basket?
” I pause for a single heartbeat before continuing, “My division of Blue Lake alone has twenty to fifty baskets at any given time and virtually infinite eggs. You, on the other hand, have one basket and limited eggs. To be able to grow beyond your current financial restrictions, you need me. I want your company. Different things entirely, don’t you agree? ”
I’m right. I know I am. More importantly, David Jessup knows I am.
He clears his throat, shifting his tie uneasily, before trying to walk it all back. “We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot here today. Maybe we should just go over the contract?”
He steps toward the table, pulling out a chair and glaring at his son to do the same. And like the spoiled man-child he is, Brent falls into a seat at the table with an annoyed huff.
I wouldn’t expect a verbal apology to be forthcoming from either man, so this is the most acquiescence I’ll get.
Is it enough to proceed? Yes, but being me is exhausting sometimes.
Most days, I wish I could simply do my work to the best of my abilities and not have any asterisks placed on my skills.
I’m not good… for a woman. I’m good. I’m not smart…
for a woman. I’m smart. And what is or isn’t between my legs has nothing to do with my ability to negotiate a killer contract and make a fuckton of money.
Still, the interaction with Brent and David Jessup has set me off my game and working from a position of anger isn’t in any of our best interests, so with them at my back, I close my eyes for the briefest moment, resetting my internal dials to address the business at hand.
“Greg, let’s throw the contract up on the screen,” I say, taking my place at the head of the table.
With a few clicks, Greg’s done so and we turn our attention to page one of the potential relationship between Blue Lake Assets and Jessup Enterprises.
Two tedious hours later, we’re finally wrapping up our line-by-line dissection of the deal.
While I’d hoped Jessup would’ve blindly signed the contract we sent over, especially because it favors Blue Lake, I’ll concede that a few of his—and Brent’s—changes are valid.
And well-played. Not that I let them all slide.
I fought several other ridiculous things they wanted, thankfully not having to threaten the deal entirely, but instead able to negotiate other considerations to maintain the ones most important to Blue Lake.
“We’ll get on those and send the updated contract ASAP,” Greg says, looking at me for approval, which I give with a slight nod.
“Good. I want this thing in the books,” David declares, sounding like we’re the ones delaying his timeline and not the other way around.
He stands, holding his hand out. I take it with a bit more respect this time—not because he’s earned it, but because I do appreciate the business acumen it took to grow his company into the golden egg it currently is.
Brent, however? I take his handshake offer begrudgingly, making sure to grip his entire hand firmly .
“Looking forward to working together,” he says, his smile back in place as though our earlier issue never happened.
The words are right, the tone correct, and his expression is a study in deference, but, well-versed in double-speak and facades after a lifetime at my mother’s knee with the catty women of the society pages, I don’t believe a bit of it. “I’m sure.”
As Brent walks out the conference room door, David turns back.
“Don’t be too hard on him, Kayla. I know he’s a bit rough around the edges, but I’m sure you could smooth those out.
” He winks like we’re conspiring together to make over his wayward son, then walks out like we’re on the same page though I said nothing.
Alone—other than Greg—I laugh lightly. Brent Jessup, rough around the edges? The idea is ridiculous.
“David mentioned he was bringing his lawyer. I had no idea he meant his son,” Greg comments, sounding incredulous about the whole thing. Or maybe apologetic.
I wave it off as I turn to him, focusing on the highest priority—the deal—once again.
“It’s fine. Look into the clause change David wants about the future potentials.
It sounded like he might have something on the horizon, or be hoping for something, and I don’t want any surprises on the back end of this.
Have Angeline put you on my schedule when you’ve got it sorted. ”
“On it,” he says. “Also, I’ll look into Brent and see where he sits on the chess board.”
This is why Greg is one of my most trusted advisors.
Brent’s appearance, while annoying, could also potentially be concerning, and I don’t like unknown variables in my deals.
I want to be the one who knows every possible angle so I can account for them ahead of time and make my planned moves accordingly.
“Thank you.”
Driving home late after work, I should be mentally going over files for tomorrow, listening to a podcast, or even half-distracted by the traffic barely moving around me. But I’m not doing any of those things.
I’m simply staring out the window and thinking of them. Riggs and Maddox. It’s like they’ve taken over my mind, filling it with thoughts that have nothing to do with my usual business-focused meditations.
I want to tell them about Brent Jessup’s shit-talking and laugh as they offer to have a ‘little chat’ with him.
I want to sit in the hot tub with them, flirtily playing footsie while the bubbles wash the day away, and then eat dinner curled up on their big couch, cozy in a big sandwich of muscles.
I want to hear what they did today and clap when Riggs tells me how much he lifted and tease Maddox when he says he could go heavier.
And yes, I want to have sex until we’re all spent and then fall asleep with our legs entwined and each man cupping one of my breasts.
Even with all that running through my mind, I’m still surprised when I put the car in park and see, not my condo’s parking garage, but their house. I drove all the way here on auto-pilot, my body doing what my brain told it to do without my making a conscious decision on the matter.
But didn’t I?
I smile a secret smile, knowing that deep down, this is what I planned all along when I left work today. I want this, need this.
Getting out of the car, I straighten my back and stare at the front door for a moment, noting the glow of an interior light through the frosted glass.
Coming here without invitation is a big step, not only for me but for them.
It’s an admission that there’s more to this than sex.
They’ve already said they want as much, but I haven’t admitted that, not even to myself, really.
But Riggs and Maddox represent something to me on a subconscious level, an escape from everything I’m supposed to do…
as a woman and as a Harrington. They’re another night spent on my own selfish needs, letting them worship and please me, a play at a future that’s doomed before it begins but still feels so possible when I’m in their arms.
The steps toward the door are heavy with intention. I’m walking away from rules and expectations as much as I’m walking toward something. But I’m strong and certain as I lift my hand, my finger poised over the doorbell.
Wait. What if they’re not even here? They have lives, routines of their own, and schedules I don’t know.
But then I see a shadow moving inside and instantly recognize Riggs’s hulking figure. He’s here. They’re here.
And this time, I came for them.