Page 1 of Selfish Suit (Steamy Latte Reads Collection #1)

THE CEO

DOMINIC

T he worst part about running a billion-dollar marketing empire is the fact that you have to sit through an endless session of stupid ideas before reaching an average one.

The “brilliant” kind are one in a million, and most of the time, you’re left wondering why the hell you ever got into marketing in the first place.

I’ve always prided myself on being able to market anything, and after seeing so much success, I decided to give back. But sitting through days of terrible presentations makes me want to never do anything charitable in my life again.

“Now that I’ve introduced myself,” the man standing at the front of my boardroom says, “allow me to show you a product that’s about to revolutionize the car industry…”

He pulls a white sheet from a box, revealing… a tire wrapped in bright blue fabric.

“Behold, ladies and gentlemen,” he says. “ Tire Toes ! I.e., ways to make the tires on your luxury cars feel safe, secure, and cared for.”

Jesus Christ…

“Before you say it, we know that ‘tire socks’ already exist, but those are for cars in inclement weather, and they serve an entirely different purpose. These are for style, for class, for showing the world that you take your luxury car seriously.”

I glance at my partner—Braxton. I’m waiting for him to meet my eyes so I can give him the “Get them the hell out of here” signal, but he has the audacity to look intrigued about this bullshit.

“How do they hold up in rain?” he asks.

“Very well so far,” the guy responds. “The ten customers we’ve had so far haven’t had any complaints.”

“You only have ten customers?” I sit up. “How the hell did you get this meeting?”

“Ten very happy customers,” he counters. “They paid two thousand dollars each for these, so I’d say that’s quite impressive.”

“What exactly do the Tire Toes do?” I ask. “What is their actual purpose?”

“They’re for style and making the tire—which is always left out in the car bragging process—feel good.”

“So, the tires on our cars have feelings?”

“Shhh.” Braxton finally looks over at me. “Let them finish, Dominic. I’m really enjoying this.”

I’m sure.

I mentally check out as the guy drones on. I have six more of these to sit through, and I’m already over it.

Sliding my phone from my pocket, I scroll through my email under the table.

At this rate, there’s no way I’ll have time to step out for dinner between the final pitch and a late-night Zoom with a London client.

As I’m debating where I can possibly go for food, Braxton claps his hands—making me look up.

We’re now alone in the boardroom.

All the Tire Toes have rolled out.

“You know,” he says, “the next time you have the audacity to ask why everyone calls you a selfish asshole, look no further than this meeting.”

“We need to fire whoever let them onto our schedule,” I say. “Did you let them down nicely?”

“I offered ten thousand for their enthusiasm but said we wouldn’t be able to invest.”

“I’m sorry, how much?”

“You spend that on a tie.” He shrugs. “Look at it as a fine for being rude as hell. You didn’t even get up to shake their hands, not even after they left us with a complimentary set of tire socks.”

“ Tire Toes ,” I correct him. “I’ll send them an apology email. Happy?”

“No.” He smiles. “But I will be if you promise to pay full attention to who’s coming next.”

“What’s the product?”

“Promise me first.”

Hell no. “What’s the product?”

“Straw protectors.”

I give him a blank stare.

I wait for him to tell me he’s joking—that this is just him dishing out sarcasm—but he walks to the door to usher in the next group.

Their oversized pink and green straws tell me all I need to know.

“Tell you what,” he says, “I’ll treat you to dinner to make up for this.”

“My chef’s out of town, and I don’t feel like making a reservation anywhere.”

“That’s not a problem.” He shrugs, pulling out his wallet. He takes out four hundred-dollar bills and hands them to me. “Just use UberEats.”

“Uber what ?”

“Eats.” He blinks. “UberEats. You know, food delivery for places that don’t have their own delivery drivers…”

“Is this you leading up to another marketing pitch I’m about to sit through?”

“Oh, wow.” He laughs. “Becoming a billionaire has truly left you out of touch with the real world these past few years, hasn’t it?”

“I’m still stuck on this company’s name,” I say. “Uber and then Eats? As one word?”

He rolls his eyes and takes my phone, downloading the app without my permission. He doesn’t need to ask for my email or ideal password—it’s always Ifuckingrunthiscity with my birth year.

I watch as he refines my preferences, and then my favorite restaurant appears, with their complete menu.

“There,” he says. “Select everything you want, pick a delivery time, and voilà. Oh, and I put your address as the secondary office since that’s where we’ll be working tonight.”

I blink. “Is this company for sale?”

“No.” He looks amused. “Focus on the food, and try to be nice.”

Impressed, I scroll the menu. I select the squid ink tagliatelle with black truffle cream and lobster, a warm bread basket with rosemary sea salt butter, and a burrata and fig appetizer drizzled with aged balsamic. I add two glasses of whiskey for good measure.

“Prepare to be amazed by the best straws on the planet!” one of the presenters shouts. “Your mouth will never want to touch anything except our brand again!”

I hold back a groan and add two more glasses of whiskey to the order.

“Your lips will never be the same!”

Okay, fine. One bottle of wine, too.

I tap “Complete Order,” and a bright pop-up appears on the screen:

Success! Your driver IVY will deliver your order at exactly 7:00!