The CEO Buys In
Page 4
“Speak for yourself on that last one,” Miller said. That surprised a huff of laughter out of Nathan.
Archer acknowledged the interjection with a tight smile. “Our problem is lack of focus. We aren’t making this a primary objective in our lives, so we’re failing.”
Nathan grunted in disagreement. “So we should be wife hunting instead of running a business or winning football games or writing the next bestseller? If you’re that desperate, hire one of those executive matchmakers.”
“That’s like using a ghostwriter,” Archer said.
Miller barked out a laugh.
“At least the transaction would be honest,” Nathan said.
Archer sat forward. “How badly do you want a wife and family?”
Nathan considered the unhappy dynamics of his own family. Maybe there was a reason he had a hard time finding love. Maybe he couldn’t recognize it. But yes, he wanted it, if only to do it better than his father had. “I’m listening. Miller?”
For a moment the writer looked downright sober. “Hell, yes, I’m still looking. What’s the point of all this if you’ve got no one to share it with?” He waved a hand around at the expensive liquor, the ornate paneling, and the antique bronze chandeliers before he turned back to Archer. “And of course, you need a passel of sons to toss footballs with in your white-picket-fenced yard.”
“I’m hoping for daughters,” Archer said. “But yeah, I want kids. So what I’m saying is, we need a game plan.”
The writer held up his hand. “I have a better idea.” His eyes glittered with sly intent. “Gentlemen, I propose a challenge.”
Nathan and Archer waited.
“We go in search of true love. We keep looking until we find it.”
“This challenge is a load of garbage,” Archer said. “How do you prove you’ve found true love?”
“A ring on her finger. Sorry, Archer,” Miller said.
“A ring doesn’t prove anything,” Nathan pointed out.
“I’ve spent—what?—a half an hour with you gentlemen. And I’m confident you would not put a ring on a woman’s finger unless you believed you would spend the rest of your life with her.” Miller sat back and shifted his gaze between the two of them.
Nathan shook his head. “You’ve had too much to drink. And so have I.”
“I say we make it a bet,” Archer said, his pale-blue eyes intense. “We need to stake something valuable on the outcome.”
The writer gave him a bleak smile. “The stakes are our hearts.”
“We need to bet something more valuable than that,” Nathan said, sucked back into the discussion in spite of himself.
A gleam of malevolent excitement showed in Miller’s eyes. “All right, a donation to charity.”
“Too easy,” Archer said.
Miller lifted a hand to indicate he wasn’t finished. “Not money: an item to be auctioned off. It must have intrinsic value, but it must also be something irreplaceable, something that would cause each of us pain to lose.”
“Who chooses this irreplaceable artifact?” Nathan asked. The alcohol fumes must have been clouding his brain, because he found himself intrigued.
“You do,” Miller said.
“So this is an honor system,” Archer said.
Miller laid his hand over his heart. “A wager is always a matter of honor between gentlemen.”
“A secret wager,” Nathan said, his competitive spirit aroused. “We write down our stakes and seal them in envelopes. Only losers have to reveal their forfeits.”
“I think we require Frankie for this,” Miller said, twisting in his seat to address the bartender. “Donal, is the boss lady still awake?”
“Ms. Hogan never sleeps, sir,” Donal said. “I’ll call her.”
“Miller, it’s well after midnight. Leave the woman alone,” Nathan said.
But Donal had already picked up the house phone. He spoke a couple of sentences and hung up. “She’ll be here in ten minutes.”
“We’ll need three sheets of paper and three envelopes,” Miller said before turning back to the table. “I’ve done a lot of stupid things when I was drunk, but this may be the most ridiculous one.” He looked at Nathan and then at Archer. “We can cancel this right now before it goes any further.”
Teresa’s face floated through Nathan’s mind, and his anger came to a boil. “I’m still in.”
“You backing out, Miller?” Archer asked.
The writer shook his head. “Pardon my moment of sanity.” He took a swallow of bourbon. “Gentlemen, I suggest we ponder our stakes.”
Nathan leaned back in his chair, taking a mental inventory of his possessions. There wasn’t much he gave a damn about. That was the problem with his whole life these days. Then an idea crossed his scotch-soaked mind.
“That’s a downright unpleasant smile, Trainor.” Miller was lounging in his chair, dangling his glass over one of its arms.
“I’ve decided on my wager,” Nathan said.
“Are you sure it’s something that would draw a high bid?”
“I guarantee it.” Nathan tossed back the rest of his drink.
Miller turned to Archer. “Have you made your decision?”
“Made it five minutes ago.” Pulling a silver pen out of his pocket, the quarterback sat forward and scrawled a number with multiple zeroes following it on his napkin before reversing it for Nathan and Miller to read. “Just to sweeten the pot, we should add a significant monetary donation to the charity.”
Archer acknowledged the interjection with a tight smile. “Our problem is lack of focus. We aren’t making this a primary objective in our lives, so we’re failing.”
Nathan grunted in disagreement. “So we should be wife hunting instead of running a business or winning football games or writing the next bestseller? If you’re that desperate, hire one of those executive matchmakers.”
“That’s like using a ghostwriter,” Archer said.
Miller barked out a laugh.
“At least the transaction would be honest,” Nathan said.
Archer sat forward. “How badly do you want a wife and family?”
Nathan considered the unhappy dynamics of his own family. Maybe there was a reason he had a hard time finding love. Maybe he couldn’t recognize it. But yes, he wanted it, if only to do it better than his father had. “I’m listening. Miller?”
For a moment the writer looked downright sober. “Hell, yes, I’m still looking. What’s the point of all this if you’ve got no one to share it with?” He waved a hand around at the expensive liquor, the ornate paneling, and the antique bronze chandeliers before he turned back to Archer. “And of course, you need a passel of sons to toss footballs with in your white-picket-fenced yard.”
“I’m hoping for daughters,” Archer said. “But yeah, I want kids. So what I’m saying is, we need a game plan.”
The writer held up his hand. “I have a better idea.” His eyes glittered with sly intent. “Gentlemen, I propose a challenge.”
Nathan and Archer waited.
“We go in search of true love. We keep looking until we find it.”
“This challenge is a load of garbage,” Archer said. “How do you prove you’ve found true love?”
“A ring on her finger. Sorry, Archer,” Miller said.
“A ring doesn’t prove anything,” Nathan pointed out.
“I’ve spent—what?—a half an hour with you gentlemen. And I’m confident you would not put a ring on a woman’s finger unless you believed you would spend the rest of your life with her.” Miller sat back and shifted his gaze between the two of them.
Nathan shook his head. “You’ve had too much to drink. And so have I.”
“I say we make it a bet,” Archer said, his pale-blue eyes intense. “We need to stake something valuable on the outcome.”
The writer gave him a bleak smile. “The stakes are our hearts.”
“We need to bet something more valuable than that,” Nathan said, sucked back into the discussion in spite of himself.
A gleam of malevolent excitement showed in Miller’s eyes. “All right, a donation to charity.”
“Too easy,” Archer said.
Miller lifted a hand to indicate he wasn’t finished. “Not money: an item to be auctioned off. It must have intrinsic value, but it must also be something irreplaceable, something that would cause each of us pain to lose.”
“Who chooses this irreplaceable artifact?” Nathan asked. The alcohol fumes must have been clouding his brain, because he found himself intrigued.
“You do,” Miller said.
“So this is an honor system,” Archer said.
Miller laid his hand over his heart. “A wager is always a matter of honor between gentlemen.”
“A secret wager,” Nathan said, his competitive spirit aroused. “We write down our stakes and seal them in envelopes. Only losers have to reveal their forfeits.”
“I think we require Frankie for this,” Miller said, twisting in his seat to address the bartender. “Donal, is the boss lady still awake?”
“Ms. Hogan never sleeps, sir,” Donal said. “I’ll call her.”
“Miller, it’s well after midnight. Leave the woman alone,” Nathan said.
But Donal had already picked up the house phone. He spoke a couple of sentences and hung up. “She’ll be here in ten minutes.”
“We’ll need three sheets of paper and three envelopes,” Miller said before turning back to the table. “I’ve done a lot of stupid things when I was drunk, but this may be the most ridiculous one.” He looked at Nathan and then at Archer. “We can cancel this right now before it goes any further.”
Teresa’s face floated through Nathan’s mind, and his anger came to a boil. “I’m still in.”
“You backing out, Miller?” Archer asked.
The writer shook his head. “Pardon my moment of sanity.” He took a swallow of bourbon. “Gentlemen, I suggest we ponder our stakes.”
Nathan leaned back in his chair, taking a mental inventory of his possessions. There wasn’t much he gave a damn about. That was the problem with his whole life these days. Then an idea crossed his scotch-soaked mind.
“That’s a downright unpleasant smile, Trainor.” Miller was lounging in his chair, dangling his glass over one of its arms.
“I’ve decided on my wager,” Nathan said.
“Are you sure it’s something that would draw a high bid?”
“I guarantee it.” Nathan tossed back the rest of his drink.
Miller turned to Archer. “Have you made your decision?”
“Made it five minutes ago.” Pulling a silver pen out of his pocket, the quarterback sat forward and scrawled a number with multiple zeroes following it on his napkin before reversing it for Nathan and Miller to read. “Just to sweeten the pot, we should add a significant monetary donation to the charity.”
