On the other hand, if that synergy doesn’t happen, we’re going to be bogged down with extra ‘friction’ in our corporate chain. Not exactly disastrous. Every company over a certain size has friction. But it would certainly limit our options in terms of future expansion for the foreseeable future.
Either choice is a gamble, one for a potential win or a potential loss.
And the final choice ultimately rests on my shoulders. I might not wear a crown, but heavy is the head that bears the ultimate responsibility for a multi-billion-dollar corporation.
This should be an easy call based on the numbers, but something in my gut is hesitant to pull the trigger, so I give the chart in front of me another look, trying to figure it out.
Distantly, I hear the elevator ding, but I ignore it, assuming it’s Mac doing security rounds. He doesn’t come in often, but sometimes when he sees my light on, he’ll come by to talk, more than likely because he’ll then help himself to a coffee from the executive lounge down the hallway. A small price to pay for a good guard who does his job well.
There’s a polite knock on my door, so quiet that the drumming of my fingers on the desk almost drowns it out. “Come in,” I say, not bothering to look up. “Everything okay, Mac?”
A throat clears, one that is definitely not Mac’s robust voice. It’s one hundred percent female.
“Uh . . . Daniel? Mr. Stryker? Uh . . . sir?”
That gets my attention, and my eyes snap up to find Tiffany standing in my doorway. She’s wearing dark denim jeans that hug her hips, an ivory sweater that looks downright pet-able, and a shy uncertainty in her dark eyes. I realize that it’s a look I’m not used to seeing on her.
With Elle, Tiffany was always the responsible one with a fair dose of ballsy confidence to get them out of any tough spots. Not a stick in the mud, but definitely a solid foundation to keep Elle from spinning off too hard.
Since Elle left, I don’t guess I’ve paid much attention to Tiffany at the office, but she’s been a constant when I come in each day—always professional, always doing whatever needs done.
“Hi, Tiffany,” I say, aiming for casual in the hopes that we can ignore the awkwardness of this morning. Hell, of the whole evening. “Please, call me Daniel. Are you feeling better?”
A faint blush colors her cheeks, and her lashes drop down as she closes her eyes. I swear she’s muttering a prayer that the floor will open up and swallow her whole. I get it, I’m a little embarrassed as well at the memories of what happened. So perhaps the best idea is to just play it off. We all have embarrassing stories we’d like to forget, and a joke is often the easiest way to do that.
“Is that a yes or a no?” I ask with a grin.
She opens one eye halfway, sees me, and then sighs. “Damn, I was hoping the whole thing was a bad dream, but I guess not.”
Her smile is hesitant. She must really, really be worried.
“It’s fine,” I say.
At the same time, her words layer over mine as she apologizes, “I’m sorry.”
We both freeze, any further words lost as we look at each other.
Slowly, a smile lifts my lips, and in return, she smiles too.
“I did want to apologize,” she starts again.
I stay quiet, sensing that she needs this to save face a bit, though I’m not judging her for getting carried away. I’m simply glad that she was smart enough to do the right thing about it.
“I called you late on a Friday night, bothering you, and then . . . ugh, your car, your bathroom.” She swallows thickly. “This morning.”
I get up and come around my desk, striding purposefully toward her. “No apology needed. And I’m sorry if I embarrassed you or made you feel uncomfortable in any way. I mean, I get it. I’m your boss but Elle’s dad, too. It was awkward at times. I’m sorry.”
I bend down, forcing her to meet my eyes. “Especially after you tried to have my car detailed.”
“Ricky told you?” she asks, and I nod. “I’ll pay for it.”
“Forget it. Seriously, it’s cleaner than it’s been in ages. Inside and out. It needed it long before last night.”
That’s not true. I get it cleaned routinely, but it was nice of her to try and go that extra mile. And I’m carefully side-stepping any conversation about this morning. Except . . . “Did you get to wherever you were rushing to?”
She relaxes instantly, becoming softer and less proper. More real. I like it infinitely better than the stiff, nervous version of her.
“Oh, I did! Only a few minutes late, but everyone was understanding,” she explains, though I still have no idea where she went or what she was doing.