The Takeover (The Miles High Club 2)

r and the right training, we could make him the best damn CEO in New York.

I exhale heavily as I go over the pros and cons of each candidate again, hoping by some miracle to find something good about the other two—and there is, but there’s just an untapped quality that Fletcher has. But then he has major anger issues, and I will perhaps be forced to fire him down the track anyway.

Two steps forward, one step back.

I even tried to call Rebecca to offer her the position yesterday, but when it came to making the call, I couldn’t do it.

My head says he’s too hard and to let it go; my gut is telling me he’s the one.

Decisions, decisions.

Claire

Patrick lies on my bed as I fold the washing and stack it all around him in piles. “Read that line again, Paddy,” I say.

“The house was in the ha . . . ha . . . ha . . .” He frowns as he concentrates.

“Sound it out,” I remind him.

“Ham-p-tons.” He accentuates the s at the end.

“Yes, you got it.”

He smiles proudly and keeps going. Patrick has just this year been diagnosed with dyslexia. And to be honest, once we got that diagnosis, it was a huge relief for me. His teachers and I couldn’t work out why he couldn’t read and why some tasks at school were so hard for him when he’s obviously so bright. In the end, I took him to a therapist, and she discovered it.

“All al . . .” He frowns. “Long,” he continues.

Fletcher walks into the room. He’s fighting a smile.

“What?” I ask as I keep folding.

“I’ve decided that I’m deferring university.”

I throw a newly folded towel onto the pile. “Well, that’s not happening.”

“Yes, it is. I’m eighteen next month, Mom. I can do what I like.”

“Fletcher Anderson, you are way too smart to have a year off doing nothing. I’m not even discussing this with you.”

“I got an internship.”

My face falls. “What do you mean?”

“I applied six months ago and made it to the final three.”

“What?” I stare at him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want you to get your hopes up.”

I smile and take his face in my hands. “Fletch, when are you going to stop worrying about me?” I fold another towel. “So when is the final interview?”

“I already had it.”

My face falls again. “What? When?”

“Wednesday, in New York.”

I stare at him. “How did you do this without me knowing?”