“Ooo, I like that,” Breaker says. “A different light. That’s what he needs.” He taps his chin. “But what would that light be?”
Irritated, I get up from my chair and grab my suit jacket from where I tossed it. “While you two morons think about it, I’m going to grab lunch.”
“If only Toney could see this moment, where Huxley Cane doesn’t ask his assistant to grab him lunch but, like a mere peasant, walks the streets of Los Angeles to fetch his own food,” JP says.
I slip on my jacket, despite the heat outside. Ignoring them, I cross toward my door.
“Could you grab us something?” Breaker calls out.
Sighing, I call back, “Text me what you want from the deli.”
“Pickles. All the goddamn pickles,” JP yells as I make my way down the office hallway to the elevator. Luckily, the doors slide open for me, so I step in, press the lobby button, and lean against the wall, hands stuffed in my pants pockets.
Get on a different level. I don’t even know what that means. And I know I’m a businessman who’s made deals with people I’ve gotten along with, but I’ve also made deals with people I absolutely despise. The difference between me and Dave Toney—I don’t give a fuck who takes my money or who I sell to. Business is business, and if it’s a good deal, I’m going to take it.
I offered Dave a fucking good-as-shit deal today, better than what he deserves, if I’m honest. And instead of shaking my hand and accepting it, he sat back in his office chair, scratched the side of his cheek, and said, “I don’t know. I’m going to have to sit on this.”
Sit on it.
Sit on my goddamn deal.
No one sits on my deals; they take them and thank Jesus Christ Himself for doing business with Cane Enterprises.
I push through the elevator doors when they part, weave my way through the busy lobby, and then head out of the office building toward the hole-in-the-wall deli that’s just down the road. Two blocks. I don’t usually send my assistant, Karla, to grab me food, because it makes me feel like an asshole—despite what people might think of me—and I also enjoy the second to get out and breathe some fresh air. Well, it’s LA, so fresh air is an overstatement. But it gives me a second to reset before I get back behind my desk, where I control our billion-dollar operation with my keyboard.
My phone beeps in my pocket and I don’t bother looking at it because I know it’s JP and Breaker’s orders. I don’t even know why I told them to text me, because they get the same thing every time. Same as me. Philly cheesesteak with extra mushrooms. And, of course, pickles. It’s our go-to sandwich. Something that we don’t eat often, but when we do head to the deli, it’s our usual.
The sidewalk is more crowded than normal. Summer has hit Los Angeles, meaning tourists are sweeping in, celebrity bus tours will be at their max, and driving on the 101 is going to be a hellish nightmare. Lucky for me, I only live thirty minutes from the office.
As I approach the deli, a familiar black SUV pulls up in front of it. When the door opens, I catch sight of Dave Toney—speak of the devil—stepping out of the vehicle. What are the odds?
Whatever they are, they look like they’re in my favor. Nothing like a good follow-up to try to secure the deal. Maybe JP was right, Dave Toney might change his mind when he sees me picking up lunch. That’s definitely on a different level.
I button my suit jacket and pick up my pace. Never miss an opportunity in business. Never. As I grow closer, I’m dangerously caught off guard when I see a feminine hand pop out of the vehicle behind Dave. I slow down and zero in on the hand . . . the small hand with a VERY big engagement ring on it.
Holy shit, Dave is engaged?
I’m assuming he is, since he’s holding the woman’s hand.
But engaged . . . hell, how did I miss that?
Usually I’m aware of such—
My thoughts pause and I blink a few times as the fiancée turns, giving me a profile view.
Holy . . . fuck.
Looks like the engagement isn’t the biggest surprise of the day.
Thanks to her tight-fitting dress and slender frame, there’s no doubt in my mind that Dave Toney’s fiancée is pregnant.
Dave Toney, engaged with a baby on the way. How . . . when?
He waves to the driver, shuts the door, and then glances behind him, just enough for us to make eye contact. His eyebrows lift in surprise and then he turns all the way around and waves to me. “Cane, didn’t expect to see you on the streets.”