Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107262 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 536(@200wpm)___ 429(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107262 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 536(@200wpm)___ 429(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
“You should be.”
“But nobody remembers where the damned wires come from,” Geno says hotly. “I’m not saying I want a college named after me or a town or some shit. But as an old man, I’d like something with my name on it.”
He’s old school, thinks his legacy is written in his last name. The truth is, legacy is in what you possess and who you share it with, like his mine and his daughter. The way Denise grits her teeth, looking at me like ‘I know, I tried to explain it to him’, lets me know that she is better suited than I first thought to be the future company leader.
I nod, confident in my ability to make anything happen. “How about a Miller Hall of Mining at Nevada State? Their campus goals of sustainability go hand in hand with the technology that Miller minerals will provide. Or perhaps the Miller Technological Mineralogy Scholarship?” I offer. “A handful of full-ride scholarships a year, in your name?”
Geno looks at me like I’m insane. “How? That’s not in the budget.”
“It helps when you own the bank, Geno,” I reply. Opening the folder on the table, I turn it around. “So, how about we get this thing handled?”
The two share a look. It’s everything they could ever want, and when Geno reaches for his coat pocket, I know I’ve won. Five minutes later, we’re all professional smiles, shaking hands and clapping shoulders as brand-new joint business partners. Including Denise, who’ll serve as the incoming CEO of Miller Technological Minerals when Geno’s ready to step back.
After a bit of casual conversations, the meeting is adjourned. All the while, my mind is elsewhere. I open the door to escort them on their way, already thinking of the next meeting and the other projects that require my attention. Tamara is at the end of the hall, and I know she’ll see them out. “I’ll be in touch.”
Paperwork firmly in hand, I head back to the office. A few moments later, Tamara appears in my doorway, ready to do her part to wrap up the meeting.
“Tamara, get this to legal,” I tell her, handing her the folder. “Miller signed the letter of intent. I want the rest of the contract signed, sealed, and delivered by next Thursday.”
“Yes, Mr. Sharpe,” Tamara says as she accepts the contracts.
“And get me Richard Benson,” I add. “I want full financial projections on what it would take to get a college building built in Henderson, Nevada.”
“Planning on a Sharpe School of Business, sir?” Tamara asks wryly, and I smirk.
“No,” I reply. “Geno Miller wants to leave his mark on the world.”
“Wouldn’t we all, sir,” Tamara says with a touch of humor, slipping her thinned rimmed glasses on. “I’ll run this over to legal before heading to lunch, if you don’t mind?”
“Perfect,” I assure her. “Thank you.”
She closes my office door as she leaves, and the moment I’m alone, work falls away and my thoughts are once again consumed with one thing and one thing only…
Raven Hill.
CHAPTER 11
RAVEN
The clock keeps ticking. Somehow, it’s both too fast and not fast enough. There are only a few days remaining until my Saturday night date with Dylan Sharpe. I swallow down the nerves like I’ve been doing since he messaged me. Just the idea of seeing him again has me twisted up in knots all week, and I can’t get away from him in my thoughts. I’ve dreamed of seeing him again every single night.
All the other nerves, though, are for something else entirely. I can’t shake them off. I’ve made follow-up calls, sent emails, and even had a meeting with one of the people I met Friday night, but each time, the connections have been complete dead ends, and I’m starting to feel like the common denominator is me.
But I’m not giving up. Not yet. Not ever.
I check my phone again as I sit in the conference room waiting for my next meeting to begin. Dylan told me that this was one of the ‘small fish’ interviews, but I think that had more to do with the fact that Michael Styles doesn’t strike me as friends with Dylan. They’re too similar in personalities, two rival companies.
With a steadying inhale, I look up at the sound of smacking oxfords echoing from the hall to my right. The door opens, and Mr. Styles comes in, his tall, commanding presence filling the space. “Miss Hill. Have you been waiting long?”
“No, thank you,” I reply, offering a hand as I stand from the chair I was designated by his assistant. We shake, and he sits at the head of the table. He’s in his early forties, with a haircut that’s clearly touched up by a stylist every other week, a tailored suit that’s less than six months old, and a well-done shave. He’s the sort of man who takes care of himself. His skin’s got the well-hydrated glow of an expensive skin cream, and his hand was baby soft in mine, probably from a recent manicure. “Thank you for seeing me so quickly.”