Battle of the Sexes Read online

  Battle of Sexes

  Adriana Locke

  Contents

  Also by Adriana Locke

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  To My Readers

  A Taste of the Landry Family

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2019 by Adriana Locke

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  * * *

  Cover Image: Adobe Stock

  Cover Design: Kari March

  Also by Adriana Locke

  The Exception Series

  The Exception

  The Connection

  The Perception

  * * *

  The Landry Family Series

  Sway

  Swing

  Switch

  Swear

  Swink

  Sweet

  * * *

  The Gibson Boys Series

  Crank

  Craft

  Crave

  Crazy

  * * *

  Dogwood Lane

  Tumble

  Tangle

  Trouble

  * * *

  Standalone Novels

  Sacrifice

  Wherever It Leads

  Written in the Scars

  Lucky Number Eleven

  Dedication

  To Saul

  * * *

  Sometimes battling with you is the best part.

  One

  Carver

  * * *

  Wah. Wah. Wah.

  Board meetings don’t usually have me this fidgety. I’m usually attentive and focused at these things, but not today. Today, I’m dying.

  The rumor around the office all week has been that Dennis Gallum, our intrepid CEO, is stepping down from his position after a medical scare that turned out to be nothing. Apparently, when you think you’re dying and then you’re not, you start rearranging your priorities. Instead of wanting to show up at Jones + Gallum and spend his days figuring out how to take the restaurant world by storm, Dennis and his wife now want to join my parents on a yacht in the Caribbean.

  Hey, I have no problem with that. I can finally pull out that name plate I’ve had stored in my desk the last six months.

  Carver Jones, CEO.

  Carver Jones, C-E-O or C. E. O.

  I’ve waited on this day since I took over the role of President from my father a few years ago. This is the moment I’ve prepared for my entire life. It’s finally coming to fruition.

  Carver Jones, CEO of Jones + Gallum.

  Damn, that looks good.

  Dennis stands from his spot at the opposite end of the table. Smoothing out his tie, he does a quick scan of the faces watching him. The old windbag has always liked the spotlight. “I would like to address the board,” he begins, sucking in a deep breath. “After much thoughtful consideration over the last few weeks, I’ve made the decision to retire.”

  The board murmurs amongst themselves as Dennis’ gaze falls on mine. I do my best to appear shocked, even tossing in a frown, all the while fighting to keep from jumping out of my chair and sliding down the conference table, fist-pumping.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Dennis,” I sigh. “This place won’t be the same without you.”

  It’ll be so much better.

  “With that being said,” he continues, pulling his eyes from mine, “I would like to make a recommendation. I realize the Board is at liberty to make whatever decisions they find fitting for the future of Jones + Gallum. However, as the CEO for the past twenty years, I do feel my input may be worthwhile.”

  Nodding emphatically, I encourage him to continue.

  “Absolutely,” Henry Salvo, the Chairman, breaks the silence. “The Board would find your recommendation helpful as we determine how to proceed.”

  I flip through my yellow legal pad until I find the sheet with the acceptance notes I scribbled out this morning. They’re a few short key points I’d like to make as my first official duty as Chief Executive Officer—just a few things that have been rolling around my head the last year or so.

  Bending the corner over for easy access, I look up at Dennis. He’s not looking at me.

  “Mr. Salvo, members of the Board, it is with much thought that I suggest …” He looks at me, then back at Salvo. “… I suggest my daughter, Amity Gallum, take my position.”

  “What?” I burst out. My chair propels back, the sound of the wheels screeching across the tile floor echoing through the cavernous room.

  The board’s chatter increases, some looking at me out of the corner of their eyes, as Gallum stabs a knife in the center of my back. I see his mouth moving, but don’t hear the words as fury drowns out any sound besides the roar of blood rushing past my ears.

  “This is incredible,” I sputter finally. “I’ve worked in this company for three years—as President, no less. I have the education and the experience, not to mention the passion and drive, to see a company I love, a company I bleed for daily, succeed. With all due respect, while I understand Mr. Gallum’s position, I do find it to be a little ridiculous.”

  As the board whispers amongst themselves, I wait for Gallum to look at me. He won’t.

  “How can you do this to me?” I ask him.

  “Carver, please, don’t take this personally.”

  “Don’t take this personally? How in the hell do you expect me not to take this personally, Dennis?”

  “I’m just suggesting they take a look at Amity. That’s all.”

  “I understand you want her involved in your business,” I say, trying desperately to contain myself. “But she can do that on a level she’s capable of.”

  He nods his head, a scowl on his face. “You know nothing about Amity, Carver.”

  “That precisely why asking her to be considered for the top position is utterly ridiculous. You know it.” My fists clench at my sides before I slam my day planner over the notepad, my blood singeing my veins. It’s only when Salvo clears his throat that I pull my glare away from Dennis.

  “The board has taken both positions under advisement. It’s our stance that the restaurants controlled by our company need a breath of fresh air. We all know sales have been a little stagnant as of late.” Salvo looks at me. “We will accept a résumé from Ms. Gallum and go from there.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “You will have every opportunity to rise to the position yourself, Mr. Jones. But at this point, we’d like to keep our options open.”

  Game. Fucking. On.

  Two

  Carver

  * * *

  One week later

  * * *

  “I’m not here.”

  The little plastic ball cracks as I tap it with the mini-club. It rolls down the short greenway, making one full, crisp circle around the cup. It sinks in the hole with a flourish.

  “Um, Mr. Jones, sir?”

  “Yes, Marissa?”

  “But you are here. Mr. Salvo knows that.”

  Tossing the club on the brown leather sofa across from my desk, I yank on my tie. Th
e early afternoon sun showers my corner office with so much light I consider pulling the blinds. “What’s your point?”

  “You want me to lie to him, sir? He said he saw you walking in after your lunch meeting with Marcus Abrams.”

  “We aren’t lying to him.”

  “Whatever you say, Mr. Jones.”

  “It’s not lying, Marissa. It’s called ‘keeping the balance.’ Salvo thinks he’s going to fuck with me over this CEO position? Fuck him. Let him consider what they’d do if I decided to walk away.”

  “They’d be in trouble, sir.”

  “Damn right they would.”

  “With that being said,” she says carefully, “I was just notified a few minutes ago that Ms. Gallum is set to arrive at any minute.”

  Groaning, I look at the ceiling. Her entrance will start the ball rolling on this absurd situation. It’s not that I’m not ready to fight for this position, one that is inarguably mine. I’ve never been readier for anything in my entire life. It’s just that I have to is asinine.

  It’s also not that I think it’ll be difficult because it won’t. I crush men daily in business meetings and negotiations. Simply put—I’m a winner. And little Amity Gallum with her timid personality and plaid cardigans doesn’t stand a chance. It’s a waste of my precious time.

  “Let me know when she’s here,” I tell Marissa. “Until then, hold all my calls.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The line clicks dead. I stare at the phone, wondering what Salvo wants. He is a cockroach—aggressive, quick, and when you see him, it’s a sign you need to clean house.

  With a quick glance at the clock, I drop into my seat. The sunshine lures me in and taunts me. I haven’t had a full day in the sun since I took this position. I hopped a plane with Marcus and Shepler and arrived in Vegas at three in the morning over three years ago. I don’t remember all too much of that weekend. The pink, lacy thong in my suitcase and the imprint of what I believe were handcuffs left around my wrists makes me believe it was probably pretty epic.

  There won’t be any sunny vacations in my foreseeable future, not with Dennis Gallum trying to ruin my life. I get that he wants his daughter to benefit from all the work he put into this company. I don’t hold that against him. But if he thinks she’s going to waltz in here with her meekness and wallflower mindset and bring this company success, he’s not nearly as smart as I gave him credit for.

  “Mr. Jones? You have a visitor,” Marissa chirps through the line.

  “Send her in.”

  Swiping a set of files from the corner of my desk, I spread them in front of me in a haphazard, I’ve-been-doing-this-all-day kind of way. Not that I haven’t been working since before the sun came up. I have. That’s not the point.

  The point is this: first impressions matter most. It sets the stage for every other interaction, regardless of the relationship. The relationship I’m about to have with Amity Gallum as opposition in some fucked up competition to win the CEO title of our fathers’ company will be the most important one of my life.

  Hell, it might be the only one in my life, but that’s beside the point.

  The door handle flicks. I bow my head and appear to be so invested in the numbers in front of me that I don’t hear it.

  My stomach knots as I wait for her to say something. I imagine her standing in the doorway, a load of binders and clipboards in her hand, as she looks at me over the top of those clunky glasses she wore when we were kids. I hope to God she upgraded those in the last twenty years.

  Frustration grows with each second she doesn’t bother to speak. If she can’t get the balls to say hello, how in the hell does Dennis think she can run the company? So stupid.

  I finally look up to get it over with.

  Holy. Shit.

  One thing is clear—this is not Amity Gallum. There’s no way this stunner is the braces-wearing, freckle-faced, nerdy little girl I knew at fifteen. No. Freaking. Way.

  After making a quick mental note to tell Marissa to specifically name everyone here to see me, I feast my eyes on the voluptuous visitor. My lips twist into a smirk as I try to keep myself composed. “Good afternoon,” I say smoothly.

  “Yes, it is.”

  It takes every bit of effort I can manage to keep my jaw from dropping. Even after all this time, I recognize that voice.

  It can’t be.

  Black stilettos do nothing but extend long, lean legs that are capped off with a black skirt. A white top, rounded at the chest by a full set of tits, has a tailored black jacket on top. Loose, blonde curls touch her shoulders.

  She. Definitely. Upgraded.

  “Can I help you?” I grin, rifling through all the ways I can, and hope to be, helping her later.

  Her blue eyes pin me to my chair, clearly not amused by my reaction to her “fuck me” body. “No, but I can help you find a restraining order if you don’t stop looking at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re a fifteen-year-old boy that wants to pick me for Seven Minutes in Heaven.” She throws me a narrowed glare so cold I’d shiver if I had feelings.

  Memories of a night a long time ago filter through my mind. I haven’t thought about that in years. Marcus dared me to use my uncanny ability to stop the bottle from spinning when it landed on her. I was never one to back out on a dare. I had a reputation on the line. Besides, maybe I’d thought about kissing her a time or a hundred million in the previous six months. This simply gave me an excuse.

  “You still think about that?” I ask.

  “Yes. You come to mind any time a guy is being an asshole.”

  I consider this. “On one hand, I’m glad I’m memorable.”

  “Only you would be proud someone remembers you as a complete jerk,” she sighs, rolling her eyes. “You haven’t changed at all.”

  My entire game plan is out the window. I didn’t expect her to be pissy, aggressive, or hot. I have to regroup on the fly. “That’s no way to talk to your boss, Ms. Gallum,” I poke.

  “Let’s get one thing straight: you are not my boss.”

  “That’s not true. I’m the current President of this company, and you, by all accounts, are just a woman jockeying for a position.”

  She crosses her arms over her ample chest as she takes in the easy way in which I point out that simple fact. “It looks to me like you’re just a man trying to hold on to a dream that’s dying.”

  “Do you need CPR? I’ll happily give you a little mouth-to-mouth.”

  “Thank you,” she singsongs, her arms falling from her chest to her sides. “You just reminded me how easy it’s going to be to take the CEO title.”

  A little giggle escapes her lips, one I can tell is for my benefit. I’m benefitted. I can imagine that same sound with my name wrapped around it as I bring her to the brink of orgasm.

  “I wish you the best of luck,” I tell her, ignoring my blue balls. “I really do. Because you’re going to need it.”

  “I know. I’m just the girl that should be looking for a position on a level I’m capable of.”

  “Of course your father told you I said that.”

  “Yes, of course he did,” she mocks.

  She takes me in for what may be the first time since she walked in. The grandeur of my office, the statement I make sitting behind this antique desk framed by the large windows overlooking Manhattan, hits her. She almost flinches.

  “If you think it’s going to be easy to bend me over, Carver, you think wrong.”

  “Do you prefer another position?” I deadpan. “I’m game.”

  “I don’t like you.” She glares. “I won’t like you. And,” she says, storming in and getting comfortable on the sofa across from my desk, “if you get in my way, I will make you pay.”

  Challenge. Accepted.

  Three

  Amity

  * * *

  Carver’s eyes scorch my skin as his gaze travels from my red-soled heels to my pink-painted lips.

  I t
ake him in. Same cocky grin, same look of pure mischief buried in those deep brown eyes. There are lines etched around his mouth and at his temples. I hate that it almost makes him better looking. That somehow the older he gets, the bastard looks edgier. More debonair. Sexy as sin.

  Sitting behind a heavy, stately desk, he looks the part of the man in charge. His grey suit fits over his shoulders in a way that makes me wonder if he didn’t end up playing football or something in college. The dark locks he always kept in a surfer style that his father hated is now cropped tight around his ears and cut close to his head. It’s a powerful, dapper look. But it’s just that—a look. An illusion.

  “Oh, Amity. You’ve hurt my feelings,” he teases.

  I don’t dignify that with a response.

  “You don’t like me?” he prods.

  “Stop with the games, Carver. I only came in to say hello.”

  “Did you think I wouldn’t remember you?”

  “I just wanted to let you know I was here. I didn’t want you to think you could just show up to the board meeting and talk out of your ass,” I says. “I want you to prepare so I know I beat you at your best. It’ll just make victory a little sweeter.”

  The grin slips from his face just enough for me to know I’ve gotten to him. He leans across the desk, folding his hands in front of him. “Wow. What turned you into such a bitch?”

  “Men that think they’re superior because they have a penis and I don’t.”