Sneak Peek
Here’s a sneak peek into Bossy CEO!
(And click here for info about the book)
Austin
* Note to reader: if you’ve read Rival CEO (Not required) this book takes place eight years later.
Using a shaving brush, I cover my jaw in thick foam. While Mom tells me all about the cherry blossoms blanketing the mall in Washington, D.C., I draw the razor down my cheek, the sound of stubble yielding to the blade harmonizing with Mom’s excited chatter over speakerphone. She’s detailing her plans for a week packed with social engagements. I just got back from visiting for her birthday this weekend, but it seems the party continues.
“I’m having lunch today with Mitzi Murray. You remember her? She has that adorable daughter who graduated from Yale Law. She’s single.”
“Where does she live?” I’m guessing either Boston or New York. That’s always my Get Out of Jail Free card. I draw the razor down again, focusing on not cutting myself.
“New York, but you could make it work,” she counters. “You have a private plane.”
“But I work most weekends.” I rinse the razor clean.
“I’m also having dinner with Kitty Pittman and her husband this evening. He’s bringing one of the partners in his firm for me to meet.”
I stop and look down at the phone on the counter. “That sounds interesting.”
“He’s been divorced three times. Nope. But I promise to play nice.”
I rid myself of my impending mustache as she tells me about a carousel of meals, shopping sprees, and drinks near the chic comfort of her Georgetown condo.
“Sounds like your friends are spoiling you, which you more than deserve.” I wipe the remnants of shaving cream away.
“Having you home this weekend was the only birthday gift I wanted.”
“I only wish I could come more often.”
“Life’s too short to waste, honey,” she replies. “I know you’re busy, and these old bones need to keep moving. Besides, those new boutiques aren’t going to browse themselves.”
Old bones? She’s not even sixty. She has more energy than I do. I shake my head. We live a country apart, yet in moments like these, she’s right here with me. Our bond woven from years of it being just the two of us.
I look up to assess the outcome of my shave in the mirror. Satisfied, I ask about her health, the weather, anything to keep her talking for a bit. Her laughter is a melody, this conversation a wonderful counterpoint to the frenetic pace of EnergiFusion, the company I’m shepherding toward success with three of my buddies from school—and one of their wives, as well. It’s not always easy, but in Mom’s world, I can do no wrong. Sometimes we all need a person who sees us that way.
“And how are things at EnergiFusion?” she eventually asks. “You artfully avoided talking about work all weekend.”
“The weekend was about you. But we’re busy. Nothing new. Well, I guess we’re running behind on orders,” I admit. “We can’t keep a steady supply of raw materials, and it just snowballs from there.” I sigh. It’s the truth, and it hangs between us for a moment, a cloud shadowing her sunny disposition.
“Is everything okay, Austin? You know you can tell me anything.” Her internal mama bear has kicked in, always attuned to the subtlest note of strain in my voice.
“Everything’s fine. Just the usual challenges. You know how it is.” I force a lightness into my response. My struggles at work are just another set of problems to solve—not burdens for her to shoulder.
“Remember, you got that brilliance from somewhere,” she teases, her confidence in me never wavering. “You’ll figure it out. You always do.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.” Her belief is a fuel, one that powers me more than she realizes. With a final glance at my reflection, now clean-shaven and ready to face the day, I feel bolstered by her words.
“And I believe it,” she assures me. “You were the one who figured out the problem with the battery. They had that big, fancy man come in for an exorbitant amount of money, and he did nothing. It was you who figured it out.”
“It was the group and your support. You don’t give yourself enough credit.” I smile, picking the phone up and taking it off speakerphone. “You raised me on your own, and we grew up together. You’re the success story here.”
Her laughter trickles through the phone, the soundtrack to my life. “I just did what I had to do. And look at you now. You’re one of the youngest billionaires on the list.”
The pride in her tone is a familiar refrain. She spins tales of our early days with the same enthusiasm she’d use to recount a blockbuster movie plot—a young single mother, an infant son, the world against them. I’ve heard this story a thousand times, yet each retelling adds a layer of lore to our family saga. The truth is, she was young. My biological father was young. She wanted to keep me. He didn’t. Her parents kicked her out. So she worked hard to provide for both of us. She’s the rockstar here.
As I exit the bathroom, a sudden percussive banging on the front door jolts me out of nostalgia. Sandrine, my guest last night here in my loft, is already off, stretching into Pilates poses at her gym by now, so it can’t be her.
“Can you hold on for a second? Someone’s at the door.” I set the phone on the counter, my mind racing. It has to be someone from the building. You have to have a key fob to get in. They wouldn’t let just anyone up to roam the hallways without calling first.
“Be right back, Mom,” I call.
I look down at myself as I reach the door. My sweatpants hang loose, slung low on my hips in a way that’s comfortable but hardly presentable. No matter. It’s too early for decorum anyway. Without a shirt, the cool air of the condo raises goose bumps on my skin.
I open the door, and there she stands—strawberry blonde hair ablaze in the corridor lighting, hand frozen mid-knock. Her eyes travel over me, from my tousled hair down to the edge of my sweats, lingering just a moment too long on the semi I hadn’t noticed was pushing against the fabric.
Her cheeks bloom with a fiery shade of crimson, but not for the reasons I initially guess. She doesn’t seem embarrassed—not in the slightest. She’s downright furious. Words spill from her like water from a burst pipe, fast and relentless, each one sharp enough to cut.
“My parking space!” Her voice is at an octave only dogs can hear, and I’m catching maybe every other syllable. “The noise! And the woman you had over last night—” The accusations fly at me, punctuated by rage. “Parking tickets piling up like it’s a game to you! Who do you think you are?”
She pauses long enough for me to respond, but I have no clue what she’s talking about.
When I have nothing to offer, she caps her tirade with a final pointed jab. “And for heaven’s sake, put on some clothes when you answer your door!”
I blink, taken aback by the ferocity in her petite frame. Who is she? A neighbor? I’ve never seen her before, and I’d remember someone who carries such fire in their voice, someone who can make me feel so defensive without knowing anything about her. “Hey, I—”
But she’s not having any of it. My words dissolve into space as she disappears down the hall. The slamming of the stairwell door is her final punctuation, leaving a silent hallway and my thoughts scattered like the accusations she’s just flung at me. Crazy. That’s the only word for it. I shake my head, trying to dislodge the bewildering encounter as I stride back inside.
“Sorry about that,” I say into the phone, the device cool against my flushed skin as I resume our conversation. “Someone with a short fuse.”
“Everything okay?” she asks.
“Nothing I can’t handle.” I return to the bedroom and pull on my designer jeans and a crisp, white shirt. When I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I look every inch the executive, no trace of the morning’s jumble visible. “Have a great lunch and don’t be too hard on your dinner date. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? Love you.”
“Love you too, Austin. Take care of yourself.”
I slide my phone into my back pocket and grab my messenger bag, pausing for a second before I step out the door. The corridor is empty, the only sign of life the soft hum of the city seeping through the walls. My neighbor Anna’s condo across the hall is still as ever. No evidence of the fiery sprite who could have easily been a hallucination if not for the sting of her words.
I lock the door behind me and descend to the garage where my car awaits, a Lamborghini Revuelto, which is a bright green, plug-in hybrid with a 6.5L V12 engine. Eventually I’d like to outfit it with one of our batteries, of course. But it’s still a sleek machine that was the first thing I bought after EnergiFusion took off—well, after I bought Mom the condo in Georgetown.
As I navigate through the crowded streets of downtown San Francisco on my way to our offices, my mind returns to the angry pixie ranting about her parking space. There are four condos in my building and eight parking spaces. What did she mean? And Sandrine was pretty loud last night. But how would that woman know? Anna has been out of town for a while now, so there’s no one else on the floor to bother. It’s just strange.
As I draw closer to the office, I shift my focus to all the things I need to accomplish today. A list begins to form—emails to answer, calls to make, reports to review. They stack one on top of the other. I need space, time to breathe and strategize without interruption. And most of all, I need to shake off whatever that was this morning.
“Please let today be smooth,” I mutter to myself, a half-hearted plea to the universe. The traffic inches forward, a sluggish river of metal and exhaust, my only calm before the storm of the day ahead.
After parking my car, I make my way into our South San Francisco office building. The revolving doors of EnergiFusion’s lobby offer no resistance as I push through, but the usual buzz of the office is missing. Instead, there’s a palpable tension that tugs at my nerves. I follow the silence to its source—Justin Capriotti’s office—where a cluster of colleagues is rooted in place.
Their eyes are fixed on the television mounted on the wall, where a column of smoke billows from another electric vehicle engulfed in flames—the fourth since the start of the year. The ticker on the screen confirms my dread: “EnergiFusion battery implicated in interstate blaze.”
The talking head reports the morning’s events, and I piece together that the flaming car is in Detroit. Based on the view on the television, it’s at an interstate exchange. It’s like watching a nightmare in high-definition, and my stomach tightens into a knot. The onset of a headache pulses behind my eyes.
“Where’s Justin?” I ask. Justin Capriotti, Rhys Smalls, Theo Reed, and I founded EnergiFusion ten years ago at Georgia Tech with our invention of an environmentally friendly electric-vehicle battery. These days Justin is our CEO.
Rhys turns to me, looking worried. “No idea,” he says, shaking his head. “But the board wants us—all of us, Justin, Crystal, Theo, you, and me—to meet later today.”
The news settles heavy in my chest. A board meeting without notice can only mean trouble. I rub my temples, trying to quell the throb. Whatever peace I sought earlier this morning has vanished, burned away like the wreckage on the TV screen.
I navigate through the crowd and out to my office. Justin’s absence gnaws at me. I wasn’t in town on Friday, and the void he’s left feels ominous after the accusations we exchanged on Thursday after work.
“Hey, Austin,” Rhys calls, breaking into my thoughts. “Got a minute later today?”
I hesitate, an excuse perched on my lips. But Rhys looks earnest, his eyes searching. I nod. “Sure, I can make some time.”
“Great,” he says. “After the board meeting? We could grab drinks, talk things over?”
“Sounds good,” I agree, though my mind reels with the list of tasks ahead. The lab beckons, a sanctuary where I might find answers. But first, there’s the smoldering aftermath on the screen and the board’s impending inquisition.
“Thanks, man.” Rhys turns back to the television.
My gaze lingers on the door to our offices, feeling the pull of responsibilities beyond this room. Justin is out there somewhere, probably nursing the sting of our confrontation on Thursday. Scattered—that’s what he’s been lately, like a jigsaw puzzle with pieces missing. And now, with another fire and the board’s sudden interest, it feels like we’re on the edge of a precipice.
Swallowing hard against the building pressure in my skull, I continue toward my desk. I need to prepare for whatever’s coming next.
