I remove a stack of handouts from my briefcase and pass them down.
“Now, just a minute, son. We’re still waiting on our Chief Administrative Officer.” David chuckles. “She was caught on a phone call a bit ago. Should be waltzing in here any second.”
“Of course.” I sit back in my seat and offer a professional smile to the three crusty bastards with permanent frown lines. Clock ticks fill the silent conference room until the coffee machine in the corner begins to percolate. Mark wastes little time rising to top off his mug, and Harris scrolls through his phone while Daniel stares out the window.
“Here she comes,” David announces.
I rotate my chair, turning to greet the late CAO and try to force some color back into my face when I realize whom she is.
Son of a—
“Beckham King, I’d like you to meet my daughter, Abigail Peterson,” Daniel says.
Too bad I already have.
“Nice to meet you, Abigail,” I say, extending my hand. We shake, our palms gliding together professionally, a stark contrast to the way they explored each other’s bodies three or four weeks ago.
A raucous Saturday night between the sheets with a drunken Abigail led to breakfast in bed the following morning and the proverbial exchanging of numbers. She texted me four days after that, likely when her impatience got the best of her, but I never replied.
Abigail doesn’t flush or fidget or fling herself into her chair. She’s poised. A picture of grace. But what I’m sure her father doesn’t see from his end of the table is the fire in her hazel eyes, the one that says she’s going to eat me alive while the suited bastards watch.
I tap my fingers against the polished table and smile, refusing to let her shake me. This could get messy, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.
“Here you are, Abigail.” I slide a handout toward her and begin my presentation, speaking for a solid fifteen minutes before Abigail interrupts me.
“Mr. King, I’m looking at your estimate here.” She sits up, but the sharp pitch of her voice tells me she’s aimed at me, seconds away from firing. “It feels a little high. Is this the best you can do?”
David gives his daughter a reassuring nod. He’s proud of her. And he should be. Four gruff, middle-aged men hadn’t had the balls to question me yet, and she’s wasting no time.
“I can assure you, we’re the most reasonable in the industry,” I say. “My brother, Dane, and I have worked tirelessly in reducing manufacturing costs and lead times. We have an exclusive contract with a manufacturer based out of Iowa. Their central location allows them to reduce shipping costs, thus reducing the final cost of the product. We pass that savings along to our clients.”
“So you wouldn’t mind if I did a little shopping around before we sign anything?” Abigail bats her lashes.
“By all means.” I call her bluff. “If you can find someone lower than us with the same superior product, please let me know. We’ll match their price and give you an additional five percent discount.”
“What makes your product superior?” Harris asks.
“Workmanship. Warranty. Rigorous testing,” I fire back. “And at the customer service level, you’ll be working closely with myself and my brother. We’re always a phone call away. A client contract this size ensures you won’t be working with any lower level employees who have to play phone tag to get answers for you when you need them. Our biggest competitors can’t offer that, and with a project this size, ten years is a long time to be communicating via middlemen.”
The four of them scan the handouts again, flipping pages and nodding and pursing their lips.
“If you turn to the last page,” I say, “You’ll see where I’ve broken down the ROI. Per my calculations, your project will pay for itself within the first ten to twelve years. And I’m sure we can all agree that it’s a sound investment, especially when we figure that fast-food is an evolutionary business model that won’t be going away anytime soon.”
“That’s exactly what I said the other day, didn’t I, Abigail?” David says to his daughter. “Almost word for word.”
“Great minds.” Her voice is flat, she looks my way.
“This is rather convincing,” David says. “I hope you don’t mind if I have my daughter put together a few more estimates? And then we’ll meet again with our board and take a vote.”
“By all means.” I rise. “Gentlemen. Abigail. Thank you for your time today.”
“I’ll walk you out.” Abigail gathers her things and follows me to the door.