Body Shot (Last Shot)(33)
They’d laughed about it the next day.
Those were small things compared to the shit they’d seen and done.
They’d get through this problem too.
His cellphone chimed with a call. His first thought was Hayden. He grabbed the phone.
Damn. His mother.
With a sigh, he answered the call. “Hello, Mother.”
“Beckham. How are you?”
“I’m good.”
“How’s your little bar doing?”
“Great. Busy. We’re having fun.”
He didn’t actually hear his mother’s sigh, but he felt her disappointment. “Fun.”
“Yeah.” He was not going to feel guilty about that. “I hope this isn’t another call to try to convince me to come home and work in the family business.”
Whitcomb Industries was a multinational corporation founded by his grandfather. It had started as a small sugar refining company, and had grown into a major food manufacturing company with subsidiaries in manufacturing, trading, and investments, now run by Beck’s father.
After a short, telling pause, Beck’s mother said, “Of course not. But since you mention it—”
“Not happening, Mother. If you want to hear about the cool tequila tasting event we did last night at the bar, we can talk about that.”
“Tequila tasting? Dear Lord, Beckham.”
“I guess that’s a no, then. How’s Dad?”
“He’s fine. He works too hard. He’d like to retire, Beckham. He’d like to know he’s leaving the business in the hands of family. You’re our only child.”
He closed his eyes at that, remembering his older brother’s death. Fuck.
“There’s nobody else to take over.”
Yep, she was guilting him. She was good at that. “I don’t want to take over.” Christ, how many times had they had this conversation? And how many times had he pushed aside the guilt he couldn’t quite get rid of? Which he focused on doing now. It was his life, to live the way he wanted to. “Sorry, Mother. Say hi to Dad for me, I have to go. Bye.”
He ended the call before she could protest, closed his eyes, and tipped his head back.
Was he being selfish? Should he be back in Boston, running Whitcomb Industries?
Chapter 9
Hayden’s day started with a meeting with one of her research teams to discuss their progress on the project they were working on. They’d had some disappointing results and needed to take a step back and rethink where they were going. That was what research was…you had to be prepared that some of these projects were going to take months or even years, and you had to deal with a lot of failures before you had success. It took patience, tenacity, and a strong belief in what you were doing.
After that, she worked on another project, writing up engineering rationales and protocols for testing. She grabbed lunch at her desk while she reviewed the notes for the meeting that afternoon with the people from the National Health Institute, which was taking place at their office in downtown San Diego.
She was kicking herself for not working on this yesterday, instead blowing off work to go out and walk on the beach and play arcade games and have sex.
Oh my God.
Sex with Beck.
Two nights in a row. Her body was still quivering and sensitive from the unfamiliar action.
It was actually hard to feel regretful about that, when all she wanted was more. But dammit, she needed to focus on work. People were counting on her to get this grant money so they could continue the important work they were doing.
She’d done this before. She’d been able to sell her ideas in the past to land the necessary funds to get started and keep going the last few years. So what if this was the biggest yet? She had this. She ate, slept, and breathed this stuff seven days a week. She was confident of their research, knowledgeable, and eloquent. Taking a few hours off for fun yesterday wasn’t going to change that.
She drove downtown, leaving early in case of traffic or parking issues. After riding the elevator to the twenty-first floor of One Columbia Place, she took a seat in the waiting room, focusing on a few deep breaths, reminding herself that she actually enjoyed this part of her work. She loved talking about their research and goals. She was passionate about it, and that helped sell it.
An hour later, the meeting was done and she was in the parking garage walking to her car, relieved and satisfied. It had gone well. She’d been articulate, able to answer every question and address every concern.
Of course, she wouldn’t know their decision for a while. They’d told her they expected to make their final funding decisions for next year within a few weeks. She sat in her car and closed her eyes, reliving the meeting, wondering if she could have done better. She always wondered if she could have done better.