Page 6 of Under Her

“So, that means, I will one day have the company to run alone?”

My mother looks at my father again. But he’s looking at me.

“Yes,” he says decisively. “Wilder, you know the company will be yours when your mother and I are gone. And you can do as you choose with it then.”

“Well, I’m hoping you don’t go anytime soon, and I’d quite like to run the business solo well before then.”

“Let’s put a pin in this for now.” My mother claps her hands together, ending the conversation.

Put a pin in it? Jesus fucking Christ. We’re talking about my life here, and my mom wants to stick a pin in it.

But I know that pushing the issue right now will get me nowhere. I need to tackle this again—and soon—but at this moment in time, I need to deal with the crap they’ve just dropped in my lap.

“So, when do I get to meet this mystery woman?” Who’s stealing half of my company.

Okay, she’s not actually stealing it, but she’s definitely stealing half of my job.

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” I echo.

“Yes, she’s coming in first thing tomorrow morning to meet with you. And then, afterward, in the weekly meeting, we’ll formally announce her new role along with your step up as co-CEOs.”

Co-CEO. The word makes me want to vomit.

If I didn’t love my parents, I would legit strangle them right now. With my bare hands.

A day. I’ve got a motherfucking day to get my head around this…this curveball that they’ve thrown at me.

“I know you’re worried about this, Wilder, but Morgan is great, and you do actually already know her,” my mom says.

That brings my head up. “I know her?”

Please God don’t let it be someone I slept with. Not that I do much sleeping with the women I have sex with. I’m not one to hang around after the deed is done.

“Morgan told us that you went to Northwestern together,” my dad says.

Morgan. Northwestern. Went together.

This isn’t sounding good.

And knowing my fuck rate at Northwestern, my odds of not having screwed this chick are diminishing by the second.

I swallow past the dryness in my throat. “What’s her surname?”

“Stickford,” Mom says. “Morgan Stickford.”

Ah, hell.

Morgan Stick-Up-Her-Ass-Ford.

Relief and dismay sweep through me in equal measure.

Relief because I definitely didn’t sleep with her in college.

Dismay because she hated me in college.

Which was a shame because she was a pretty thing. Well, her face was, which was always on show—as her hair was habitually tied back into a ponytail—unlike her body, which was always covered up with ugly-ass big sweaters.