"Douchebag," I muttered under my breath.
“Alex will be right in,” Costas said with a swift smile, addressing the trio. He gestured toward them, not sparing a glance my way. “Would anyone like coffee or tea?”
“We’re all set,” Stan replied, speaking on behalf of the group. His eyes shifted to the substantial folder Costas had brought. “I assume our proposal is in good order?”
Costas nodded, opening the folder. “Yes, my team scrutinized your proposal, and we're confident you have a good grasp of everything that needs further verification at Levington.” His gaze shifted to Stan, accompanied by a smile. “As I mentioned earlier, telecom isn't typically our expertise, so we're relying on you to ensure everything is ready before signing the final acquisition documents next week.”
“No problem,” Stan assured, waving his hands. “If there's any issue, my team will catch it.”
“Excellent,” Costas said with a brisk nod. He flipped through more pages and produced what appeared to be a contract, offering two copies. Placing one in front of Stan and keeping one for himself, Costas affirmed, “The contract is good to go. Vetted by both our legal departments, I'm ready to sign if you are.”
“I’m ready,” Stan said eagerly, already holding the Monte Blanc pen he'd received for two decades of service at Silverman. Aware he'd be signing this contract today, he probably had the pen in hand for hours.
With great flair, he unscrewed the cap and scrawled his signature on Silverman & Stern's behalf.
Costas signed on behalf of Herron Enterprises, using a humble disposable Bic pen. To me, it spoke volumes; he was either remarkably modest or exceedingly wealthy, uninterested in flaunting an expensive pen.
They exchanged contracts and signed again.
“Perfect,” Stan said, sliding his copy into his briefcase as if worried Costas might change his mind. He shook Costas' hand. “We’ll start first thing Monday morning.”
“You must be the Silverman party,” a cheerful voice chimed from the doorway. I glanced up to see Alex Herron leaning against the frame, holding a red rubber ball.
In stark contrast to Jeffrey Costas, impeccably dressed and put together, Alex donned tight jeans with ripped knees, dingy tennis shoes, and a faded black Metallica-logoed t-shirt. He resembled someone delivering pizzas rather than the billionaire entrepreneur running the show.
Google photos didn't do him justice. With a dark summer tan, shaggy blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and an easy smile, he emanated an effortless charm that made me want to smile back. Resisting the urge, I kept my gaze on the table.
It wasn't apparent he was one of the world's wealthiest men, and perhaps that was the point—maintaining a low-key appearance. A disguise, like Brad Pitt trying to look unattractive when off-screen.
Despite the appealing bulge in his tight jeans, the tLenny remained—Alex was undoubtedly a douchebag.
Tossing the ball between his hands, he said, “I took as much time as I could getting here. I hope I’m too late for the meeting.”
“You’re not late at all,” Stan said, oblivious to the sarcasm. He jumped to his feet, extending his hand. “Stan Robbins, Mr. Herron, Silverman & Stern.”
“Whoa, no handshakes, Stan,” Alex replied hastily, stepping back as if avoiding a hold-up. He raised his hands, crinkling his nose as if Stan's hand were smeared with something foul. “Too many germs in the world, Stan. Plus, I have no idea where that hand has been.”
Stan's hand hung awkwardly for a moment, then he let it drop, sinking into his chair with a wounded-puppy expression. Almost, just almost, I felt a twinge of sympathy for him.