Page 10 of The CEO Enemy
Knock-Knock. Knock-Knock.
The door of my office opens, and Connor O’Malley walks in. A tall, buff guy born and raised in Ireland, Connor looks like he would be more at home in a garage or as a nightclub bouncer rather than in an office. Because of that, a lot of people tend to underestimate him. He’s one of the slickest, smartest sales associates I’ve had on my staff. My closest buddy for at least a decade, he’s one of the few people in my immediate circle who I trust completely. I know that if I ask him to do something, he’ll get it done and get it done right.
“The meeting went grand. I’ve got those eejits eatin’ out of me hand,” he says in his Irish accent, his tone a mix of triumph and amusement, as he makes a jerking-off motion. With a sly grin, he plops onto the chair across from my desk. “Them seaside cabins in northern Providence are a sure thing. Sky’s the limit from here! How’s Westerlyn?”
“Whitman’s signed and sealed. Have the paperwork right here.”
“Grand job! Delighted the auld fella didn’t give ya any trouble.”
“Nah, I didn’t expect him to. He’s been ready to retire for eons. Told me how excited his wife is to spend her days on her own island off Bali.”
“What about the co-owner?”
“What about her? She can either get on board or sell.”
“Exactly. If she starts givin’ us grief, she can cop on or jog on.”
I shrug, pushing the paperwork aside and picking up my coffee again. “I’m prepared to handle anything she throws my way. From what I’ve gathered, her experience and negotiation skills pale in comparison to Norman Whitman’s. Once we extend an offer, she’ll be reaching for the nearest pen and saying sold!”
“You know what this calls for, don’t ya?” Connor grins wider, leaning back in his chair. “Pints. Tonight.”
I make a face. “I’m not in the mood.”
“Oh, come on! You’re never in the mood.”
“And yet, you always drag me along.”
“Because you’re no craic anymore, Sean. If I didn’t drag you out every now and then, you’d waste your life away workin’ and sulkin’. And sure what kind of friend would I be if I let that happen to ya?”
He has a point. I consider his offer as I sip the rest of my coffee. “I’ll think about it,” I say. “It depends on how my board meeting goes.”
Connor makes a face. “I forgot about that. It’ll be good to get your auld lad off your back about this deal.”
“You said it, not me.”
“Speaking of retirin’ dinosaurs, I don’t get why he’s still hangin’ in there. We both know you’ve been doin’ most of his work for years.”
“The pitfalls of working with your father.”
“And all the more reason for you to come out tonight. I won’t be takin’ no for an answer.”
“I’ll let you know.”
Connor sighs and shakes his head. He knows me well enough to not keep pushing. “Fine. Text me when you decide. I’ll be in my office.”
I don’t bother to reply.
As he leaves, I shift my focus to my computer. I have a few minutes before the meeting and want to review my notes. Numerous prospective clients have come in over the last few business days, and part of my job is to filter through the mess and assign hot leads to my staff. The larger we grow, the easier we can negotiate. Blackwood Hotels & Resorts is one of the largest privately owned hotel chains on the East Coast. Recent acquisitions and publicity have catapulted us into the public eye, and if we’re not being sought out to sell to and cash out, we’re doing the seeking. Like Norman.
It’s my primary goal to have our name rival Hilton—and Rutherford Plaza Hotels. With my leadership, I can see that becoming a reality within the next five years.
It could be sooner if my father would give me the reins.
Even after steering the company from millions to billions over the past decade as CEO, I still need board approval for major decisions. With my father as Chairman of the Board of Directors, clashes are inevitable. While the board members have a say, they typically defer to him, given his founder status. It’s damn frustrating, but that’s just how it goes in our corporate landscape.
Iwalk into the conference room to find him already there. He sits at the head of the table, his white hair meticulously groomed, papers placed around him.
“Morning,” I say, taking the seat at the opposite end of the table. I only have my phone and my tablet, and I put both on the table, suppressing the urge to lament the unnecessary waste of good trees.