It would have been safer to have a small civil service in Hawaii, easier to explain why his brother somehow couldn’t make it, after all—but fine. He had to give her something.
The part that pissed him off was her insistence that they not sleep together until they tied the knot.
“Did you just crawl out of a time machine from the nineteenth century?” he’d joked.
Not really joking.
“I want to make sure this is about love, not sex,” she’d replied seriously. “You tested me, and I passed. Now you need to pass my test for you.”
“Lark, I would crawl on my knees through broken glass for you,” he told her, believing it himself.
“Glad to hear it,” she said with a wicked grin.
Waiting was harder than he made it out to be. He’d been so horny he even invented an excuse to spend thirty-six hours in Minneapolis with a surprised but appreciative Alanna, his old friend from Target.
The thought of taking off Lark’s wedding dress tonight prompted a painful, unwanted erection he hoped would go away before the drive was over.
The things a guy has to do for pussy. The thought made him chuckle.
“Sir?” asked the driver.
“I didn’t say anything, chief.”
The traffic on San Vicente Boulevard was sluggish, the road clogged with Saturday-afternoon beach traffic. It should have been a fifteen-minute drive from here, but it was probably going to be twice that.
They had just passed Twenty-Sixth Street when his phone rang. Olivia, who had just come back from maternity leave. He answered, thinking he’d need to remember to silence it during the vows.
“I . . . I heard something crazy.” Her voice was shaking so much she could hardly speak.
“Don’t keep me in suspense, Olivia,” he said impatiently.
“There was a board meeting. Just now. At the office in Chicago, but everyone who couldn’t be there called in.”
A board meeting? Jon’s mind went blank as the limo passed an elderly, spandex-clad cyclist puffing away in low gear.
“Who convened it?” he asked quietly.
“There was a vote removing you as CEO.”
Had he been driving, the cyclist would be dead. The cars in front of them smoking wreckage. He wished he were behind the wheel. Almost considered ordering the chauffeur to pull over and get out. Instead he pushed the button that raised the privacy partition.
“Who told you this, Olivia?” he asked, trying to control his voice and breathing.
“Jon, I’m sorry.”
Then she hung up.
He stared at the phone, mind reeling.
Coups happened, but not at companies like Cancura. Not his goddamn company, which he’d started and built from nothing into one of the hottest start-ups ever. His mind spun through the CEOs, celebrities, and retired politicians he’d recruited for the board, wondering who was responsible and what motives they could possibly have.
Meanwhile, he had exactly 51 percent of the stock, so even if they kicked him out of his office, he still controlled the fucking future of his fucking company. They would have to answer to him as a shareholder.
The driver wove his way toward Pacific Coast Highway. The street was baking outside, but inside it was suddenly too cold. He opened a window.
“Sir, should I turn off the AC?” asked the driver via intercom.
“I’ll let you know,” Trip barked.
He called the cell phone of Ross Cowan, but it went straight to voice mail. Tried the switchboard.
If you know your party’s extension . . .
Called Jeff Nowak, his personal lawyer. One ring and voice mail. Probably communing with nature on a golf cart.
As he switched his phone to vibrate, a text came in. Jeff, he thought, saying he’d call after the eighteenth hole.
Not Jeff. Jessica.
This isn’t going to work out between us. I’ll be returning your ring. I don’t want anything from you.
“Fuck!”
A text. She told him she wanted a divorce by text.
He called her back. No answer, of course. Why would anyone talk to him? He was only the reason for everything.
Hot again. He rolled the window back up. The air-conditioning was arctic—the driver’s nuts were probably ice cubes by now. Good.
Any other day and he’d head for the airport, fly to Chicago, and set Jessica straight. Now he needed her even more. He did love her, and for a while he’d wondered if she really was his perfect match. Someone who understood the thing that drove him and could help him reach his biggest goal. But she had too many questions and not enough answers. It had been a mistake to mix work and pleasure.
And he’d soon have Holly back. He did love her, too, even if she’d annoyed the fuck out of him lately. She was a good lover, and a great mom, and he needed her to keep being one, at least until the kids were all out of the house. They could summer in LA if they wanted, but it wasn’t like Lark was going to help them with their homework.
Jesus. Could he postpone the wedding, at least until he figured out what was going on at Cancura? He’d be inconveniencing what, a dozen people? Two dozen? Lark had handled the guest lists.
No, it was too late. Better to get it over with and then do damage control. Someone with ideas above their station believed that they could go toe-to-toe with Jonathan Mitchell Wright III. That someone was going to regret it.
Worst-case scenario, if he really was out of a job, he still had the stock. He could call in favors from enough board members to make sure the new CEO was compliant and run things from backstage. Meanwhile he could start something new. Empowering girl scientists or something. Get Lark to say how important he’d been to Activate! Do another TED Talk and hit the speaking circuit.
Which was a great way to meet people and make new friends.
They had turned onto PCH. Endless Pacific blue off to the left. A hell of a lot nicer than Lake Michigan. A hell of a lot warmer than Lake Michigan. Fuck it. Fuck Chicago and screw Illinois.
Focus. Breathe.
He called everyone again. Called a couple
