What Maxwell didn’t recognize was that his attitude was the reason his father still hadn’t promoted him to an executive position. Alexander Covington had hoped that a few years doing scut work would help his son gain an appreciation for hard work and ambition, but these attributes seemed completely out of his son’s reach and Maxwell’s personality still exhibited an insufferable lack of character. Alexander was nearing retirement age and longed for an heir he could trust to run the company in his golden years, but unfortunately his only son was completely unfit for the job. Alexander blamed himself for how he had raised Maxwell, but in truth, Maxwell had eschewed every piece of advice his father had ever given him and instead crashed through life in an adolescent stupor. Maxwell ruminated as he watched the barely clothed waitresses sashay around the bar, wooing the patrons into buying another drink by lingering at the tables and flaunting their figures as they laughed exaggeratedly at their patrons’ pathetic alcohol-scrambled attempts at humor. One waitress especially caught his eye, with shiny, coffee-colored hair that swung to her hips and unusual topaz eyes that sparkled behind long, thick lashes. Her figure gave new meaning to the word hourglass and Maxwell imagined circling her tiny waist with his hands and burying his face in her voluptuous chest.
