by Gilead, Kate
Taking Heart
Men on a Mission Book 3
Kate Gilead
Copyright © 2019 by Kate Gilead
All rights reserved worldwide. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This story contains adult themes, sexual encounters and strong language. It is intended for mature readers only.
All sexual acts described herein are consensual and all characters are 18 years of age or older.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue
13. Bonus: Jacked Chapter One
Also by Kate Gilead
Chapter One
Kyle
The Ides of March.
The sun is shining here in Toronto, but the wintry cold still lingers.
I’m sitting in my office, my chair swiveled to face the floor-to-ceiling window behind my desk.
My perch here on the top floor of this Bay Street high-rise commands a glorious view.
From here, in the tallest building on the block, I can see all the way to the dark blue waters of Lake Ontario, far to the south, as well as all of the other buildings lining this historic street.
Up here, I’m in the catbird seat, deep in the heart of the Canadian banking and finance industry.
Once more-or-less reserved for that powerful money industry alone, this downtown area is fast becoming home to companies like mine as well.
Usually, when I take in this view, I feel a surge of pride and satisfaction in being here. Not only in owning the top five floors in this coveted building, but in having arrived here through my own determined efforts.
Mine… and Nancy’s too, if I’m honest.
It wasn’t easy, and I’m not the only player in the game. But my company, Ross Software and Technology, did have a major role in making Toronto the fastest-growing hub for the tech industry in North America.
And today was a banner day.
An excellent day; a day we’ve all worked hard for.
Today we shipped our latest product, a much-anticipated suite of CAD software for our engineer client base.
The pre-orders alone paid for all the research and development, all the testing, all the blood, sweat and tears we’ve put into it over three years of grueling work.
And so far, on roll-out day, the numbers are already off the charts.
It’s all gravy from here on out. Monetarily speaking, at least.
But I’m not enjoying what should be a perfect day.
I can’t.
Haven’t answered calls, emails or texts. Not a single one, all day.
I’m watching the numbers, of course, but not taking pleasure in it, even though they’re mind-blowing.
Today, there’s no satisfaction in this pinnacle of achievement.
Because Nancy Garcia, my executive assistant; my faithful side-kick and all-around work accomplice isn’t here to savor this victory with me.
A month ago, she had a semi-serious stroke.
I’ve been floundering ever since. And not just work-wise, although all the stuff Nancy deals with has been piling up into a mess.
But it’s more than just work. It’s affecting me personally too.
At fifty-eight, Nance is the same age as my late mother would have been.
Hardly elderly. Not even close. Slim and athletic, with youthful olive skin, she looks maybe late forties. Her hair is still silky and more chestnut than gray, always worn in a smart up-do. And fiery brown eyes that miss nothing.
Hell, she’s more youthful than me somedays, especially if I’m still stiff from a tough upper-body work-out at the gym.
And to call her a mere secretary or assistant would be a grave disservice.
She’s been my rock. My…anchor, my safety net.
Over fifteen years of working so closely together, day in and day out, I’ve come to have a tremendous professional respect and admiration for her.
But like she once said, it takes a strong man to admit to having a heart. To admit to having feelings, especially someone like me, so focused on business.
So focused on myself. She didn’t use those words, but I knew, even then, that’s what she meant. I just wasn’t ready to see it.
Men are taught to suppress their feelings from an early age. They’re supposed to be strong; problem solvers; builders and protectors.
To show emotion is to show weakness.
In a man’s world, success is strength.
What no one ever told me, though, is how…damned empty it is, when you all you have is money.
Lots of money but no emotional life, no one to share the ups and downs with. No one who gives a shit about you except for status…and what you buy for them.
All this fucking money.
A lot of it’s on display here in my carefully-decorated headquarters. Paid a small fortune for a duo of famous, gay designers with their own TV show to decorate the place.
It looks great but it has no heart.
It’s just…yeah.
Empty.
Like me.
It’s lonely at the top.
Truer words were never spoken.
From the street below, muffled honks and traffic noise drifts to my ears. Red brake lights flare, and people scurry up and down the street like ants.
Busy busy chasing money, scurry scurry better hurry.
Lost in thought, I see and hear it all, but I don’t really take any of it in.
Poor Nancy.
What do I know about her personal life? Not all that much. I know she lived alone; I know she never married. I know she has a niece somewhere in the city.
It bothers me a lot that she had the stroke at the grocery store, with only strangers to help her. And, people did help her, good samaritans came to her aid. The ambulance came fast apparently. She wasn’t completely alone or asleep when it happened. Thank God.
Still.
Why didn’t I take the time to get to know her better…ask if she had anyone to help her out or look after her at home?
I’ve always been so busy and driven, always so occupied. Always so concerned with appearances and propriety.
That professional line that people don’t like to cross. Mind your business and all that.
But for me, that delusion got torn away, exposed for the bullshit it is.
A pale excuse.
A weasel excuse.
Fuck.
Swinging slightly in my chair, I wonder if I’m having a crisis of confidence or some damn thing.
Growing pains, Nancy’d probably call it. Whatever it is, it’s not fun.
Nance…somehow she always seemed so strong to me. Smart and vital and full of life. It’s…inconceivable to me that this could have happened to her.
Thank God her prognosis is so good.
&
nbsp; A few days after it first happened, I threw aside “professional distance” and went to the hospital to see her during lunch hour.
Carrying Get Well Soon balloons, a card signed by everyone in the office, and the biggest floral arrangement I could find, I wasn’t prepared for how deeply upsetting seeing her at such a low point would be.
Or how much she’d remind me of my mother in her last days.
Nancy, my own Moneypenny, laying in that bed, sedated and sleeping…my heart broke into pieces at how small and helpless she’d appeared.
She looked crumpled, almost, as if she’d fallen from a great height.
After my mother’s death, back when I was a teenager, I’d avoided hospitals and sick people and just concentrated on school, and then, later, work.
I’d forgotten or, maybe, refused to remember, the reality of how people suffering a health crisis could look so unaware of their surroundings and so…fragile.
Fragile was never a word I’d have associated with Nancy.
The memory of her in that hospital bed still twists my gut so uncomfortably it actually makes me squirm in my chair.
But.
Last week, when I went to see her again, she was doing better. Whatever drug or therapy they have now for strokes seems to be working well for her. She was talking a lot better. Sitting up, eating, all that. Already re-gaining the use of her left side.
Already working, iPad in hand. Jesus!
She even felt well enough to be mad at me for coming to see her when she was “looking like a hag,” as she put it.
The relief to hear her voice, even low and raspy like it was, yet imbued with her tart and direct spirit…the relief was so overwhelming, I got a lump in my throat and couldn’t say shit to her for a few seconds.
She’d stared at me with those eyes of hers, usually so bright but now, watery and tired.
And I must have looked as upset as I felt, because she’d tried to comfort me….she’d tried to comfort me!
“Take heart,” she’d said. “This too shall pass.” And she’d waved her iPad at me with her good hand. “I’m working on hiring a temporary replacement until I’m back on my feet. The doc said it’d be good therapy.”
“Nance, why? Don’t worry about it! Just rest, get better.”
“No, no, this is good for me, Kyle. I need to. I already have someone in mind. The best temp assistant in Toronto, only takes the most select assignments. Very sought after. You know how hard it is to find good help.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. I’ll arrange everything with human resources by roll-out day next week. They’ll let you know when the candidate is ready to meet with you. ”
“Jesus, Nance. Even in a hospital bed, you make the rest of us look like dog-fuckers.”
“Tsk tsk, Kyle. Language!” But she smiled. And she’d looked like Nancy again.
Right after that, the doc came in with even more good news. She’s healing well. He said she’ll recuperate right back to where she was if she wants to…if she keeps working at it.
And she will. I know she will.
Cautiously optimistic yet… my relief is tinged with guilt.
Tinged?
Splashed, more like. Coated.
A lot of guilt, because I’m afraid Nance’s stroke might be my fault. Kind of.
It’s a fear that won’t go away. It nags at me.
Did I work her too hard? Did I forget she’s not superwoman?
Goddammit. Why didn’t I take better care of her? Sure, she makes way more money here than she’d make anywhere else. Plus bonuses, plus paid vacations, plus every other monetary perk I could think of.
But…should I have done more?
Could I have done more?
I never expected or asked her to work late, but she always did. Especially in the early days, when it was just the two of us.
Over the years, during crunch-times or crises, she was always here, working late, supporting me and this company.
She always said that, lacking a husband and children, she’d made work her life. But a career is no comfort when you’re laying in a hospital bed.
And how could she have dated, met a man, when she worked so hard and put in so many hours here, with me?
Goddammit.
Yet, she’s well-liked around here, that’s for sure. The whole team is pulling for her.
She’s really been kind of like a den mother to us all, in addition to all her other duties.
Yeah. Now look at me, lost without her, rocking in my chair like I’m trying to comfort myself, thinking this has been the second-worst month of my life.
And making matters worse, is how stifled I suddenly feel.
As if the walls are closing in on me. As if, being here in this office, wearing this suit and tie, chasing money in this fucking rat race is actually going to smother the life out of me.
I’ve never doubted my path in life. Never doubted that I could manifest my goals as long as I stuck to the plan.
And I’ve made it a strict practice to never look back and never second-guess myself.
But now, for the first time I can remember, I’m doubtful about the future and lost in thought about the past.
* * *
When I started RS&T fifteen years ago, I was only twenty years old. I had exactly ten thousand dollars, some saved and some borrowed, and a carefully-thought-out plan.
Putting that plan into action, I worked my ass off, living frugally, eating ramen noodles and hardly looking at women, much less dating.
After a few months of chaos, trying but failing to do everything myself, I hired my first employee, who was, of course, Nancy.
She turned out to be a kind of a key to success, helping me look legitimate with her professionalism and taking care of all the many tasks that I didn’t have time to do myself.
By the age of twenty-five, I made my first million, dividing some tech profits into a stock portfolio and ploughing the rest back into my business.
Right around then, I finally started hitting the gym, and found out that my tall but medium-built physique could be carved into something a lot healthier than I ever imagined.
That’s when I started dating more, too. A lot more. Kept it casual though, because I always had a plan. Didn’t let anyone get too close.
Three years later, I became a multi-millionaire at the age of twenty-eight, making sure to take care of Nancy and the rest of my employees along the way.
Now, I’m thirty-five. And in five years, I intend to be a billionaire.
Then, and only then, the plan is to start looking for someone to build my next legacy with…a wife. A good woman with whom I can build a family.
Always stayed true to that plan.
But now…I wonder.
There are so many lonely older men, men like me who put money over love. Three or four divorces later, maybe they have kids and grandkids but at night…they’re still alone.
Seems like Nancy’s stroke has made me re-think everything.
How much time do we really have in this world? What if it’s less than we think…what if we have to leave it earlier than we planned, what if we end up leaving people who still need us behind?
* * *
From the corner of my eye, I can see the red LED lights on the phone display blinking on and off.
The light on my personal message center is steady, indicating it’s full.
Better pull myself together.
Ironically, it’s now so quiet in my office that I can even hear my iPhone vibrate in my jacket, hanging on the expensive coat rack by the door.
If she were here, Nancy’d kick my ass for wool-gathering. Then she’d tease me about getting soft, all the while, helping me deal with all the crap I’m not good at. Like she always does.
Sigh.
So… I have to force myself to get back to it.
First, I should see when the candidate Nancy chose to replace her is coming in. God knows, I need the help.
For a mo
ment, I don’t even know who to call, who to ask. It’s someone in HR, that’s all I know.
I call the department head and ask if we have any suitable candidates yet.
“Oh, Mr. Ross! We’ve been messaging you all day about that. Ms. Garcia has chosen a candidate. Hand-picked, as she put it.”
“She mentioned she’d have someone, yes.” Mind you, it’ll probably be a Brunhilda-type ball-breaker. Not that I give a fuck right now. “When is he or she expected to come in to see me?”
“I..well, we’ve been trying to call you. She’s here. She’s been here quite some time, sir.”
“Great. Send her up right away.”
* * *
Another thing I learned long ago is to look the part you want to portray. Ever mindful that my image is also my company’s image, I don’t want to give any old-biddy temp worker anything to gossip about.
Quick detour to the lavish ensuite bathroom in my office, wash hands, run wet fingers through hair. Straighten tie, tuck in shirt.
Good enough.
Down the short corridor, stride around the corner and…there she is.
A slim woman, standing with her back to me as she looks out the long window with its impressive view of the city below.
Red hair, arranged in a severe bun. Equally severe pin-stripe grey skirt with jacket and sensible shoes. A black laptop bag slung over one shoulder.
I barely have time to notice that her derriere looks round and pert before she turns around and spots me.
Holy.
Fuck.
It’s like looking into the face of an angel.
Chapter Two
Kyle
For a second or two, I just take her in.
Young, not old.
No Brunhilda, this one.