by Amanda Aksel
“Well, she’s charming and quick-witted. But Shakespeare taps into something deeper.”
I narrow my eyes. “What’s that?”
“People see what they want to see. No one wanted to suggest otherwise because the majority seemed to buy it.”
“Do you think someone could get away with this in real life or is it just Shakespeare stuff?” I wave dismissively.
Camille flips her long hair off her shoulder. “I mean, sure, Shakespeare’s comedies are a little on the zany side, but his plays are very indicative of human behavior and motivation. Now, obviously, a woman would need a very convincing disguise. But if you think about it, most of us wear disguises every day. And we get away with it. Every day.”
“Good point.” I sit back, ignoring another alert on my phone. I’ve been wearing the friend-who’s-not-cleaning-for-rent disguise in front of Eric for months. And now I have the best disguise there is—a dick with no identity. I can be anyone. Anyone in a suit. “In your play, what does this woman want? Why is she pretending to be a man?”
She looks me dead in the eye. “Survival.”
Survival, huh? I can relate to that.
“So what about you? Is it safe to assume you’re an investment banker?” She holds her cup up to her mouth with both hands.
Shannon didn’t bat an eyelash when I lied about working for Monty Fuhrmann. Maybe I should try it on again. This time in a bigger size. “Yeah, I’m a managing director over here at Monty Fuhrmann.” I nod in the direction of the building.
Camille flutters her lashes. “That sounds really cool. You must do well.”
I pick up my phone again. “Uh, yeah. Hang on.” It’s got enough battery life to last me about an hour, which is just enough. Eric’s left two voice mails and Frankie’s left one. “Listen, I’ve got to run. It was really nice meeting you.” I stand, yanking the plug from the wall and stuffing it in my briefcase.
Her jaw hangs. “You don’t want to finish your coffee here first?”
“Can’t, sorry. I’ve got a lot of work to do. Good luck on your play.”
She rises to her feet while I grab my latte. “Wait! Am I ever going to see you again?”
I turn to her, chewing my bottom lip. Meet-cute or not, I’m not who this poor girl thinks I am. But she’s kinda sweet and was nice enough to let me sit at her table. Not to mention the brilliant idea she just gave me.
So I hit my mark and take a beat. “I guess we’ll let fate decide.”
I had to give her something. And who knows? Maybe one day she’ll write her own Shakespearean-style comedy about the woman who actually woke up in a man’s body.
CHAPTER NINE
The Monty Fuhrmann Tower is only a block away. Cold beads of sweat sit on my neck, and I’m worried Frankie’s antiperspirant isn’t strong enough for a man or a woman. I down the rest of my coffee, chewing on my bottom lip between sips. I’ve done so much recon on this firm that I know it like the back of my hand. The back of my female hand anyway. I run my potentially insane idea over in my mind with every step toward the building. I’ll either be the hero that saves this deal or the nobody who failed. Considering the circumstances, I’ll take those odds.
I push through the front doors and walk briskly along the dark marble floor, keeping my head up. The lobby’s bustling with busy professionals, same as yesterday afternoon. I scoot close to the guy in front of me passing through security and lower my eyes. A large man dressed more like a hotel clerk than a traditional security guard holds his hand out in front of me. “Do you have a keycard, sir?”
I do my best not to look alarmed, and I’m tempted to tell him I forgot it. “No, I have an interview with Lauren in HR.”
“You’re going to need to sign in at the desk.” He doesn’t smile, but extends his arm out to the side, both pointing the way and barricading me.
“Thanks,” I say through as friendly a smile as I can muster, and head to the long reception desk. Yesterday when I signed in, someone came down to serve as my escort. Will they let me upstairs without one? Guess I’ll find out.
Behind the desk sits the same tiny-framed woman as the day before. Her black hair falls just above her collarbone. Her eyes lock onto me, her smile growing wider the closer I get.
“Good morning,” she says.
I flash her a toothy smile. “Good morning!”
“Just sign in here, please.” She points at the clipboard sheet. “Who do you have business with today?”
I keep her gaze; maybe this new face of mine can get me upstairs with no further questions. “The HR department.”
“There’s Serena,” the young guy next to her says. They both sit up a little straighter and turn their attention to the front doors.
A woman dressed in a modern power suit walks through the tall glass entrance. I’d know that short signature bob anywhere. “Oh my god. Serena Walters!”
“You know her?” the woman behind the desk asks.
“Excuse me,” I say and hurry over to my professional idol. This is the first time I’ve ever encountered her in passing. Who knows if it’ll happen again?
“Ms. Walters!” I catch up to her, and she turns to me. “I’m sorry to bother you,” I say, slightly panting.
“Can I help you?” Serena’s a single mother who runs a very busy private equity firm. Despite that, and having twin toddlers, she doesn’t have a single strand of hair out of place or a speck of lint on her navy suit. Much less kid spit.
“It’s an honor to meet you. I’m De—Richard,” I start, holding out my trembling hand, praying it will steady. “You’re my hero.”
She takes my hand and gives me a radiant smile with a crisp nod. “Thank you. I don’t often get that reaction from men.”
“Well, you’re an inspiration.” I do my best to dial back my starstruck gawk and cross my arms so she doesn’t see how much I’m shaking. “How do you get it all done?”
Serena lifts her perfectly arched brow. “Can you walk and talk?” She begins to move toward security.
I straighten up and quickly follow. “Yes, ma’am.”
“To answer your question, I just do it. I see what I want, and I go after it.” She points a stiff hand toward the elevator as we pass through. The guard isn’t stopping either of us.
I’m in!
“But how do you maneuver into being such a success in a male-dominated field?”
She stops in front of the doors and looks at me with a flattened lip. “Despite what you may think, women are equally as capable as men.”
Oh, great, now I’m offending the Serena Walters.
“I know. Like I said, you’re my hero. What I meant was, how do you get them to see you as equal?”
Serena lets out a little laugh. “Well, I definitely haven’t heard that question from a man before.” She pauses. “Here’s the thing. The key to success is the same no matter which industry you’re in. It’s about confidence. You have to walk in like you own the place. Because when you roar like a lion, they’ll treat you like you’re the king of the jungle.”
“Or queen?”
She chuckles, and the steel doors open. “Yes, or queen. The lioness does most of the hunting, you know.”
“That’s true.” I follow along behind her. I can’t believe I’m in an elevator with one of the most powerful women in the industry.
“Fortieth, please,” she requests and I comply.
She stands next to me, a very comfortable distance between us. “You work for Monty Fuhrmann?”
I rock back and forth on my heels and keep my eyes on the doors. “Yes . . . yes, I do.”
The lift halts and the doors open to the upper lobby. “This is me,” I say. “It was an honor to meet you, Ms. Walters.” I extend my hand once again, but she reaches for something in her briefcase.
“You seem like the kind of man who would do
well at my firm.” She hands me a business card. “If you’re ever looking for a change, give us a call. That’s my assistant.”
The card feels like gold in my hands. “Wow! Thank you.” She nods goodbye, and I step out of the elevator.
Holy. Shit.
A surprise dick, a run-in with Todd Fairbanks, and a conversation with Serena Walters all before ten o’clock! Where else will this day take me? I turn the corner to a lightly populated foyer and find a seat on a stiff leather chair. No one seems to notice me. It’s as if they think that I belong in this building. Because I do. But according to Serena, it’s not enough to just belong; I have to walk in like I own the place. Take what I want.
I know that philosophy. Watching my dad interact with people, all people, was practically a crash course in taking charge. Having that attitude got me into my top-choice university. They put me on the wait list until I showed up and convinced them to admit me in the fall. At good-ole-boys Howard Brothers Group, I always talked my way onto the best cases, even if that meant accepting a smaller role. I just had to get myself in the door. I knew my abilities would take me the rest of the way. When did I lose that confidence? Why did I start accepting no for an answer?
I check the clock on my dying device. Not much time. If I’m going to intervene, I’ll have to do something ballsy and do it now. I close my eyes for a moment, scanning through miscellaneous facts about the firm, all the tidbits Eric’s shared with me about the Ezeus pitch, and everything Fairbanks alluded to on his call.
Got it!
I snap my fingers. The idea is alarmingly audacious but it might be the only thing that’ll work. I glance down at my masculine suit and large leather shoes. My fingernails dig into my palms, desperate to hold on to this opportunity. It could be my only chance. And at this point, what do I really have to lose?
I take a deep breath and make my way back to the elevator. I press the button for the thirty-second floor and the cab climbs. With every floor, my spine straightens taller and my chin lifts higher. The doors open.
It’s now or never.
I fill my lungs with another deep breath and keep my chest puffed up as I make a beeline for the office of the man in charge. Ready or not, here I come.
His assistant stands, holding her hands up. “Excuse me. You can’t go in there. Sir!”
I barge inside without a second thought.
Five men hover over a spread of printouts. Curtis Becker looks up with an ugly scowl from behind the oversized desk. The other four suits turn to me with tilted heads and raised eyebrows.
“Charlene, who is this?” Becker barks at his assistant.
She shrugs but doesn’t move past the doorway. “Sorry, Mr. Becker. I tried to stop him.”
“Yeah, I can see that.” He huffs, throwing his hands in the air. “Call security!”
That didn’t stop me before. Should I press my luck?
“I don’t think you want to do that,” I say, unbuttoning my jacket. Despite the tension in the room, my muscles are relaxed. All of my muscles.
“And why’s that?”
I smirk, moving closer to Becker. His pinstriped posse steps back except for one, who remains standing firmly at his side. I place my Gucci in an empty chair, feeling Becker’s eyes sizing me up.
He’s shorter than his reputation.
I lower my eyes to meet his. “I’m from the Zurich office. Liam Golan sent me.”
That’s right, I’m invoking the Rainmaker.
The suit guys take another step back. Using the name Liam Golan in this building is like saying Spielberg in a production meeting or Jesus in church.
“Does anyone know what the hell he’s talking about?” Becker looks to his minions. They’re all stunned, like deer in headlights. “Why weren’t we informed?” he asks, clearly unconvinced.
I point directly at Becker. “Never mind that now. Did Fairbanks call yet?”
He gives me a pinched expression and waves off his assistant, who’s been hovering in the doorway. “What are you talking about?”
“Todd Fairbanks is going to call any minute now and cancel the pitch tomorrow. He’s shutting us out.”
A few of the guys gasp, but Becker doesn’t flinch, he just clenches his jaw. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“Do you think Liam Golan jokes around with deals like this?”
Becker pushes his way around the desk and stomps toward me. “I don’t know who you are or why Golan felt the need to send you, but you obviously don’t know shit about this deal. The meeting tomorrow is merely a formality. Fairbanks and I have an understanding.” He points his finger an inch from my pink paisley tie.
His phone rings and all their heads whip in its direction. He rushes back to his desk and answers on speakerphone. “What!”
“Mr. Becker, Mr. Fairbanks is on the line for you.” Charlene’s words tremble.
Curtis Becker’s eyes shift my way, narrowing in suspicion. “Put him through.” There’s a pause before the line clicks in. “Todd, how are you?” Becker’s voice drips of pleasantries.
“Not too bad, Curtis. How are you?” Fairbanks’s voice blares on the speaker.
“Doing great! Looking forward to our meeting tomorrow.”
“That’s actually why I’m calling.” He pauses. “It was a tough call but I’ve decided not to include Monty Fuhrmann in the IPO.”
Becker stands slack-jawed and red-faced. No one in the room is breathing. No one but me. I step closer and sit on the corner of Becker’s desk like it’s mine. “Mr. Fairbanks, this is Richard Allen. I work over here with Curtis and the team. The firm sent me in from Zurich just to meet with you tomorrow.”
“Well, I’m sorry you had to travel so far for nothing.”
My heart is pounding, but my hands are still. “Maybe you don’t have to be.”
“Look, I really appreciate everything Monty Fuhrmann has done for me over the years, but I’ve made up my mind on this.”
Becker takes a breath and leans in, but I shush him with my hand.
“Mr. Fairbanks, we know you better than you think we do. I believe I know why you’ve made this decision, and I understand it. Like you said, we’ve done a lot together over the years. Why don’t you just come in tomorrow as planned and listen to what we have to offer? I know what you’re expecting, and I think we’ll surprise you.”
The other guys have lost all color in their faces now, even Becker. Fairbanks lets out a long breath. “Fine.”
Sighs of relief fill the room. I hope Fairbanks can’t hear them.
“I’ll come in for a half hour,” he says.
Becker’s brows are now raised clear up to the top of his wide forehead. “Great!” he squawks then clears his throat. “Great, Todd. We’ll see you then.”
“See you then, Richard.” Fairbanks hangs up the line and Becker remains stunned, speechless.
I clap once and rise to my feet. “You see? That’s why Liam sent me.”
Ta-da!
Becker rubs his forehead like he’s got a migraine. “I don’t understand. How did you know that was going to happen?”
“It doesn’t matter. What matters now is that we’re still in the running.”
“You heard him. He’s done with us.” The guy standing next to Becker finally speaks. Owen Campbell. I recognize him from his LinkedIn profile. Eric’s informed me that he’s the good cop to Becker’s bad cop but just as guilty. “We’re totally fucked!”
“If you were totally fucked, Golan would’ve sent me here to fire you, which, by the way, he gave me authority to do.” Attagirl. “But we can still save this pitch.”
“How?” Owen asks, throwing his hands in the air.
“By having some balls!” I grab my crotch.
What am I doing?
I release my grip. “And some integrity.”
The
five of them gawk at me. Did I throw them by grabbing my nuts or by using the word integrity?
Owen puckers his mouth. “Can you be more specific?”
“Yes.” I smile. “But I’m going to need a workspace and an assistant. Let me review everything and I’ll meet with you in an hour or so.”
Becker narrows his eyes again. “What’d you say your name was?”
Now, own it this time, Delia. “Richard Allen.”
Curtis Becker subtly scoffs and looks to his team for backup. But the pinstripes aren’t saying a thing. Their mouths just hang open, to the point I expect to see drool forming at any moment. I look to Becker and tap my watchless wrist with my finger. He rolls his eyes and presses a button on his phone. Charlene answers with a polite greeting, but Becker bulldozes her. “I need you to prep Sutton’s old office right away. It looks like our guest is going to stay awhile.”
CHAPTER TEN
It’s been a long time since I’ve impressed myself, but damn! Did I seriously just pull that off?
Man, that felt good.
This is big. Huge!
I follow Charlene to the other end of the floor and watch her open the door to a corner office. “Here you are, Mr. Allen.”
Mr. Allen. From the Zurich office. Liam Golan’s guy.
Oh, no. I’m not any of those things. I’m just Delia Reese trapped in this man body. And a web of my lies. When I said I wanted to get a job today, I meant honestly. Well, as honestly as possible given the circumstances. Damn it, I didn’t think this through at all.
At this point, it might be wiser to go and bark up another bank’s tree. After all, Fairbanks is coming in tomorrow, so mission accomplished. Except . . . he’s expecting to meet with Richard Allen from the Zurich office. He’s expecting Monty Fuhrmann to surprise him with our pitch. A new pitch that won’t happen if I leave.
The coffee-shop playwright’s words echo in my mind—people see what they want to see. The guys in that room weren’t convinced I was anyone who mattered until I rescued that meeting right in front of their eyes. Now they think I’m the guy with the answers, and they’re giving me a corner office. If I can just keep up this charade until we close this deal tomorrow, then I’ll figure out my next move.