by KJ Bell
Wow. I never realized how long my list of grievances had grown or how far from what I want I’d ventured to save our relationship.
Theoretically, time apart should make the heart grow fonder, but for me, the distance has been a revelation. Breaking up with the man I thought would be my husband should make me sad, but I feel like celebrating my independence.
Sharing my current relationship status with my parents won’t be easy. I haven’t seen them since I broke up with Wyatt. I’ve spoken to them on the phone, and since neither of them mentioned it, I know Wyatt hasn’t discussed our separation with his parents, either. I’m meeting them for dinner tonight, and I plan to share the news, although I’m dreading their reaction.
I crawl out of bed, shower, and apply some light makeup for work. At some point, I need to take in my dry cleaning. It’s piled up, leaving me with an outfit I’m not thrilled with wearing: a short black skirt and a cream-colored sleeveless, cowl-neck sweater, which scoops lower than I’m comfortable with. I slip them both on with my black pumps and gold hoop-earrings.
Not having adequate time to blow dry my hair, I wrap it in a bun on top of my head, securing it with a cream and black, cheetah print hanky. After I squirt a few sprays of perfume, I grab my keys and purse to leave for work.
On my drive to the office, I remember I have a new client coming in this morning. My boss, Mr. Fenton, called me late last night to fill me in on the young, spoiled brat with too much money, who needs a ton of help managing it all. I’m dreading getting to work as much as dinner with my parents.
Pampered clients are a nightmare. They’re the neediest with the biggest attitudes and generally treat me as though I’m of peon status. In response, I allocate their funds, invest a small portion, and don’t focus a lot of attention to if their returns do well. If they’re going to be assholes, why should I care if their portfolios grow?
It’s usually the clients who don’t come from money who are polite and treat me with respect. Like Patrice, my little-old-lady client who won the lottery a few years back. She brings me chocolates and always thanks me for my time. She’s invested up the wazoo, and I’ve nearly doubled her money. Her children will be set for life when she goes, as will her children’s children.
I park in my designated spot at Marshall Investments and gather my purse, water bottle, and lunch from the backseat.
After putting my lunch in the shared fridge, I walk to my office and ask Sophia, my receptionist, if my new client has arrived.
Her grin tells me that not only has he arrived, but she thinks he’s cute. “He went to get something out of his car.” She glances around, half covering her mouth. “Oh, my God, Faye. He’s gorgeous!”
Sophia thinks many of our clients are ‘gorgeous’, but Marshall has a strict no-fraternization policy. “Do I need to remind you about …”
“No,” she interrupts. “I know the rules. No dating clients. He’s too young for me anyway.”
Sophia looks fantastic for a woman in her mid-forties. I doubt a younger man would turn her down, but I know she’s looking for a mature future husband after her previous and much younger husband bailed on her, leaving her with two kids to raise.
“Good. He may be nice on the eyes, but Mr. Fenton said he’s an uptight, spoiled jerk.”
“Oh! I didn’t get that impression at all. He was pleasant and polite, yes, ma’am, and no, ma’am, please and thank you. No, this one’s been brought up well.”
“I certainly hope you’re right. I’ll be at my desk. Let me know when he returns.”
“Will do.” Her smile grows wider. “Oh, and I left coffee on your desk.”
“Ah, Sophia, you’re the best,” I say, opening my office door.
“I know! I’m amazing,” I hear her sing as I close the door.
I store my purse in the file cabinet and sit down to check e-mails. Before I can enjoy my coffee, Sophia informs me my client has returned. I tell her to show him in.
Professionalism is important in my line of work, and given my new client is not only male, but apparently a “gorgeous” male, I’m wishing I hadn’t procrastinated taking my dry cleaning in so I wasn’t wearing a skirt well above the knee. I stand and tug on the hem, pulling it down a little.
The door swings open, and I freeze. My cheeks flush instantly. I look at Sophia to avoid his penetrating gaze.
“Ms. Callahan, this is Mr. McCoy.”
For a quick moment, I forget where I am. It’s only me and Battle, back in the wheat field, but reality hits quickly when Sophia coughs.
“Oh … Um … Thank you, Sophia.”
My receptionist leaves me with the man I’d hoped to never see again. Battle smiles as he removes his heather-grey felt cowboy hat. “This is awkward,” he says in a raspy and recognizable voice. A voice that warms me from the inside out.
Words form in my mind, but when I open my mouth, nothing comes out. I’m distracted by his attire: tight dark jeans, charcoal button up, with a black tie and sport coat. My eyes lower to black, snakeskin boots and lift to the hat in his hand, noticing the band matches his boots. My eyes find his perfect full lips. Lips I’ve kissed and thought about kissing many times since.
I can’t wait to tell Marty and Ginger that Battle, is in fact, a cowboy.
“Did you plan this?” I finally ask.
He holds his right hand up. “No, ma’am, but I’m not complainin’.”
I square my shoulders and send him a sideways glance to let him know I’m skeptical.
“I’m not allowed to date any of our clients,” I say, testing him. “And don’t call me ma’am.”
His head falls back and he laughs. “Sure thing, Ms. Callahan. I don’t date as I’m sure you remember.”
I feel his eyes on me as I turn and walk back to my desk. With my palms on the hard desktop, I lean forward. “Marshall has a strict policy about fraternization. If this is your plan to get back in my pants, it’s not gonna happen.”
With long purposeful strides, he stalks toward me, stopping mere inches away. He sets his hat on my desk before leaning in close to me. I hold my breath when his thumb grazes the skin below my skirt.
“We’ll see about that, sweetheart,” he breathes.
It takes all of my focus not to moan. Exhaling quietly, I place my hand on his broad chest and step back. “No, we won’t. I don’t think I should take you as a client. I’m sure one of the other Senior Investment Managers will be thrilled to handle your portfolio.”
He moves to a leather chair in front of my desk and sits, crossing his legs. His scent lingers, delighting my senses with a mix of spice and a masculine smell unique to Battle.
“I don’t want anyone else,” he says, stroking the light stubble on his chin. “I explained my situation to your boss, and he promised me an appointment with his best Investment Manager.”
“Battle…”
“At this point, someone else would be less than acceptable. Don’t you agree?”
I hold back a growl. He can be so damn infuriating with his easy twisting of things to get his way. I sit down and bring the chair forward, resting my forearms on the desk. My hands feel clammy as I lace my fingers together.
A deep breath calms my nerves enough to continue, “As I was saying, I would recommend someone senior to me. You’d be assigned to someone far more qualified than myself.”
His hands tent in front of his lips, hiding a faint grin as he silently studies me. For several heart pounding seconds, he remains quiet. He’s not about to give up easily, but I’m confident handing his account over to someone else is the smart thing to do.
He lowers his hands to his lap and says, “No. Either you handle my portfolio, or I will use another firm.”
Bastard. An ultimatum? Really? He may not have planned our meeting, but he’s definitely using the coincidence to his advantage. The hairs on the back of my neck rise as anger sets in. I’m not a toy to be played with. He’s not going to get his way simply because he throws a tantrum. He wants m
ore than a professional relationship. He wants sex. I want love. Therefore it will never work. I don’t appreciate his efforts to manipulate me.
“Fine, if that’s what you want,” I say with my chin high, feigning confidence, “I’d be happy to recommend another firm.”
With his narrowed eyes pinned on me, he stands and puts his hat on. “No, thank you, Ms. Callahan. That won’t be necessary. Thank you for your time.”
He reaches across the desk to shake my hand. I stand, and as our hands touch, heat spreads low in my belly. Images of our night together loop through my brain. He sends me a knowing smile and lets go of my hand before leaving the office without another word.
I exhale, collapsing into my chair. Had he asked one more time, I would have caved; to him as a client, to sex, to whatever he wanted. What an ass. He doesn’t care who handles his portfolio. He only wants to dangle the proverbial carrot, tempt me with the reward he knows I want, and punish me with the reality of what I can’t have. Or something like that. I’ve yet to have coffee and it’s too early for metaphorical thinking. I would have preferred the morning start with the pretentious, spoiled brat I’d been expecting.
I’m in the middle of a lengthy e-mail to one of my more demanding clients when Sophia’s voice sounds out, startling me. “Ms. Callahan, Mr. Fenton would like to see you in his office.”
“Thanks, Sophia. Let him know I’ll be about ten minutes.”
“Um, he said it’s urgent, and that you are to drop what you’re doing and see him, now.”
“Oh. Okay. Thank you.”
I quickly save my e-mail to the drafts folder. When I open my door, Sophia greets me with worried eyes. “He didn’t sound happy.”
“I’m sure it’s nothin’,” I say, doing my best to smile.
As I walk toward Mr. Fenton’s office, I suspect I know the source of him not being happy, and the reason for his adamancy to see me. At this point, all I can do is pray I’m wrong. Otherwise, I’ll have to explain why I turned away a new client.
Mr. Fenton’s secretary is not at her desk, and I knock softly on his door. His gruff voice gives me permission to enter. My earlier prayers go unanswered as I open the door to find Battle sitting comfortably in one of the chairs in front of my boss’s desk with a superior grin draped across his gorgeous face. Damn him!
I knew he was trouble the moment I laid eyes on him; yet, like a moth to flame, I couldn’t resist him.
Mr. Fenton glances up from behind his desk. His annoyance with me shows in his expression. “Please sit down, Ms. Callahan.”
On unsteady legs, I walk to the chair next to Battle, avoiding eye contact with him. Nerves dance in my stomach as I sit and cross my legs. My body responds to him. I don’t want to feel the pull between us, but it’s there, and more intense than ever.
My boss tosses his expensive mechanical pencil on his desk and leans back in his chair before rubbing his hand over his face in exasperation. He leans forward, staring directly at me and says, “Can you please explain why you asked Mr. McCoy to find a new firm?”
The scolding tone he uses makes me squirm. I clear my throat, faintly shaking my head, and sit up tall.
“Yes, sir. Mr. McCoy has needs that I simply don’t have the experience to fulfill.” I shoot Battle a sideways glance. He knows I’m not referring to financial needs. “I thought it best his portfolio be managed by a Senior Manager, and he declined. Seekin’ a new firm was Mr. McCoy’s suggestion.”
“I don’t care who suggested it. Do you have any idea who this is?”
“Yes, sir,” I answer.
“Well, if you think turning down an account from one of the McCoys is smart business, we may have to reevaluate your employment here.”
My mouth falls open, as I try to come up with a defense. One of the McCoys? The only big-time McCoys I know of own most of the cattle in the Midwest. They’re based out of Missouri, but I’ve never read or seen anything that connected Battle to them.
“I’m so sorry, sir.”
Mr. Fenton waves his hand. “I’m not going to fire you, but you are going to accept Mr. McCoy as a client. Clear your calendar this afternoon and make time to see to Mr. McCoy’s needs. Are we clear?”
From the corner of my eye, I see Battle’s smug smile that I want to slap off of his gloating face. See to his needs my ass. That would lead to him being buried inside of me on top of my desk.
“Yes, sir. We’re clear.”
Mr. Fenton stands and shakes Battle’s hand. “My apologies, Mr. McCoy. I don’t know what has gotten into Ms. Callahan, but I assure you, she is the best at what she does.”
Battle turns his head to me. “I have no doubt,” he says with a mischievous grin.
I fight the urge to stomp out of my boss’s office, and nod politely before I turn and leave. Battle follows close behind me. My jaw hurts from clenching my teeth as fury runs rampant through my veins. Mr. Fenton was spot-on with his first impression of Battle. He’s a spoiled brat who uses money and power to get what he wants.
Sophia’s eyes widen in surprise when we walk past her desk and into my office. I slam the door shut, fuming mad and glare at Battle. He removes his hat, placing it on the coat rack behind him. His prefect blue eyes linger on my lips. He wants to kiss me as much as I want to kiss him.
“You’re angry,” he says.
“I’m furious! I don’t appreciate you goin’ to my boss. Workin’ with you jeopardizes my job. I told you Marshall has a strict policy about datin’ clients.”
“We aren’t datin’.”
Him reminding me, brings back all the disappointment and hurt feelings from the morning I dropped him off at his house, only they’re stronger now. “I think fuckin’ falls into the no datin’ rule! My managin’ your portfolio represents a conflict of interest.”
“You’ve been clear that we aren’t fuckin’. Therefore, I don’t see a conflict.” He edges closer to me. I don’t back away when the back of his hand strokes my cheek before moving softly over my lips. My skin heats under his fingers, and I smother a moan. “Unless of course, you’re considerin’ changin’ your mind. I’m still interested.”
His words make my skin blister. Fucking is all he wants from me. My stomach burns and my chest vibrates as I smack his hand away. “Absolutely not! Our relationship is purely professional.”
“If that’s what you want.”
“It is what I want,” I tell him, taking a seat behind my desk. He declines to sit, but moves to the front of my desk. His brooding posture as he towers above me, intimidates me, but I refuse to look up at him. “Let’s get started. I’ll need your financial statements … Profit and Loss…”
He interrupts. “Paperwork?”
“Yes.”
“It’s all at my house.”
Relief rushes out of me. His lack of preparation has conveniently become my opportunity to escape. “Well, I’m gonna need it before we get started. Make an appointment with Sophia on your way out for next week, and bring it with you.”
“Since your calendar’s free this afternoon, I don’t see why you can’t come to my house. I’ll buy you lunch, and we can work there.”
“I don’t make house calls,” I lie. Truthfully, most of my clients have a home office. I often go to their homes for meetings, but being alone with Battle isn’t a smart choice.
He makes his way to the door. “I’m happy to ask Mr. Fenton if he’ll allow you to make an exception.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I say, narrowing my eyes as I stand, leaning over my desk.
“I didn’t think so.”
I’m starting to truly hate his grin.
It would be easier to pretend I didn’t have feelings for him, if he’d cooperate and stay away from me. I grab my purse from the file cabinet, shove past him, and open the door.
“You don’t play fair,” I tease, hoping to thin the tension. If we’re forced to spend time together, it would be nice if we were civil.
He laughs softly and follows me
out.
I stop at Sophia’s desk. “I’ll be at Mr. McCoy’s office for the rest of the afternoon. Can you clear my calendar?”
“Oh, yes, of course, Ms. Callahan.”
The smile she gives Battle annoys me, but the smile he gives her in return makes my blood boil.
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Sophia,” he says, his voice low and seductive.
Blush sweeps across her cheeks. If she giggles, I swear I’ll slap her.
“It was nice meeting you, too,” she answers. “If you need anything at all, feel free to call me.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Battle says, sweet as honey, and I roll my eyes.
I follow him to the lobby, scowling over my shoulder at Sophia. She waves, still wearing that ridiculous grin—oblivious to my irritation.
“I’ll drive,” Battle offers as we exit the building.
I’m still upset at him for flirting with Sophia. If I’m going to stew, I’d prefer to do it alone. “I’ll take my own car, thank you.”
He stops and spins to face me. “Would you stop?”
“What?”
“With the uptight, goodie-goodie act. We aren’t strangers. Quit fuckin’ treatin’ me like one!”
Words evade me, not that he gives me long to respond. He storms off through the parking lot, mumbling under his breath. I foolishly chase after him. My heel catches in the cracked pavement, launching me forward. My hands and knees burn as they scrape against the ground. I stay down, but turn onto my butt to evaluate my injuries. Blood trickles down my right knee. I brush dirt from my legs and pick tiny rocks and sand from the abrasions on my hands.
“Shit!” I hear him before I see him jogging back to me. He squats down at my side. “Are you all right?”
His voice reflects concern, but I’m humiliated, embarrassed, and angry about what he said to me. “I’m fine!”
He puts a hand under my arm. “Here, let me help you.”
“I can get up myself,” I snap, yanking my arm free.
“Suit yourself, sweetheart,” he says, and walks away. After a few steps, he spins back around and marches toward me. I’m hoisted into his arms, and cradled to his chest. I hug my purse close to my body and consider screaming at him to put me down, but as he walks, I melt into him and take comfort in his embrace.