Red Rocket

by Raine Miller

  My apartment here is just a one-bedroom place that Scott helped me get into temporarily, smaller than my place in Austin, and nothing special. Despite my fat contract with the Crush, I’m just not doing as well financially as I could be. I mean, I haven’t gotten a paycheck on my new contract yet, so that’s part of it, but I had a decent deal in Austin and I’m not a baller by nature. My life is simple, and I don’t spend money frivolously. I haven’t taken enough interest in what my fund manager has been doing, or what he’s invested in, but as I’ve looked over my most recent financial statements, I don’t feel my investment is performing as they should be. If I’m reading them correctly that is.

  And that is the problem. I have trouble deciphering numbers. Words too, but numbers are worse. The figures on the page might as well be hieroglyphics, the way they jump around and blur on the page in front of me. Basically, I can’t interpret the annual statements. My fund manager is in Russia. With a little pit of anxiety welling in my stomach, I look at the clock. They are eleven hours ahead, so it’s about midnight there. They’re probably asleep. They’ve managed my money since I was much younger and I’m still not doing as well as I should be, so maybe it’s time to have an American advisor take a look.

  I call Scott and explain I’m not the best at deciphering investments and strategy, and that my new contract is big enough but I’m concerned about it not being invested well with my current portfolio manager.

  “Do you know anyone who could take a look at things for me?” I ask.

  “Actually, yes, I know just the person for you to see. I’ll shoot you a text.”

  4: No Nathaniel Here

  Talia

  “How’s the weather in Los Angeles today?” I ask my client by phone. And then a second time, since he’s elderly and hard of hearing. “I said, how’s the weather out there today?”

  “Oh, just fine, just fine,” he says. “Praying for rain as usual. You? You’re where now?”

  “Las Vegas. Harold moved me to build the sports business here.”

  “Sports, shorts,” Mr. Riddle says. “Live fast, die young when it comes to longevity. Making money in sports is no good long-term strategy. You know what’s been a good long-term strategy for me?”

  “If I had to guess, I’d say you did pretty well in utilities and energy.”

  “Utilities and energy,” he says, as if I didn’t just say that exact thing.

  “Right, you’ve done very well there, that’s for sure. Hey Mr. Riddle, do you like the package I drew up for this next wave of investments?”

  The little bell on my office door rings as it opens. I’m not expecting anyone, so I don’t look up right away, figuring it’s just a delivery person. However, when I do look up, I’m slightly taken aback. Enough so that I lose what I was about to say to Mr. Riddle, who is still babbling on about utilities and energy. I manage a, “Can I call you back, Mr. Riddle?” and he agrees, so I hang up, desperately trying to remember if I got that lunch lettuce out of my teeth from earlier.

  The man in front of me?

  Hulking. Huge. And not terrible on the eyes. He’s got short, dark hair and a sexy five o’clock shadow. He’s in jeans and a T-shirt—a T-shirt that’s clearly been well-loved as it clings to his muscular frame, filling out his bicep region quite magnificently. An impressive, colorful tattoo snakes down one arm. It might even be a snake. Or a dragon maybe?

  I’m not going to lie—I find him very, very attractive.

  Yes. I. Do.

  Which is very bad, because I promised myself, I wouldn’t do this again. I would not think sexy thoughts about clients ever again after what happened in San Francisco.

  He bites his bottom lip like he’s nervous or shy or something and I realize I’ve been ogling him for like a minute now. Unprofessional much?

  Not a good start.

  “Hi.” I clear my throat. “Sorry. I wasn’t expecting anyone today.”

  “Should I come back?”

  Oh good Lord, he’s got a super sexy accent. Okay, take a deep breath and get your shit together. He’s probably not a client, and just here to deliver something.

  “No,” I say, managing to get out of my chair. “How can I help you?”

  “Scott Rose said Harold said to come here.”

  “Oh. Oh, okay.” Scrambling around the desk, I move the box that once again occupies my lone guest chair. After the box is on the floor, I gesture that he should sit. He looks at the chair, then at me, as if he’s unsure he’s in the right place. Honestly, I get that a lot with new clients. I look too young and they think I can’t possibly be the person who will help them with their sizable fortunes, especially if they’ve already met Harold, who is the quintessential slick finance guy.

  I run my hands over my crisp, white shirt and black pencil skirt and push my glasses up on my nose before holding out my hand. “I’m Talia.”

  “Boris Drăghici.” Gods, his voice is sexy. “I’m looking for Nathaniel Wentworth.”

  A tiny laugh escapes my throat and Boris looks confused. “It’s Natalia,” I say. “That’s me. I’m Natalia Wentworth.”

  Boris’s look of confusion on settles further into his handsome face. “I thought you said your name was Talia?”

  Tah-lee-ah. The way he says it, stretching out the syllables…is really quite lovely.

  “Natalia,” I say, my voice stupidly breathless. “Talia for short. I promise you I’m the one you’re looking for.”

  He meets my gaze and for just a moment, there’s almost surprise in his eyes. Surprise that disappears as he pulls his top lip through his teeth and looks away, his cheeks turning slightly pink. It’s disarming; he seems genuinely shy. And don’t forget hot. So very insanely hot.

  “Have a seat?” I gesture again to the lone chair.

  His name sounds so familiar, but I can’t place it right. I blame his good looks. They have scrambled my normally high-functioning brain. He obliges and I return to the other side of my desk, thankful to sit back down, thankful to hopefully talk numbers, a subject that will return me to an intelligent and functioning frame of mind.

  “You seem young for a financial planner,” Boris comments. He looks around the very boring office space. Beige walls. Brown tile floor. No art. Unpacked boxes scattered about. A half-eaten sandwich on top of the file cabinet. No doubt it’s not only my age that’s causing him to doubt my ability.

  “I’m twenty-three, which is young by most standards. However, I graduated high school at sixteen and college at nineteen. Harold hired me as an apprentice right out of school and I’ve had my own portfolio of clients since I was twenty. I promise I know what I’m doing.”

  “I am…intimidated,” he says with a half-smile. “Perhaps you are too smart to talk to me.”

  “No, never,” I answer, smiling back. “What can I help you with?”

  Boris sighs. “I just moved here from Austin, and—“

  “Hockey!” I exclaim. Boris tilts his head in question. “I’m sorry. I was trying to figure out why your name sounded familiar. You’re a hockey player. Right?”

  “Yes, I played for Austin and was traded to the Crush. I have an investment guy in Russia, but I am concerned my investments are not being well-managed. I have a larger contract here and I want to protect it, make sure it’s working for me.”

  “Do you have many expenses, Boris? Do you need a lot of it to be easily liquidated?”

  “No, not at all. I am living very simply at the moment. I just want to protect what I have. And also, for the longer term. We can never be certain how long a career in the NHL is going to last. It could be over tomorrow with a bad injury and I’ve been at this for a while now. I really hope to finish out my playing career with this team.”

  “Okay, well, you’re in the right place.” I smile at him encouragingly. “Do you have any of your current investment paperwork with you?”

  He shakes his head. “I wasn’t sure what you would need and thought I’d just stop in to talk for a moment. Everythi
ng is at my apartment. Can I get my papers and take you to dinner to talk about it?”

  Not what I was expecting.

  A dinner invite from a potential client.

  A smoking hot potential client I might add.

  Shit.

  I can’t accept his invitation. Can I?

  Did I mention he’s fantastically beautiful and he needs my help?

  5: Very Perky Indeed

  Boris

  Shit. Talia’s mouth is hanging open in surprise. I wonder if she thinks I’m being inappropriate.

  “I hope I have not offended you,” I say quickly, trying to smooth things over. “I don’t cook, and I just moved here. I thought maybe we could eat and talk because I skipped lunch today…and I don’t really know the city yet…I feel kind of dumb eating by myself.”

  I must sound like such an idiot, babbling on like this to her. Govnyuk.

  Talia blinks and then says, “I’m not at all offended, Boris. I’m also new to Las Vegas. I haven’t figured out the single-appropriate restaurants yet, either.”

  “Oh, yes. Good.”

  She checks her watch and says, “I have a few calls to make but if you come back at seven, we can walk somewhere nearby. Bring your statements.”

  I rise from the chair and hold out a hand, which she shakes before turning back to the computer, peering through her thick, dark frames, and picking up the phone. I guess that means this meeting is over for the moment, so I thank her and head for the door.

  On my walk home, I think about this Talia Wentworth. First, Scott definitely wrote Nathaniel, right? Or did I read his text wrong and just assume it would be a man? Maybe it autocorrected to Nathaniel when he typed Natalia. It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened. But she’s so young, just twenty-three. How can someone so young be representing the many millions of dollars that athletes make each year? She seems competent, though, and certainly seemed to know what she was talking about. Still, this is a big contract and I’m worried my personal investments are falling way behind where they should be. I really need someone who is a pro at this, so I call Scott back.

  “Hey man, I hate to bother you again, but you said Nathaniel Wentworth, right?”

  “No, sir. Natalia. She’s female,” he answers.

  “Did you know she’s only twenty-three?”

  “I know she’s young, Boris, but I promise she’s a top dog. Harold swears by her, calls her a genius. She comes highly recommended. Don’t sweat it.”

  “Okay, then. She seems smart—“

  “She is. Just give her a shot.”

  I thank him and hang up, then decide a shower is probably in order. I change into a green Polo dress shirt, rolling the sleeves up to my forearms, dark jeans, and a pair of soft leather loafers. I don’t pay ton of attention to fashion, but I think I look presentable. I gather my financial papers and shove them in a folder, and then head back out to walk the few blocks to her office again.

  She’s on a call when I get there; talking a mile a minute about how the market is very volatile right now. “I don’t know of any sure bets in the stock market right now, sir, but I agree this one seems solid for the long term,” she’s saying. She looks up and holds up a finger to let me know she’ll be a minute. I wander to the window and look out at the setting sun to the west. Right at my feet are open file boxes. I see names of several pro athletes. Like, names you’d see in the news all the time. Very famous current athletes and ex-athletes. Scott wasn’t kidding; if this young woman is working with these clients, then she really must be a financial whiz.

  She finishes her call and I turn around, just in time to see her stand and knock a cup of coffee all over her white blouse.

  “Shit!” She grabs a wadded-up napkin and tries to dab at it, to no use. “Well, at least it wasn’t hot,” she says annoyed.

  “Do you have another shirt?” I ask.

  “Do I have another shirt,” she repeats, more to herself than to me. Then she smiles brightly and says, “Why yes, I do,” as she comes out from behind the desk to root around in the box by my feet.

  It’s such a tiny office. Just barely room for her desk and chairs and a filing cabinet. Adding several unpacked boxes just makes it feel even smaller. And now she tells me to turn around so she can change her shirt. She’s not a foot away from me and she’s pulling off her white blouse right behind me. I don’t know what to think. She’s clearly oblivious to the danger this could pose to her if she were ever alone with the wrong person. I look out the window, but I can still see her reflection in it, now in nothing but a white, lace bra…

  And surprise, surprise. I’m not dropping my eyes. I’m going to have a good look at what she’s showing because, well…guy here. Like I told Georg the other day, I’m not a monk.

  Her breasts are on the small side but what they lack in size is made up for in perkiness. Her long legs are topped by a tiny waist that I could probably span with my hands. I thought she was just a numbers nerd with her big glasses and quick mind, but Talia is a lovely package. She’s pretty and smart. Also really fucking sexy with those perky tits that have grabbed my attention and won’t let go. I don’t know why I didn’t notice how attractive she was when I met her earlier.

  Hold up just a minute.

  I should not be thinking about her this way if she is to be my financial advisor. This is a professional relationship.

  “There,” she says. That must be my cue to turn around. When I do, she asks, “Better?”

  She has changed into a white T-shirt. It’s got a V-neck and slim line that tucks nicely into her black skirt. It’s barely different from what she had on before, just slightly more casual. I feel my face settle into a slight grin. Suddenly, all I can think about are those perky tits of hers and what they would look like without the damn shirt. I mentally kick myself back to a more appropriate line of thinking. She could be the answer to why I’ve felt something isn’t adding up with my savings and investments. Perhaps literally. I can’t come off as some horny weirdo.

  “What kind of food are you in the mood for, Talia?”

  Hopefully, it’s not shrimp.

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  Acknowledgments

  Katie, Franzi, Luna, Pamela: I don’t know where I’d be without your continual encouragement and friendship. Just a very heartfelt THANK YOU from me to you. With a hug. And a ton of sloppy kisses. OxxxxxxxO

  To all of the lovelies in my reader group on Facebook, you are my bright rays of sunshine just when I need it the most. Simba, Wendy, Martha, and Miria, thank you so much for your efforts in keeping the ship afloat even when the captain is off on a bender somewhere. (Me! I am the captain!!) Your posts never go unnoticed or deeply appreciated.

  Thank you to my loyal, patient, kind, lovely, amazing, supportive readers. You make this whole gig possible. Please don’t ever change. LOL

  Blessings et al.

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  Who is Brit?

  Brit DeMille is the alter ego of NYT Bestselling author, Raine Miller, having an absolute blast writing books quite different from what she writes as Raine.

  Stories about sexy billionaires [millionaires make the cut too] who fall in instalove with young women who may or may n
ot be virgins, and then go on to make adorable babies together are her favorite themes. In addition to the billionaires, hot hockey players are at the top of her list of favorite heroes, along with royals and ex-military bodyguards.

  Most important when she writes a story is a happily ever after. But during the actual writing of the story, the most important thing is a cup of hot tea with a splash of milk (and don’t forget the stash of cherry Jolly Ranchers). A dog or two will likely be in between her and the chair at any given moment, which is very handy, because they are the ones who approve everything she writes.

  You can connect with her on Facebook in her Raine Miller Romance Readers group. She pops in most days.

  Also by Raine Miller

  CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE

  CHERRY GIRL

  HUSBAND MATERIAL

  LOVELY PINK

  * * *

  THE ROTHVALE LEGACY

  PRICELESS, I