The Hot Gamer (A Romance Love Story) (Hargrave Brothers - Book #3)

by Alexa Davis

  "Mine?" I asked as I shot Butch a questioning look.

  "Yep, you're Dr. Powell's new assistant, so I imagine this is your realm," he laughed. He handed me the ring of keys and explained, "The red one is for the front door, the blue on is for Dr. Powell's office and the yellow one is for the supply room, the storage room and the copier room. I imagine that Ruth will be down shortly to get you acclimated and trained in your duties. She's good that way."

  "Thank you, Mr. Wilson," I said as I looked down at the keys and wondered where the yellow rooms were.

  "Call me Butch, kiddo. Everyone calls me Butch," he smiled as he dipped his chin and headed back to his post.

  Butch had been right, and in no time, Ruth had shown up and given me a tour of the offices. She explained how Dr. Powell liked things ordered and organized, never ever sloppy. I was to make sure that his schedule was always up to date and that he had a copy of the daily agenda every morning by eight. She taught me how to answer the complex phone system that looked like it had come straight out of a futuristic film and she gave me a list of the company hierarchy so that I would know exactly who reported to whom and who was allowed access to Dr. Powell.

  Ruth explained that she would be stationed down the hall in Mr. Baines' office if I needed anything or had any questions, and she assured me that I would do just fine. As soon as she'd left, I walked around the desk, pulled out the black leather chair tucked under the edge and sat down. I felt like a new phase of my life was beginning, and while I wasn't sure where it would lead me, I knew that it was the start of something good.

  It was this feeling I remembered as I sat on the cold tile floor with my back pressed against the wall and hot tears streaming down my cheeks. The newness of the job and the feeling that everything was possible had only been reaffirmed when Dr. Powell entered the office and walked to my desk. There was something about him that caused me to shoot up out of my chair and stand at attention.

  "At ease, soldier," he said as a smile played at the corners of his lips. "Miss Echo Frost is it?"

  "Yes, sir," I said successfully resisting the urge to salute him. I'd grown up in a military household, so the action had become like second nature for my sisters and me, but out in the civilian world, saluting was viewed as mocking, so I had developed the ability to suppress my urge. Dr. Powell's demeanor felt vaguely familiar, though.

  "Alan Powell," he said holding out his hand and gripping mine firmly as he shook it then let go. "Welcome to TriCorp, Miss Frost."

  "Thank you, sir," I nodded solemnly as I shook his hand and then dropped my arm back to my side. "I'm please to join your team."

  "Miss Frost, do you have a clear understanding of your duties? Has Ms. Reasoner explained them to you?" he asked.

  "I believe so, sir," I said.

  "Good, then you will remember that my mail is to be opened and neatly stacked on my desk before I come in every morning," he said as he scooped up the pile of papers I'd been working on and carried them into his office. "Tomorrow morning you'll get this right, Miss Frost."

  "Yes, sir," I said as my heart beat wildly in my chest. I wasn't two hours into my new job and already I'd screwed up. For the rest of the morning, I focused on learning my job and creating a workflow chart that would ensure that the only mistakes I'd make would be due to things that were entirely out of my control.

  At the end of my first day, I smiled after I'd answered the phone with the proper greeting, successful forwarded the call to its proper recipient and then took one more look at my chart before printing it out and taping it to the inside of the top drawer of my desk. Tomorrow I would get it right.

  Then next morning, when I opened the drawer, I found that Dr. Powell had gone in and circled the spelling errors on the sheet, awarded me a grade of B+ and written "Good work. Let's try this again, shall we?" and signed it A. Powell. Rather than allow myself to be gripped with anxiety, I laughed out loud, pulled up the chart, fixed the mistakes and printed it out again before turning to the mail.

  By the time Dr. Powell arrived, I had not only sorted the mail and put it in neat piles on his desk, I'd updated and printed his daily schedule and had a cup of hot coffee waiting for him as he walked through the door. He said good morning, took the cup from me and walked into his office. I didn't hear from him again until he headed out for his lunch appointment at Gramercy Park.

  When he returned, he handed me a stack of papers and said, "Please type these up, Miss Frost," before he headed back into his office. When I sat down at my desk and began transcribing them, I realized that these were the notes for a meeting with a government official regarding the development of a new drug. The notes were somewhat cryptic, but I didn't try to understand them only transcribe them as they were written. When I was done, I printed them off, put both versions in a file folder and took the in to Dr. Powell.

  "Miss Frost, I'm sure by now you already understand the nature of our work at TriCorp," he said without looking up. "I'm entrusting you with my notes and I expect that you will keep everything you read and see completely confidential."

  "Yes, sir," I replied as I waited to see if he would speak again.

  "Very well, as long as we are clear on that," he said looking up at me. "I will be entrusting many things to you, and I would hate for my trust to have been misplaced."

  "No, sir," I said shaking my head. "I understand completely."

  He nodded at the desk as he returned to his papers and I silently exited the room. Looking back, I realized this was the defining moment in my relationship with my boss. He'd extended trust that I had not yet earned, and I'd spent every hour on the job making sure that he'd not been wrong in his assessment of me. He wasn't warm or even particularly friendly, and we never had any heart-to-heart talks about who we were or where we'd come from. He never asked me where I went during the holidays I took, and I never asked about his family or whether he'd been in the military, though I was often sorely tempted.

  However, underneath the lack of overt personal information, I came to understand that my boss was someone who had an enormous capacity for doing the right thing. His meetings with various heads of state or major corporations were usually focused on solving some type of problem for those in need, but he never accepted an invitation to do an interview with anyone who would put his story out into the public realm. If it focused on the people doing the work, he'd pawn it off, but if the reporter wanted to talk about Alan Powell, he simply said no.

  During the years I worked for him, I'd learned most of his idiosyncrasies and knew exactly when to push and when to back off. I knew how to protect his flank and how to win the war rather than the battle. I was his right-hand woman, and I'd proven time and time again that when he'd chosen to trust me, he'd made a wise decision. And although our relationship had been strictly work-based, never veering into the personal, I knew that he cared about my well-being when he raised my salary to a level that covered both my rent and tuition without saying a word. When I graduated with honors from the NYU computer science program, he was there on the dais as a gust of the university's President, and he shook my hand as I walked across the stage.

  Alan Powell was a close to a father as I'd ever had, and now he was dead. I rested my cheek against the cold tile wall as I tried in vain to choke back the sobs that threatened to pull me under. I couldn't break, not even now. I pulled my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around them as I fought to contain the emotions welling up inside me. I heard the bathroom door open and I swallowed hard to try and maintain silence.

  "It's okay, Echo," Ruth said quietly speaking through the stall door. "I've put the janitor's cleaning sign in front of the door. No one will bother you. It's okay."

  "Tha...Tha...Thank you," I choked out before I slapped my hand over my mouth.

  "If you need me, you know where I am," Ruth said as she softly pulled the door shut behind her.

  It took me another hour to pull myself back from the brink of emotional chaos, and when I did, I found that Ru
th had left a small care package for me on my desk. It contained tissues, makeup remover wipes, a roll of Lifesavers, and a small bottle of vodka with a note taped to it that read, "For home." A small crooked smile spread across my lips as I tidied up the office and gathered my things.

  I stood at the door and looked around the office knowing that today was the day when everything had completely changed, and yet again, I wondered what the changes would bring.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Ryan

  Two days later I was ordered to report to the office of Commander Harold Marks. I assumed that he wanted to hear the details regarding the mission and find out why it had resulted in the deaths of five of our men. I wasn't sure I had the answers he wanted to hear, but in the days after the mission I'd spent a lot of time going over what had happened in my mind as I tried to decide whether Opie's death was my fault. In my estimation, I'd been responsible for him and his death was the result of my inability to do my job properly. I was here to take responsibility for my failure.

  I had arrived on schedule and been told to wait in the outer office while the Commander wrapped up a phone call that had taken longer than expected. I sat down in one of the vinyl-coated chairs and focused on trying to keep from sweating through my uniform. The air temperature had soared into the high nineties and there was no breeze, so the fans that had been placed in strategic locations around the room were doing little more than moving hot air between them. It was brutal, but as a SEAL I was used to far worse conditions.

  I thought back to the rescue mission and tried to focus on how to explain what had happened to Opie. It had been a rookie mistake on his part, but since my job had been to protect him, I would be held accountable for failing to do so. It didn't seem fair to have to suffer any more than I already had, but I understood the need to hold people accountable for their actions and as a result, I was ready to accept the punishment for failing to keep my charge safe. That was one thing I appreciated about the military, there were always consequences for one's actions.

  I breathed deeply as I focused my attention on the Commander's door and waited to be called in. Fifteen minutes later the door opened and I was waved into the office by the Commander's assistant. I marched in and stood at attention in front of Commander Marks' desk waiting.

  "At ease, Lieutenant," he said without looking up from the papers that were spread across his desk. I relaxed my stance and continued to wait. Finally, he looked up and said, "Why don't you have a seat, son."

  As I took a seat in the chair across from his desk, the Commander removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Replacing them, he looked at me and asked, "Son, do you know why I called you here?"

  "Yes, sir," I replied. "I'm here to report on the rescue mission we undertook, sir. And I'm here to receive the punishment for failing to successfully carry out the mission, sir."

  "Is that what you think, Lieutenant?" he asked. He seemed surprised by my answer to his question.

  "Yes, sir," I said. "I was in charge of the mission and I failed to bring everyone home alive. There will be consequences for my actions."

  "Lieutenant Powell, how long have you been in the Navy?" the Commander asked.

  "Twelve years, sir," I replied uncertain where this line of questioning was heading. Suddenly it occurred to me that perhaps the punishment would be a dishonorable discharge, and I felt a twisting sense of dread wash over me.

  "And how many of those years have you been a Navy SEAL, Lieutenant?" he asked.

  "Seven, sir," I replied before swallowing hard and waiting for his next question.

  "And in all this time have you ever seen someone disciplined for leading his men into a fight in which he was asked to do the impossible?" he asked.

  "I'm sorry, sir?" I replied bewildered by the direction this conversation was taking.

  "Don't be a jackass, Lieutenant," the Commander said. "I'm not going to punish you for doing your best to carry out a mission that had, at best, a ten percent chance of succeeding."

  "Then why am I here, sir?" I asked.

  "I've got the unpleasant task of delivering bad news, Lieutenant," he said as he stood up and walked around the desk and sat down in the chair next to mine. My heart sank as I wondered how bad news had to be for a Commander to deliver it this way. "Son, I'm sorry to tell you that your father passed away two days ago."

  "Wait, what?" I said confused. "I'm not being discharged?"

  "No, why the hell would you be discharged, Powell?" he said as he looked at me. "Is there something you haven't told me about the mission?"

  "No, sir!" I replied. "I was just..."

  "Lieutenant, do you understand that I am telling you that your father died?" the Commander asked.

  "Yes, sir," I nodded. "I understand. How?"

  "What?"

  "How did he die?" I asked.

  "They told me it was a heart attack," the Commander said. "He died in his private car on his way to work."

  "I see," I said.

  "Lieutenant, are you all right?" he asked looking very concerned.

  "I'm fine, sir," I nodded.

  "Then you also understand that you will be shipped stateside in the morning, don't you?" he asked. "Representatives of your father's estate have asked that you be sent back, and I'm sure you'll want to plan a funeral and see your family."

  "No, sir," I said. "I have no family except for my father, and he wouldn't have wanted his death made into a public event. I'll go back and deal with his business and then return to the team, sir."

  "Lieutenant, are you okay?" Commander Marks asked in a concerned tone. I could see the look of worry on his face and knew it wasn't only because I was reacting so calmly to being told that my only living relative was now dead, but also because I didn't seem to be too terribly broken up about it.

  "I'm fine, sir," I assured him. I thought about explaining, but then thought better of it. There were some things that were better left unsaid. "Thank you, sir."

  "Son, is there anything you need? Is there any way I can help?" he asked in a quieter voice. He looked weary; his face deeply etched with lines caused by bearing the weight of responsibility for the men under his command. We all carried such a weight, and while I appreciated his care and concern, there was nothing he, or anyone else, could do to help me now. I was going to have to return to the states and deal with this entirely on my own.

  "No, sir," I shook my head. "My father and I had a...difficult relationship, but I'll go back and make sure his last wishes are carried out and that his business is taken care of before I return to the team, sir."

  "Take all the time you need, Powell. I'm not going to expect you back for sometime," he said as he clapped my shoulder. "And if you find yourself in need of anything, anything at all, don't hesitate to contact me and ask. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, sir," I nodded. "I understand, sir."

  "And Lieutenant Powell?"

  "Sir?"

  "Lieutenant Morgan's death was not your fault," he said quietly. "I shouldn't have approved him to join the team, but every day I have to make close calls on things I'd rather not have to and this one was a mistake. He was too green. His death is on my shoulders."

  "Yes, sir," I said knowing better than to counter his admission.

  "You are dismissed, Lieutenant," he said.

  "Hoo-yah, sir," I said standing and saluting him before making a sharp turn and marching out of the office.

  #

  Twenty-four hours later, as my plane touched down at JFK International, I thought about how I hadn't been entirely honest with Commander Marks. My father's second wife, the woman he'd chosen to replace my mother, lived in the apartment my father had bought after my mother had died. I steeled myself as I hailed a cab and told the driver to take me to 820 Park Avenue.

  At the curb, I pulled my duffle bag over my shoulder and looked up at the monstrosity of a building. I'd always hated this place, but my father had loved it because he loved Eva and he'd wanted to prove himself worthy of he
r. I had always believed that she was after his money, but my father had insisted that it was a true love match.

  Eva Grant had blow into his life at a charity function thrown by Claire Baines, Julian's wife. At this point, my father had been a widower for more than ten years and after I joined the Navy and left home, he got lonely. I didn't blame him for wanting company, but Eva was a bad choice —or at least that's what I always thought. He waited two years to propose, but when he did, it was a big deal and he agreed to a huge wedding since it was Eva's first (not counting the elopement with a Russian prince, when she was eighteen, that had lasted all of three months before she realized he'd lied and that he was only after her money).

  She was in her late thirties when they met, two decades younger than my father, and she came from a line of rich socialites who did little except lunch with each other and spend the rest of their time trying to bring their body fat as close to zero as possible. She was an exquisite beauty, without doubt, but her beauty was cold and brittle; the kind one looked at but did not ever touch. I couldn't understand what my father saw in her since she was nothing like my mother, but then maybe that was the point.

  At first she tried to be nice to me and win me over, but I thought she was frivolous and silly, and I didn't do a very good job of hiding my resentment. The relationship soon plateaued in a grudging tolerance on both sides. A large part of the problem was that my father didn't see any need to try and help bridge the gap. He was a retired Marine who was good at strategic planning, but not so good at the human side of the plans.

  My mother had been the one who had bridged the gap between my father and I making sure that we never drifted too far outside each other's orbits. She would pull us back toward one another by teasing my father into taking us for a drive or on a picnic. He adored her and did everything she asked.