Chapter 4 No Nathaniel Here
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 fund—
“Can I call you back, Mr. Riddle?” 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 Dr?ghici.” 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 settles further onto 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.
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. Everything 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?