Chapter 4 Nash
Chapter four
Nash
Panic wasn’t a familiar feeling for me. But when ten o’clock rolled around and Maisie’s bustled with the usual midmorning rush with no Stephanie in sight, I got a rapid-fire introduction to the emotion.
Stephanie was a rarity. The woman was a colour-coded machine of capability.
If I’d had a PA as competent as Stephanie earlier in my career, I could have been a millionaire much sooner.
Smart, capable, and steady under pressure—my ideal assistant.
Foreseeing needs and effortlessly working behind the scenes.
She was quiet and didn’t linger around the water cooler.
If I had to hazard a guess, she probably dealt with some sort of anxiety she kept under wraps.
But in a business setting, she was a rock, levelheaded and…
Yeah, she was gorgeous. I was only human after all.
Point being, in our two-year history, her being late had never entered the realm of possibility.
Relief tasted sweet when my phone chimed with a text, and her apology about being fifteen minutes late eased the nerves in my stomach.
I wasn’t sure which had me more terrified—that Stephanie had never been late before or if I didn’t want to admit to myself I was afraid she’d back out of needing a fake boyfriend. Of needing me.
Taking advantage of the few minutes I had to wait, I shot off a quick text to Emmett. He was head of finance at Genesis and was one of the only employees who missed the office party last night.
ME
How are the girls feeling this morning?
EMMETT
Two out of three ain’t bad. I’ve never seen kids get the flu like dominos. One after the other within twelve hours.
Projectile vomit is something no one prepares you for as a parent.
ME
You are dangerously close to being TMI.
Need me to swing by with anything?
EMMETT
We’re good, but thanks.
Bummer about missing the party last night.
ME
I can feel your devastation from here. *eye roll*
Let me know if you need something. Give my love to the girls.
EMMETT
Thanks, man.
When a frazzled blur stumbled through the doors, I glanced up quickly and slid my phone back into the inner pocket of my coat draped over the chair next to me.
Relief mixed with regret flashed across Stephanie’s wind-chapped face as we locked eyes, and I stood quickly.
“I’m so sorry,” she gushed, her boots squeaking on the tile as she hurried towards me. The rush of words stopped when I tugged out the chair opposite me for her, and she glanced curiously between me and the chair. “Oh, thanks.”
It wasn’t the first time I’d done that. My Texan mama, for all her flaws, had raised a gentleman after all.
I cleared my throat, trying to dislodge the uncomfortable lump that always rose when I thought of my mother.
I’d been out on my own for fifteen years and hadn’t seen her in person in the last decade, but it still hurt to think of her.
Once Stephanie slid into the chair, the flurry of words continued. “You didn’t have to wait. I’m sorry I was so long.”
I resumed my seat opposite her, waving aside the apology. “Don’t worry about it. Did something happen?” I tried for levity, adding, “You’ve never been late before. Is this a fatal flaw I should know about your nonwork life?”
Redness that wasn’t from the cold flamed her face. Oops, I wasn’t trying to embarrass her. “I… I had car trouble and had to walk,” she said.
Trying not to fluster her further, I said quietly, “You could have called. I’d have picked you up.”
She shook her head fiercely. “It’s fine. Have you already ordered?”
Okay, we were moving on. “Not yet. How does a peppermint mocha sound?”
“Perfect, but you don’t have to—”
“Steph.” I smiled at her. “Just sit and catch your breath for a minute. I’ve got this.
” Then I winked at her. From her slack-jawed reaction maybe I shouldn’t have, but the flush of her cheeks when I did it last night was too tempting to avoid getting a repeat performance.
Giving the table a quick rap with my knuckles, I strode towards the counter.
“What can I getcha?” The goth teen behind the register loudly snapped her gum.
Before I could give her my order, a scolding voice hollered from the back storeroom.
“Jazz, what did I tell you about chewing gum on the clock?” It was Maisie, the owner and queen croissant maker this side of France.
And she must have had bat-level hearing to notice the bubble blowing over the hiss of the steamer and the upbeat rendition of “Deck the Halls” playing over the speakers.
Maisie’s silver head popped into view, nose scrunched. “Take his order, then spit it out. And don’t let it happen again.”
Jazz ducked her chin, so her jet-black hair hid half her face. “Sorry, Ms. Maisie,” she mumbled.
“It’s like dealing with toddlers,” Maisie muttered, giving me a wave before disappearing back into the storeroom.
“One peppermint mocha with extra whipped cream and an Americano. Both for here. And a cinnamon bun and a chocolate croissant.” Pulling out my wallet, I paid the bill, then slid a twenty into the tip jar when Jazz turned away to make the drinks.
I’d been raised by a single mother and knew a thing or two about going without because money was tight.
And while I knew Maisie’s paid well, generosity never hurt anyone.
As I walked back to our table with our drinks, I could see Stephanie had discarded her burgundy wool coat over the back of her chair, exposing a cream-and-forest-green Fair Isle sweater.
She was focused, hunched over a black leather journal complete with colour-coded tabs I recognized as her notebook.
She never tackled a meeting without it, but her expression was decidedly less frazzled than when she’d walked in.
Work-mode Stephanie had entered the building, and, attractive as she was, it cooled my ardor when I remembered this wasn’t really a date but a business meeting.
As desperately as I wished it could be a date.
Stephanie smiled up at me as I set the peppermint mocha in front of her. Taking a sip, she hummed with pleasure. “Thank you. How did you know what drink I wanted?”
Because I paid way too much attention to her. Not willing to admit that out loud and sound creepy, I cleared my throat and twisted my cup on the table. “I’ve never known you not to get a peppermint mocha at Christmastime. The taste of Christmas in a cup, you said.”
She bit her bottom lip, distracting me, but I forced myself not to focus on it.
“Guess that’s one thing we can mark off the list of things we need to know about each other.
Our coffee orders.” She slashed a line through one of the columns on her spreadsheet with a flourish. “You always go for the Americano.”
“Always prepared, aren’t you?”
Her smile froze like glass. “Are you sure you’re okay with this? We haven’t even discussed what this is. You could hate—”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” When she didn’t relax, I continued. “Tell you what. Lay it all on me. The good, the bad, the hideous secrets. Then when you’ve given me every ugly detail, I’ll tell you I’m still in. Sound good?”
Her shoulders dropped from their battle-ready position, and she fiddled with her pen. Always black. Always a ballpoint. Classy.
Just like her.
“Here ya go.” Jazz slid the two plates of pastries onto the table. Sans bubble blowing.
“Thank you.” I nodded to her, and she offered a lazy salute before sauntering back to the counter.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Stephanie said, eyeing the frosted bun.
“It was purely selfish,” I admitted, picking up the croissant. “I didn’t want to eat alone, and I’ve been dying for one of Maisie’s pastries.”
“You’ve got quite the sweet tooth for a man who drinks his coffee like an ashtray.”
“You got experience with drinking ashtrays, Steph?”
“Forget it. Thank you for this.” She gestured to the bun, then fiddled with her pen again. Contemplating. “All right.” She sipped her drink and glanced out the broad front windows overlooking the bustle of holiday shoppers milling around W 1st Avenue, seeming to gather courage.
“Hey,” I said quietly, trying to set her at ease. “I already know who your dad is. Everything else should be uphill from there, right?”
She snorted, which was hilariously adorable. “You have no idea.”