Chapter 25 - J. Raines
Matt's POV
The mornings in Charleston were polite in a “please” and “thank you” sort of way. The city definitely had main character vibes. Like it let the sun rise slowly over the water, and the gulls argue outside your window
I woke before the alarm, the way I always did.
I still felt like I was just visiting, like I had to check out in a few days and go home.
The problem was, I didn’t know where home was anymore, even though I had been here a few months.
I missed my old life. I knew I was depressed. Just going through the motions. Sometimes I even missed Lily and her brand of insanity.
I had no idea what was going on in her world now or if she was out of jail and victimizing some other poor bastard.
I made the bed with military precision, the kind Sarah used to tease me for. “You’d think the sheets were on trial,” she used to say.
The apartment was silent except for the coffee maker kicking on. No laughter from the kids. No slammed doors. No reminders of who I used to be. The quiet was supposed to be healing. It just felt sterile.
It had been a year since one mistake turned into a story people still whispered about. I was seeing the kids a few times a month, but I rarely talked to Sarah. It hurt too much… still.
I checked my phone: three work emails, one from Holloway about a new pitch, and one from a client trying to push deadlines.
I got ready with the same routine I used every single morning: turn on music, this morning it was Soundgarden, teeth, shower, clothes, cologne, and a to-go coffee in my large Holloway, Taylor and Associates cup.
Then I left for the office in my brand new Volvo SC90.
The Day I Tried to Live transferring to my speakers.
I entered the building, an old warehouse in downtown Charleston that had been renovated and turned into swanky high-tech offices complete with glass walls, wood finishes, and steel beams.
I was early as usual.
Jim had been on edge lately. He was closing the Highland Park office, abruptly, and out of character for a man who usually kept a death grip on every region.
He said it was “strategic realignment,” but I knew better.
He’d lost a handful of major contracts over the last month, clients who had gone dark without warning.
Now his focus on Charleston had turned razor sharp, almost desperate.
He wouldn’t talk about it, but I was his numbers guy and saw the devastation to his bottom line.
Every time I brought it up, he brushed it off with a half-smile and a new deadline.
But I could see the strain. It was leaking into everything, his temper, his calls, the way he snapped at his wife on speakerphone and then pretended it didn’t happen.
The email came in at 8:12 a.m., with a clean subject line.
From: J. Raines
Subject: Potential Client Inquiry – Strategic Image and Reputation Consulting
I skimmed it while finishing my first cup of coffee. New fund. Expanding in the Southeast. Looking for a retained partner to advise on reputation risk and donor communications. The tone was clipped, efficient, the way men with money write when they want you to hurry.
Jim leaned into my doorway. “You see the Raines note?”
“Reading it now, what do you think?”
“Take it.” He tapped the frame twice. “Reads like old New York money. If he wants the Southeast, he wants Charleston. If he wants Charleston, he wants us.”
I nodded. “Two this afternoon?”
“Good. I will head to the club at three if it’s boring.”
It rarely was these days. We had built enough of the Charleston portfolio to stop some of the bleeding. I sent a reply and asked the assistant to block the time.
At 1:58, my phone buzzed with a message from the front desk. “Jay Raines is here.”
Jim and I were standing when the door opened, but the man we expected never came.
A woman stepped in, composed and self-assured.
She extended her hand to me first.
“Julianne Raines,” she said. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
Her voice carried a calm that came from people who were used to being heard. Considered. I took her hand and held her gaze for half a second longer than necessary.
“Of course,” I said. “Matt Taylor. And this is Jim Holloway.”
We all sat. She opened a leather folio and spread a set of clean, well-structured documents across the table. Her handwriting was neat. Her strategy, neater.
She began describing the foundation she was building. It was new, ambitious, and unapologetically confident. Her numbers worked, and her delivery had rhythm. Jim interrupted once or twice, but her attention kept returning to me. I noticed it. I think she wanted me to.
“This projection assumes a threefold increase in donor engagement by next quarter,” I said, scanning the sheet. “That’s optimistic.”
“Optimism built this country,” she replied.
“Realism kept it standing.” I retorted.
She smiled, just enough to soften the room. “Then I suppose we’ll need a bit of both.”
Jim gave a low chuckle, already halfway out the door. “Looks solid to me. Matt can take point.”
Julianne looked at him and then back at me. “Good. You ask better questions.”
I leaned back slightly. “Transparently, you have done a great job of answering most of my questions in your write-up.”
“Good, I want to get started right away,” she said.
The door to the conference room opened, and refreshments, sandwiches, and various snacks were brought in by my assistant, Wyatt.
"I heard your stomach growl, so I called up for some bites. Help yourself," I said playfully.
When she blushed, I smiled and started putting food on a plate for her.
"Mr. Taylor, you didn't have to..."
I held up my hand. Julianne, please call me Matt. If we are going to be working closely together, let's go by first names."
She smiled and nodded, her beautiful face still flushed.
We talked while we ate, and before we knew it, we had completely finished off the vegetable tray and finger sandwiches. The more we talked, the hungrier we became. An hour had passed before we decided on a date and time for our next meeting.
“I think we’ll work well together,” I said.
“I already know we will.” She gathered her notes and tapped the folder shut. “It’s rare that I meet someone whose tone matches their follow-through.”
She wasn’t flirting. Not exactly. But the air between us felt alive with unspoken awareness.
Her smile lingered as she stood. I rose, shaking her hand again. Her skin was cool, her grip certain. She held my eyes when she said goodbye.
When the door closed behind her, the scent of her perfume stayed. Something faintly floral, bright, and inconveniently memorable.
She left with the retainer and a promise to send over brand materials. I stared at the closed door and told myself the feeling in my chest was professional.
Two days later, she returned with coffee and a red pen. And that scent. She smelled delightful. Something floral and fresh and completely her.
Her name fit her. Clean. Uncomplicated. The kind of name that belonged on the side of a building or a foundation. She had the look of someone who had spent years learning how to be taken seriously and now didn’t need to try. Her beauty wasn’t loud. It was disciplined.
Her long hair was chestnut, straight, and tucked behind one ear like she didn’t have time for vanity. Her dress was red, simple, and structured, cut to move when she did.
Her eyes were a greenish hazel, sharp and aware, scanning everything before landing on me. Her lips always looked like she’d just tasted something too hot to resist. When she smiled, it was polite, almost professional, but something in it lingered a beat too long.
She didn’t just talk, she directed the conversation. The room shifted with her. Even Jim, who could talk over senators, waited for her to finish before speaking.
I kept telling myself it was her confidence that caught my attention, but that wasn’t the truth. It was the way she looked at me when she spoke, like she already knew how I’d respond. Like she was testing her theory and winning.
There was nothing accidental about Julianne Raines. She was built for precision. The kind of woman who could convince you she needed help while dismantling you with a smile.
We sat in the conference room, the scent of rain and magnolia sneaking in from the street. She had notes on tone, seasonality, and donor psychology. She had notes on my notes. It should have been irritating, but it wasn't.
“Do you ever let anything be easy?” I asked.
“Only brunch,” she said. “Everything else requires strategy.”
We finished the deck. She checked her phone, then looked up as if deciding something.
“I have a donor gala Saturday. Arts endowment. Black tie, small, nothing that will end up on national news. I would rather not go alone. If you are free.”
I hesitated for the shape of a breath. There was no rule against it. There was only a history I did not feel like borrowing from.
“Fine,” I said. “I can be charming for two hours.”
“Three,” she said. “There is always an after.”