3. Graham
Chapter three
Graham
T en pairs of beady eyes bore into me from across the boardroom table, their hawk-like stares a brand on my cheek. I dig my toes into the soles of my shoes and brace for a verbal lashing for yet another client severing ties with our finance firm.
"We shouldn’t still be losing clients," Mr. Grist, the loudest and richest member of the board, says. "We brought you in to turn the tide, and that means going after clients with vast portfolios instead of all these smaller businesses you seem to favor.”
I grit my teeth against the urge to snap back, to remind him that it wasn’t me who tanked the company but the man who swindled millions of dollars from clients right under his nose.
“Weston only focused on automotive and oil tycoons,” I say. “We need to rely on our grassroots and the backbone of Texas. Agriculture."
A sour taste fills my mouth at the mention of my predecessor.
Christian Weston's web of deceit was deep and wide, and it wasn't until a few of his clients banded together to launch their own private investigation that he was brought to justice.
I'd say I hate the guy, but his downfall came at a time when I needed a boost. Taking over Thompson Investments wasn't my original plan, but after my broken engagement spurred a ton of bad tabloid attention, investors were squirrely about my character.
No one wanted my name attached to their startup companies, no matter how much money I was bringing to the table, and it lost me renewed contracts.
I needed a revamp in my image.
"I have my VPs working on a list of potential clients." I crack my knuckles beneath the table. My reputation as a cutthroat businessman has gotten me this far, but I need to prove to them that I can produce what they're asking for.
"You have six months to acquire seven new clients," Mr. Grist says, leaving off the silent 'or else.' “And if I haven’t made it clear enough, this job requires your utmost focus. Thompson’s rise back to the top needs to be front and center.”
One by one, each member of the board exits, some shaking my hand and others leaving without a word. Mr. Grist pulls me aside, and my hackles immediately rise.
“You might’ve been our last option, but don’t be mistaken that this can’t all go away too. I expect results,” he sneers before following the rest of the board down the hall.
Inside the empty boardroom, I shake out my limbs and slide my sweaty palms down my pants.
That wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be, but it definitely wasn’t the slam dunk I’m used to.
Pre-Bethany and my dad’s diagnosis, my work ethic and successes spoke for themselves.
I didn’t have boards looking at me as if I was a loose cannon, unable to meet expectations.
Not that my success is what they’re calling into question, it’s my character.
A ball of tension notches at the base of my skull, and I roll my neck to loosen the muscles.
The stack of bills—hospitals, therapists, chemotherapy, medications—lying on my kitchen island appears in my mind, a reminder that I need to be successful.
Getting Thompson back on track is a challenge I want—need—to take my mind off my dad’s treatment bills eating into my savings.
As I pass through the hallway, greeting each employee by name, boisterous laughter floats towards me.
I stop in my tracks, and my heart thunders in my ears—like it does every time she's around.
Working with her is bound to produce some kind of cardiac event from the stress this woman puts me through daily.
Rounding the corner, I find Rosay—the board’s favorite VP, and a royal pain in my ass most days—with her bare feet propped up on her desk. She’s chatting with Mindy, one of the employees who stayed after Weston's downfall.
"Have you checked section three of the dress code in the employee handbook?" I ask, gaze dropping down to take in the coral color of her toes. She changes the polish weekly—a fact I loathe to remember yet look forward to each week. It’s amongst the plethora of information about Rosay my brain has decided to retain, like how she eats birria tacos every Wednesday, reads Pride and Prejudice fanfic during her breaks, and dances to elevator music like it’s bachata.
"Not recently, but I'm sure you're dying to remind me of whatever arbitrary rule you think I've broken."
I press my tongue into the back of my teeth, forcing myself not to inhale the tropical scent that follows her everywhere she goes.
She's dressed in high-waisted, black and white striped pants and a form fitting top that does nothing but remind me of the breasts contained by the flimsy cotton—breasts I've spent the last three days imagining within the confines of my own shower.
“The board is in the building,” I grit out through pinched lips, glancing down at the new book a client brought her.
“Have some professionalism.” She has the good graces to look fully chastised as she slips her feet off the desk and puts on her blazer.
I stand in the doorway as Mindy rises from her chair, dropping the rest of her granola bar into the trash and sliding past me to go back to her office.
"And I'll send you a copy of the handbook to review. "
"Sure." Rosay slides her toes into strappy heels. "I'll review it once you reread the section where it tells you to remove any trees from your orifices."
She gives me a saccharine smile and rises from her chair, rounding the table with her mesmerizing hips swaying. My lower half takes on a pulse of its own as she saunters toward me, and every alarm in my head blares.
This woman is the bane of my existence. She steals my parking spot every day, prancing in with a pastry and coffee from her favorite bakery, she has absolutely no filter for that sensual mouth of hers, and she broke my expensive Xerox machine.
Based on her portfolio, she’s a shoo-in for the senior VP slot, but I’m not sure she wants the job.
And I need her to want the promotion. Having people who know the area, the movers and shakers that can help improve Thompson's reputation simply by investing with us, is the only way I'm going to turn this company around and rebuild my own life.
Whether I like it or not, Rosay Wilmington is the best we have. She’s been with the company for years, is more familiar with the area and clientele needs than some of the other advisors, and the board likes her—much more than they like me.
“Goodbye.” She slams the door in front of me, snapping me from my daze.
The woman has balls, I'll give her that.
With effort, I back away, ignoring the urge to reopen the door she slammed and fire her. Instead, I change direction to my office. If Rosay doesn't want the promotion, I need to find another employee I can mold into what I need.
News alerts ping my phone, and I slide it out of my pocket as I close the door.
At my desk, I settle in and bring up the articles on my laptop.
Most are the normal and expected articles that come out after business meetings, but my teeth grind when I see the headline of a popular celebrity gossip site.
Can Good Time Graham Save Thompson Investments?
and then the subhead, When he couldn't even save his relationship with the hotel heiress?
Flames lick the back of my neck, and I curl my fingers into my palms. In hindsight, setting up an alert for any news articles written about Bethany was probably not the best idea, but I'm apparently a masochist. I should've corrected the media's narrative when the news broke that things had ended between us, but I was devastated, and Bethany begged me not to tarnish her reputation.
To her, the only reason I was successful or well-known in the finance community had more to do with the fact that I was engaged to her than because of my own merit.
I could recover from a scandal, she had said, but as an up-and-coming publicist looking to break out on her own, away from the persona of a ditzy hotel heiress, she could not.
Why would I be so cruel to ruin her career before she even started?
As if losing access to my hard-earned money was a right I was taking away, punishing her for her indiscretions.
She’d been cut off by her dad, something the news hadn’t realized because she was good at hiding it by vacationing with friends.
Bethany never knew what it was like to grow up without money, whereas every time I close my eyes, I’m still back in Montana, playing hopscotch over rotting floorboards so I don’t break an ankle walking to the bathroom at night.
Some memories imprint themselves so deeply into your bones that they become an unending chill, always there to remind you the moment you start to get comfortable that everything can be taken away.
Rosay bursts through the door, her ample chest heaving as she approaches my desk like a predator ready to attack.
"Why am I on the schedule for training hours next week?" she seethes.
I don't look up from my computer, but I can see in my peripherals that her hands are perched at the curve of her waist, and her foot is cocked out to the side. For some reason, a smile tugs at the side of my face.
"You're the best trainer we have." I open an email, keeping my attention on my computer instead of the feisty woman in front of me, the one who makes weird things happen in my chest just from sparring with her.
Her shoes shuffle against the carpet, and I bite the inside of my cheek when her hands land on my desk and she leans forward to grab my attention.
"I didn't sign up for training hours."
Control. I have it in spades. Except for when it comes to this beautiful, ball-busting woman who challenges me at every turn.