5. Graham
Chapter five
Graham
E ngaged.
The word clangs around my head the entire walk to my office.
I ignore the tightness in my throat and the voice screaming in the back of my head that tells me I’m bothered by this revelation.
I shouldn’t be. She’s my employee, and the state of her romantic life is of no importance to me as long as it doesn’t interfere with her work.
“Coffee, sir?” Avery, my secretary, asks the moment I’m seated. “You look a little stressed.”
I scoff. Me? Stressed? If it wasn’t for the constant barrage of emails from the board asking for updates on prospective new clients, the recent hospital bills for my dad’s chemo, or the quarrelsome pink-haired vixen hell-bent on sending me to an early grave, I’d tell her she was wrong.
But all I can do is nod and ask her to shut the door on her way out.
I’m seated at my desk for thirty seconds before the phone rings. Stifling a groan, I tap the speakerphone and awaken my computer.
“Morning, Miller,” Preston, the youngest, albeit most eager board member, says with his curt tone. He’s my only ally on the board. We share a mutual respect because although he comes from money, he worked his way up from the bottom by grinding daily.
“How’s it going, Preston?”
“There’s blood in the water,” he says, not mincing words.
I’ve always admired that about him. He’s not one of those chummy guys who wants to shoot the shit for five minutes before dropping a weight on you.
“Naftin Investments is making a big shift into agriculture to align correctly in the upcoming elections.”
Fuck . The whole reason I’ve had Rosay pouring over old clients instead of taking meetings was so that I could encourage the newer associates to think for themselves, to have a pulse on what’s happening with the movers and shakers in the finance community as well as in the other sectors of the economy, but now it’s backfiring.
“I thought we’d have another month or two before they caught on to our strategy.”
“We need to make a bigger push into agriculture now,” Preston replies. “We’ve got to turn the tide. Don’t give the board any ammo, if you catch my drift.”
“Noted.” I exhale harshly. “Thanks for the heads up.”
Avery enters with my coffee just as the line disconnects. Hazelnut and chocolate suffuse the room, somehow filling me with energy before the taste even touches my tongue. I groan as the coffee floods my senses, rolling smoothly down my throat and warming my cold heart.
The ding of an incoming mail shatters my reprieve.
From: [email protected]
Date: Sat, Sept 6th, 2024 at 2:05 PM
Subject: The grass isn’t always greener…but sometimes it is.
Mr. Miller,
Take a look at the tax records for this property. Could be a new dairy or cattle farm? Let me know your thoughts.
Regards,
Rosalina Wilmington
Vice Presiden t
Thompson Investment Group
I frown at her email, not because she brought me a potential opportunity for growth in the agriculture sector but because it lacked her usual fire.
Agitating her is my favorite part of the day.
You made it awkward.
I purse my lips, frustrated that my reaction to finding out she’s engaged has strained the tenuous relationship we already have.
Something I refuse to put a name to urges me to look at her employee file.
When I first started with Thompson, I read over everyone’s background to acclimate myself before I started, but that was before I knew Rosay, before I wanted to know more about her.
With a few clicks, I’m pouring over every detail of her tenure at Thompson.
Graduated with an MBA from Texas Tech. Started as an advisor. Promoted to associate within two years—a feat most analysts can’t accomplish in less than three and a half years—then to VP not too long before Weston’s demise.
She’s an asset to this company, an eager employee who knows her stuff and has the social skills to make clients feel at ease like they’re talking to their best friend. I must be the only one on her bad side.
Though I know I shouldn’t, I peruse her biography. Thirty-five-years-old, birthday in June, single.
I focus on the word single , allowing it to chant inside my mind.
As much as I hate to admit it—even if it’s only to myself—I’ve committed every part of Rosay to my mind, including her ringless finger.
I’ve never overheard her and Mindy speaking about their spouses, nor has she brought anyone except Stella to any of the company mixers, so where is she hiding this mysterious fiancé?
My fingers fly faster than my brain has the ability to stop them, cueing up a Google search that brings me to her social media.
Her account isn’t private, and I stare at the rows of her pictures knowing it’s a temptation I shouldn’t feed.
The first twenty images are of her at various events for Thompson, some of her speaking with clients and others of her laughing with Stella, a glass of champagne in her hand and the tanned skin of her collarbone on display.
Tingles spread down my arms, reaching my fingertips as they clack loudly along the keyboard. I scroll further, landing on a picture of Rosay with two men, one older and the other around her same age.
Is this the lucky guy?
A location is tagged in the photo, and I find myself on the Wilmington Winery page.
The ‘about me’ section clues me in to the fact that Rosay comes from Texas royalty.
Her father, Reign, and her mother, Esme, started the vineyard with a set of grape plants from Esme’s hometown, La Rioja, Spain.
It’s since expanded to a wine empire, boasting four wineries—two that cater to large events, and two that have barrel cabins for guests to rent for a romantic weekend.
Rosay was the only child of the pair, until her mother passed, and her father remarried.
Now the businesses are run by her father and stepbrother—the younger man from the picture.
I sink into my seat, tapping along the desktop. I shouldn’t be relieved that I haven’t seen any pictures of her with this supposed fiancé, but it begs the question of if she’s lying. And why?
Why does it matter to you ?
Though my brain is asking the right questions, it doesn’t give me the answers I need. This curiosity needling me about Rosay started as a faint discomfort and has now morphed into a full-blown hive that I need to scratch .
I look at the Thompson Investments master client list, curious to know who handles the Wilmingtons’ account since it would be against policy for Rosay to manage it.
A search returns void, and I crinkle my nose, confused as to why they don’t invest with us when their daughter works here.
I go back through the emails Rosay sent with potential agriculture clients, and her family isn’t listed there either.
They would be a boon for Thompson. Having Wilmington Winery—one of Texas’s leading winery groups—investing with us could bring us more luxury clientele by word of mouth. I email Rosay, requesting she come to my office, intent on getting some answers.
Five minutes later, a tornado blows through the door.
“Yes, sir ?” she says, pasting on a fake smile as she props against the frosted windows.
The way the word ‘sir’ rolls off her tongue has no right to be that sultry, to make me feel anything but annoyance.
“Rosalina.” I use her full name, hoping to set us on equal ground. “Sit.”
I watch as her tongue slides against her teeth then darts out to moisten her lips, and I’m embarrassed to say there’s no way I can stand from this chair without clueing her into the hold she seems to have on me.
She harrumphs and strides to my desk, flopping down into the seat like a child. Before I’m able to ask her about her family’s portfolio, she says, “Did you bring me here just to fire me for talking too loudly?”
"What? No, of course not."
"Good, because it's against the law."
"And you know this because you're so well versed in what's against the law?"
Something flashes in her eyes, barely there before it's gone and the tough mask I've become accustomed to seeing slides back into place. "Did you call me here to apologize?"
“For?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“For snapping at you earlier.” She crosses her arms, gaze stuck on the blown glass paperweight my dad gifted me when my first startup took off. “My sister is getting married.”
“That’s great, but—”
“Yeah, it is, but when she called to tell me, I was at speed dating and there was a mariachi band and a creepy dude who wouldn’t stop waggling his eyebrows and all I wanted was to meet a nice guy and have a pizza and a glass of my mom’s wine and somehow our lines got crossed and she thought I was telling her I was engaged and now I’m screwed because she’s getting married next week and wants to meet my fiancé and I can’t go there without one. ”
“Whoa.” I exhale, lifting my hands in pause. The word soup that just spilled from her lips is more than I can digest. “Breathe, Rosay.”
She inhales a few deep breaths, covering the blush on her cheeks. Though I try to ignore it, I note how that blush creeps down her collar and into the space behind her buttoned blouse.
Focus.
I peer back at her, marveling at the normally confident woman rubbing her temples.
“Look at me,” I say, voice strained more than I’d like it to be.
She groans. “This is so embarrassing.”
A laugh forms in my chest, but I have the foresight not to let it out. I like my head attached to my body. While mortification is a beautiful color on her, my stomach clenches because I can tell she’s truly upset about it .
“How can I help?” I hear the words, but don’t realize their origin until Rosay’s shocked expression settles on me, brows cinched tightly above her slim nose.
“By not firing me for snapping at you earlier?”
I chuckle, playfully arching a brow. “If I wasn’t able to fire you for breaking my copier—”
“Enough of your precious Xerox machine.” She throws her head back, blowing out an exasperated breath. “I paid to have it fixed.”
“I’m just saying of all the things I could fire you for, snapping at me when you’re having a bad day isn’t one of them.”
She seems to relax at that, and her shoulders lift as she scootches up in the chair. “Well, unless you can pretend to be my fiancé for my sister’s wedding weekend, I doubt there’s anything you can do to help me not look like the embarrassment of my family.”
I search her expression for any hint that she’s playing, that she doesn’t truly feel like an embarrassment to her family. After my name was splashed across tabloids when Bethany and I split up, I understand how other people’s opinions can weigh heavily on you.
“You’re not an embarrassment to your family.
You’re one of the hardest working, most competent VPs I’ve ever worked with.
” As I’m hyping her up, Preston’s comment about Naftin surpassing us into agriculture portfolios blares like an alarm, and an idea forms in my head.
If Rosay’s family is as connected in the Hill Country as I assume they are, then maybe we can achieve our goals… together.