7. Graham
Chapter seven
Graham
Newsflash: Manny the ‘most accurate’ meteorologist in Texas is a damn liar.
A podcast about cryptocurrency plays in my ear as I turn the corner toward my building and nearly slam into Thom. His toupee lifts as he flails and throws himself against the brick wall.
“Phew.” He splays a hand on his chest. “Almost took me out there.”
My chest heaves as I walk in place, allowing my heart rate to come down. “Sorry, Thom. Didn’t see you.”
“It’s alright. Out for your morning run?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know what possesses people to run when they’re not being chased.” He frowns and readjusts the man-purse across his shoulder. “Sounds like torture.”
Crippling anxiety is what I want to say, but I simply respond with, “It’s physical fit ness.”
“I like to get my physical fitness a different way,” he creepily snickers and elbows me. “If you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, Thom. Well, I gotta get ready for work so I’ll see ya.”
I don’t wait for him to respond before I push through the door and take the elevator to my condo.
The past few days blew by in a storm of board meetings, analysts’ yearly reviews, and barely any time to go over the wedding details with Rosay because she was at a finance convention.
Inviting her to dinner at my place was necessary because I could tell she was unsure about the whole thing.
I can't risk her deciding it's a bad idea.
I need this opportunity to network and secure the seven new clients I spent the last few days researching, ones that are most likely to come to the wedding.
And maybe if I spend time with her in a place that’s comfortable for me, this weird attraction will subside.
After a quick shower, I sit at my desk and bring up the spreadsheets and schedule I laid out for the meeting.
If Rosay is worried about her family believing we're engaged, then I need to put those worries to bed.
What better way than to lay out all the sordid details of my life than in a color-coded document?
Not that I've lived the life everyone believes I did, thanks to the tabloids.
I grew up in the backwoods of Montana with nothing.
Dad worked to the bone at the local textiles factory, and my mom took every cent of it.
She wasn't happy with the life she had, so she packed up everything—except me—and left.
I worked through high school and signed up for every scholarship I could.
Dad was there, never missing a graduation or award ceremony, even if it meant losing the overtime he needed.
Making sure he was able to live without driving himself into the ground was a priority for me once I got my first job as a financial analyst. And it's still a priority now that he’s sick and I'v e been successful in turning multiple struggling companies into profitable businesses.
I'll never let anyone take what I've worked for the way my mom did.
Printing out the sheets of paper, I compile them into a folder and stack it neatly on the table for Rosay. We can fill in the places I left blank when she gets here.
I stand in front of the closet for entirely too long, deciding what to wear for our dinner later.
This is a business transaction, not an actual date, so why are my hands so sweaty?
It’s not like whatever I wear is going to sway Rosay’s decision on whether I’ll make a good pretend fiancé. Or at least I hope not.
I should probably wear a button down and nice slacks, but I opt for jeans and a short-sleeved shirt that is tight around my pecs and shows off the tattoos I rarely get to display anymore.
It has nothing to do with the fact that I like watching Rosay try—and fail—not to trace each pattern with her brown eyes.
With a roast cooking in the crockpot, I gather my meeting notes and head to work.
Rosay is bent over her desk when I arrive at her door, and I can feel the devil snickering on my shoulder.
Without permission, my gaze glides over her curvy frame, absorbing the way her gray pants mold to her strong legs.
“I can feel you staring at my ass, perv,” she says without looking up.
Though my face heats at her directness, I infuse my words with confidence. “Ah, it's you, Rosay. Thought Ms. Greta was placing P&L statements on your desk.”
She scoffs and looks over her shoulder. “The audacity. I do not have the ass of an eighty-year-old, Graham.”
I playfully purse my lips, and she throws a pen at me. “Hey now.” I stroll toward her desk. She sits, ignoring me as I perch on the wingback chair in fro nt of her. “I’m sure Ms. Greta’s ass has the geezers at the nursing home chasing her.”
“I did not need that image.”
“What are you working on at”—I glance at the clock—“six-thirty in the morning? You usually don't grace us with your presence until at least nine, and that's only if you've had a muffin and two cups of coffee.”
She laughs. “Should I be worried I'm so predictable?”
“You're anything but predictable. In fact, half the time I'm not sure if you're going to bite my head off or poison me.”
“I’m more likely to poison you with ink in your coffee.”
“What’s that?” I nod at the highlighted papers scattered along her desk.
“Lesson plans.” She huffs, placing each paper back into a protective sleeve and securing it into a three-prong binder.
I mentally go through everyone's schedule. I don't remember Rosay signing up to be a moderator for any investment courses. “For?”
“Tutoring.” She focuses on the task in front of her, and I get the vague sense that she's trying not to look at me.
When she doesn't expand, I slide into the seat and lean forward into her view. “If we're going to be fake engaged, I should probably know more about this tutoring.”
Annoyance is clear in her deep exhale as she closes her binder. “I tutor high school and college students in math. I normally do lesson plans over the weekend, but since I'll be with you doing wedding stuff, I figured I'd get a jump on it, so I don't fall behind.”
I open and close my mouth, floundering on how to reply.
Not only does she kick ass here at Thompson, but she also spends her free time tutoring kids?
I curb the urge to ask her more, to steal any morsel she’s willing to g ive to feed this incessant curiosity about her.
The woman has more layers to her than an onion.
“Oh,” is all my unhelpful brain comes up with.
“Yup.” She places the binder into a bag at the foot of her desk. “Was there something you needed? Or just wanted to take what little time I have left before we're forced to spend an entire weekend together to annoy me?”
“You know, in order to be convincing as a couple we have to pretend we don't simply tolerate each other but that we actually enjoy each other's company.”
“I have two days left before I have to sell my soul.”
Despite the exaggeration, I fold my arms across my chest and switch tactics. We have all dinner to hash out details, and there’s something more important on my mind. “How was the conference yesterday?”
“It was fine.” Her pen makes a dull thud as she drops it on the calendar taking up the majority of her desk. “The usual Ted Talks on derivative fundamentals and swaps sprinkled in with a little plug for cryptocurrency.”
“And no one tried to poach you for another company?”
“Nope.” She blinks up at me from beneath long, dark lashes and purses her lips. “If there’s nothing else you need, I want to get a jump on meeting prep.”
I feel the force of her dismissal like a door slammed in my face.
I shuffle to my office in a daze, barely registering Preston standing behind my desk, peering out over the city through the panoramic window.
It’s the third time in two weeks that he’s visited my office on a whim, and I’m starting to feel like he’s a parent checking up on me.
Does the board not trust me?
A churnin g wreaks havoc on my gut at the thought, and I dig my fingers into my palms to distract myself.
“Miller,” he says, sliding his hand out of his pocket and checking his watch. “A little late, aren’t you?”
I glance at the clock. Shit . I spent too much time in my little t?te-à-t?te with Rosay.
It’s only seven o’clock, but I pride myself on punctuality.
After Bethany managed to tank my reputation with a well-placed smear campaign, Thompson took a risk on me.
I don’t want to give them any reason to look for another candidate to take over as permanent CEO.
“I was in a meeting with one of the VPs.”
He nods, the corners of his mouth downturned as if that is beneath him. A knock at my door steals my attention to where Avery strides in with my coffee and the daily documents for review.
“Morning, Avery,” I say.
Her gaze is glued to the floor as she approaches my desk. “Morning, sir.”
“Morning, Ave.” Preston’s voice is barely a whisper.
The folders land on my desk with a thud, but Avery doesn’t speak. With a huff, she leaves. I blink, confused by the tension hanging in the air.
My gaze ping pongs between them. Preston’s posture is rigid, and if I’m not mistaken, his jaw is clenched as if he’s physically restraining himself from looking at the door my secretary just exited.
Knowing in most cases ignorance is bliss, I trap my lips between my teeth.
Avery closes the door behind her, and Preston lets out an audible breath.
“About that…”
“Not my business,” I reply, grabbing the stack of folders she left for me. “What can I do for you this morning?”
“I want ed to check in and see how you’re doing with attaining an agricultural client.”
I swallow, unsure how to answer. I’ve been doing research the past couple days on what clients are most likely to show up at Rosay’s sister’s wedding, but I haven’t been able to check in with her.
She assured me the wedding should be a smaller get-together, so the likelihood of running into anyone who knows we work together is low, but I’d rather not tell Preston my plan just yet.