I shake my head. I’ve been contemplating this stranger, his shoulders, and how he came by them way too much. I need to concentrate on the potential bloodbath that lies ahead of us when we get everyone around the conference room table.
Anderson greets the trio eagerly. “Welcome to Lincoln, gentlemen. How was your trip in?”
“No complaints,” Mr. Donaldson replies, clasping Anderson’s hand in a firm grip. “It’s always an easy flight into Lincoln.”
“Light traffic.”
“Exactly.” He shifts his attention to the rows of employees, his eyes lingering on Kelsey a little longer than necessary. He never would have dared a visual groping on any of his previous visits under his soon-to-be ex-wife’s watch. He’s apparently wasting no time enjoying his life as a new, older gentleman bachelor. Creep.
Mr. Donaldson turns his attention to the first salesman he sees, who happens to be Gio. “How about you show me the latest models?”
To his credit, it only takes Gio a moment to snap into business mode. “Of course, sir. This way.”
He leads Mr. Donaldson to the other end of the showroom floor while the lawyers turn to Anderson. The salt-and-pepper suit asks if it would be possible to start looking at the past year’s sales figures and next year’s projections. Panic crosses Anderson’s face, but before he can admit that he hasn’t prepared any of the paperwork, I step forward.
“I’m Harper Duquaine, the office manager,” I say, offering each my hand. “I have copies of that paperwork and some other figures available for you and Mrs. Donaldson’s team if you’d care to join me in the conference room.”
Anderson releases a breath of relief, and I ask him to direct the rest of the legal team my way once they finally make it inside.
The younger of the lawyers falls in step next to me. “I’m Ethan White. Thanks in advance for your assistance.”
“Of course. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help while you’re here.”
In the conference room, I hand each of the men a tabbed binder of the past seven years of financial reports, a full report of our inventory, and a list of achievements from our team in recent years (which includes being voted Lincoln’s favorite luxury vehicle provider five consecutive years, but no big deal).
“Do you have this quarter’s projected revenue?” Ethan asks.
“Absolutely.” I hand him and his partner each a copy.
He scans through the papers, nodding. “It looks like you covered everything.”
“We aim to please.”
I don’t have a chance to do more than direct them to the tray of coffee and pastries before Mrs. Donaldson and her legal team step into the room with Anderson hot on their trail, offering to hang their coats.
“Harper, darling, it’s been too long.” Mrs. Donaldson throws her arms around me and air kisses me—which seems like more of a Hollywood or metropolitan greeting than what we’re accustomed to in Lincoln. “We still miss you in New York.”
Which is nice of her to say, even if it’s a bit unprecedented. I saw almost as little of her when I worked in Albany as I do now. “It’s always a pleasure. Can I get you a coffee?”
“Later. Before we get down to this nasty business, tell me what’s new with you. Tell me more about this boyfriend of yours.”
“His name is Brook. He’s a football coach.”
Her eyes glisten, and she moistens her lips. “Sounds delicious.”
“He is,” I admit. “He’s also one of the smartest, kindest people I’ve met.”
“Yes, yes, brains and personality are good.” She lowers her voice. “Tell me what he’s like in the bedroom, good hands?” She gestures towards one of her lawyers, a young man who barely seems old enough to buy beer, let alone sit for the bar. “He might not be a coach, but he has great hands.”
Does she mean she’s sleeping with her barely legal lawyer? He catches our stare and winks. Mrs. Donaldson toys with the pearls around her neck and wiggles a few fingers at him. Good for her, I guess. I only hope he’s as good in a courtroom as he is on the eyes.
Mr. Donaldson and Gio enter the room, drawing our attention. Based on the sober expression on his face, Gio has apparently learned what’s at stake here.
Slipping her arm through mine, Mrs. Donaldson lowers her voice. “I hope you know that whatever happens, I’ll take care of you. We appreciate everything you’ve done to streamline our operations. First in Albany and Kansas City, even in your brief stint in Dallas. We’ll help you find another position somewhere in whatever parts of the company we keep.”
“So you’re—”
“It’s doubtful we’ll want to keep the entirety of our company. This was my father’s dream, not ours. And we have lots of . . . interests. My lawyers say it’s easier to split cash than property.”
Even though I’ve known this was a possibility, hearing her say it hits me like a punch to the stomach. And what does she mean about helping me find another position? I just told her I have a life here in Lincoln. Does she really think I’ll want to leave that behind to start over alone? The possibility of leaving Brook for a job that does little more than pay the bills . . . I can’t even go there.
I SNEAK OUT OF THE conference room for a few minutes while our guests eat lunch. I need a break. Rather than eating a catered sandwich with the dueling couple and their lawyers, I'd rather have a green smoothie. It’s probably the only thing I can keep down right now; my nerves are so tightly wound.
I hesitate at the door to the breakroom when I find Gio, J.J., and Wade wordlessly gathered around a table. My heart sinks. They look . . . devastated. Knocked down. Defeated. They’re unlike the confident men who have been my friends the past year. And I can’t help but feel guilty for playing a part in that. I may have been sworn to secrecy, but it doesn't change how much I wish I could have given them a hint of what was to come.
“Guys—”
Gio holds up his hands to silence me. “Harper, you don’t even have to say it. We understand.”
“You didn’t have a choice,” Wade adds. “We get it. It’s okay.”
I sink into the empty chair at the table. “I’m still sorry.”
“It's okay,” Wade repeats.
The room falls silent once again. With the three of them gathered here, it seems like a convenient moment to ask them something I’ve been mulling over this morning. Convenient, but not particularly sensitive. Still . . .
“I realize I have no right to ask any of you for favors." I force myself to meet each of their gazes rather than stare at my lap like I’d prefer. “But would you please promise not to mention this to Brook yet? He has enough going on without him worrying about this. And you know he will worry.”
Wade and Gio exchange a look. Wade lifts a shoulder and Gio nods.
“Are you sure you want to keep him in the dark on this?” Gio asks. “It seems like you might not want to keep something this big from him.”
“It’s not like you’re doing it to protect someone else’s secret,” Wade says.
“Or because you’re embarrassed,” Gio adds.
They exchange another glance. Wait a minute. Have the guys been swapping secrets behind my back? Ugh. I swear, men accuse women of being gossips, but these guys are the worst.
“I’m going to tell him,” I promise. “Eventually. He’s just . . . so stressed with everything right now. I don’t want to add to it.”
“He’d want to know,” Wade says.
Gio shakes his head. “It’s not—”
“Guys, give her a break,” J.J. interrupts, speaking up for the first time since I entered the breakroom. Our eyes turn to him in collective shock. Did the stress we’re under cause us to simultaneously hallucinate? “Harper has good reasons for not wanting to burden Brook with our problems. It’s not like she’s asking us to help her hide a body. She wants to let him get through the rest of the season.” He meets my gaze then. “You just want to let him get through the season, right?”
I no
d and swallow hard. I can’t believe that J.J. of all people gets me right now.
“What do a few weeks matter?” J.J. asks the guys.
They exchange more glances, more unspoken words. But at last, Wade and Gio concede.
“Good.” J.J. thrusts his water bottle in the air. “Here’s hoping Harper and Anderson can work their magic and convince the Donaldsons to keep us in business.”
We follow his lead and raise our own bottles.
“Cheers to that,” Wade mutters.
“And if not.” J.J. pauses and swallows hard. It occurs to me that this is the most grown-up and mature I’ve ever seen him. “It’s been a pleasure working with you.”
“Why do I feel like we’re on a sinking ship?” Gio asks.
No one answers, but we’re probably thinking the same thing. If this ship isn’t sinking yet, it’s taking on water. Who knows how long we can stay afloat under the pressure?
THE AFTERNOON GOES better than the morning, though not by much. By the time we finally wrap up for the evening, it’s well after our usual quitting time. Mr. and Mrs. Donaldson have lost their interest in the reports. Mr. Donaldson lingers at the reception desk to chat up Kelsey. Meanwhile, Mrs. Donaldson departs with the youngest of her lawyers, and I do my best not to react when I catch her pinching his butt. I suppose it’s nice they still have something in common, even if it makes me a little comfortable to consider the age gaps for each of their idyllic romantic conquests.
The elder members of each legal team follow Anderson into his office for a closed-door talk, probably to discuss their preliminary ideas for the future of the dealership. Mr. White, the lawyer whose well-built muscles I’d paid a little too much attention to earlier, hangs back in the conference room for a few minutes while I tidy up.
“I’ll have to admit, I’m surprised by the turnaround you’ve had in the past year,” he says. “You’ve quadrupled your business. That’s impressive.”
“Internet sales have definitely helped us out.” I place the stack of folders on one end of the table and move all the glasses and plates onto a tray so I can carry them to the breakroom more easily.
“And it appears you’ve done a lot to update the website. I believe Anderson said you were responsible for those changes.”
“I set up the infrastructure, but Wade has taken it to a new level.”
“But where would we be without someone to lay the foundation?” He gives an easy grin. “So, are there any good places to eat around here?”
“Oh sure. We have no shortage of restaurants.” Done with my tidying for the moment, I fold my arms and lean a hip against the table while I wait for him to finish whatever paperwork he’s finalizing. “What kind of food do you like?”
“Everything.”
“Well, that should give you plenty of options. Unless your client or partner are picky eaters, you probably have a dozen different places within easy walking distance from your hotel.”
“I’m actually on my own tonight. Mr. Donaldson will want to make a night of it with someone.” We exchange a look that tells me he finds his client’s behavior as absurd as I do. “And George usually orders room service so he can have privacy to call his family and review the materials.”
“Well, you’re back to having a lot of options. Everything from Indian and Thai food to burgers and pub food. We really have a little of everything.”
“What are you doing for dinner?”
“I’ll probably throw something together at home.”
“You could always join me. It’d be nice to have some company for a change.”
Ethan’s invitation sends a jolt of panic through me. I search his face to see if it’s a professional invitation or something more personal, but I come up short. I don’t know him well enough to read anything beyond easy friendliness. There’s a small part of me that wants to say yes. The perpetually curious part, which wants to dig up a few more details on what’s really going on behind the scenes of this messy divorce, even though it isn’t my business. Surely there wouldn’t be any harm in accepting an invitation for a business dinner, but . . . I’m not sure I want to take the gamble that it’s anything more. I hate that my mind goes there. If I was one of the salesmen it wouldn’t, but I’m not, so I have to be careful about the situations I put myself in with handsome, charming men.
And there I go again, noticing things about Ethan—Mr. White—that would be better left alone.
“Thanks for asking, but I need to get home. My boyfriend’s football team has a game tomorrow, and I’d like to spend a little time with him before we have to go to bed.”
“Boyfriend, huh?”
“Yes,” I say, perhaps a little more firmly than is necessary, but I don’t want to leave any doubt.
“And he’s a coach?”
“Yes. Head coach.”
Ethan’s dark eyebrows fly up. “You said he coaches football?”
I nod. “The team has been through a lot this year. I’m pretty proud of them, and him, for making it this far.”
“You should be. It takes a lot of hard work. I was a wide receiver in high school.”
Some of the tension escapes my shoulders as our conversation moves into a topic I’m more comfortable discussing. “That’s what Brook—my boyfriend—played in high school and college.”
“I have to admit I’m a little jealous.”
Uh oh. Are we in danger of re-entering less professional talk? I try to play it off like we aren’t. “Because he still gets to live the football dream?”
“Exactly.” Ethan shakes his head in mock despair. “I had to hang up my cleats years ago. Now the closest I get to being part of the game is managing my fantasy football team.”
I can’t resist asking, “Who’s your QB?”
“Chad Baker.”
“Nice! I’m a Packers fan, so I respect that. I have Todd Northwood on my team.”
He lets out a low whistle. “I’m impressed all over again. You do not mess around, do you?”
Week Six Recap: North’s Lady Gets Another W
Woe is the opponent who takes on North’s Lady. Even when her team is projected to lose, like they were this week, she managed to land a win.
With veteran quarterback Todd Northwood on a bye week, North’s Lady was dependent on a solid performance from backup QB Derek Stauffer. Finishing the week with eighteen points, he hardly gave the numbers she’s used to receiving in the position, but ultimately it worked just fine.
Who needs a good quarterback when two of her three wide receivers finished in the top five for the league and her running back once again gave a number one spot performance?
Even her kicker, Drew Pruitt, must have received the memo about North’s absence. He scored a cool thirteen points, which turned out to be lucky for this lady.
Thus far, North’s Lady has shown the opposition no mercy, and there’s little chance that will change.
Record: 6-0
Chapter Thirteen
THE ON-SITE VISIT CONTINUES through Friday and picks up again the following Monday, which was longer than expected. Even after the last of the lawyers left, an uncomfortable tension had settled over the dealership that no amount of good sales prospects could dissolve.
By the time the weekend rolls around, I want to curl up in my bed for the next forty-eight hours and pretend I have no responsibilities or worries while Blitz and I binge-watch something on Netflix.
Instead, I’m playing the role of perfect hostess and daughter when my parents and Brook’s roll into town Friday afternoon. My dad has been dying to catch one of Brook’s games before the end of the season.
I’m beginning to worry that inviting my parents to spend the weekend was not my most brilliant idea. Between our respective careers, Brook and I have a lot going on without adding in guests. But, it will be nice to have to catch up with my parents. I haven’t seen them since Easter weekend, and it’s the first time they’ve been to our new place. Which now seems painfully small as the three of u
s rush around the kitchen trying to take care of our respective tasks. Mrs. MacLaughlin is slicing and dicing vegetables with a precision that any Food Network chef would envy. My mom is putting the finishing touches on her homemade spaghetti sauce that will be poured over the lasagna that needs to go into the oven as soon as we get back from the game.
The oven! I forgot to set the timer for the brownies I put in almost half an hour ago. Damn it. They’re probably burnt. I squeeze between the moms and throw the oven door open. “Shit.”
“What’s wrong?” Mom asks, sending me a sideways glance that wreaks a little of disappointment for swearing in front of someone who isn’t family.
“I burnt the fu—freaking brownies.” In my haste, I reach for the pan without thinking. Pain shoots through my hand a second after I realize what I’ve done. “Shit, shit, shit.”
Before tears can well up fully in my eyes, Mrs. MacLaughlin is on one side with a pair of potholders removing the overcooked brownies from the oven. My mom is on the other side, guiding me to the sink to run my hands under water. Both cluck words of comfort. It’s my undoing. Leaning against the sink, water running over my hands, I let out the tears I’ve been holding back for so long.
Both moms go into full mom mode at the first sign of tears.
“It’s not too bad of a burn,” Mrs. MacLaughlin soothes. “We’ll clean it up, put some salve on, and wrap it for the night. You’ll be good as new in a few days.”
“They’re just a bit overdone.” My mom surveys the damage on the brownies. “We can cut off the edges and no one will ever know the difference.”
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