by Karen Grey
Contents
Praise
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Epilogue
AUTHOR'S NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
THE WILL & KATE MIXTAPE
PRAISE
“Shakespearean actor Will and financial analyst Kate aren’t exactly star-crossed lovers, but, despite intense attraction, they can’t ever seem to stay together very long. Set within the Boston theater community and the (equally dramatic) world of high-stakes consulting, Grey’s wry, charming, and compulsively readable first novel demonstrates that, when it comes to romance, falling in love is only the beginning.”
—Dana Sachs, author of The Secret of the Nightingale Palace
“Kate and Will share a sizzling attraction and complex connection, giving me all the feels in this timeless romance.”
—Jen, That's What I'm Talking About blog
“Set in the 1980s, this funny yet warmhearted character-driven tale checks all the boxes for classy contemporary romance while providing the longed-for “something different” readers seek out. It’s smart. It’s sexy. It’s sophisticated romance at its best.”
—Lea Hensley, co-founder of the AudioGals blog
"This is my first book by Karen Grey and I’m hooked."
—Rellim Reads
Published by HOME COOKED BOOKS
A division of Jasper Productions, LLC
www.homecookedbooks.com
Copyright © 2020 by Karen Grey
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America.
www.homecookedbooks.com
Cover art and design by Bookcoverology.
ISBN: 978-1-7348330-0-3 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-7348330-1-0 (ebook)
Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Romance / Romantic Comedy.|
FICTION / Romance / Historical / American.|
First edition, June 2020
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and events are
either a product of the author’s imagination or are used ficticiously.
for Kristin Linklater
1936-2020
“Go to your bosom;
Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know”
—William Shakespeare, Measure for Measure, II, ii
“I can no other answer make but thanks,
And thanks; and ever thanks”
—William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night, III, iii
CHAPTER ONE
BEEP. WEDNESDAY, 10:02 p.m.
Kate, you’re up third in tomorrow’s morning meeting. Good night.
KATE
My chest heaves. Every inch of my body is slick with sweat. My legs are as shaky as if I just sprinted the last hundred yards in the mile at a track meet.
Having reached the front of the conference room, I set my flip chart on the easel and place my notes on the podium while I psych myself up to face the rows of my firm’s traders and salesmen. Then I remember what Mr. Brady said to Jan when she was nervous to debate in front of a crowd. Unfortunately, picturing these guys in their underwear instead of suits as shiny as the gel slicking their hair back just recalls the images left on my desk on a daily basis my first couple of weeks on the job.
Xerox copies of what’s inside that underwear. Bet Jan Brady never had to deal with that.
Suck it up, Bishop. You didn’t eat breakfast, so there’s nothing to throw up like the first time you presented your Buy recommendations. You brought a glass of water so your mouth won’t get so dry that you literally can’t get the words out like the second time. What’s that new campaign slogan Nike’s about to roll out? “Just Do It”?
Gritting my teeth, keeping my focus on my meticulously prepared graphs instead of the sea of bored male faces, I manage to stumble through my list of stock recs. The anecdotes I planned to tell to make my conclusions more memorable? They all seem stupid now, so I skip them and woodenly read my notes.
Finally, it’s over and I get out of the way so the next junior analyst can take my place. Leaning against the side wall, I fumble for a pen so I can take notes on the rest of the meeting. The moment it’s finished, instead of lingering to answer questions I scoot back to my cubicle and my research, the part of my job I’m actually good at. But before I can even sit down, the phone on my desk buzzes.
“Roland would like to see you in his office in fifteen minutes.” The statement is followed by the dial tone. My boss’s secretary Gail rarely wastes words on greetings or goodbyes. Or names. Or hints as to my fate.
I have time to either scarf down the bagel I brought or change out of my pit-soaked blouse before this meeting, but not both. I’d rather face Roland in dry clothes, so I race to the ladies’ room before heading up to the executive floor. Breakfast can wait.
Exactly fifteen minutes later, I sidle up to Gail’s desk, hoping for a clue of what’s to come. She looks up and waves me through, her always pallid complexion revealing nothing. “He’s waiting for you.”
“Thanks.” My voice wobbles on the word.
Just do it, Bishop.
Gingerly sticking my head inside the lion’s den, I tap on the heavy oak door. “You needed to see me, sir?”
In contrast to the modern decor I’ve glimpsed in partners’ offices, this den is more Upstairs, Downstairs than LA Law. Posh surroundings aren’t what make my boss one of the most highly respected equity analysts in the world, but they do make me feel like a poor relation fortunate to share air with him.
He waves at me, patrician nose in a report. “Katherine Bishop. Come in, come in.” His royally accented voice trails off as he jots down notes. Neatly tucking everything to the side, he removes his reading glasses. “All right, then?”
I hover on the threshold. “Um, yes. I’m almost done with the quarterly for your athletic shoe manufacturers. I do need to make a call to ask about an earnings upside at Adidas.”
He sits back in his chair and narrows his eyes at me. “Why haven’t we had you out in the field yet?”
I’m not sure how to answer. Isn’t that his call to make? “Well,” I begin, since he seems to be waiting for me to speak, “I haven’t really felt ready to—”
He interrupts me, gaze sharp and silver brows low. “Your presentation at the sales meeting this morning wasn’t ideal.”
“Yes, sir. I mean, I’ve been working on—”
He waves away my sputtered explanations. “Kate. If you can’t pull yourself together enough to present to a friendly crowd here in our offices, how will you face a group of institutional investors who will challenge each and every argument you make?”
I stifle a harsh laugh. Friendly crowd? It wasn’t just photocopies of
private parts landing on my desk during my first month on the job. The traders sent me a stripper disguised as a bike messenger, and every single sales guy asked me out. Or suggested a quickie in their office. I’d be willing to bet they don’t welcome new male analysts the same way.
Of course, I can’t complain about any of it without sounding like a whiny little girl. “Well, I guess I—”
He interrupts me again, waving his hand. “Kate, please sit down. Your gorgeous gams are so distracting I can’t think.”
Pasting on a smile, I perch on one of the two spindly chairs that face his desk and carefully cross my ankles out of his line of sight.
He folds his hands on a spotless desk blotter. “What you need to do is capitalize on your strengths. If you want to succeed here, you need to be on the road, meeting with clients on both sides of the balance sheet.”
“I’m just concerned—”
He begins to count off a list on his fingers as if he didn’t hear me. “Strengths? You work hard. You admit when you’ve made a mistake and move on from it. You don’t panic when the ground shifts. I was particularly impressed with your calm during last fall’s debacle.”
We both shudder. October 19, 1987. Black Monday.
I’d been at the firm for less than a week the day the stock market fell twenty-two percent. The biggest drop in a single day. Ever.
To survive, I drew on the only thing I had: my history degree. Examining patterns from our country’s past recessions made the choices clear. Stick with stocks with solid fundamentals, no matter what they were doing in the short run. While a few guys in our department might have yelled louder as they recommended buying this hot thing and selling another doomed to fail, the meticulously reviewed reports I silently slid onto Roland’s desk must’ve resonated.
“Especially for a woman,” he continues. “You showed more emotional fortitude than most of the young men here, which I must say surprised me.”
Before I can fully parse that backhanded praise, he knocks on his desk. “This is precisely why we need those skills of yours out in the field. First, you’ve got to see the businesses you follow in person. That’s the only way you’ll get the full picture. Then you take that knowledge directly to our investment clients. You’ll be an invaluable resource to the sales department—if you can learn to command a room. And that’s the weakness you’ve got to overcome.”
Fingers spread like claws on the desk, he swoops in to finish off his argument. “If you’re unable to do that, we may have to rethink your position here. If it’s not going to be you moving up, I’ll be moving on to the next young man.”
After rapidly running my own personal debt ratios, an alternative squeaks out. “Could I go with you before I go out on my own? I would feel so much more confident if I shadowed you first.”
His gaze shifts toward the large picture window with a view of the Boston Public Garden.
After a painfully long pause, he opens his Filofax, flips through it and taps a page. “I do have a trip down south in a couple of weeks to tour several textile and apparel manufacturing sites. It’s a full one, so it might work to have an extra set of eyes and ears along.” Frosty blue eyes meet mine. “We could tack a marketing meeting with some of our investment clients in Atlanta onto the end of the trip. That way, you’ll get to experience meeting with business owners and money managers.”
“That sounds perfect.” I clear my throat and aim for a deeper tone. “Thank you.”
“All right then.” His finger points at a different spot in his calendar. “You are still planning to cover the sportswear conference at the convention center next week?”
“Oh, yes. I have appointments with a few companies.”
“It’d be even better if you scout at the trade show for new contacts.”
Ugh. Meeting more people. Why can’t I just stay in my cubicle and churn out models? Because then you’ll never get out of that cubicle, dummy. “I will try—I will add that to my plan.”
“Work out the particulars on the travel with Gail on your way out.”
“Great. Thank you again.”
“Thank you, Kate,” he intones, dismissing me.
I manage to keep my cool as I make my exit and speak with Gail about the trip, but the swell of emotions burbling inside threatens to spill over, so I make a quick detour to the ladies’ again. After running in place for thirty seconds, I’m back under control. I also have an idea. If I can find a sales guy I trust to have my back and work the room, then meeting investment clients would be easier. Maybe I could even audition one at the upcoming athletic wear trade show. Pushing out of the restroom while running pros and cons on the various sales personalities, I run smack into a broad chest cloaked in fine cotton.
Masculine hands grip my upper arms to separate our bodies. “Careful there, Kate.”
Deep voice, killer dimples, and chestnut brown eyes set off by a complexion that can only have come from a tanning booth this time of year. The sales guy the secretaries call “Hot Steve.”
Shuddering out a half-laugh, I take a step back. “Sorry. Need to watch where I’m going, I guess.” Clutching my portfolio, I ease out of his hold.
“Not so fast there, girl.” He drapes an arm over my shoulders like a spider cozying up to a fly. A smooth-talking, pheromone-leaking spider. “You going to join us at happy hour tonight?”
I know there are women at the firm who’d jump at the invitation, but his whole act just irritates me. I open my mouth to answer, so you guys can just make fun of me?
Before I can get a word out, he places a finger over my lips and whispers, “Shh, Kate. Don’t say no.”
Does he even know how cheesy he is? I remove the offending finger.
With impressive agility, he captures my hand and presses it to his heart. “It’s just a couple drinks. The other analysts join us when we can unchain them from their desks. Everybody just wants to get to know you better, see if straitlaced Kate can let her hair—”
Roland’s words echo inside my head, drowning out Hot Steve’s attempt at sweet talk. We may have to rethink your position here.
I retrieve my hand and awkwardly pat him on an impressively muscular upper arm. “You know what? I’ll go.” Happy hour with the boys isn’t my idea of a good time, but it might be the best way to observe the candidates in the wild, so to speak. The loss of one hour at my desk versus the loss of my job? The tradeoff is clear. “Yeah. I’ll go.”
Hot Steve’s posture stiffens. He sweeps the hallway with a hawk-like gaze. Grasping my elbow, he steers me to the water cooler. Casually bending down to fill a cup, he speaks out of the corner of his mouth. “Are you serious? Because there’s a longstanding wager that you’ll never go to happy hour. If you’re coming, I need to change my bet.” He looks over his shoulder before leaning down to whisper in my ear. “Meet us at the Bull and Finch—you know, the Cheers bar—at five thirty. Don’t tell anyone you agreed to come, and I’ll cut you in on my winnings. Now, push me away like you usually do when someone comes on to you.”
My hand floats into the air between us but before I can even touch him, he staggers back. “Whoa, Kate.” His hands rise along with the volume of his voice. “Calm down. Jeez, try to give a girl a compliment and she freaks out on you.”
I sure hope Steve never tries to switch careers and become an actor because he’d definitely fail. His performance is preposterous.
“Unbelievable, huh, Brad?”
Tall Brad nods on his way past. Hot Steve jogs to catch up to him, mouthing, “See you later,” to me.
Shaking my head at the dramatics, I head back to my cubicle where my bagel and piles of reports await.
By the time five thirty rolls around, the cubicles around me are silent. The boys have long since decamped to the bar. I run a hand over the stack of 10Qs I’m in the process of distilling into recommendations that need to be on Roland’s desk before I leave tonight.
If I had the balls to dazzle a roomful of institutional investor
s all by myself, I could just blow off the sales crew. Unfortunately, I lack them, both literally and figuratively.
Straightening my piles one last time, I give them a goodbye pat. “Don’t worry my pretties. I’ll be back soon.” I’ll just have one drink, play nice and then treat myself to takeout from the new Indian place on the way back. I’ll still be able to finish up and make it home tonight by ten. Eleven at the latest.
Walking the few short blocks to the Bull and Finch in the brisk spring air clears my head and buoys my morale. I can do this. I already have my choices narrowed down to three: Skinny Brad, Mustache Mark or Short Steve. I swear Rhodes Wahler only hires men with the names Brad, Mark or Steve. To keep them straight, I give them labels.
As I wait for the light to change, I must be positioned where they filmed the opening credits for Cheers, because my view of the bar looks exactly like it does on TV, from the big white awnings to the wrought iron gate. Maybe there’ll be a cute bartender like Woody to make me a drink.
Unfortunately, when I step inside it’s a different story. A few patrons resembling Cliff and Norm hug one end of the bar, but young people in suits fill every other nook and cranny. The Rhodes Wahler guys are predictably loud, so I find them quickly.
Turns out he wasn’t kidding about the bet. As soon as the Brad/Mark/Steves spot me, a chorus goes up—half cheers, half groans. Fortunately they’re quickly distracted by whatever game’s on, and I escape to get my token drink.
On my way to the bar, Hot Steve slips me a wad of cash. Halfway through counting it, a warm, resonant voice catches my attention. “What’ll you have?”
“Um.” A sweaty mug of beer rests on the bar to my right. That’d make me sleepy. To the left, a pink drink sparkles. I point at it. “I’ll have that, please.”
