When Holland O’Dell walked in the door at six, however, my plans changed.
She walked to the counter and greeted Sam with a warm smile, leaning in as she ordered, in a way that made me irrationally jealous. I felt that same spark I’d noticed the first time I’d set eyes on her. A glow of something—an indefinable buzz on some elemental level inside me. This girl had something I needed. Maybe it was chemical. That was all I could think. But whatever it was, whatever this girl had, I wanted it. It was the first certainty I’d felt in the better part of a year.
I stood up without even thinking about it and approached her where she stood digging in her enormous shoulder bag for something. Sam was making her a sandwich behind the counter.
“I got this, Sam,” I told him.
Holland’s head snapped up, and I was caught in the traction of her crystalline gaze. “You.” She spit the word out. But before the irritation had slid into place, smoothing her features and making her face an impenetrable mask, I’d seen something else flit through those eyes. The tiniest glimmer of interest. There was hope.
“Me.” I tried a grin, but it had been a while since I’d used that particular expression. It might have been more maniacal than charming.
She put a twenty-dollar bill on the counter and glared at me before pointedly turning her back to me. “Here you go,” she said as Sam came back to the register, her plated sandwich between them. She pushed the money across to him as his eyes flicked to mine. I shook my head.
“This one’s on Hale,” he told her, nodding toward me. “He insists.”
She turned her head to narrow her eyes at me over her shoulder. “I can buy my own dinner.” Her voice was low, even.
“I’d like to make up for being rude the other day,” I said. “Please accept my apology. In the form of…” I glanced down at her sandwich. “Roast beef and more avocado than any one person should be allowed to eat.”
A hint of a smile flickered across her lips and a faint blush crept up her neck. I wanted to chase it with my tongue, feel that warm heat with my lips. “I like avocado,” she said, her voice less thorny. “It’s a superfood.”
“So you’ll let me buy your super dinner?”
“Fine,” she said. She picked up the plate and carried it to a table against the wall of windows that faced the quad between the towers. “Thank you,” she tossed back at me as she sat.
I shot a smile at Sam and then followed Holland to her table, pulling up the opposite chair without asking permission.
She raised an eyebrow, the sandwich poised at her lips. “Seriously?”
I shrugged and sat, leaning back to watch her eat.
“I can’t even eat dinner in peace,” she grumbled, angling away from me again and staring out the window.
She didn’t demand that I leave, so I waited, studying her as she ate. She was beautiful, but I already knew that. Today I wanted to learn what it was about her that compelled me. I scanned her face and her body for clues but came up short. I glanced at the pile of paperwork she’d dropped on the tabletop, and was surprised to see the StrokeStat schematics on top of her pile.
“StrokeStat,” I said, thinking aloud. “I thought that technology was pretty much dried up after the efforts to repurpose it outside swimming got shelved a couple years ago.”
Her head swiveled to me, and she picked up the schematics and put them facedown, tucking them under the other papers on her pile. She gave me a once-over, taking in the scruff on my jaw and my questionably clean T-shirt and jeans. “Do you even work here? This coffeehouse is for employees, you know.”
I bobbed my head, trying to cover my amusement at her fierce response. She obviously didn’t recognize me as the CEO of Cody, which was nice. It was rare to have the opportunity to talk to someone who didn’t know my background, my baggage. “I used to,” I told her.
“Did they forget to take back your badge?”
“No,” I said. “The security guys out front remember me. Sam knows me.”
“Clearly,” she said.
She went back to her sandwich and then polished off six slices of avocado. Finally, she put the plate aside and turned to face me. “Let’s just get this done,” she said. “What the hell do you want?”
“I’m trying to figure that out, too.”
“Well, I can’t help you. And I don’t owe you a damned thing—I didn’t ask you to pay for my dinner. So maybe you could take your deep thoughts over there.” She pointed to a far table. “And let me get some work done here.”
“Tell me what you’re doing with StrokeStat first,” I suggested.
She scowled at me, wrinkling her freckled nose adorably. “Why would I do that?”
“Maybe I could help.”
“I seriously doubt it.”
“I used to work on it,” I told her. “When it was first developed. I know it inside and out. Better than most of the development team, probably.” It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t even a stretch. Adam and I had begun the company with StrokeStat, which was the idea I’d had when I was swimming in high school—a way to measure the speed and water displacement of a swimmer’s stroke, the results of which could be extrapolated to predict heat times and help in training. Using that idea, many other technologies had been developed for other sports, and many of them were now being used not only for training, but also to set odds for bookmakers.
She squinted at me, pressing her lips into a hard pink line. I resisted the urge to run my thumb over those rosy lips, to pull that full lower lip down and push my thumb into her soft mouth. My dick was straining painfully against the seam of my jeans at the thought.
“You worked in development.” She placed disbelieving emphasis on the word “you.”
“Hard to believe, huh?” I shrugged, put on my best puppy dog innocent face.
“What’s your name?” she asked, still not willing to give an inch.
“Hale,” I said without thinking. I wasn’t lying, really. That’s what everyone called me. She’d figure out who I was soon enough. And then I’d get either the misplaced awe or the sympathy—neither of which I could stomach from this girl.
“That’s a strange name.”
“Says the girl named after a country.”
“My mother was a moron,” she said quickly, dropping her eyes. She was silent then, and I got the feeling I’d hit on some buried bruise.
“Hey,” I said, my voice soft. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Hale is a nickname, actually.”
Holland gave me a squinty-eyed look for a moment, probably trying to figure out what “Hale” was short for, but didn’t ask. She glanced around, but the coffeehouse remained mostly empty, save for a couple women at a far table. “I still have no idea why I’m even talking to you.”
“Because you need help,” I suggested.
She sighed and one hand raked through her hair unconsciously. I followed its path with my eyes, wishing I could bury my hands in that thick glossy mane, wondering what it would look like spread across my pillow. “I do need help.” It sounded like defeat, but a fire quickly relit in her eyes. “But not from you.” She shook her head, as if to clear it.
“What if you just try me?” I asked. “Can’t hurt, right?”
“I think that’s the same line drug dealers use when they’re trying to get kids to try crack for the first time.”
“You’re comparing me to crack?” I felt a grin creep across my lips. “Worried you’ll get hooked?” I lowered my voice and leaned across the table as I said this last part, and I’d swear I saw that same flicker of interest dance through her fierce gaze once again.
“Fine,” she said, crossing her arms. “How would you modify StrokeStat for something like a stroke—but at a much higher velocity, with a sudden end to the motion? Out of the water?”
“Baseball?” I asked. We’d messed around with trying to mod the technology for other sports, but one of the developers had come up with another device that was a natural fit for football, and the money had s
tarted rolling in. We grew so fast in those early days that StrokeStat was all but abandoned.
She pressed her lips together again, confirming my suspicion even without speaking.
I leaned back, crossed my arms as my mind raced. “It could be done,” I said. “The interface would have to change significantly…” My mind spun as I thought about the application. “It’s a good idea,” I said. “But why aren’t you focusing on selling the tech we’re working on now? You’re in sales, right?”
She nodded slowly, and it apparently dawned on her that she hadn’t told me that. “How’d you know that?” Her voice was thin now, suspicious.
“Just a guess.”
“Well, thanks for the help. And the sandwich.” Her voice was icy as she gathered her things and prepared to leave.
My heart sank as I thought of her walking away, of never seeing her again. “Here’s my number,” I said, picking up a pen she’d left on the table and scrawling my name and number on a napkin. “If you do decide you need help.”
She shoved the napkin in her bag and turned without another word. As she walked away and out through the door, it was as if the only glowing candle in the world had just been carried away. The light receded gradually and I found myself in the dark, alone once again.
Chapter 6
Holland
Monday morning and the weekly sales status meeting came fast and ugly at eight a.m. I dreaded these things and might have over-caffeinated in preparation, which wasn’t helping with the nerves. For over a year, I’d been attending this meeting, listening to my shiny sales colleagues discuss how they were wining and dining clients, trying to up-sell different aspects of Cody’s technology or services. The challenge for most of them was that Cody Tech hadn’t developed anything new in a long time. The challenge for me was covering the fact that I was on the brink of developing exactly what these guys were all salivating for. But I needed to sell it myself if I wanted to make a dent here and write my own ticket—one that would finally get me the job I wanted and deserved.
I should have been focused on figuring out how the hell I was going to get help from someone in development without risking my idea being stolen or leaked. Instead, I found my mind wandering over to the way-too-hot Mr. Big Dick of the coffeehouse, Hale. I was repurposing the StrokeStat tech secretly, on my own, mostly because I didn’t know whom I could trust. The rest of the sales team was conniving and devious—at least the ones I knew well. It wouldn’t take much for them to figure out I was onto something and potentially beat me to the punch. And if I had what I thought I did—and if I could sell it at the top…then my career would be made. The only kink was that I really did need help with the tech development side, and so far Hale was the only one offering.
I’d basically bolted that night at the coffeehouse, because he knew more about me than I’d told him. He also knew Sam, though, and Sam knew what I did for Cody Tech. I told myself that Hale had probably just asked him about me.
I sat in the conference room surrounded by men and a few other women. The men lounged and chatted amicably with one another about the games they’d watched—or played—over the weekend, about the stock market, about restaurants and bars, or they stared at their phones. The women, in contrast, looked guarded and alert, ready to defend their territory and their right to play on this field. Even in sales, this company was heavily male dominated, and I couldn’t help that it put me on edge, irritated me. Add to that the constant pressure to one-up each other in the sales arena, and these meetings were always uncomfortable.
“Let’s get rolling, shall we?” Trey Alita stood at the head of the table, power suit in place and royal-blue tie perfectly knotted at his throat. He was a man’s man if ever there was one, and rumors of his overly large, uh, member, helped him maintain the image. I couldn’t help letting my eyes stray downward when given the chance. He tucked to the right, and sometimes, depending on his choice of trousers, and whether his jacket was buttoned or not, it was pretty damned clear that the rumors were based on fact. Today he stood right up against the table, and there was nothing to see since his jacket was buttoned and the table hit just below the belt. Too bad, I thought. It was sometimes a fun distraction during an otherwise miserable meeting.
“Kriesner, you start.”
Jacob Kriesner began talking, his too-low voice droning on to the point where I didn’t think there was a single person in the room who could actually be listening to what he was saying. We were too busy praying for him to be done saying it. Even Trey looked relieved when he finished.
We went around the table, offering statuses on our accounts, bragging, essentially, about the business we were bringing in or were soon to bring in. When my turn came, I discussed my current accounts, which were mostly in a maintenance phase. My business development efforts were suffering due to my focus on StrokeStat. But they’d click into high gear if I succeeded at that. I wasn’t going after a college team or one pro stats-keeper. I was going after Major League Baseball. The top. And getting a meeting would be a long shot.
“Need some new sales, Holland,” Trey said to me as the room cleared. “Haven’t brought anything in for a while. I hear things are a little unstable at the top since the CEO’s dad died. Sounds like the guy’s gone off the deep end and there’s a chance we’ll be acquired. You don’t want to be the low-hanging fruit if cuts get made.” He squeezed my shoulder a beat too long as he put this thought in my head and then left the room.
Wonderful. Because I needed more pressure. It was clear I needed to work harder. Faster. And I was going to need help.
—
I’d spent the first part of the week buried with work, every issue more urgent than the next. Even with a thousand fires to put out, I kept finding myself replaying the conversation I’d had with Hale, thinking about the way his dark eyes flashed and then dulled again as we spoke. There was something about the guy I couldn’t put my finger on. I was trying to decide if he could actually help me. Hale was arrogant and annoying, absolutely. But there’d been something shattered in his gaze, a look that reminded me of some of the foster kids I’d known when I was younger. It was nothing concrete, nothing the social workers could ever put a name to. It was a shadow lurking behind the features, a face the most damaged kids tried to hide. I’d probably imagined it. A guy with a body like that, a jawline like that—he was clearly handsome—he’d probably been recovering from a bender or something when I’d gotten that impression. Since our last talk, I’d tried to push him out of my mind. Still, I had the napkin with his number on it tacked to the little corkboard over my kitchen table at home and hadn’t quite explained to myself why I’d kept it. Except that maybe I really did intend to ask him for help.
I put it all out of my mind when Wednesday night rolled around. Dinner at my sister Delia’s house was a weekly ritual, and we had made a pact to be there for each other a long time ago. Neither of us would break plans without a solid reason. I needed those dinners, and her presence in my life.
I pulled into Delia’s driveway and my heart felt immediately lighter. I always dallied coming up the path to the door, thanks to Delia’s garden, which lined the walkway and filled the spaces beneath the front windows. Even with water restriction, even in the winter, Delia managed to keep her garden green and full of flowers.
Her house sparked pangs of longing in me. She’d gotten lucky in a lot of ways, but she had come from unlucky beginnings, just like me. When we’d been foster sisters in our last home, the one we’d each aged out of in turn, we talked about the idea of home. About what it meant to have a home, to make a home. We’d talked about the homes we saw other kids living in, our friends from school. We talked about the things we wanted, the families we’d build for ourselves. I had my list, and Delia gave me hell for it, but she had one, too. She just kept hers inside her head and a little less rigid.
“You planning to come in?” Carl stood on the doorstep, watching me stoop and sniff flowers and dawdle amid the greenery. He was broa
d and tall and dark, a beautiful specimen of a man.
I grinned at him and hurried along, standing on my tiptoes to give him a hug. “Hey, you.”
“Come on in,” he said, keeping a hand on my back. Carl had taken up a spot right next to Delia’s in my heart the moment they’d announced their engagement. He had the same pure heart and positive outlook. And their children owned a lot of my cardiac real estate, too. Delia literally spent her days in the middle of my ultimate dream—a family of her own. I lived in her dream on Wednesday nights.
“Ha-wen!” A tiny girl with a wild halo of soft black curls and huge amber eyes stretched pudgy arms out to me as I walked through the door.
“Hey, Livie,” I cooed, scooping her up as I handed Carl the bottle of wine I’d brought. “You look beautiful today,” I told her, taking in the excessive tulle tutu, over which was slung a workman’s belt with plastic hammer, wrench, and screwdrivers dangling practically to her feet.
She beamed at me, her small hand reaching out to feel a lock of my hair. “I’m Pwincess Builder,” she told me.
I carried the little girl into the kitchen where her bigger sister was standing on a stool next to Delia, stirring something on the stove.
“Hey, ladies,” I said, coming around the edge of the counter to hug them both. “Gigi, you’re getting so big! How old are you now?”
“You ask me that every week,” said the girl, pushing out a hip and working her attitude.
“So…thirteen?” I teased.
Mr. Big Page 4
