Boss Meets Her Match

by Janet Lee Nye

  Sadie leaned forward. “Lena,” she said, imitating a deep male voice, “You’re my soul mate. You and I were written in the stars. You can’t deny fate.”

  A shudder ran through Lena’s body. “Stop doing that. You sound just like him. What a pervert.”

  Sadie sat back. “Wonder what ever happened to him?” She pulled out her phone. “Want to look him up on the sex offenders list?”

  “No!”

  “Want to look up Eduardo?”

  “No.”

  “You sure? I can have Wyatt check him out.”

  “And y’all wonder why I don’t want you poking your noses in my love life.”

  “You have no love life, Lena. You do nothing but work, go home, order delivery and watch Netflix. If you didn’t meet me for dinner every Wednesday, you’d have no social life either.”

  Glancing around for their waitress, Lena held up her wineglass. That hit a little too close to home. Problem with having a best friend is they told you the ugly truth about yourself.

  “I know. I’m in a rut.”

  “You’re in the Grand Canyon, sister girl.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Tell me one thing you did this week that wasn’t family or work related.”

  “I went for a run every other day.”

  “That doesn’t count.”

  “What do you want me to do? Cook for myself? Get on one of those stupid ass dating sites? Volunteer at some charity? Build a house for Habitat for Humanity?”

  Sadie’s teasing smirk faded as she reached out and took Lena’s hands in hers. “I’m not trying to be mean, Lena. I’m sorry. I have no room to talk here. Before Wyatt—”

  “Fell into your lap.”

  “True. I was in that same rut. Work. Sleep. Work. It’s just that I want you to be happy. And I don’t know how to help you.”

  She tightened her fingers against Sadie’s. “You help by being my friend. By kicking my butt when I get whiny.”

  “Or pull the princess routine.”

  “I’m going to be okay, Sadie. I think I’m at a crossroad. I’ve achieved all the goals I set for myself. Just need to set some new ones.”

  “Like telling me about this new client.”

  “Oh, you mean Charles Beaumont Matthews the Fifth? Old Virginia money. Trust fund from his grandmother. It’s kind of obvious.”

  “Have you met him yet?”

  Lena hesitated as their food was delivered. Sadie dived into her pizza like she’d not eaten in a month. She stared at hers, her appetite mostly gone. Pulling a bit of mushroom off, she popped it in her mouth. “Yes. He was obnoxious.”

  “Normal people limit of obnoxious or Lena Reyes’s standards?”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying you have a history of judging people—and by people, I mean men—rather harshly.”

  “Do not.”

  “Do too.”

  “I’m not even talking to you anymore.”

  “Jules wants you to help her with a Spanish project for school.”

  Lena sighed and took a huge bite of pizza. Sadie knew she couldn’t deny Jules anything. One pleading look from her dark eyes would melt the hardest of hearts.

  “Fine. Whatever.”

  “Grouch.”

  “Meanie.”

  “I’ll have Wyatt run Eduardo through a background check. We don’t want you hooking up with another serial killer.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  MATT SLOWED HIS pace as he approached the building. Glancing in a store window, he ran a hand down his beard and checked his hair. He was actually a little nervous. He’d made a bad impression that he really wanted to change. Deep breath. She’s just a person. Apologize. Mean it and move on. He grinned as he walked the few feet to the door of Reyes Financial Management. He had a suspicion that Lena Reyes was far more than just anything.

  A pretty blonde sat at the receptionist’s desk as he entered. She looked up and smiled. Her polite business expression didn’t change, but her eyes moved over him and her smile widened. “Mr. Matthews?”

  “That’s me. You can call me Matt.”

  She stood and swept her hand in a graceful motion toward a leather sofa against the exposed brick wall. “Please, have a seat. I’ll let Ms. Reyes know you’re here.” She stepped through the doorway to the back of the office and paused. “May I bring you anything? Coffee, water?”

  “No, I’m good.”

  He sat and looked around. Broad Street was a pricey location. The reception area was small but tastefully decorated. His experienced eye noted the antique reception desk. The leather sofa was butter soft. Dark wood end tables held an array of local magazines. The floors were the original pine, probably two hundred years old and the brick wall behind him looked to be made of hand-kilned brick.

  The blonde was back. “Ms. Reyes is ready for you.”

  “Okay.” Question was, he thought as he followed the blonde, was he ready for her?

  Lena stood as he entered her office. It was a bit more spacious than the reception area, but just as richly decorated. “Thank you, Chloe,” she said. “Sit down.”

  He sat in the chair across from her and smiled. “I really want to apologize for the other night. Really. I had no idea.”

  Her cheeks flushed but the expression on her face remained cool. “I’ve asked my assistant to sit in with us.” She picked up the phone. “Mose, we’re ready.”

  He sat back. Okay. Definitely not forgiven. Let it go. Get this money stuff over with. He reached into his messenger bag and pulled out a file, setting it on the desk. “I had the accountant who is handling this for me send the information.” He put the file on the desk.

  “Good. You’re here. Let’s get started,” Lena said when a striking African American woman walked in and took the chair next to him. She smiled. “I’m Mose. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Matt,” he said, shaking her offered hand.

  Lena pulled the file to her and opened it. Matt watched her face as she flipped through the papers. He was sure she was unaware of how readable her face was. Little nods, quick quirks of the lips, fleeting frowns. It was her eyes that held his attention though. Nearly black, keenly focused and simply gorgeous. He wanted to paint those eyes.

  “Good,” she said, looking up. She handed the file to Mose, who took it and began riffling through the pages. “Mr. Matthews, what is your financial goal?”

  Mr. Matthews. Inwardly, he groaned. He dropped his voice a few octaves and put on a snooty country club voice. “Well, Ms. Reyes, the thing is, you make me feel like my father when you call me Mr. Matthews and I’d really prefer not to feel like my father.”

  Mose snickered but Lena’s face did not change. “Your goals then, Matt?”

  He leaned forward. Give it up, man. Stick to business. “Okay. You can see my grandmother left me a sizable trust fund. I won’t have access to that for another four years, but I’d really like to put it somewhere and let it grow. My immediate goal is to take the money I’m making now selling art and grow that now. Quickly but safely. I want to open a nonprofit to provide art therapy for kids who need it but can’t afford it.”

  Wait. What was that? A flicker of warmth in those black eyes?

  “Art therapy,” Mose said. “What is that?”

  He turned to her. “Basically what it says. It’s a form of therapy using art instead of talking or what have you. Works really great for kids who may not have the vocabulary to say how they feel about things, but they can draw pictures and talk about the things in the pictures.”

  “Is that what you do now?”

  “Yes. I do it part-time at the Children’s Hospital. And teach private art lessons also. But I really want to take advantage of my sudden popularity as a
n artist before it goes away to get some capital and connections to help make my nonprofit a reality.”

  He looked back at Lena. There was a definite thaw in her expression. “Sorry,” he said with a sheepish grin. “Get me talking about it and I’ll go on all day.”

  A smile curved Lena’s lips and now he really wanted to paint her. Gorgeous and complex and shut up, man, she’s handling your money. “I can see you are very passionate about it.”

  As she began listing options for him, he felt his eyes glaze over. He held up a hand. “Listen. I’ll be honest. I’m an artist. I don’t know anything about money or markets. I trust you. Do your magic.”

  The ice was back. “I don’t like to do business like that, Mr. Matthews. I want my clients to know exactly what I am doing and why.”

  “That’s fine. Keep me in the loop. But just do what you think is best.”

  * * *

  “OH. MY. GOD.”

  Lena looked up as Chloe appeared in her doorway after seeing Matt out. “What?”

  “What?” Chloe and Mose asked in shocked unison.

  Fanning her face with her hand, Chloe leaned against the doorjamb. “Seriously, Lena. That was about the hottest chunk of man I have ever seen in real life with my own two eyes.”

  Mose made a sound. “For a white boy, he’s all right.”

  Lena closed Matt’s file and handed it to Mose. “Wipe the drool off your chins and get to work, ladies.”

  “Don’t even start with me, Ms. Frosty Cakes. I know you. You were checking him out. Hell, I’m gay and I was checking him out.”

  “Get out of my office. Both of you. Degenerates. We don’t drool on our clients.”

  Chloe shoulder-bumped Mose as she reached the door. “Because our clients are all ninety-year-old farts.”

  Lena smiled as they left. She’d tried to hide it but those blue eyes had about undone her. The long dark blond hair, the slightly too-long beard, neatly trimmed over his cheeks and longer at the chin was a look she was sure only he could make look so sexy. And when those luscious lips parted in that grin of his, she’d about lost her ability to count to ten much less evaluate his portfolio.

  “Basta.”

  She logged on to her computer and began going through her emails. Frat boy. Trust-fund brat. Probably a man whore. Bad boy. She repeated the litany over and over in her mind. In English. In Spanish. Still, the memory of those eyes looking directly into hers would not go away. Nor the feeling of breathless heat she’d experienced. The look on his face when he talked about helping kids. Melt.

  Yeah, well, get over it. Ain’t gonna happen. Serious men only need apply. Like Eduardo. Serious. With a job. Ready for a commitment. A cold jab of fear in the gut made her press her lips together. What about you? Are you ready for a commitment?

  Shaking the thought from her head, she turned back to the computer. Numbers. Numbers made sense. The give and take of the market place made sense. It was all just a shell game. Moving money here. Buying stock here. Selling it there. No messy emotion. No baffling personalities. Just numbers.

  * * *

  SATURDAY MORNING, SHE rolled out of bed with a groan and, not bothering with a shower, put on her running clothes and shoes. Sweeping her hair up into a high ponytail, she stepped out the rear entrance of her condominium. Perfect day for a run. Sixty-five and sunny. She stretched for a few minutes, and then headed out on her normal three-mile route. Along Waterfront Park to Adgers Wharf, East Bay to the Battery, Murray to South Battery back to East Bay, where she reversed her course. She started out and made it all the way to the High Battery before she needed to start her mental narrative of “Pizza and wine, pizza and wine, pizza and wine.” She’d inherited her mother’s and aunt’s tendency for a big butt and running was the only thing that kept it in check.

  Mentally adding another two hundred calories burned from dodging tourists, she reached the stairs to the Low Battery and pressed on. The throngs of tourists thinned out dramatically once she’d passed White Point Garden and left her obligated only to lift a hand or grunt out a greeting to fellow runners as she passed. And she had a date. With Eduardo. Tonight. Just do it. Suck it up. One night. Then maybe la familia will leave you alone. The thought made her kick up her pace. Was there anything more excruciating than dating at her age?

  The food. Just think of the food. She turned down South Battery with the menu of Halls Chophouse on her mind. An hour or so of awkward small talk is a fair price to pay for some of the best food in Charleston, right? You can do this. She huffed out a sigh. Flipped a middle finger at a dude who called out “Qué pasa, chica” as she ran past him. What to wear? You’re gonna have to shave if you want to wear a dress.

  The “to shave or not to shave” debate got her back to Waterfront Park. She slowed to a walk as she approached the pineapple-shaped water fountain at the center of the park, cooling down and getting her breath back. Nope. If she was going to be forced on a date, she was going to pull out all her weapons. And her legs were killer.

  “Hello, Ms. Reyes.”

  She turned at the sound of the voice. And froze. Great. Here you are dripping sweat and probably smelling like a dead goat in the sun and there is Mr. Hot-Frat-Boy. She stopped and put her hands on her hips. Dear, sweet baby Jesus in the manger. He was splayed out on a blanket in the grass, propped up on his elbows. The paint-smeared T-shirt he wore rode up just enough for her to get a glimpse of hard abs and a little dark blond fuzz. There was an honest-to-God palette on the blanket beside him and an easel holding a canvas. Bad-boy grin was on full power.

  She took a few steps in his direction. “Mr. Matthews.”

  He pulled himself up to sit cross-legged on the blanket. “Matt, please. I beg of you. Mr. Matthews makes me feel like I should get a haircut and put on a suit or something. Beautiful day, don’t you think?”

  She stopped at the edge of the blanket. She didn’t get him. Everything about him screamed entitled, rich white boy but he didn’t show it. At all. “Yes,” she said, sarcasm dripping from each word. “It is quite a lovely day, Mr. Matthews.”

  He grinned and her stomach went quivery. A frown creased her face. Do that again, gut, and no dessert for you tonight.

  “Come on, I’m sorry for the other night. Really, I am. Why won’t you accept my apology? I’d like to be friends.”

  She looked at the painting. Unlike the large, minimalist paintings she’d seen at the Gallery, this was much more to her taste. A softer Jonathan Green–style of the fountain and the trees with their trails of Spanish moss swaying in the breeze.

  “Whatcha think?” he asked.

  “I like this better than the other stuff.”

  “Why won’t you accept my apology?”

  She looked back at him and crossed her arms. “Because you don’t get it.”

  He held his hands out, palms up. “Then tell me what I don’t get.”

  She pressed her lips together for a moment. Think, Magdalena, think. He is a client. “What you did was wrong. Not because I turned out to be who I am but because it’s wrong to pull that on anyone. Any woman would have been embarrassed. You are apologizing to me because you need me to handle your money. You need to be looking at why you wanted to embarrass a woman like that.”

  She waited as he stared up at her. Here it comes. It was just a joke. I didn’t mean it like that. You’re overreacting. He got to his feet with one graceful motion.

  “Crap. I never saw it like that. You’re right.” He ran a hand down his beard. “Now I feel like shit.”

  She managed to hide how stunned she was. He was taking responsibility? He was being enlightened? Wow. Okay. Don’t gloat. Be nice. “Now,” she said, holding out a hand, “I’ll accept your apology, Matt.”

  He took her hand and held it between both his. “Thank you for telling me that. I do try not to be an asshol
e most of the time.”

  She slipped her hand away from his before she couldn’t hide the rush of heat she was feeling. “We’re all just humans, doing the best we can in the moment.”

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she said with a vague gesture at her sweaty self. “I need to finish my cooldown.”

  * * *

  MATT WATCHED LENA walk away. The grin came back. He could think of a couple of things he’d like to do with her in the moment. He liked that she’d made him work for his apology. Liked that she’d surprised him with her blunt assessment of his behavior. Fawning sorority girls had never been his type. He’d always preferred brains over beauty. But Magdalena Reyes seemed to possess ample amounts of both. The bits of fire and steel he saw in her only intrigued him further.

  He carefully cleaned his brush and bent to pick up his palette. He normally didn’t paint in public, preferring to paint from photographs when doing landscapes, but the day was so perfect. Much different from Chevy Chase where October meant winter was on the way. Charleston was near perfection in October.

  As he put a few finishing touches on the painting, he kept glancing up, watching Lena’s progress along the path. Two buildings past the fountain and the City Gallery, she turned into one of the many condominiums that lined the park. Expensive real estate. Must be true what Dr. Rutledge said. She spun money out of straw.

  “Pack it up,” he muttered under his breath. “She’s about ten miles outta your league, man.”

  He broke down the easel and cleaned off the palette. Sitting back down on the blanket, he cleaned the brushes. Those things were not cheap and he needed them to last as long as possible. After packing everything away for the long walk back home, he lay back down on the blanket to enjoy a bit more of the day and to let the canvas dry. His phone rang and he fished it out of his back pocket.

  His mother. This couldn’t be good.

  “Hey, Mom, what’s up?” he answered. Knowing she hated Mom and preferred Mother. Capital M.

  The brief moment of silence was to chasten him for his word choice. “Nothing,” her frosty voice finally replied, “is ‘up,’ Charles. I am phoning to let you know that your father and I will be visiting Charleston in a few weeks. Your father has a business meeting. We will see you for dinner.”