by Tasha Fawkes
We order breakfast and go through the financials, page by page, while we wait. He gives his input on the foundation’s current projects and where he thinks they can afford to cut costs. I can tell by the way he is rationalizing certain things that he knows exactly what my recommendations are going to be. Even without me coming in at all to consult, he knew where the money was bleeding out. I guess that shows just how passionate he is about it. Which is a kind of attractive trait…
Stop it.
“And I guess that’s it,” he says, smiling tightly at me. I smile back, butterflies stirring in my stomach. “I just hope you understand that while some things may look black and white on the surface, when you dig deeper, it’s a completely different story.”
“This means a lot to you, I can tell,” I say softly.
He nods. “The community center in particular. I know it would be an easy fix just to cut, but the number of people who would lose out…” He shakes his head and takes a deep breath.
“I understand that, but my job is to—”
“Look at the numbers.” He finishes, his voice dark. “I know.” Sighing, he gets to his feet. “I have another meeting to get to. If you require anything else of me, don’t hesitate to call.” He nods and then walks out, leaving me alone to ponder over the numbers.
I watch him leave, feeling deflated. I'm under no illusion that Nate Harris has very little time for me. I don't blame him, considering that he’s been forced to work with me. He’s clearly passionate about his charity and I really respect that. I wasn't expecting this level of commitment at all. I thought that this would just be another way the Harris family was trying and look good on the surface, but it seems Nate is out on his own when it comes to this foundation. It's his baby, which makes what I'm going to have to do even harder.
I don't even need to go over the numbers again to conclude I know I'm going to reach. And he knows it too. The foundation is at running at a heavy loss on its largest project, the community center. Add to that flying sick kids over for surgery…
Both endeavors, however noble edges are black holes when it comes to money.
The problem is, how do I make Nate see that?
Chapter 5
Nate
I haven't heard from Angela since she asked to go over all the finances from the previous years, for the foundation, but I’m just waiting for that phone call from her, to tell me that she’s ready to hand down her recommendation. Every time my phone rings, I jump. I assume it's her, but it never is.
Today though, I’m convinced it’s her.
I stare at the phone, my stomach churning as it rings. I want to ignore it, because she can’t tell me I need to shut the center if she can’t speak to me, right?
But what if it’s not her?
Yesterday when I thought it was her and it turned out to be a terrified teenage mother who didn’t have anyone to turn to. I put her in touch with a non-profit organization that specializes in helping teen mothers. If I hadn’t answered, where would she have ended up? And what if it’s another person who needs my help and I’m not available to give it?
Sighing, I reach over and snatch up the phone.
“Hello?” I say. My heart races as I wait for confirmation that it is her.
“Hi, Nate? It's me. Angela.”
Of course it is.
I sigh and close the lid on my laptop and then lean back in my chair. I want her to get to the point of her call and avoid it, both at the same time. I rub my head and try to think up some excuse as to why I can’t speak to her now, but I can’t come up with anything that doesn’t sound like a half assed lie.
“Look, can I call you back? Now is not a great time,” I say.
“No, you can’t, I’m sorry. I need to speak with you now, Nate.” She replies instantly, her words putting an end to any further suggestions I might have of delaying this.
I’d laugh if I didn’t feel like crying, because this woman has some balls. Anyone else would have hastily agreed for me to call them back at my convenience, but not her. She knew I was going to say something like that, so she had prepared a reply. That’s why she was so quick to respond with her perfectly scripted retort. And now I was the one left looking flustered.
“I’m sorry Nate, but I don’t have time for this. I’m on a tight schedule and you’re already being very difficult to work with. We need to meet today. I'm ready to give you my recommendations and you know how limited your time is, right?”
No. Thank God you’re here to point out the obvious for me.
I run my hand through my hair. I’m annoyed at how much attitude she’s throwing around. She has a response for everything. She’s like a female version of Matt, only bolder.
“Are you there?” She snaps impatiently.
“I’m here.” I growl. I don’t care how much time I have. The last thing I want to do is see her. “I’m sorry, Ms. Reece, and while I appreciate your passion regarding my issue, but last time I checked, I was the client and you were hired to help me. I’m telling you that today is not a good day for me, so I’d appreciate it if you would respect that. We can make a time to meet early next week, when I’d be more than happy to sit down with you and chat.”
I smirk, satisfied that I’ve put her in her place.
Until she starts speaking.
“Oh really?” she says. I frown at how innocent her voice suddenly sounds. “I took the decency of calling your assistant before I called you to check your schedule. You have some free time at four that must have slipped your mind,” she says. “If you call Penny, you’ll find out that I’m now your four P.M appointment.”
I shake my head. I can almost hear the amusement in her voice. I’m not sure whether to be annoyed or impressed, so I settle on both. I stand up and pace my office, my heart pounding. I can't believe she went over my head like that. But at the same time, it doesn’t surprise me.
“Fine,” I say, gritting my teeth.
I give up. All this is doing is tiring me out and I’d much rather save my energy for the real fight, because I get the feeling this is going to be harder than I thought.
“There’s a coffee shop a few blocks down from the office. I'll meet you there at four. Please don't be late.”
I hang up before she can respond and toss the phone back onto my desk. Then I make a note to fire my assistant. Clasping my hands behind my head, I walk over to my desk and sit back down, leaning back in my chair. I let out a growl and punch the edge of my desk. Pain surges through me. I wince and cradle my fist against the palm of my other hand, trying to stem the pain.
The fact that she came to a decision so quickly isn’t good for me or the foundation. She’s brutal and she knows exactly what needs to be done to bring the foundation into profit. I know it too, but there is a reason I didn’t set things up like that in the first place. I’m a hundred percent certain that her suggestions were not going to align with the vision of the foundation.
The first thing on her list to go will be the center. It doesn't take a genius to work out that that it burns through hundreds of thousands of dollars every year. Everything else supports the center and keeps us from going under, but only just. Turning a profit isn’t even something that entered my thought process. How is it even a charity if it’s making money? Any extra cash the foundation brought in went straight into extra programs at the center, because that was the fucking point. But I know that Angela won’t see it my way.
I shake my head. God, she’s so much like grandfather, it's scary. It’s obvious that’s why he appointed her. He knew that she’d be brutal and tear this place apart. He knew she’d rip through me and do the one thing he never could; ruin everything I’d worked so hard for.
Just before four, I make my way down to the café on the corner.
When I walk inside, I’m annoyed that she's already there, sitting at a table. Her folder is open, like she’s ready to ruin my life. As petty as it sounds, I wanted to be there before her. I wanted her to walk over to me, not
the other way around.
It makes no difference, except in my mind, but as I stalk over to her table and sit down, I feel like she’s already won the first battle. She looks up and smiles at me. I stare back at her, keeping my expression hard. I don’t bother to say hello, because there’s no point pretending that we’re going to be friends, when we’re working against each other.
The foundation was my father's dream.
The fact is there is so much sentimental attachment to it makes this whole thing even more difficult to swallow. I haven't told her how much it means to me, because there's no point. She won't care. I don’t think she’s capable of caring. She sees this just like my grandfather did, as a waste of time for people who just want to milk the system and take more than they need.
I lost count of the number of times I had to listen to my grandfather ramble on about how they’d milked the foundation dry, wanting shit for free that most of them could afford elsewhere was hard because I knew how untrue that was. I’m there, day in and day out. I see everything. But none of that mattered to him because he knew best. He always knew best.
The hardest thing is I know how hard it is to understand what we do at the center or how much the community relies on it. The only way anyone can really understand is if they see what we do firsthand. Come down to the center for the day and meet some of the people we help. See the programs we run. Understand how much passion the volunteers have for our center. If only I could get Angela down there, then maybe I’d have a chance at convincing her. But I know she’d never remove herself from her pedestal for long enough to do that, not when it’s so much easier making decisions from the comfort of her office chair.
“It’s nice to see you again,” she says, glancing down at her notes.
I raise my eyebrows, not sure whether to take her seriously or not.
“Let’s not pretend where here to catch up,” I say dryly. “You asked to meet with me, and I’m here, so I’d appreciate it if you got to the point.”
She looks up at me, shocked, but she recovers quickly. Her expression hardens. She shrugs, like it doesn’t bother her either way.
“Fine,” she says, her tone like ice. “My recommendations come down to a number of factors, but you must realize what a shit show you’re running.”
“Is that your professional opinion?” I smirk. I narrow my eyes at her, as she flicks through her notes.
“Yes, actually.” She snaps, her angry tone matching mine. “I don’t know how you’re even operating at all. The fact is, even without the stipulations of the Will that need to be met, if you don’t do something drastic soon, you won’t have a foundation anyway.” She takes a breath and glances down at her notes, before continuing. “So, the first thing that needs to go is the center.”
I smirk, because I saw that coming a mile off. She looks up, just in time to catch my smirk and she frowns at me. She’s clearly not happy that I’m finding this so amusing.
“Do you find that funny?” she asks.
I shrug, my smile widening. “Well, not funny, per se. More predictable, I guess?”
She scowls at me. “Nothing about this is personal, you realize that, don’t you? You seem to think I have this vendetta against you. I understand you hate me for coming in and crushing your dreams, but this isn't about me not liking or respecting what you do, Nate. It's about me looking at these figures and doing my job.”
“Sure, it is,” I mutter. I refuse to believe she doesn’t enjoy what she does. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
“Really? What's your problem?” she asks, glaring at me. “You’ve been nothing but nasty and downright rude to me since I got here.”
I laugh, because does she really need to ask me that? She walks in here after staring at a few figures on a sheet of paper and belittles the one thing I’ve put my entire life into developing, and she wonders why I’m not friendlier toward her?
“My problem is that you sit there, after going over your precious sums and you think that makes you qualified to make a decision that is going to affect hundreds of thousands of lives? How about you take a moment to see firsthand what really goes on there before you decide how worthless it is.”
“I never said it was worthless—"
“What would you call it?” I cut in. “You have spent the last week critiquing and dissecting my entire life's work like it’s nothing.” I scowl at her, all my anger and frustrations coming to a head. “You’re nothing but a patronizing, self-centered…”
I sigh and force myself to swallow my words as my voice trails off. I'm not going to resort to calling her names, no matter how badly I might want to. That would make me no better than she is.
“Nate, you need to understand I'm just doing my job,” she whispers. “I was asked to come in here—”
“Not by me you weren’t,” I mutter.
“Does it matter who asked me?” she says, shaking her head. “Does it change the fact that I’m only doing my job?”
“This is pointless,” I mutter.
As I stand up, she reaches out and wraps her fingers around my wrist. I look down at her, startled, while she glares back up at me.
“Sit back down,” she demands. I sink back into my seat while she glares at me. “Stop acting like a spoiled five year old,” she says, her frustration showing in her voice. “You know it as well as I do, whatever I recommend, you have to follow it. Whether you like it or not, it’s the way it is, so quit acting like you’re not going to give me the time of day and just listen to me.”
My jaw clenches as I clasp my hands in my lap. I hate the way she just spoke to me, because I know she's right. If I don't listen to her and implement her recommendations, then the whole center goes down and I lose everything. But if I do implement them, I’ll lose it all anyway, because there’s no point even having the foundation if she’s going to tell me how to run it. There is no winning this situation. Whatever happens, I’m fucked.
“Fine,” I mutter.
I sit through the rest of her spiel, but I'm not even listening, because I'm done. I'm over it. She gets to the end and prompts me to respond.
“I’ll do whatever you want me to do,” I say. “On one condition.”
She stares at me for a moment and then frowns.
“What?” she asks.
“Tomorrow, I want you to come down to the center and see what we do. Come and see it in action and then if you still want to make the same recommendations, I’ll follow them.”
She frowns at me. “You think seeing it is going to change my mind,” she asks.
“I think your credibility is questionable if you can make such a big decision without seeing the center.” I respond.
She opens her mouth to argue, but then closes it. She nods, her cool gaze locking on mine.
“Okay. Fine,” she says.
She gives me a hard look, then starts packing up her folder. Her expression doesn’t waver as she gets up and gathers her things.
“Thank you for meeting me,” she says in a stiff voice.
“You’re welcome.”
She stalks out, leaving me sitting there alone. I sit back in my chair and watch her disappear into the crowd outside. Instead of feeling like I’ve won, I’m convinced it’s the opposite. Her going to the center tomorrow isn’t going to make any difference.
I'm screwed.
I toss my keys and my briefcase on the kitchen counter when I walk inside and pour myself a scotch. As I drink, I walk along the living room and study the pictures of my family that are hanging on the wall. I focus on the ones of my father, staring at one particular photo of all of us together. It was the last one taken before he died, after convincing the three of us boys to put our issues aside and have a dinner together. We had more fun that night than we’d had in a long time. I smile wistfully, a rush of guilt overcoming me, which is quickly followed with regret.
I'm letting him down.
The foundation is the only piece I have left of him, so I should be fight
ing harder. I should be doing everything in my power to win this battle, and not letting her walk all over me. If she wins, then grandfather wins. I’d rather give up my inheritance than let that happen. Though I’m not sure Matt and Rex would agree with me.
At the very least, I need to somehow make her see that the center is worth saving. As much as I don’t see it helping, I’m hinging everything on tomorrow. I’m praying that being at the center will somehow make her see that it’s worth saving. That my father's dream is worth saving. If that fails, then I don’t know what to do.
Sighing, I walk back over to the kitchen counter and grab my phone. I have a missed call from Matt. He’s probably only calling to make sure I haven’t fallen apart. I call him back, rubbing the back of my neck as I wait for him to answer.
“Hey. Just thought I’d see how you’re doing?” he asks.
“I’ve been better,” I admit. “Want to catch up for a drink?”
“Sure,” he says. “I'm just leaving the office now. I'll come over to your place if you like?”
“Sounds good.”
I rub my temples and sigh. I’m not sure if Matt coming over is a great idea or a really bad one. Lately, it seems I never really know whether he’s going to be supportive or just try and rub me up the wrong way. He seems to enjoy doing both a little too much.
I toss my phone on the couch and then walk down to the bathroom. After spending the last half an hour running, I could definitely use a shower. The hot water relaxes me and by the time Matt knocks on my door, I'm feeling a lot better.
“You look like shit,” he says, frowning at me when I open the door.
I roll my eyes and let him inside.
“Gee, thanks. I knew I invited you over here to cheer me up for a reason.”
“So, why do you need cheering up? he asks. “Is it this bullshit with the will?”
“No, I ran out of Cheetos,” I retort. “What the fuck do you think?”
