Chapter 7

“Well, well, if it isn’t the beautiful stranger,” Charlotte teases me as I slide into the booth at The Gravy Train.

The diner’s busy, but this is a Friday lunch on payday, so it’s not too unexpected. “I swear you’ve been a ghost the past week. No texts, no phone calls... if you hadn’t shown up, I would have had to come down to your office just to get proof of life.”

“Sorry, girls,” I reply, sighing gratefully as I stretch out, “but I’ve been busting my ass with this project.”

“Yeah?” Izzy says, trying to sound encouraging. “What’s it about?”

“Well, I’m not supposed to spill any details. It’s all corporate hush-hush, but I’ve been pulling long hours all week. There were team meetings four days this week, and after that, I had to really put the pedal down and bust my butt to even get home before ten o’clock.”

I chuckle, though it sounds more like exhaustion escaping than mirth. “I haven’t seen the sunset in a week.”

“Damn, girl,” Charlotte remarks as our lunches come. “Is it worth it?”

I shrug, trying to wrap my head around Thomas Goldstone’s presence. He’s been at every meeting, at least stopping in for a quick check-in.

And each time, I walk out of the room feeling like I just stuck my fingertip into a light socket.

“I don’t know. But I do get seen by Mr. Goldstone... the boss.”

“Yeah, well, he sounds too demanding for me,” Izzy says, jumping in. “He’d better be worth all your attention.”

Oh, my God, if she only knew. That man is sex on a stick. He could demand anything from me and I’d give it willingly, even if he does come off as an ass.

But I don’t tell them that.

“I’ve heard people say he can be a jerk,” I reply, stirring my soup and taking a sip, “and I get it. He maintains a lot of pressure on us to perform, but... we’ve got the heavy lifting done now, I think, so I guess his tactics work.”

“So, no more pressure? No more crazy hours?” Charlotte asks, and I nod.

“I sent my report to Randall, our team leader, right after this morning’s meeting. So while the project isn’t done yet, I think most of what I’ll have left is convincing the others why I think my analysis is correct.”

Defending my ideas... that’s definitely my weakness. While so far, corporate politics and turf fighting haven’t come into play, the idea of standing in front of Thomas Goldman and trying to say anything coherent makes my head pound and my gut churn.

The man’s just too handsome, whether it’s in slacks and a dress shirt or jeans and a T-shirt. Oh, yes, I did manage to catch him in casual wear one evening when I was working late and went upstairs. I would’ve thought he’d look odd, so much power in such a rough wrapper, but the soft wear on the jeans had given me all sorts of dirty thoughts about teasing my hands along his thighs.

And now I don’t know which fantasy image I prefer—rough and casual, or slick and formal.

His burning gaze, the powerful clench of his jaw as he chews over what other people are saying, the flex of his muscles straining against his shirt even as the fabric panics to release its hold on his perfect flesh... I might be getting home after ten, but I’ve been up until midnight just trying to get my mind calmed down.

Not that a man like that would notice a girl like me. I’ve barely spoken up in the meetings, spending most of my time burying my head in my tablet or pretending to be obsessed with the PowerPoints everyone else is putting up like experts.

Yeah, I’ve answered questions when someone’s directed something my way, but for the most part, I’ve put all of my effort into my meta analysis, and that’s not something that can get broken down into daily PowerPoint presentations.

“Earth to Mia, anyone there, cosmonaut?” Charlotte teases, waving a hand. “You spaced out for a minute there.”

“Sorry. Guess I’m just mentally drained. What’d you say?”

“I said, is he as hot as he is on paper, or is it just airbrushing?” Charlotte asks. “Gah, he looks like Prince Charming to me.”

“Prince Charming?” I ask, snorting. “Sure, he’s good-looking.” I make sure to play it down. Good-looking doesn’t even begin to describe Thomas Goldstone.

“But he’s not charming in any way, Char. He’s less prince and more god-like.” Before they get too excited, I continue, “Really pretty packaging on an arrogant, controlling center. Watch me control the winds, the lightning...”

I stab my fingers in the air like I’m directing weather forces and throw my head back in a villainous laugh.

Both girls grin at my antics. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Babe, I’m not asking if he’s actually charming,” Charlotte laughs. “You know what I meant, and I think I got my answer. ‘Really pretty packaging.’” She mimics my words with a waggle of her brows and a smirk.

“Okay, yeah, I guess I did answer. Fine. He’s really nice on the eyes,” I admit. “Still, that’s all he is.”

“Ooh... a hot but arrogant control freak?” Izzy sums up. “I don’t know, I could work with that. For one night, at least.”

I nod, matching her smile, but inside I’m not so sure. It’s strange, because yes, Mr. Goldstone’s been hard and domineering, just bordering on going over the asshole line most of the time he has been around, but there’s something in the way he delivers each rebuke, each time he tells the team to work hard. To do more.

It seems to come from a place that... I don’t know.

Maybe I’m just better at understanding numbers than people.

After lunch, I head back to my office, where there’s an email from Kerry. Please report to Mr. Goldstone’s office at four thirty this afternoon. My stomach drops and my heart races. Why would he want to see me? We just gave preliminary reports this morning.

I quickly grab my laptop and go upstairs to Bill’s office. “Hey, Bill,” I say, thankful for his open-door policy as I knock on the doorframe of his office, “you didn’t get cc’d on this. What’s up?”

Bill looks over the short email, his lips narrowing as he hums. “I’m not sure, but be careful. I don’t want to scare you, but that’s always been Goldstone’s ‘killing time’. He brings people up at four thirty to pink slip them personally. Guess it saves them the humiliation of walking out in the middle of the day, but at the same time, it feels like a long ride down to get your shit together. I know how I felt when he and I had our face to face about my transfer down here.”

“But I’ve been busting my ass on this project,” I protest, and Bill nods, giving me a supportive smile.

“Good. Then make sure he knows if he doesn’t already. That’s one thing about him. He does respect strength, Mia. Don’t forget that.”

I go back to my office, and for the next two and a half hours, I do everything I can to review what I’ve done this week. I play out the meetings in my mind and go over the numbers on the spreadsheets once more.

I can’t find a flaw in my analysis. I looked at each of the properties and ranked the top four from best investment on down, highlighting the methods needed to gain influence, the hurdles in the way, the outlays, the sunk costs, the potential returns on investment... everything.

Four properties, fifty-eight pages of work including charts. I even did an extra five-page summary so that someone could gain a quick grasp on the subject if they needed.

Finally, at four fifteen, I grab my laptop and head upstairs to the twenty-fifth floor. Goldstone’s floor. I’ve never been up here before, and I’m surprised at just how... efficient everything looks.

The hallway layout is simple at best, with only four doors excluding the shared bathroom... at least, I guess it’s a shared bathroom. There’s only one sign sticking out.

It only takes me two minutes to find Mr. Goldstone’s office, or more specifically, his secretary’s. We’ve swapped emails, but this is the first time we’ve met face to face. She’s a well put-together woman, probably in her mid-thirties but could be a young forty, her black hair pinned up stylishly and her makeup flawless.

“Hello, Kerry? I’m Mia Karakova.”

Kerry turns around, nodding as she looks me over. “Of course. You’re right on time. He’s expecting you.”

Nervously, I cross the space toward Mr. Goldstone’s door, my heart in my throat as I reach up and knock softly. It feels like I’m being asked to enter my own execution chamber.

“Mr. Goldstone?”

“Come in,” he growls from the other side of the door, and I quiver and glance over my shoulder to Kerry before remembering what Bill told me. Strength.

He respects strength.

Tugging on the hem of my T-shirt with one hand in my best Picard Maneuver, I wish I’d dressed better today. We’d had a meeting today, but past the first introductory one when I’d dressed up, I’ve reverted to my usual more semi-casual wear. Thank God I at least have on a denim skirt and flats with my T-shirt, considering it’s Friday.

I open the door and step inside. If I thought that the outer office was designed for efficiency, then Thomas Goldstone’s inner office is like the epitome of Spartan efficiency.

“Mr. Goldstone, you asked to see me?”

He looks up from his desk, where he’s set aside his keyboard to look at a bound folder instead.

“Sit down, Mia.”

He indicates the chair in front of his desk, an uncomfortable looking black metal and nylon chair that at least has a little padding under my butt, which barely touches the cushion before his eyes start blazing.

“What have you been doing all week?”

“Sir, I’m not sure what you—”

“When Randall said to give you a chance to join the action team, I was initially hesitant. You’ve put up some good results but have a bit of a reputation as an oddball. I wondered how you’d work with a diverse team, especially when I expect so much. And now a week in, and this is what you turn out?”

He tosses the binder aside like it’s nothing more than Charmin in a portfolio.

“I—”

Nope, not going to get a word in edgewise. Instead, for five whole minutes, I feel what it’s like to be ‘put on blast’ by Thomas Goldstone. Every word is like a battering ram to my confidence, every word a cut to my pride.

Just like with Randall, he never loses his temper, but he chews up my report line by line and spits it out.

“Like this,” he says, his voice dripping with bitter disdain for my work. “Fifteen million in debt servicing and issuance of new stock for the Columbia River Community Hospital. What led you to—”

“Stop.”

I don’t know where the strength in my voice comes from, but it cuts through Mr. Goldstone’s monologue, and he slams his palms down on his desk, his computer monitors shaking but nothing tipping over.

“What did you say?” he asks, seemingly shocked and for the first time bordering on true anger.

“I said stop,” I repeat, whipping open my laptop and pulling up my files. “You’ve been downing my report from the moment I walked in the door. But what you just said... it’s wrong.”

“Wrong?” It’s said with a silky edge of darkness.

I need to keep up my momentum. “Give me a minute to explain, sir.”

He looks at me, and I wonder if he’s going to grab me in those massive hands of his and hurl me through the window.

Stupidly, my brain tries to calculate just how long it would take for me to fall twenty-five floors before I impact on the street below. But instead, he sits down, his brows knit together as he crosses his arms over his chest.

He nods. “Proceed.” It’s more challenge than permission, but I jump in.

“Mr. Goldstone, for a whole week I’ve worked my ass off doing analysis for this project. I took figures and work from the other team members, re-did half of them myself, and then gave you a spot-on analysis. Here’s what I’ve been doing this past week.”

I stand up, boldly moving around to his side of the desk to set my laptop down in front of him. Standing at his side, I pull up my files.

“Now, CRCH... first off, I didn’t even put that in my top four list for the exact reason you stated. They’re absolutely drowning in debt. And it’s in an area that already has three hospitals, two of which are part of state university systems, which doesn’t help CRCH’s case. There’s no edge to it. It’s not a Goldstone brand move. How that even made it into the possible acquisitions you’re reading, I’ll never know.”

He grunts, and I know I’m gaining some wiggle room. I’ve turned the corner on this meeting, and a manic energy fills me, telling me to seize as much advantage as I can.

I use my energy and take the next twenty minutes going over what I produced. I show him everything, the analysis, the data... I even show him the muck on the wall Excel spreadsheet that I created to allow me to group and extrapolate the trends that I used.

His eyes follow my every word, from number to number, line to line, and I realize that not many people understand me when I deep-dive into the figures this way. But he is catching it all. Not just the data, but the extrapolations and analysis. He understands what all this dry information actually means the same way I do.

When I finish, a sheen of sweat coats my forehead, and I’m afraid a drop or two may have run down my neck to disappear into my T-shirt. I’m breathless, flushed... and my nerves have changed into pride at what I’ve done.

“I know my numbers are solid, Mr. Goldstone. And I am confident in my decision when I say you should invest in Pacific Cascade Children’s. It makes financial sense, and while it’s not my area of expertise, the less tangible image rewards of investing in a children’s hospital make it the best bet on every front. So if you’re going to fire me, do it. Go with whatever other choice you think is better. Just remember what I said when I’m proven right.”

I turn around, leaving my laptop on his desk because I’m sure that I just got myself fired with my big mouth. I can’t imagine that anyone says much other than Yes, sir to Thomas Goldstone.

In fact, I bet when I open this door, building security will be waiting for me, ready to drag me down the stairs and out the door if I don’t go quietly.

But I’m not going to give them the satisfaction. I cross the room with my head held high, reaching for the door handle when Mr. Goldstone’s voice rumbles across the room again.

“Stop.”

My hand freezes an inch from the handle and I turn around.

Mr. Goldstone taps his fingers together, his eyes still sparking with anger... but I swear behind that, I can see something else.

“You think you’ve got it all figured out, don’t you? You handed me your little perfect analysis, drop the mic, and strut out the door like this discussion is over. I do believe it’s my turn for rebuttal now.”

“I...” I reply, hating the quaver in my voice as I do. “I didn’t plan on the mic drop. I figured I just got myself fired.”

Goldstone frowns. “Why would you think that? Have you not done your research on me? That surprises me.”

“I... I’ve done some analysis on you,” I admit, a blush creeping up my neck as I realize how that can sound. Guilty as charged though. A lot of my analysis has been of him physically, though I did Google the hell out of him after that first meeting.

“I’d like you to share that analysis, and perhaps we can discuss my take on your hospital recommendations. Tonight, eight o’clock?” he says, the question not so much a request but an order couched in just enough politeness as to not make it totally sound that way. “I’ll pick you up at your place.”

I can’t decide if this sounds like a date or a continued business meeting, but my racing heart in my throat knows which I want it to be.

“But how—”

He ignores me. “Dismissed,” Mr. Goldstone says, this time a clear order. “Remember, eight o’clock. A dress. Formal. Have Kerry help you if that’s a problem.”

He looks me up and down, and I fight the urge to twist my toe into the carpet, wondering what he sees when he looks at me.

Nerdy? Cute but careless with my appearance? Those are definitely true, but the light in his eyes says he might see just a little something more too.

“And Mia?”

“Yes, Mr. Goldstone?”

“Call me Thomas . . . never Tom.”