Boss of Me: An enemies-to-lovers stand-alone romance. Page 2

  “He sounds evil.”

  “Well…” Her voice goes higher. “Patton Fletcher is a devil. He’s not the devil, but he’s definitely one of them.”

  “I’m not afraid of the devil.” I have no intention of letting some arrogant young CEO scare me away from my dreams—if that’s what he did to Renée.

  The elevator stops with a ding, and I wonder if that’s the reason I said yes to this particular job offer, to prove the Morgan girls have grit, to prove we’re tougher than we look.

  “Whatever you do, don’t fall for him.” Her tone turns serious, and it almost makes me laugh.

  “I have no intention of falling for him.”

  “I checked your star sign this morning. It’s a good day for you to start something new.”

  I’m in the door, and not a moment too soon. When she starts on the holistic remedies and astral predictions, I’m done. “Thanks, sis. Gotta run. Love you!”

  “Love you, too. Protect your chin.”

  “I will.” It’s our usual sign-off, a boxing reference.

  I end the call as a slim young man in a pale blue, button-down and salmon-pink dockers behind the reception desk lowers his phone and gives me a bright smile.

  “Welcome to Fletcher International, can I help you?”

  “Hi, I’m Rock—ah, Raquel Morgan. I’m supposed to check in with Sandra—”

  “Oh! You’re the new hire. One moment, please.” I wait while he punches a few buttons and speaks quickly into the receiver.

  I only have a moment to glance around the immaculate, dark-wood, leather, and glass waiting area before he hops out of his chair, extending an arm toward the door leading to the back offices. “Right this way. Sandra’s waiting for you.”

  “Thank you…”

  “Dean.” He smiles, turning back to answer the buzzing phone as Sandra appears in the hall.

  I can’t help noticing her lavender silk blouse and beige pencil skirt. I feel like the grim reaper compared to the two of them…

  Which is ridiculous! I look very professional in my suit, and I’m wearing a cream silk blouse… I’ll ditch my jacket once I’m in my office. Problem solved.

  “Welcome aboard! It’s so nice to have another girl at this sausage fest.” Her hazel eyes shine behind heavy, tortoise-shell framed glasses, and I like her at once.

  “Yeah.” I glance down with an embarrassed grin. “I feel overdressed.”

  “They say you can never be overdressed, right?”

  “I guess…” I’m not sure what to say. I stand out like a sore thumb, and I can’t decide if it’s a good thing or not.

  Sandra leads me down a corridor with offices facing downtown on one side and cubicles in front of computers on the other. “This is your office in the middle.”

  Does that make me the monkey? I step into a good-sized room with a large window overlooking the river. A dark wood desk holds a newish-looking laptop with a sheet of paper beside it. A banker’s box full of files is on the other side and another is on the floor.

  I drop my bag in the maroon leather office chair. “This is great.”

  “Taron is in the corner office to your right.” She points across her chest. “And Jerry is just on the other side. I think you met them both already?”

  “Yes!” I smile. “They interviewed me.”

  She gives me a wink. “I think they were both concerned about who would occupy this space. Nobody wants a bad neighbor.”

  Everything about Sandra puts me at ease and makes me wonder why I was so nervous. I plan to text Renée the second she leaves and thank her for the heads-up when a dark figure glides in behind her.

  “Sandra, I need you to open a file on the Madagascar account.” A deep, rich voice joins us, and Sandra does a little jump and turns. Dark eyes under a lowered brow land on me.

  “Patton Fletcher, meet our new hire, Raquel Morgan. She’s taking over the international accounts for Taron.”

  My heart stutters in my chest, and all I can think is Wow.

  “For Taron?” The muscle in his square jaw moves, and he looks to the right, toward Taron’s office, as if he can see through the wall. For a moment, I wonder if he can… being the devil and all.

  “So yes, Raquel Morgan…” Sandra repeats herself, leaving the introduction open as she gestures toward me. “Patton Fletcher.”

  “Right. Welcome.” He seems angry.

  I can’t seem to find my voice. I’ve never been in the presence of someone so young yet so formidable in my life.

  His dark hair is swept back from his face in glossy waves that just touch the back of his collar, and his shoulders are broad. His biceps strain against the sleeves of the blue blazer he’s wearing, and when he extends a perfectly elegant hand to shake mine—long fingers, neat nails—the black tips of a tattoo peek out from beneath his white cuff. Jesus, take the wheel.

  Our fingers touch, and heat floods my veins. “Thank you.” My voice is practiced calm, but I feel weak. Why didn’t anyone tell me how insanely hot this devil is?

  “Then the Madagascar file will go to her.” He holds a manila envelope toward Sandra, which she passes to me.

  “She’s your girl.” His eyes narrow, but Sandra continues. “Raquel speaks five languages—”

  “Reads,” I quickly interrupt. “Sorry… I’m only a fluent speaker in one. Besides English, of course, but I can read the others fluently. For some reason, reading is easier than speaking.”

  Am I rambling?

  Stop speaking, Rocky.

  “I hope it’s whatever they speak in Madagascar.” Patton’s tone is dismissive, and he pivots as if to go.

  “French.” My voice is a bit louder. “They speak French in Madagascar, and you’re in luck.”

  He turns back, and I smile, doing my best to redeem my wobbly first impression. I’m a professional woman, not some swooning school girl.

  His dark gaze sweeps up and down my body quickly, and my knees tingle. “Are you going to a funeral?”

  The sarcasm in his tone irritates me. I hold my smile steady, and I remember what Renée told me, my mantra. “I’m working at one of the top firms in Nashville. From what I hear, it’s a very professional place.”

  The corner of his mouth twitches, and I’m not sure if he’s going to smile or frown. I’m briefly distracted by the fullness of his lips, but I kick that thought out of my brain. Patton Fletcher is testing me, just like my sister said he would. It’s a fight or flight situation, and I’m not about to run.

  “Try some color next time. We want our clients to feel positive about working with us, not depressed.”

  Rude! He starts to go, but I can’t resist. “I think choosing my wardrobe is a job I can handle.” I’m teasing, but only a little bit.

  “I guess we’ll find out.” He glances over his shoulder, and I’m not sure—is he teasing, too?

  “I have been dressing myself for a long time.” My tone is thoughtful.

  I could say as a self-respecting devil, he should be the one wearing all black…

  But I don’t.

  “Have you been doing this job longer than me?”

  I don’t want to answer that.

  “Right.” He turns to Sandra. “Tell Taron to come to my office as soon as he arrives. We have a video conference with Hastings and Key at ten.” I think that’s it, and I realize I’m holding my breath. It catches again when he points at me. “Skype meeting with Madagascar tomorrow. Sandra will put everything you need on the G-drive. I expect you to be ready.”

  “I will be.”

  He’s gone, and I glance at the thin envelope in my hands. Shit. What do I need to know by tomorrow?

  When I look up again, Sandra is grinning, one eyebrow arched. “Sounds like you’d better get busy. Your passwords and everything you need are on the sheet by your computer. If you need anything else, let me know.” She pushes off and leaves me alone in my office, but I hear her last words as she walks away. “This is going to be fun.”

  2 br />
  Patton

  What the fuck? I push my door closed and stalk to my desk, flipping open my laptop and sending a quick text to Taron: Investor meeting in one hour. Don’t be late.

  It’s only the tip of what I want to say to him, but I’ll wait until he’s here.

  Dropping into my leather chair, I lean back considering this new development. Taron hired a woman to handle our international accounts? I click through my emails to the one I ignored from him on Friday.

  Quickly scanning her résumé, I confess, I’m impressed. Raquel Morgan graduated with honors from one of the top MBA schools in the country—and because of the deal my dad struck with Vanderbilt University a million years ago, we get first pick of the graduating class for interviews each year.

  If we need someone.

  I didn’t know we did, but I let the guys do pretty much what they want. Now we have this very smart, very beautiful young female on our staff… Raquel Morgan. My jaw tightens. Does he seriously want to go down this road again?

  Lifting the heavy pen from beside my computer, I tap the end against the desk pad. My eyes move around the room, from the pointer dog statue on the end of my mahogany desk to the heavy brass clock beside it, out to the leather wingback chairs across from me to the leather couch against the wall. Bookshelves are filled with hard-bound editions, some fiction, some reference volumes.

  All our offices are this way. Everything in the firm coordinates—dark wood, rich leather, gleaming brass…

  All men.

  Sandra is the only woman for a reason, the primary one being Dad hired her before he left, and she managed to stick with us through the transition.

  When Dad passed the reins of his baby, his commercial real estate firm, to me seven years ago like an Olympic torch, I took it and hit the ground running. I brought in Taron and Marley, and we transformed it to a tech-based company, got rid of all the paper, and started recruiting clients globally.

  Fletcher International has become the Air B&B of the commercial real estate market. We match clients who need short-term office space with owners needing to fill them. Our model has been expanding in the smaller markets, until now we’re ready to move into New York, Los Angeles, Chicago—we’re poised to blow up. We just need a bit more up-front capital to secure the high-end properties we want in these markets.

  Taron and Marley fit seamlessly here. They know international customs, and I trust them. We have each other’s backs. Sawyer returned to his family’s farm or he’d be here, too, just like always. We’re brothers—nobody left behind. And nobody works for you like family does.

  Only, lately it seems nobody takes advantage of you like family either. Marley is becoming more of a liability, showing up late and high or still drunk from the night before. Taron is slowly divesting himself of responsibilities, as if I wouldn’t notice. Handing off international accounts is the latest in his string of downgrades.

  I’d be angry, but he’s damn good at locking down new clients. He’s got a natural charm that draws people to us. Hell, he even charms me out of being pissed most of the time. So while I’m willing to accept his decision to hire a new person, what the hell was he thinking hiring her?

  The bell on my clock dings, warning we’re ten minutes from our meeting. I’m about to send Taron a pissed off text when my door opens, and he steps inside.

  He grips the doorknob with a wince and clears his throat. “Sorry, moving slow this morning. Are we meeting in here?”

  “Conference room. Don’t sit.” He nods and turns gingerly, and I know what’s up.

  “Trouble with your back?”

  That fall in the jungle fucked up his spinal column. He spent a month on pain meds and ended up with two problems. Once he finally managed to get off the narcotics, he swore he’d never take another pain pill, which means he either drinks too much or tries to power through. Looks like today he’s powering through with a slight hangover, but I won’t hassle him about it.

  It’s been seven years, and I still feel responsible for what happened in that jungle.

  “I can handle it if you need to sit this one out.” I’m behind him, following his limping frame to the conference room.

  He responds with a tight laugh. “Leave you alone with Stephen Hastings? We do want their money, right?”

  “Remington will be there. He says they’re interested. It’s in the bag.”

  “They work in military defense and healthcare. We still have some selling to do to get them into commercial real estate.”

  Taron winces as he lowers himself into a cushioned leather seat around the long table. A huge computer screen is at one end and an iPad Pro in the center.

  “It’s a solid proposal, and we’re a known entity, not some new kids out of Seattle.” I’m not usually the diplomat, but I’m ready to expand, and these guys have the money we need to make it happen now, before someone beats us to the market.

  They’re also not asking for a massive cut—just fifteen percent of the profits and no control or oversight.

  He gives me a tight grin. “They’re here because of your dad.”

  The comment makes my skin bristle.

  Dad was like Taron, diplomatic, the calm to my storm, but I brought this firm into the twenty-first century. I’m the man behind the curtain holding the whip.

  The screen flickers to life and a split image of Remington Key on one side and Stephen Hastings on the other appears.

  “Morning, Patton, Taron. Hot enough for you?” Remi is smiling and friendly, relaxed, not wearing a blazer.

  “Just Nashville in the summer.” Taron smiles, laying on the charm. “We’re all feeling it, from what I hear.”

  Remi’s located in South Carolina, while Stephen is in New York.

  “Speaking of hot, have you seen the new Scan Eagle they’re testing down in Key West?” Remi clicks on a laptop to his left, and a drone that looks like an aluminum paper airplane appears on the screen.

  “I did.” Taron leans forward, and they’re like two kids sharing matchbox cars. “They’re using them to stop drug smugglers from what I heard.”

  “They’re using them for whatever they want.” Remi laughs. “You should see one of these things take off—”

  “Gentlemen.” Stephen is not smiling, and his tweed coat is in place. “I’m sure we’re all busy.”

  Taron leans back, and Remi shuts the laptop. So much for small talk. I don’t mind—it’s not my strong suit anyway.

  Stephen takes over. “I’ve reviewed your proposal. I like what I’m seeing here.”

  I allow myself to relax slightly. I’m not smiling, but I’m encouraged by his opening.

  Matching his tone, I slip in a brag. “We’re poised to be the leader in this field. Fletcher International will be synonymous with short-term commercial rentals, like Xerox is to copiers.”

  “It sure looks like it. Way to get ahead of the game, guys.” Remi rocks back in his chair, tossing a baseball-style stress ball. “I’m surprised nobody thought of this before.”

  “I started building this line when I took over as CEO.” My jacket is in place, my forearms are on the table, and I’m watching Hastings, whose eyes are on the sheets in front of him. “Our global client base has grown exponentially. Now we’re ready to expand our offerings, and we want to offer only the best.”

  Stephen’s brow lowers. “You only have one client in the UAE.”

  Taron leans forward. “It’s part of the reason we need to expand. Countries like Dubai and Abu Dhabi are looking for spaces in LA and New York. Once we have more properties on the books, they’ll come pouring in. We find it, they come.”

  He ends on a positive note, but silence fills the room, broken only by the noise of papers being flipped back and forth.

  “You’ve come pretty far pretty fast…” Stephen’s sentence hangs, like a noose ready to tighten around my neck. “But you’re not there yet.”

  The air seems to leave the room. My throat is tight, and anger is rising. “Ex
cuse me?”

  Hastings closes the folder and tosses it forward on his desk. “You need more big-ticket renters. Otherwise, we launch, and the US and European clients bypass us. They can do it themselves. Show me why they need this.”

  My lips press together. I’m not about to beg this guy.

  Taron isn’t ready to give up. “You’re wrong.” He stands too quickly, and I see him wince. He covers it. “We’re already a concierge service. They don’t want to bother with the real estate culture here, the security needs, the logistics. We have the experience and the contacts to make it seamless, and we offer only the best properties with top-notch security.”

  “I want to see bigger fish. Come back when you have them.” Stephen’s tone is final.

  My eyes go to Remi, and he’s all Poker face. I don’t have time for this shit.

  “I wanted to work with you guys.” My tone is level, done. “I hope we still need investors when you come to your senses.”

  I reach forward ready to end the call, but Taron’s right there with the olive branch. “Hang on, look guys, we get it. You want a sure thing. I’ve got some leads out there now. How about we reconvene in a week or so?”

  Stephen’s expression doesn’t change, but Remi breaks into a smile. “Sounds like a plan. Shoot me a message when you’re ready.”

  “You got it. Talk soon.” Taron leans forward and hits the end call button. Then he exhales deeply.

  I’m out of my chair, ready to go to the next name on our list. “Fuck them. Braden Investments messaged me last week ready to go.”

  Taron’s palms are flat on the table, and he holds a beat. “Braden wants a bigger piece of the profits, more control of which markets roll out and when. You will hate that.”

  He knows me pretty well. “So what are you saying?”

  “Give me a week. I’m talking to Pro Partner and AmCham, both in Abu Dhabi and both interested. Raquel can help you with Madagascar, and I’ll focus on securing them. Then I’ll touch back with Remi.”

  My fingers steeple in front of my lips, and I consider his suggestion. “One week, and we’ll give them one last chance.” I stand, ready to return to my office. I’m at the door when I pause. “So why did you hire her of all people?”