Oh, for fuck’s sake. I’m only in Sloan’s life to get a job done, not to start anything personal.
Still, I surf over to Reservoir’s website and click all over the place. Finally, under their Community Outreach tab, I find an interesting assortment of photos they posted following a recent food bank drive. I scroll through all the pictures, scanning the names of those tagged under each.
I’m about to give up when… There. Second from the bottom. I spot a picture marked as David V. Smith, VP of Tech Development, and team—all of whom are men except a woman standing off to one side, in profile, helping a family in need.
Sloan isn’t what I expected. Yes, she’s young. And she’s petite but not delicate. It’s no surprise she’s got a sharp jaw and a determined profile…but her slightly parted lips look unbearably soft. Her hair is tucked professionally at her nape, yet the style isn’t at all severe. Instead, she’s roped her tresses into a thick twist that starts at her forehead and follows her hairline before gently tucking into an artless bun. And despite her cool alabaster skin against a stark gray shirt, she looks almost warm.
I’m struck by the image. I can’t put my finger on the reason, except she’s a handful of subtle contradictions. From talking to her, I know she’s a matter-of-fact ball-buster, but in this shot, I see an unguarded moment of unexpected vulnerability on her face.
I want to know what’s behind that.
At least I know exactly what Rogan meant when he said Sloan looks as Irish as she sounds because her hair is as red as the blood now rushing to my cock.
Fuck.
Down the hall, my cell phone rings. Who the hell would be calling at this hour?
I glance at the time on my computer screen. Holy shit, how have three hours passed?
Running to my home office, I grab my phone and glance at the display, which confirms my suspicions. “Sorry I’m late, Evan.”
“You coming?”
I can picture him now, standing in front of the gym, wondering where the hell I am. “Yep. I’ll be there in fifteen.”
“You all right? You sound distracted.”
“Yeah. Absolutely. Just doing some research.”
“About?”
“The enemy.”
“Good. You can tell me all about it on the StairMaster. I’ll be off it by the time you get here.” He sounds gleeful about that.
“You evil son of a bitch.”
“In the gym? Always. But if you tell me good things about your progress with Reservoir, I might go easy on you.”
“You’re lying.”
He laughs. “You know me well.”
I do, which is why I know he’s counting on me to do the dirty work. “I’ll come through.”
“I know you will, buddy. Thanks.”
March 9
Less than twenty-four hours go by before I have a provisional copy of Reservoir’s previous year’s financial statement in my inbox. Shane couldn’t manage to complete it since the year started more than two months ago. Sloan got it done in a day.
The woman has crossed my mind too much lately. It’s not smart, but my respect for her ticks up another notch.
Unfortunately, I don’t even get to thank her before all hell breaks loose at Stratus. A stomach bug makes its rounds through our offices at the same time one of Wynam’s reps reaches out to request both a product demonstration and a virtual meeting—the first major hurdle in doing business with the UK giant.
And wouldn’t you know it, but Evan is upchucking everything except his toe nails.
I rally the troops, gathering the necessary people. We work nearly round the clock to put together a presentation that’s exactly what Michael Astor, Wynam’s CEO, needs. Nia, bless her, throws herself into the project—half as much to make sure it gets done as to stay away from her puking husband.
“I don’t need this virus to make me toss my cookies,” she says tartly as she strokes her slightly rounding stomach. “The baby does that for me most days anyway.”
Things don’t get any easier when, on Thursday at nine p.m.—eight the following morning in London—Evan is finally well enough to slide into the office. He looks like shit, but he reads what we’ve prepared, jots a few notes, and sips a glass of water while I zip through his changes.
An hour later, he nails the video presentation, answering the prospective client’s questions succinctly and patiently, while Nia and I fist-bump in the background, almost certain Evan snagged the account—or at least he’ll be invited to London for a face-to-face that will seal the deal.
But at the end of it all, Wynam’s folks merely thank us for our time and advise us they have other possible vendors they intend to talk to. They’ll be in touch.
They mean Reservoir.
Evan turns to me as soon as the call is over. “Work faster, buddy.”
To get the competition out of the way. “On it.”
“You’d be my hero if Wynam didn’t even hear Reservoir’s pitch.”
“They won’t. I’ll make sure of it.” Which means I need to get back to my mission.
He claps me on the shoulder, then takes his wife’s hand as they head out the door. “Thanks. And don’t worry about anything Stratus-related tomorrow. I’m better now, so I’ve got this place. Focus on the assignment I gave you.”
After going home, stumbling into bed, and sleeping nearly twelve hours, I tear into the office, order in food, then dig through the statement Sloan sent. Overall, the financial health of the company isn’t bad…but it’s not great. They’re seeing good growth on the consumer side, which has been their lifeblood since inception. Their small-business customer base is building slowly, but I can’t argue that it’s making strides. Yet the company is strangely cash poor. It doesn’t make sense. Granted, I don’t have the detail I’d like, but it’s glaringly clear that whoever compiled this report is skirting the truth, because two and two aren’t adding up.
My conclusion: something’s rotten at Reservoir.
Does Sloan know?
She shouldn’t be my first concern. Instead, I should be figuring out how to use this information to my advantage. But I can’t deny that some stupid-ass part of me hates that people around her are potentially screwing her by fucking with the whole organization.
When I reach that likely conclusion, it’s nearly five p.m. here in Maui. Normally, I wouldn’t think there’s any chance my counterpart five time zones to the east would answer her phone, especially on a Friday night. But Sloan is different. I don’t know her well, but I’m convinced she’ll either have some idea why this report is twenty kinds of fucked-up or she’ll dig straight in and figure it out. I’ll bend her for information. And if I catch her off guard, maybe she’ll spill details I can exploit.
Squashing my misplaced guilt, I swipe my phone from my desk and ring her. It’s ten o’clock there, but I’m not really shocked when she answers. “McBride?”
Though the question is sharp, her voice sounds a little slower, almost mellow. She’s relaxed. Because she’s curled up on her couch with a movie? Or because she’s curled up in bed with a man?