Battle

Pampered clients are a nightmare. They’re the neediest with the biggest attitudes and generally treat me as though I’m of peon status. In response, I allocate their funds, invest a small portion, and don’t focus a lot of attention to if their returns do well. If they’re going to be assholes, why should I care if their portfolios grow?

It’s usually the clients who don’t come from money who are polite and treat me with respect. Like Patrice, my little-old-lady client who won the lottery a few years back. She brings me chocolates and always thanks me for my time. She’s invested up the wazoo, and I’ve nearly doubled her money. Her children will be set for life when she goes, as will her children’s children.

I park in my designated spot at Marshall Investments and gather my purse, water bottle, and lunch from the backseat.

After putting my lunch in the shared fridge, I walk to my office and ask Sophia, my receptionist, if my new client has arrived.

Her grin tells me that not only has he arrived, but she thinks he’s cute. “He went to get something out of his car.” She glances around, half covering her mouth. “Oh, my God, Faye. He’s gorgeous!”

Sophia thinks many of our clients are ‘gorgeous’, but Marshall has a strict no-fraternization policy. “Do I need to remind you about …”

“No,” she interrupts. “I know the rules. No dating clients. He’s too young for me anyway.”

Sophia looks fantastic for a woman in her mid-forties. I doubt a younger man would turn her down, but I know she’s looking for a mature future husband after her previous and much younger husband bailed on her, leaving her with two kids to raise.

“Good. He may be nice on the eyes, but Mr. Fenton said he’s an uptight, spoiled jerk.”

“Oh! I didn’t get that impression at all. He was pleasant and polite, yes, ma’am, and no, ma’am, please and thank you. No, this one’s been brought up well.”

“I certainly hope you’re right. I’ll be at my desk. Let me know when he returns.”

“Will do.” Her smile grows wider. “Oh, and I left coffee on your desk.”

“Ah, Sophia, you’re the best,” I say, opening my office door.

“I know! I’m amazing,” I hear her sing as I close the door.

I store my purse in the file cabinet and sit down to check e-mails. Before I can enjoy my coffee, Sophia informs me my client has returned. I tell her to show him in.

Professionalism is important in my line of work, and given my new client is not only male, but apparently a “gorgeous” male, I’m wishing I hadn’t procrastinated taking my dry cleaning in so I wasn’t wearing a skirt well above the knee. I stand and tug on the hem, pulling it down a little.

The door swings open, and I freeze. My cheeks flush instantly. I look at Sophia to avoid his penetrating gaze.

“Ms. Callahan, this is Mr. McCoy.”

For a quick moment, I forget where I am. It’s only me and Battle, back in the wheat field, but reality hits quickly when Sophia coughs.

“Oh … Um … Thank you, Sophia.”

My receptionist leaves me with the man I’d hoped to never see again. Battle smiles as he removes his heather-grey felt cowboy hat. “This is awkward,” he says in a raspy and recognizable voice. A voice that warms me from the inside out.

Words form in my mind, but when I open my mouth, nothing comes out. I’m distracted by his attire: tight dark jeans, charcoal button up, with a black tie and sport coat. My eyes lower to black, snakeskin boots and lift to the hat in his hand, noticing the band matches his boots. My eyes find his perfect full lips. Lips I’ve kissed and thought about kissing many times since.

I can’t wait to tell Marty and Ginger that Battle, is in fact, a cowboy.

“Did you plan this?” I finally ask.

He holds his right hand up. “No, ma’am, but I’m not complainin’.”

I square my shoulders and send him a sideways glance to let him know I’m skeptical.

“I’m not allowed to date any of our clients,” I say, testing him. “And don’t call me ma’am.”

His head falls back and he laughs. “Sure thing, Ms. Callahan. I don’t date as I’m sure you remember.”

I feel his eyes on me as I turn and walk back to my desk. With my palms on the hard desktop, I lean forward. “Marshall has a strict policy about fraternization. If this is your plan to get back in my pants, it’s not gonna happen.”

With long purposeful strides, he stalks toward me, stopping mere inches away. He sets his hat on my desk before leaning in close to me. I hold my breath when his thumb grazes the skin below my skirt.