Romance: The Boss (10 page)

Chapter Eight

“New York City is the center of the investment industry in America, Lauren. What do you expect him to do? Just drop everything and go with your opinion about whom he should be directing his time to?” Brooke sighs, taking a handful of popcorn before passing me the bowl.

“I expect him to follow through on his obligations!” I shout, frustrated with how she isn’t seeing my point.

“He’s a wolf of Wall Street, babe. The only obligations they need to follow through on are the ones that will make them the most money. Trust me.”

“That’s not true. I don’t think Clint is really like that.”

“Oh, so he’s Clint now? Don’t be so naïve. Remember that Wall Street guy I told you I dated for a few months last year?”

“No.” I pout, a piece of popcorn wedged in my mouth.

“Yes you do. His name was Rick Montana.”

Rick Montana? I’ve honestly never heard of him.

And I’d remember a name like that—I hate the name Rick. In high school there was this football jock Emmett was friends with called Rick, and he was a total slime ball. The worst kind of bully and the complete opposite of Emmett, which had always made me wonder why there were friends in the first place.

Rick was tall and stocky and was the kind of guy who would trip you up in the hallway, slap the books out of your hands, or pull your bra strap so hard that when it snapped back it would leave a red welt. If that weren’t humiliating enough, he’d spread a nasty rumor about the kids he really didn’t like, with almost the entire school shunning them for a week because of it. Can you imagine, an entire school not talking to you for a week? It was the epitome of meanness.

“Anyway,” Brooke resumes, “he dumped me because the dress I wore to the Starling Bright Foundation’s benefit last year wasn’t expensive enough. And this is me we’re talking about here! My walk-in wardrobe is a showcase of Valentino ensembles and Jimmy Choo shoes! It’s primal wolf behavior, my friend.”

I cross my arms and lie back on the couch.

The only reason why we’re even having this argument is because Clint has cancelled several meetings with the CEOs of two charity organizations that I believe are worth capitalizing in.

It’s really ticked me off; he has all that money and power and is deliberately choosing to direct it away from a good cause.

It’s insufferable.

“Seriously, he dumped you over that?” I ask Brooke, somewhat skeptical.

“Uh-huh,” she chides, taking the bowl away again and scoffing down more of the way over-buttered popcorn we’d made on a whim.

I wonder what expression Elsa would be pulling at us right now?

I bet she’s never even tried popcorn.

“What a prick,” I say sharply, shaking my head at Brooke. “Wow. I wonder if Clint is like—”

But she cuts me off. “He is.”

“You didn’t even know what I was going to ask.”

“Yes I did. You were going to ask whether Clint might be the same as Rick. And I repeat, he is.”

“But you don’t even know him.”

“Neither do you, Lauren!”

“I know him a little. I work with him every day, don’t I? And I told you about that conversation we had in his apartment.”

“So what? You’ve had a few moments together. It takes years to get to know who someone truly is.”

“Not necessarily. That’s a cynical way to look at it.”

“Maybe. But I’d rather be cynical than all mopey over my boss, whom it’s obvious I’m in love with.”

“I’m not in love with him.” But as soon as I hear myself say it, I know that isn’t entirely true. I do feel something for Clint; I’m just not sure what it is yet.

As the rain falls blithely outside, I can’t help but wonder if Brooke is right and if all the decorously attired wolves on Wall Street are the same in nature: greedy down to their cores.

I don’t want to believe that about Clint, but I’m coming up to three months of working at Townsend Investments now and he’s barely given me any glimpse of his witty, good side again.

Not since that night we talked over wine, anyway.

Lately, things have been strictly business.

I’ve scheduled his meetings, done correspondence, and taken notes for conferences. I’ve run various errands at the drop of a hat, both in and out of business hours.

I’ve directed him through different routes to get to work when he’s been stuck in traffic and severe road conditions. I’ve paid company bills, which have been so exorbitant that I’ve been nervous just looking at the transactions.

And I’ve even planned his meals.

I could scarcely believe it myself when he’d asked me to write up a plan for his new diet.

It’s one of those celebrity master cleanse detox ones.

He said a close male friend insisted he try it out, but I’m guessing it was actually Elsa—not that I’ve seen her or heard anything about her since that day she came into the office, which is strange.

Anyway, this diet is supposed to make you feel better about yourself, your body, your skin, and your life in general, so you’d think that’d be a good incentive to do it, right?

Wrong.

Clint has been as moody as ever on the damn thing, blasting everyone at the office over the smallest things.

The one person I feel sorry for the most is Bill. Out of all of us, he’s the one Clint targets the most, constantly detonating on him in his office.

An office that also isn’t entirely soundproof.

I didn’t think I would ever come to pity Bill, due to his whole attitude toward me when we’re around each other. He barely registers that I even exist. But the look on his face when Clint tears him a new one is truly debasing.

I wouldn’t mind Clint’s tyrannical outbursts now and then if he weren’t also re-cancelling those meetings with the CEOs. Earlier today, I’d had to call the organizations again and tell them that “Mr. Townsend apologies profusely but he has to reschedule your meeting. A business matter has come up at the last minute, which needs his urgent attention.”

Every time I hang up that phone, I feel like I’m being cruel and letting them down. I’ve done extensive research on both organizations and they have truly inspiring campaigns.

They could really use the backing of a high-profile figure like Clint.

“What charities are we talking about here anyway?” Brooke asks, but with her eyes still fixed on the television. “Ha ha, I love Kristin Cavallari,” she then adds. “She’s so boss.”

We’ve started re-watching all five season of The Hills recently. I know it’s not the greatest TV show in the world, but it’s entertaining and it gets my mind of work.

And Clint.

Mostly.

“One funds research to find a cure for Alzheimer’s disease. The other is for muscular dystrophy in kids,” I tell her.

“Oh…that’s really sad. He should get on board with both of them; the American public would love him for it. I can just see the headline now: ‘Hot Billionaire Donates Millions to Help Sick Kids and Find Cure for Brain-Degenerative Disease’.”

“I know. Why do you think I’ve been pushing him to at least meet with the CEOs?”

I honestly don’t know what’s come over Clint. I know he’s always been an ass, but lately he’s been behaving like a royal one.

“Call him up on it,” Brooke pitches. “Walk into that office tomorrow morning and let it all rip. From what you’ve said about your so-called business relationship, he’ll respect you for it.”

“Maybe,” I say, contemplating the fact that she might be right.

Maybe I should just walk into work tomorrow all guns blazing.

Thirty minutes later, I’m lying in bed rehearsing what I’m going to say to Clint.

First I’ll give a solid presentation for the charity organizations and how it would be unequivocally in bad taste to put off meeting with them any longer.

Then, if that goes badly, I’ll just come straight and demand to know what his problem is.

He’s said in the past that he likes my fire and my honesty, so that should at least give me a foot to stand on…

Right?

Chapter Nine

After going through Clint’s schedule with a fine-toothed comb, I’ve finally managed to find two one-hour blocks next week for him to meet with the CEOs.

Now all I have to do is go in there and tell him firmly that there will be no receding this time.

So far this morning, things have been running fairly smoothly in the office, so it shouldn’t go down too badly…I hope.

I knock twice on the glass door, giving a small wave and a smile to boot. I may as well try buttering him up as much as possible.

Every little bit counts at this point.

I’m an American sweetheart, but with boldness. I’m an American sweetheart but with boldness
, I chant in my head as I enter the room.

“Lauren. What do I owe the pleasure?” he states, sifting through a stack of papers on his desk.

“I just have some alterations to next week’s schedule that I want to run by you,” I say strongly.

He pauses and stops sifting, his fierce blue eyes now only me. “Okay. Take a seat.”

I sit down confidently and suck in a breath.

Just say it straight and confidently like you practiced. You can do this, Lauren.

“I’ve assigned an hour next Tuesday at one o’clock and an hour next Thursday at three o’clock for you to meet with each of the CEOs of the charity organizations we’ve been rescheduling,” I spit out. But as I half expected, he lets out a long, elevated sigh, tossing his pen down loudly onto the documents.

“Lauren, I’ve already told you twice: I’m just not sure if getting involved with these charities is the right move for the company right now. Being the face of aid campaigns is a long-term commitment. It has to be a board decision.”

“I’m not asking you to agree to anything yet. I just think you should sit down and hear what they have to say. Give them a chance,” I reply sharply, my eyes stone cold.

Clint takes notice and smirks. “You really want me to do this, don’t you?”

“Yes. I mean, I think it’ll improve your image…and the company’s.”

When he doesn’t answer, I go on, more tenaciously. “It’s only two hours out of your week, Clint, surely you can—”

“Okay. Call them and confirm.”

“Really? You’re serious? You’ll meet with them?”

“I may be the devil incarnate, Lauren, but I do have a soul in here. I’m a man of my word.”

“That’s…great! I’ll phone them straight away and let them know.”

I leap up, thrilled that he’s finally come round, only to see him waving me down again.

“Hold up, Mother Teresa. I haven’t finished with you just yet.”

I sit back down prudently.

What’s he going to throw at me now?

“Seeing as you’ve proven yourself to be so staunch when it comes to a good cause, I’ll need you to accompany me to the Starling Bright Foundation’s benefit this Saturday evening. Its theme this year is ‘Shades of Green’ and so you’ll need a dress, an expensive one. Versace have an exquisite line of gowns fresh off the runaway. I’ll send one over to your apartment. You’re a size two, right?”

That’s it?

That’s what else he wanted to talk to me about?

He just wants me to go a charity benefit?

I don’t know what else to say but, “Yes. I’m a size two. Thank you for the invitation.”

The Starling Bright Foundation does stellar work. Its mission focuses on fighting poverty in the poorest suburbs of New York. They have established facilities like soup kitchens, homeless shelters, and schools, as well as job training programs for New York’s neediest citizens.

“Have you thought of a donation amount yet?” I ask.

As you would presume, it’s mandatory for all those attending the benefit to donate money. Donations in the past have ranged from five dollars up to twenty-five million!

“I thought perhaps we could discuss it on the night. After all, I don’t want to be outdone by others, do I?

“Hey, I’m all for you hedge funders trying to outbid each other when it’s for a good cause,” I say, probably too outspokenly. “I heard an anonymous donor gave twenty-five million last year. You’ll have to at least top that.”

We both crack broad smiles.

“Indeed.” But then his smile wanes, his eyes withdrawing from mine to focus on something on his desk.

“I had a friend who grew up in the Bronx,” he says mellifluously. “He once told me that the most powerful tool in the fight against poverty was education. And he was right.”

“Yes, he is right,” I agree, quite surprised but also warmed by the comment. “Are you both still friends?”

“No…he, ah, passed away. Sometime ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. May I ask what happened?”

“He was mugged,” Clint states bluntly. “Stabbed, actually.”

“Oh my. Where? Here in New York?”

“Yes, in the neighborhood he grew up in. His mom and little brother were still living there, so he always went back to visit. A pack of young teenagers just saw the shiny truck and the clean-cut clothes and well…you can figure out the rest.”

I shake my head at the brutality of it. His friend was murdered in his own childhood neighborhood? I can’t imagine that ever happening in Steamboat Springs.

“Were the teenagers ever apprehended?”

“No.”

“So they’re still out there, scot-free?”

“Yes…although, in a way, they can hardly be blamed for their behavior. They were raised much differently than you and I, Miss Swift. And when I make that donation on Saturday night I’m going to put it towards an education program for underprivileged youths, to get them out of poverty and into prosperity. Anyway, I think that’s enough doom and gloom for one day,” he sighs. “So unless there’s anything else, I’m only a quarter of the way through these accounts and—”

“Time is money,” I answer for him, giving him a small smile before getting up and heading for the door.

I can’t believe what Clint has just told me. He didn’t have to; in fact, it kind of came out of nowhere again. But I’m glad he did. Maybe that sensitive side of him is still there after all…

“Oh, and Lauren,” he utters softly, “It was nice to see you smiling again. You should do that more often.”

“Ditto,” I reply and return to my desk, rather elated by the conversation we’ve had.

He likes to see me smile, he said yes to the CEOs of the charities, and he wants me to join him at the Starling Bright Foundation’s benefit this weekend.

I did all that worrying last night over nothing.

Things couldn’t have turned out any better.