Tangled
Page 12
Mentally, I slap myself. And she goes on.
“You’re used to being number one around here. You’re used to being daddy’s special little man. Well, there’s a new player in town. Deal with it. I’ve worked damn hard to get this job, and I plan on making a name for myself. You don’t like sharing the spotlight? Too bad. You can either make room for me at the table, or I’ll step on you when you get in my way. Either way, you can bet your ass I’ll get there.”
She turns to go but then looks back at me, her lips curved into a saccharine smile. “Oh, and I would say good luck with Anderson, but I won’t bother. All the luck in Ireland isn’t going to help you. Saul Anderson is mine…sweetheart.”
And with that, she turns and stalks out of my office, right past Matthew and Jack, who stand in my doorway open-mouthed.
“Well…damn,” Matthew says.
“Okay, is anyone else turned on right now?” Jack asks. “Seriously, I got wood here ’cause that—” he points in the direction Kate just went “—that was f**king hot.”
It was hot. Kate Brooks is a beautiful woman. But when she’s pissed off, she’s spectacular.
Steven walks in with a cup of coffee in his hand. Seeing the looks on our faces, he asks, “What? What’d I miss?”
Matthew all too happily tells him, “Drew is losing his touch. He just got verbally bitch-slapped. By a girl.”
Steven nods grimly and says, “Welcome to my world, man.”
I ignore the Three Stooges. My attention is still focused on the challenge Kate just threw down. The testosterone pumping through my body screams for victory. Not just a win, but a shutout—nothing short of a full, uncontested knockout will do.
Chapter 5
AND SO IT BEGAN—the Olympic Games of investment banking. I’d like to say it was a mature contest between two professional and highly intelligent colleagues. I’d like to say it was friendly.
I’d like to…but I won’t. ’Cause I’d be lying.
Remember my father’s comment? The one about Kate being the first one in the office and the last to leave? It stuck in my mind that whole night.
See, getting Anderson wasn’t just about putting on the best presentation, coming up with the best ideas. That’s what Kate thought—but I knew better. The man is my father, after all; we share the same DNA. It was also about reward. Who was more dedicated. Who had earned it. And I was determined to show my father that I was that “who.”
So, the next day I come in an hour early. Later that morning when Kate arrives, I don’t look up from my desk, but I feel it when she walks past my door.
See the look on her face? The slight pause in her step as she sees me? The scowl that comes when she realizes she’s the second to come in? See the steel in her eyes?
Obviously, I’m not the only one playing for keeps.
On Wednesday, then, I arrive at the same time to find Kate typing away at her desk. She looks up when she sees me. She smiles cheerily. And waves.
I. Don’t. Think. So.
The day after that, I come in another half-hour earlier…and so on. Are you seeing the pattern here? By the time the next Friday rolls around, I find myself walking up to the front of the building at four thirty.
Four-fucking-thirty!
It’s still dark. And as I get to the door of the building, guess who I see across from me, arriving at the exact same time?
Kate.
Can you hear the hiss in my voice? I hope you can. We stand there looking each other in the eyes, clutching our extra-large caffeine-filled double-mocha cappuccinos in our hands.
Kind of reminds you of one of those old westerns, doesn’t it? You know the ones I’m talking about—where the two guys walk down the empty street at high noon for a shootout. If you listen hard, you can probably hear the lonely call of a vulture in the background.
At the same moment, Kate and I drop our beverages and make a mad dash for the door. In the lobby, she pushes the elevator button furiously while I head for the stairs. Genius that I am, I figure I can take them three at a time. I’m almost six-feet—long legs. The only problem with this, of course, is that my office is on the fortieth floor.
Idiot.
As I finally reach our floor, panting and sweating, I see Kate leisurely leaning against her office door, coat off, a glass of water in hand. She offers it to me, along with that breathtaking smile of hers.
It makes me want to kiss her and strangle her at the same time. I’ve never been into S&M. But I’m beginning to see its benefits.
“Here you go. You look like you could use this, Drew.” She hands me the glass and flounces away. “Have a nice day.”
Right.
Sure, I’ll do that.
’Cause it’s just starting out great so far.
I’m sure I’ve mentioned this before, but I’ll go over it again just so we’re clear. For me, work trumps sex. Every time. Always.
Except for Saturday nights. Saturday is club night. Guy night. Hook-up-with-gorgeous-girls-and-screw-their-brains-out night. Despite my renewed diligence at work as I vie against Kate for Anderson, my Saturday night does not change. It is sacred.
What? Do you want me to go frigging insane? All work and no play makes Drew a cranky boy.
So, that Saturday night I meet a brunette divorcee at a bar called Rendezvous. I’ve found myself gravitating toward brunettes for the last couple weeks.
You don’t need to be Sigmund Freud to figure that one out.
“You’re used to being number one around here. You’re used to being daddy’s special little man. Well, there’s a new player in town. Deal with it. I’ve worked damn hard to get this job, and I plan on making a name for myself. You don’t like sharing the spotlight? Too bad. You can either make room for me at the table, or I’ll step on you when you get in my way. Either way, you can bet your ass I’ll get there.”
She turns to go but then looks back at me, her lips curved into a saccharine smile. “Oh, and I would say good luck with Anderson, but I won’t bother. All the luck in Ireland isn’t going to help you. Saul Anderson is mine…sweetheart.”
And with that, she turns and stalks out of my office, right past Matthew and Jack, who stand in my doorway open-mouthed.
“Well…damn,” Matthew says.
“Okay, is anyone else turned on right now?” Jack asks. “Seriously, I got wood here ’cause that—” he points in the direction Kate just went “—that was f**king hot.”
It was hot. Kate Brooks is a beautiful woman. But when she’s pissed off, she’s spectacular.
Steven walks in with a cup of coffee in his hand. Seeing the looks on our faces, he asks, “What? What’d I miss?”
Matthew all too happily tells him, “Drew is losing his touch. He just got verbally bitch-slapped. By a girl.”
Steven nods grimly and says, “Welcome to my world, man.”
I ignore the Three Stooges. My attention is still focused on the challenge Kate just threw down. The testosterone pumping through my body screams for victory. Not just a win, but a shutout—nothing short of a full, uncontested knockout will do.
Chapter 5
AND SO IT BEGAN—the Olympic Games of investment banking. I’d like to say it was a mature contest between two professional and highly intelligent colleagues. I’d like to say it was friendly.
I’d like to…but I won’t. ’Cause I’d be lying.
Remember my father’s comment? The one about Kate being the first one in the office and the last to leave? It stuck in my mind that whole night.
See, getting Anderson wasn’t just about putting on the best presentation, coming up with the best ideas. That’s what Kate thought—but I knew better. The man is my father, after all; we share the same DNA. It was also about reward. Who was more dedicated. Who had earned it. And I was determined to show my father that I was that “who.”
So, the next day I come in an hour early. Later that morning when Kate arrives, I don’t look up from my desk, but I feel it when she walks past my door.
See the look on her face? The slight pause in her step as she sees me? The scowl that comes when she realizes she’s the second to come in? See the steel in her eyes?
Obviously, I’m not the only one playing for keeps.
On Wednesday, then, I arrive at the same time to find Kate typing away at her desk. She looks up when she sees me. She smiles cheerily. And waves.
I. Don’t. Think. So.
The day after that, I come in another half-hour earlier…and so on. Are you seeing the pattern here? By the time the next Friday rolls around, I find myself walking up to the front of the building at four thirty.
Four-fucking-thirty!
It’s still dark. And as I get to the door of the building, guess who I see across from me, arriving at the exact same time?
Kate.
Can you hear the hiss in my voice? I hope you can. We stand there looking each other in the eyes, clutching our extra-large caffeine-filled double-mocha cappuccinos in our hands.
Kind of reminds you of one of those old westerns, doesn’t it? You know the ones I’m talking about—where the two guys walk down the empty street at high noon for a shootout. If you listen hard, you can probably hear the lonely call of a vulture in the background.
At the same moment, Kate and I drop our beverages and make a mad dash for the door. In the lobby, she pushes the elevator button furiously while I head for the stairs. Genius that I am, I figure I can take them three at a time. I’m almost six-feet—long legs. The only problem with this, of course, is that my office is on the fortieth floor.
Idiot.
As I finally reach our floor, panting and sweating, I see Kate leisurely leaning against her office door, coat off, a glass of water in hand. She offers it to me, along with that breathtaking smile of hers.
It makes me want to kiss her and strangle her at the same time. I’ve never been into S&M. But I’m beginning to see its benefits.
“Here you go. You look like you could use this, Drew.” She hands me the glass and flounces away. “Have a nice day.”
Right.
Sure, I’ll do that.
’Cause it’s just starting out great so far.
I’m sure I’ve mentioned this before, but I’ll go over it again just so we’re clear. For me, work trumps sex. Every time. Always.
Except for Saturday nights. Saturday is club night. Guy night. Hook-up-with-gorgeous-girls-and-screw-their-brains-out night. Despite my renewed diligence at work as I vie against Kate for Anderson, my Saturday night does not change. It is sacred.
What? Do you want me to go frigging insane? All work and no play makes Drew a cranky boy.
So, that Saturday night I meet a brunette divorcee at a bar called Rendezvous. I’ve found myself gravitating toward brunettes for the last couple weeks.
You don’t need to be Sigmund Freud to figure that one out.
