cabbie needed a shower. The inside of the car stank of old sweat. Winnie cranked her window down, dangerously close to throwing up.
“Anywhere,” she choked, needing air, but the hot muggy air outside only made her more nauseous.
The driver shot her another glance. “I got to go somewhere, lady.”
Where to go, where to go after leaving her family, Morgan and four hundred and fifty people behind in the church?
She had to go someplace that no one would find her. Someplace where no one would be. “The Tower, on Wall Street,” she said, sinking against the seat, naming her office building.
It was Saturday, the office would be deserted, and not even Morgan would think to look for her there.
Closing her eyes, Winnie sagged against the sticky vinyl seat and tried to forget that she’d just run away from her own wedding, that she, Winnie Graham had left Morgan Grady, New York’s Sexiest Bachelor, standing at the altar.
But eyes closed, she saw it all, saw how it happened.
She even knew the day—the hour—the moment—that everything in her life had changed.
June sixteenth. His office. Her insecurity.
“Willa, I need copies of these immediately,” Morgan Grady said, thrusting a sheath of papers across the desk without looking up, “and the top two sets faxed to the client noted on the cover page.”
Winnie’s heart fell. Five and a half months she’d been working for him. Five and a half months and he still didn’t know her name.
“It’s Winnie,” she corrected faintly, growing warm as color crept into her cheeks.
“What’s that?”
She balled one hand and pressed her thumb across her knuckles. She’d never liked her name, never understood how her parents could look into her face as a newborn and think, Winnie, yes, you with the little puffy eyes and tiny mouth, you’re our Winnie. But if Winnie was bad, Willa was far worse.
She’d corrected him before, several times actually, but he’d always been on his way in or out, or in the middle of something important, so she forgave the slips, and made up excuses for him.
But after five and a half months, the excuses had worn thin. Her patience had worn down. And her outer skin had worn off. She couldn’t do this anymore, nor could she handle being invisible. It was definitely time to move on.
Winnie’s lungs ached and she exhaled, feeling the elastic of her panty hose pinch her waist. She’d gained some weight over the winter, her usual extra five or ten pounds and she’d been slow to lose the weight this year. “You called me Willa.”
He didn’t look up. His attention never wavered from his Palm Pilot where he was making copious notes. “Yes.”
Her panty hose was killing her. She couldn’t remember when she felt so frumpy or dull. And worst of all, it wounded her pride that Mr. Grady was completely oblivious to her existence, while she knew—and was expected to know—everything about him.
Morgan Louis Grady. Born August first, Boston, Massachusetts.
A Leo, he took four newspapers daily, but didn’t start reading until he’d hit his treadmill and weights for his morning workout.
He read all the important business sections of the paper between six and seven in the morning, during which he drank exactly two and a half cups of very strong, very black coffee. He had nothing until lunch—light salad and chicken from a caterer that delivered every day—and worked without interruption until three when she brought him a shot of espresso from the coffee cart downstairs.
Shirt size: sixteen and a half. Shoe size: eleven.
Height: six foot three. Weight: two hundred and five muscular pounds—he never varied in weight.
Impeccable dresser.
His hair was another matter. That couldn’t, wouldn’t be tamed. Thick, glossy and nearly black, he had a cowlick at his temple and he wore the back longer than the rest. He could cut it all short but he never did.
She knew all this, and more, and yet he didn’t even know her name. Drawing a deep breath she blurted, “Mr. Grady, my name is Winnie, not Willa. I’m Winnie Graham and I’ve worked here since January second.”
His dark head lifted. “Oh.”
She stood a bit straighter, pulled back her shoulder blades, trying to project that she was taller, more impressive than her five feet, five inch height. “I replaced Miss Dirkle. And Miss Dirkle replaced Miss Hunts. And Miss Hunts, I believe, took over for Mrs. Amadio.”
“Yes. Miss Dirkle, Miss Hunts, I remember.”
They were making progress. Eye contact had been established. He recognized some names. He appeared to be listening. Good.
Now was the time to mention Friday.
Friday, four days from now, she had a final interview with a company in Charleston for a position much like the one she held now, executive assistant to the CEO of a major Fortune 500 firm. The job responsibilities and salary were equitable with what she had now, except that the cost of living in Charleston was much more affordable than Manhattan, and she’d be working for a kind, grandfather-like gentleman in his sixties rather than Morgan Grady, Wall Street’s Most Eligible Bachelor. “About Friday, Mr. Grady—”
“What about Friday?”
“I sent you a memo.”
“I don’t recall.”
There were moments she wondered how he could possibly be New York’s youngest, shrewdest, most aggressive money manager. Everyone said he was brilliant. His firm received more press than any other investment firm on Wall Street, citing his leadership, insight and intuition, but he didn’t display a bit of that insight and intuition with his assistant.
Flushing, Winnie pressed the stack of paperwork to her chest. “I left you a memo two weeks ago about needing Friday off, and then a follow up e-mail last week—”
“Sorry.” He shook his head once, a short cryptic shake even as his gaze dropped to his desk and he reached for his phone. “Anyway, Friday’s bad. Can’t do. Wait until later in the summer, right?”
Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Not only had he said no, but she’d lost his attention.
Twenty seconds of conversation and he’d mentally checked out.
She glared at him, fighting tears, wondering just what went on inside that head.
He was heart-stoppingly beautiful. Women fell at his feet in droves.
Last year he’d even been voted Wall Street’s Most Eligible Bachelor, six months ago he’d been selected New York’s Sexiest Bachelor, and the florist deliveries continued to stream in. Long-stemmed red roses, potted palms, elegant orchids. Socialites, models, actresses, other men’s wives…they all wanted him.
Including
