“He sounds evil.”
“Well…” Her voice goes higher. “Patton Fletcher is a devil. He’s not the devil, but he’s definitely one of them.”
“I’m not afraid of the devil.” I have no intention of letting some arrogant young CEO scare me away from my dreams—if that’s what he did to Renée.
The elevator stops with a ding, and I wonder if that’s the reason I said yes to this particular job offer, to prove the Morgan girls have grit, to prove we’re tougher than we look.
“Whatever you do, don’t fall for him.” Her tone turns serious, and it almost makes me laugh.
“I have no intention of falling for him.”
“I checked your star sign this morning. It’s a good day for you to start something new.”
I’m in the door, and not a moment too soon. When she starts on the holistic remedies and astral predictions, I’m done. “Thanks, sis. Gotta run. Love you!”
“Love you, too. Protect your chin.”
“I will.” It’s our usual sign-off, a boxing reference.
I end the call as a slim young man in a pale blue, button-down and salmon-pink dockers behind the reception desk lowers his phone and gives me a bright smile.
“Welcome to Fletcher International, can I help you?”
“Hi, I’m Rock—ah, Raquel Morgan. I’m supposed to check in with Sandra—”
“Oh! You’re the new hire. One moment, please.” I wait while he punches a few buttons and speaks quickly into the receiver.
I only have a moment to glance around the immaculate, dark-wood, leather, and glass waiting area before he hops out of his chair, extending an arm toward the door leading to the back offices. “Right this way. Sandra’s waiting for you.”
“Thank you…”
“Dean.” He smiles, turning back to answer the buzzing phone as Sandra appears in the hall.
I can’t help noticing her lavender silk blouse and beige pencil skirt. I feel like the grim reaper compared to the two of them…
Which is ridiculous! I look very professional in my suit, and I’m wearing a cream silk blouse… I’ll ditch my jacket once I’m in my office. Problem solved.
“Welcome aboard! It’s so nice to have another girl at this sausage fest.” Her hazel eyes shine behind heavy, tortoise-shell framed glasses, and I like her at once.
“Yeah.” I glance down with an embarrassed grin. “I feel overdressed.”
“They say you can never be overdressed, right?”
“I guess…” I’m not sure what to say. I stand out like a sore thumb, and I can’t decide if it’s a good thing or not.
Sandra leads me down a corridor with offices facing downtown on one side and cubicles in front of computers on the other. “This is your office in the middle.”
Does that make me the monkey? I step into a good-sized room with a large window overlooking the river. A dark wood desk holds a newish-looking laptop with a sheet of paper beside it. A banker’s box full of files is on the other side and another is on the floor.
I drop my bag in the maroon leather office chair. “This is great.”
“Taron is in the corner office to your right.” She points across her chest. “And Jerry is just on the other side. I think you met them both already?”
“Yes!” I smile. “They interviewed me.”
She gives me a wink. “I think they were both concerned about who would occupy this space. Nobody wants a bad neighbor.”
Everything about Sandra puts me at ease and makes me wonder why I was so nervous. I plan to text Renée the second she leaves and thank her for the heads-up when a dark figure glides in behind her.
“Sandra, I need you to open a file on the Madagascar account.” A deep, rich voice joins us, and Sandra does a little jump and turns. Dark eyes under a lowered brow land on me.
“Patton Fletcher, meet our new hire, Raquel Morgan. She’s taking over the international accounts for Taron.”
My heart stutters in my chest, and all I can think is Wow.
“For Taron?” The muscle in his square jaw moves, and he looks to the right, toward Taron’s office, as if he can see through the wall. For a moment, I wonder if he can… being the devil and all.
“So yes, Raquel Morgan…” Sandra repeats herself, leaving the introduction open as she gestures toward me. “Patton Fletcher.”
“Right. Welcome.” He seems angry.
I can’t seem to find my voice. I’ve never been in the presence of someone so young yet so formidable in my life.
His dark hair is swept back from his face in glossy waves that just touch the back of his collar, and his shoulders are broad. His biceps strain against the sleeves of the blue blazer he’s wearing, and when he extends a perfectly elegant hand to shake mine—long fingers, neat nails—the black tips of a tattoo peek out from beneath his white cuff. Jesus, take the wheel.
Our fingers touch, and heat floods my veins. “Thank you.” My voice is practiced calm, but I feel weak. Why didn’t anyone tell me how insanely hot this devil is?
“Then the Madagascar file will go to her.” He holds a manila envelope toward Sandra, which she passes to me.
“She’s your girl.” His eyes narrow, but Sandra continues. “Raquel speaks five languages—”
“Reads,” I quickly interrupt. “Sorry… I’m only a fluent speaker in one. Besides English, of course, but I can read the others fluently. For some reason, reading is easier than speaking.”
Am I rambling?
Stop speaking, Rocky.
“I hope it’s whatever they speak in Madagascar.” Patton’s tone is dismissive, and he pivots as if to go.
“French.” My voice is a bit louder. “They speak French in Madagascar, and you’re in luck.”
He turns back, and I smile, doing my best to redeem my wobbly first impression. I’m a professional woman, not some swooning school girl.
His dark gaze sweeps up and down my body quickly, and my knees tingle. “Are you going to a funeral?”
The sarcasm in his tone irritates me. I hold my smile steady, and I remember what Renée told me, my mantra. “I’m working at one of the top firms in Nashville. From what I hear, it’s a very professional place.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, and I’m not sure if he’s going to smile or frown. I’m briefly distracted by the fullness of his lips, but I kick that thought out of my brain. Patton Fletcher is testing me, just like my sister said he would. It’s a fight or flight situation, and I’m not about to run.
“Try some color next time. We want our clients to feel positive about working with us, not depressed.”
Rude! He starts to go, but I can’t resist. “I think choosing my wardrobe is a job I can handle.” I’m teasing, but only a little bit.
“I guess we’ll find out.” He glances over his shoulder, and I’m not sure—is he teasing, too?
“I have been dressing myself for a long time.” My tone is thoughtful.
I could say as a self-respecting devil, he should be the one wearing all black…
But I don’t.
“Have you been doing this job longer than me?”