Slow and Steady Rush (34 page)

Jessica’s snigger was mean-spirited and satisfying. Her father must have been livid. The conference room door swung shut, leaving them alone. A small amount of glee she couldn’t suppress lilted her words. “He rejected you.”

“No. He rejected my offer. You are going to head to Alabama to sweeten the deal.”

“You seriously expect me to … what? Flirt and coo while I slide him the contract? He’ll be so distracted by my
beauty
”—she shot the word with sarcasm—“that he won’t know what he’s signing? Please.”

“Don’t underestimate yourself.”

Her chest expanded with a deep breath, her lips curled into a small smile. Was this actual approval?

He continued. “You aren’t the beauty queen your sister is, but when you fix yourself up, you’re not bad.”

The pseudo-compliment gouged the wound in her heart a fraction deeper. She hated the fact her father still had such power over her. Her foot tapped with suppressed energy. “He doesn’t want the job. Find someone who does. It won’t be difficult with the kind of money you’re offering.”

“Not an option. I need
him
.”

She tried to catch her father’s eyes, but he kept his gaze down, picking lint off the sleeve of his jacket. “Need,” not “want.” A faint alarm sounded in her head, but she didn’t have time to pinpoint why.

Then her father went on the offensive. “I don’t appreciate you calling into question my decisions, Jessica.”

“Well, I don’t appreciate you making jokes at my expense. How am I to gain respect when you belittle me?”

“You need to toughen up, girl. This is a hard business run by men. If you can’t take a little joke, maybe you’re not cut out for the boardroom. Maybe you belong in a smaller kitchen.” His eyebrows rose along with the corners of his mouth. He’d thrown out the bait he knew she couldn’t resist.

“We aren’t living in the fifties, old man. There are women CEOs and world leaders … what are you going to do if our next president is a woman? Tell her to bring you some coffee?”

“For a start. If you want to sit on Montgomery’s board as CFO, you have to prove you’re the best man for the job. I sure as shit won’t have anyone accusing me of nepotism.”

“No, just harassment. Of your own daughter, I might add. If I manage to get Logan Wilde to accept this job, everyone will assume I slept with him. And for goodness sake, quit calling me ‘girl’ at work. You are such a—” A slew of epitaphs rolled through her head. Maybe he’d respect her more if she let them fly. But while her father had taught her how to make deals and negotiate, her mother had insisted she be schooled in the vanishing art of being a lady, which included refraining from vulgarities.

A banked anger flared red in her father’s cheeks. He’d only been toying with her like a trapped butterfly. Now that he decided to rip her wings off, his dark gray eyes went from hot coal to hard slate. “Let me put this another way. Get Logan Wilde to accept my offer or the CFO job is off the table for the foreseeable future.”

“That’s not fair!” The whine of her voice tossed her back into the trials of her childhood. The high heel of her shoe tapped against the wooden leg of her chair, and she slumped forward. Darn it, how did things degenerate?

The calm voice of her therapist tried to insert itself into the tornado of her resentment.
Deep breaths; let logic rule, not emotions; stay in control
. The words swirled and retreated out of reach.

“Life isn’t fair, it’s work,
girl
. The only way you’re moving up in my company is if you make deals. So get to making one. Nearest airport is Birmingham. I expect a report by the end of the week. Or sooner.”

Jessica’s mouth opened to offer an argument, or maybe an insult. She wasn’t sure what she’d been ready to say. Her father stalked out the door, leaving her sitting in the conference room alone.

It didn’t matter that she was twenty-nine, a 4.0 graduate of the Wharton School of Business, and the youngest executive at Montgomery, childish tears sprang to her eyes. She didn’t know if she was madder at her father or at her own lack of gumption. Maybe he was right. Maybe she didn’t deserve to be CFO. Maybe she wasn’t tough enough.

Muffled laughter came from the hallway. Two men from the meeting walked by with Styrofoam cups of coffee. Both glanced in her direction. Were they laughing at her?

She flipped back to the magazine article, keeping her eyes down. A few blinks cleared her vision, and with a deep, practiced breath, a calm, icy control descended, smothering her out-of-control emotions.

Logan Wilde had obviously charmed the pants off the writer—maybe literally—which hinted at a smarmy businessman interested in publicity, yet he’d turned her father’s generous offer down. Reginald Montgomery was both intimidating and persuasive, often at the same time. A potent combination. How was she to succeed where her father had failed?

Yet, if she did succeed, the dream job he continuously dangled just out of reach would be hers. Her pride urged her to march into his office and tell him to shove it where the sun don’t shine, but her logical side applied the salve.

If she quit Montgomery, it would take another dozen or more years in another company to reach the position she currently held. Her mother would throw an epic hissy fit before pointing out the two pounds Jessica had gained since the last time she’d been home. Her sister would shake her head so the hundred-dollar blowout to her perfectly honeyed blonde hair showed to its full advantage while still conveying disappointment.

Her thoughts moved forward. Falcon was two hours from Birmingham, so she’d drive from Richmond and dip through the red-clay plains of southern Georgia, where she’d spent part of her summers. She’d visit her ma-maw’s old house and take some flowers to her grave. Lord knows, her father never bothered to pay his respects to his mother. Then she’d head to Falcon, Alabama, and do her best to convince Logan Wilde his dream job awaited in Atlanta.

She would play her father’s games, but she’d play her way. All business.

#

“Sorry I had to call you back early, Coach. That stove is a beast. I was afraid I’d screw things up if I tried to fix it.”

“I’m not your coach when you’re working at Adaline’s. You can call me Logan.”

Scott Larkin, one of the Falcon football rising senior linemen, gave him a shy smile, his gaze dropping to fill a glass with ice from behind the bar. “It’s weird to call a grown-up by their first name.”

Damn. Was that what he was now? A grown-up? He supposed at thirty-one, he finally qualified. “‘Mr. Wilde,’ if you insist, but I’m fine with ‘Logan.’”

“How’d you make out?” Scott asked.

Logan killed the sweet tea Scott slid down the bar in half a dozen swallows. He tapped his glass, and the boy refilled it from a sweating pitcher. Rubbing a bar towel over his sweat-streaked face and down the two-week’s growth of beard, he smeared grease over the white cotton.

Damn, August in Alabama felt like the pits of hell. Another trickle of sweat snaked from his temple into his beard, and he scratched at the coarse hair running down his neck. Strike that, continue south
past
the pits of hell and keep on going until the heat incinerated you to ash and the humidity clogged your lungs, making each breath an effort.
That
was Alabama in August during a heat wave.

“Unearthed four sounders of wild pigs. Less than last summer. I think we’re finally getting the upper hand.” He’d spent over a week in solitude, wandering from camp to camp, hunting the ferocious pigs that had invaded the river bottoms. He’d been alone, but not lonely.

The rhythm of the woods was written in Logan’s DNA, and he moved instinctively, cutting through the forest, leaving the man-made trails behind. Once he’d lost his human scent, he’d almost become a wild creature himself. The wind spoke to him through the trees, and he’d come across deer, raccoons, squirrels, and birds. A copperhead slithered across his path, and he’d only tipped his hat in deference to its dominance.

Eventually, reality intruded. Robbie Dalton, his cousin-in-law and Falcon’s head football coach, had joined him for the last two days of the hunt. The football season was starting soon, and their quiet hunting time was interspersed with discussions of lineups and strategy.

Scott wiped down the bar, the fresh scent of lemony cleaner filling the air. The boy’s arm flexed. Thin silvery streaks marred the tan of his bicep. Stretch marks? Logan made a closer examination of his lineman. As the football team’s strength and conditioning coach, Logan paid attention to which boys had yet to hit puberty and which could handle the extra reps and bulk that came with unleashed testosterone.

Scott had been gangly and knock-kneed last spring. Now suddenly he had gained a man’s muscles, and a few inches in height. His dad Ben, a former Falcon linebacker who’d played for Alabama, had probably pushed some crazy workout regimen on the kid. Lord save him from well-meaning helicopter parents living vicariously through their offspring.

“What have you been doing this summer, Scott? You’ve gained some bulk.”

Instead of flexing and showing off, Scott pulled the sleeve of his short-sleeve broadcloth shirt down. “Lifting some in the garage and running is all.”

Logic told him the kid had hit a growth spurt and had been working out, yet niggling unease fluttered in his stomach.

The back door swung open and Brian, his bartender-manager, strode through. A crate of highball glasses tinkled with his every step. Logan called out to him, “I’m going to have to head home to shower. I don’t want to turn anyone’s stomach. Everything set for the dinner opening?”

“You know it, boss. Everything’s good to go now our stove crisis has been averted. The new menu is going over well with the staff and the customers.” Brian grinned and unloaded glasses from behind the bar. It was Saturday, and the dinner crowd would be heavy. Weekends attracted diners from the bigger cities who came for the quaint atmosphere.

“Glad to hear it. Kept it simple for the newbies.” The spread in
Southern Living
had benefited the whole town, and Adaline’s saw a bump in business whenever he switched up the menu. Out-of-towners meant increased tourism dollars for everyone. Logan had gone from being the town fuck-up to one of its saviors. The irony never failed to amuse him.

Yet for all his recent success, someone always brought up his past. The drifting, the drugs, the drinking. Usually in a “look how far you’ve come” sort of speech, but sometimes given in a “we’re waiting for you to screw the pooch again” sort of tone. He loved Falcon, but the offhand, sometimes teasing remarks pissed him off and made him feel restless and boxed in.

Brian returned to the kitchen, and Scott scuttled behind. Logan was alone. He turned on the stool, leaning back and resting his elbows against the mahogany bar. Blessed cool air poured out of the ceiling vent and offered some relief. A quick wash in the river had helped eliminate the grime of two weeks living in the woods, but he’d gotten dirty and sweaty again fixing the temperamental high-end stove.

The calm before patrons showed up never failed to incite a bittersweet sadness for the restaurant’s namesake, his grandmother Ada Wilde. Portraits and quotes from her favorite Southern writers covered the walls. He let his eyes drift shut, memories of Ada scrolling.

Sunlight flashed. The heavy wooden front door clanged. He slit his eyes open. A woman stood in the doorway, pulling off big round sunglasses and looking around.

His gaze drifted down her body. A floaty, sleeveless, pale pink top and a gray pencil skirt to her knees. Long, gorgeous legs teetered in black heels, but she was too skinny and severe for his taste. Although, who was he kidding, he’d be up for just about anything. He’d been going through a dry spell. No, an extreme drought. His last date had been over the winter. Pathetic.

She approached the bar with a swishy walk. His gaze was glued to her legs the whole time. Damn. They really were outstanding. The woman cleared her throat, and his face shot up. He’d obviously been in the woods for too long. Heat burned up the back of his neck.

Diamond studs played peekaboo in dark brownish red hair hanging to her chin; her bangs cut a straight line above finely arched eyebrows. She looked expensive.

“Excuse me, sir. I’m looking for the owner of this establishment.”

He’d half-expected a Russian accent and for her name to be Natasha. Her sweet, throaty drawl had him blinking a few times in silence and staring like the village idiot.

A hitch snagged her words, and she spoke slowly as if he really were the village idiot. “Is his office in the back; perhaps, I’ll check—” She took a step backward and to the side, glancing toward the swinging kitchen door.

“He’s not back there.” Logan ran a hand down his beard and pulled at his chin hair.

“How do you know?”

“Just do.”

The woman tucked a piece of hair behind an ear, the curled tip a point against the fair skin of her jaw. A smattering of freckles formed faint constellations over the bridge of her nose. She shifted on her heels, and his gaze darted down again. Fucking gorgeous.

“Will he be in this evening for dinner hours? I need to speak with him.”

His guard went up. He’d attracted a few women lately who had read the
Southern Living
article and decided it was open season on single restaurateurs. The writer they’d sent had been young, pretty, flirtatious. He’d dialed back the charm and kept everything professional. Hadn’t helped. A fair amount of embarrassment at her fawning descriptions of him had tempered the excitement at getting free advertising in a major publication. Logan had never imagined chef-groupies existed, but all kinds of weird inhabited the world.

“About a job?” he asked.

The tiniest of smiles flared, lighting the stoniness of her demeanor with a very non-Natasha-like charm. “Yes, about a job.”

“He’s not hiring.”

“And how would you know? Are you the manager?” It was her turn to examine him from head to toe. His work boots, grease-lined jeans with a rip at one knee, and formerly white T-shirt didn’t impress—if her dismissive huff was any indication.