Rewind.
I had an eight o’clock?
Margie makes an apologetic face. “He called and scheduled last minute, so he wasn’t on your calendar. He needs to go over his dad’s finances and heard you were the best.”
He’s right but even I need some prep time.
“Give me five minutes and then show him in,” I say. “Hit him with coffee and doughnuts or something. A nice bran muffin, courtesy of the house.”
No matter how much money they have, people always like free food, and Margie’s a goddess at smoothing ruffled feathers. If the newest client on the block is upset by starting at 8:06, she’ll fix it. I grab the folder Margie holds out to me. Usually, Margie would enter the client’s information into our system, but since he’s a last-minute appointment, she hasn’t had the chance.
I park at my desk and start flipping through the papers. Jeez. The client’s reason for arriving in my office before eight in the morning is painfully clear. The father has some kind of military pension, an annuity, significant gambling winnings and a less lucrative penchant for day-trading. Oh, and a trailer in a park about a hundred miles outside Vegas—not exactly waterfront property.
Margie buzzes, our signal that I should come collect my new clients. Brain working overtime, I head out.
And stop short.
Margie doesn’t notice I’m flustered because her own cheeks are pink. Vik has that effect on women.
“Mr. Ash Ilin and Mr. Serge Ilin,” Margie says as if she’s announcing the King and Queen of England. I practically hear trumpets and a twenty-one-gun salute.
Instead of a crown, Vik carries a cup of coffee. I wonder if the man has ever worn a suit. Bet if he got married, he’d hit the church in jeans and leather. Beside him, an older, more wrinkled and weather-beaten version clutches an enormous stack of doughnuts wrapped in a napkin.
“Thanks, darling.” Vik gives Margie a big smile and she beams back like they’ve been best friends since the second grade. His gaze shifts to me.
Shoot.
That one-night fuck buddy thing we had? I don’t think it’s over. Completely inappropriate, not-safe-for-work heat stabs through me. And it’s a total waste because whatever brought Vik here, it’s not me. He’s not jonesing for a repeat of our booty call, and whatever he wants from me, it’s not a relationship. The man’s a man whore, candy of the best kind, and I am officially on a diet.
Starting now.
Maybe I didn’t make our onetime status clear. Maybe all the screaming and oh-God-more-now-please confused him. But he’s super-cute with his dad.
“What are you doing here?”
“Financial things,” he says cheerfully, and tips his head at the old guy by his side. “This is my dad.”
Introductions are made, and I can’t help but notice that Vik’s father checks me out very, very carefully. Not in a creepy way, but as if he’s interested in more than my financial planning skills. He beams at me when he shakes my hand, declaring that he’s thrilled to finally meet me.
Finally?
I turn back to Vik. “I’m still confused as to why you’re here.”
Vik winks. “I’m your eight o’clock.”
When I said he needed an appointment to get into my...office, I was only playing.
Mostly.
The only thing worse than having a secret crush on a badass biker is having that same biker show up at your office on a Monday morning. Just in time...wait for it...for all the senior partners to walk past on their way to their weekly meeting. The suit parade slows to take inventory. Our clients come in all shapes, sizes and colors, and there’s no dress code. Honestly, the only thing that matters is the size of your bank account and your willingness to let us play with it. But even so, Vik sticks out.
Polite surprise is etched across their sober faces. And while I know some of them cut up on their downtime, once they’re in the office, it’s game time. Our minimum requirement for doing business is usually a cool million—and Vik’s dad has a trailer and a military pension. Unless said trailer is parked on top of a massive oil well or perhaps a diamond mine, I’m not sure how I can help—but I want to.
Vik rocks back on his heels—heels in well-worn leather motorcycle boots—and nods agreeably at the parade. He looks every inch the badass biker (except for the little old man accessory that he clearly cares about) and I can feel disapproval from my coworkers and bosses. Or maybe I’m just projecting.
“Let’s go into my office and hash this out.” I lead the way, pretending I can’t feel Vik’s gaze checking out my butt.
My office isn’t a corner office—not yet—but it’s nice. I’ve got a big black power desk and a pair of expensive black leather sofas. And since I like a little color, I’ve got a matching set of modern art prints I scored in a half-price sale at West Elm. Most important, however, I have a window. The view mostly consists of pigeons taking craps on the ledge, but it’s mine, and unless I get promoted, I’ll give it up over my cold, dead body.
Vik settles his dad—Mr. Ilin—in a chair and hands him the cup of coffee. Ilin Senior takes an enormous slurp of coffee and beams at me. “Awesome doughnuts.”
“You’re welcome.” And he truly is.
“So.” I sit down behind my desk. Texting is so much easier than this face-to-face stuff.
Vik flashes me a smile. “I really am here to sort out my old man’s finances.”
“I have it handled.” Vik’s dad sounds downright grumpy, so I don’t think it’s the first time they’ve had this conversation.
“Bullshit,” Vik sums up. “You couldn’t pay your rent because you’d stashed the cash underneath your couch. What wasn’t there was tucked into coffee cans. None of it was in the fucking bank where it belonged, so you wrote a check that bounced.”
He has a point.
“Okay. Since you’re
