Page 2 of What I'm Looking For

He begins to count off a list on his fingers as if he didn’t hear me. “Strengths? You work hard. You admit when you’ve made a mistake and move on from it. You don’t panic when the ground shifts. I was particularly impressed with your calm during last fall’s debacle.”

We both shudder. October 19, 1987. Black Monday.

I’d been at the firm for less than a week the day the stock market fell twenty-two percent. The biggest drop in a single day. Ever.

To survive, I drew on the only thing I had: my history degree. Examining patterns from our country’s past recessions made the choices clear. Stick with stocks with solid fundamentals, no matter what they were doing in the short run. While a few guys in our department might have yelled louder as they recommended buying this hot thing and selling another doomed to fail, the meticulously reviewed reports I silently slid onto Roland’s desk must’ve resonated.

“Especially for a woman,” he continues. “You showed more emotional fortitude than most of the young men here, which I must say surprised me.”

Before I can fully parse that backhanded praise, he knocks on his desk. “This is precisely why we need those skills of yours out in the field. First, you’ve got to see the businesses you follow in person. That’s the only way you’ll get the full picture. Then you take that knowledge directly to our investment clients. You’ll be an invaluable resource to the sales department—if you can learn to command a room. And that’s the weakness you’ve got to overcome.”

Fingers spread like claws on the desk, he swoops in to finish off his argument. “If you’re unable to do that, we may have to rethink your position here. If it’s not going to be you moving up, I’ll be moving on to the next young man.”

After rapidly running my own personal debt ratios, an alternative squeaks out. “Could I go with you before I go out on my own? I would feel so much more confident if I shadowed you first.”

His gaze shifts toward the large picture window with a view of the Boston Public Garden.

After a painfully long pause, he opens his Filofax, flips through it and taps a page. “I do have a trip down south in a couple of weeks to tour several textile and apparel manufacturing sites. It’s a full one, so it might work to have an extra set of eyes and ears along.” Frosty blue eyes meet mine. “We could tack a marketing meeting with some of our investment clients in Atlanta onto the end of the trip. That way, you’ll get to experience meeting with business owners and money managers.”

“That sounds perfect.” I clear my throat and aim for a deeper tone. “Thank you.”

“All right then.” His finger points at a different spot in his calendar. “You are still planning to cover the sportswear conference at the convention center next week?”

“Oh, yes. I have appointments with a few companies.”

“It’d be even better if you scout at the trade show for new contacts.”

Ugh.Meeting more people. Why can’t I just stay in my cubicle and churn out models?Because then you’ll never get out of that cubicle, dummy.“I will try—Iwilladd that to my plan.”

“Work out the particulars on the travel with Gail on your way out.”

“Great. Thank you again.”

“Thank you, Kate,” he intones, dismissing me.

I manage to keep my cool as I make my exit and speak with Gail about the trip, but the swell of emotions burbling inside threatens to spill over, so I make a quick detour to the ladies’ again. After running in place for thirty seconds, I’m back under control. I also have an idea. If I can find a sales guy I trust to have my back and work the room, then meeting investment clients would be easier. Maybe I could even audition one at the upcoming athletic wear trade show. Pushing out of the restroom while running pros and cons on the various sales personalities, I run smack into a broad chest cloaked in fine cotton.

Masculine hands grip my upper arms to separate our bodies. “Careful there, Kate.”

Deep voice, killer dimples, and chestnut brown eyes set off by a complexion that can only have come from a tanning booth this time of year. The sales guy the secretaries call “Hot Steve.”

Shuddering out a half-laugh, I take a step back. “Sorry. Need to watch where I’m going, I guess.” Clutching my portfolio, I ease out of his hold.

“Not so fast there, girl.” He drapes an arm over my shoulders like a spider cozying up to a fly. A smooth-talking, pheromone-leaking spider. “You going to join us at happy hour tonight?”

I know there are women at the firm who’d jump at the invitation, but his whole act just irritates me. I open my mouth to answer,so you guys can just make fun of me?

Before I can get a word out, he places a finger over my lips and whispers, “Shh, Kate. Don’t say no.”

Does he even know how cheesy he is? I remove the offending finger.

With impressive agility, he captures my hand and presses it to his heart. “It’s just a couple drinks. The other analysts join us when we can unchain them from their desks. Everybody just wants to get to know you better, see if straitlaced Kate can let her hair?—”

Roland’s words echo inside my head, drowning out Hot Steve’s attempt at sweet talk.We may have to rethink your position here.

I retrieve my hand and awkwardly pat him on an impressively muscular upper arm. “You know what? I’ll go.” Happy hour with the boys isn’t my idea of a good time, but it might be the best way to observe the candidates in the wild, so to speak. The loss of one hour at my desk versus the loss of my job? The tradeoff is clear. “Yeah. I’ll go.”

Hot Steve’s posture stiffens. He sweeps the hallway with a hawk-like gaze. Grasping my elbow, he steers me to the water cooler. Casually bending down to fill a cup, he speaks out of the corner of his mouth. “Are you serious? Because there’s a longstanding wager that you’llnevergo to happy hour. If you’re coming, I need to change my bet.” He looks over his shoulder before leaning down to whisper in my ear. “Meet us at the Bull and Finch—you know, theCheersbar—at five thirty. Don’t tell anyone you agreed to come, and I’ll cut you in on my winnings. Now, push me away like you usually do when someone comes on to you.”

---