Boss Meets Her Match

SATURDAY MORNING, SHE rolled out of bed with a groan and, not bothering with a shower, put on her running clothes and shoes. Sweeping her hair up into a high ponytail, she stepped out the rear entrance of her condominium. Perfect day for a run. Sixty-five and sunny. She stretched for a few minutes, and then headed out on her normal three-mile route. Along Waterfront Park to Adgers Wharf, East Bay to the Battery, Murray to South Battery back to East Bay, where she reversed her course. She started out and made it all the way to the High Battery before she needed to start her mental narrative of “Pizza and wine, pizza and wine, pizza and wine.” She’d inherited her mother’s and aunt’s tendency for a big butt and running was the only thing that kept it in check.

Mentally adding another two hundred calories burned from dodging tourists, she reached the stairs to the Low Battery and pressed on. The throngs of tourists thinned out dramatically once she’d passed White Point Garden and left her obligated only to lift a hand or grunt out a greeting to fellow runners as she passed. And she had a date. With Eduardo. Tonight. Just do it. Suck it up. One night. Then maybe la familia will leave you alone. The thought made her kick up her pace. Was there anything more excruciating than dating at her age?

The food. Just think of the food. She turned down South Battery with the menu of Halls Chophouse on her mind. An hour or so of awkward small talk is a fair price to pay for some of the best food in Charleston, right? You can do this. She huffed out a sigh. Flipped a middle finger at a dude who called out “Qué pasa, chica” as she ran past him. What to wear? You’re gonna have to shave if you want to wear a dress.

The “to shave or not to shave” debate got her back to Waterfront Park. She slowed to a walk as she approached the pineapple-shaped water fountain at the center of the park, cooling down and getting her breath back. Nope. If she was going to be forced on a date, she was going to pull out all her weapons. And her legs were killer.

“Hello, Ms. Reyes.”

She turned at the sound of the voice. And froze. Great. Here you are dripping sweat and probably smelling like a dead goat in the sun and there is Mr. Hot-Frat-Boy. She stopped and put her hands on her hips. Dear, sweet baby Jesus in the manger. He was splayed out on a blanket in the grass, propped up on his elbows. The paint-smeared T-shirt he wore rode up just enough for her to get a glimpse of hard abs and a little dark blond fuzz. There was an honest-to-God palette on the blanket beside him and an easel holding a canvas. Bad-boy grin was on full power.

She took a few steps in his direction. “Mr. Matthews.”

He pulled himself up to sit cross-legged on the blanket. “Matt, please. I beg of you. Mr. Matthews makes me feel like I should get a haircut and put on a suit or something. Beautiful day, don’t you think?”

She stopped at the edge of the blanket. She didn’t get him. Everything about him screamed entitled, rich white boy but he didn’t show it. At all. “Yes,” she said, sarcasm dripping from each word. “It is quite a lovely day, Mr. Matthews.”

He grinned and her stomach went quivery. A frown creased her face. Do that again, gut, and no dessert for you tonight.

“Come on, I’m sorry for the other night. Really, I am. Why won’t you accept my apology? I’d like to be friends.”

She looked at the painting. Unlike the large, minimalist paintings she’d seen at the Gallery, this was much more to her taste. A softer Jonathan Green–style of the fountain and the trees with their trails of Spanish moss swaying in the breeze.

“Whatcha think?” he asked.

“I like this better than the other stuff.”

“Why won’t you accept my apology?”

She looked back at him and crossed her arms. “Because you don’t get it.”

He held his hands out, palms up. “Then tell me what I don’t get.”

She pressed her lips together for a moment. Think, Magdalena, think. He is a client. “What you did was wrong. Not because I turned out to be who I am but because it’s wrong to pull that on anyone. Any woman would have been embarrassed. You are apologizing to me because you need me to handle your money. You need to be looking at why you wanted to embarrass a woman like that.”

She waited as he stared up at her. Here it comes. It was just a joke. I didn’t mean it like that. You’re overreacting. He got to his feet with one graceful motion.

“Crap. I never saw it like that. You’re right.” He ran a hand down his beard. “Now I feel like shit.”

She managed to hide how stunned she was. He was taking responsibility? He was being enlightened? Wow. Okay. Don’t gloat. Be nice. “Now,” she said, holding out a hand, “I’ll accept your apology, Matt.”

He took her hand and held it between both his. “Thank you for telling me that. I do try not to be an asshole most of the time.”

She slipped her hand away from his before she couldn’t hide the rush of heat she was feeling. “We’re all just humans, doing the best we can in the moment.”

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she said with a vague gesture at her sweaty self. “I need to finish my cooldown.”

* * *

MATT WATCHED LENA walk away. The grin came back. He could think of a couple of things he’d like to do with her in the moment. He liked that she’d made him work for his apology. Liked that she’d surprised him with her blunt assessment of his behavior. Fawning sorority girls had never been his type. He’d always preferred brains over beauty. But Magdalena Reyes seemed to possess ample amounts of both. The bits of fire and steel he saw in her only intrigued him further.

He carefully cleaned his brush and bent to pick up his palette. He normally didn’t paint in public, preferring to paint from photographs when doing landscapes, but the day was so perfect. Much different from Chevy Chase where October meant winter was on the way. Charleston was near perfection in October.

As he put a few finishing touches on the painting, he kept glancing up, watching Lena’s progress along the path. Two buildings past the fountain and the City Gallery, she turned into one of the many condominiums that lined the park. Expensive real estate. Must be true what Dr. Rutledge said. She spun money out of straw.

“Pack it up,” he muttered under his breath. “She’s about ten miles outta your league, man.”

He broke down the easel and cleaned off the palette. Sitting back down on the blanket, he cleaned the brushes. Those things were not cheap and he needed them to last as long as possible. After packing everything away for the long walk back home, he lay back down on the blanket to enjoy a bit more of the day and to let the canvas dry. His phone rang and he fished it out of his back pocket.

His mother. This couldn’t be good.

“Hey, Mom, what’s up?” he answered. Knowing she hated Mom and preferred Mother. Capital M.

The brief moment of silence was to chasten him for his word choice. “Nothing,” her frosty voice finally replied, “is ‘up,’ Charles. I am phoning to let you know that your father and I will be visiting Charleston in a few weeks. Your father has a business meeting. We will see you for dinner.”

He let his own silence play out. She knew he hated being called Charles. He also hated the way she told him he’d have dinner with them rather than asking. Nothing new, but he’d hoped that since he was over thirty years old now, she’d treat him somewhat like an adult. He sighed. Such was the life of the black sheep. If only he’d become a lawyer. Interned for some powerful senator who owed his father a favor, then moved on to a lucrative lobbying position, scamming people for the sake of a billionaire or two, then his parents might not treat him like a dirty secret.

“Sure, that’d be great. Just let me know the night so I can clear any plans I might have.”

“Your sister is having another baby.”

Ah. Moving right on to major disappointment number two. His two sisters were popping out the grandbabies left and right, but he, the only son, the only carrier of the Matthews family name, had thus far failed to produce a Charles Beaumont Matthews the Sixth.

“Awesome. Which one?”

“Susannah. She’s due in April.”

“Tell her and Biff I sent my congratulations.”

“His name is Bill.”

“Is Biff Charlotte’s husband? I get them mixed up.”

“You are being unpleasant. Goodbye.”

“Bye, Mom,” he said as she ended the call.

It wasn’t that he didn’t love his family. He just didn’t like them very much. Boring. Predictable. And so many damned rules.

He stood to gather his things when the phone rang again. He almost didn’t look, sure it was his father calling to yell at him for upsetting his mother. And his mother merely annoyed him. His father could push buttons that made him want to punch walls. But it was Eliot Rutledge. This was random.

“Dr. Rutledge, how are you?”

“Eliot, please, son. How many times do I have to ask?”

“Enough to overcome the ruthless teachings of several deportment for proper gentlemen classes, sir.”

Eliot laughed. “Yes. I have a daughter who was politely asked to leave several of those.”