Elizabeth Bevarly - That Boss Of Mine

He narrowed his eyes at her, as if he hadn’t thought about it like that. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “In any event, they’ve paid me money to do work for them, haven’t they? So I’ll do my best by them.”

He started toward his office, then hesitated, slowing his pace until he had stopped completely in his tracks. For one long moment he only stood there, gazing blindly at a blank spot on the wall. Audrey didn’t say anything to disturb him, as he seemed to have his mind fixed intently on something very important that had nothing to do with the nice shade of mauve there. When he turned to look at her, he was smiling, a tentative, secretive little smile that she found very becoming.

“Hold my calls this morning, will you, Miss Finnegan?” he asked quietly, in a voice that told her he was still quite preoccupied. “I think I have an idea for the new Windsor Deli account.” He nodded slowly, then began to walk toward his office again. “Yeah, I do,” he muttered triumphantly. But he didn’t seem to be talking to Audrey. “I have a really, really good idea.”

When he disappeared into his office and closed the door behind him, she smiled with much satisfaction. See? He really did need her. Even if it was just to be a reassuring presence in his life.

She turned in her chair and eyed the computer terminal on her desk with as much confidence as she could muster. Then, after pushing up the sleeves of her fuchsia sweater, she doubled her fists and held them aloft like a prizefighter.

“Okay,” she said to the machine. “You and me, we’re going to have a little session. I’m going to type some letters, and you’re going to let me do it without beeping or booping or going blank on me. Got it?”

The cursor blinked at her benignly, but the computer uttered not a sound. She nodded victoriously. “Good,” she said.

And, humming “You Were Meant for Me” under her breath, Audrey went to work.

It was amazing, really, Wheeler thought some hours later, what you could do with the germ of an idea. As he gazed at the project on his work table, he smiled with much satisfaction. Damn, he was good. He’d forgotten just how good, over the past few months. He remembered now why he’d gone into this line of work to begin with. Because it was interesting. Because it was fun. Because it was what he did best.

He was coming out of his slump now—he could feel it. He didn’t know why or how it had come about, but Rush Commercial Designs, Inc. was about to undergo an upswing. A major upswing. He could feel it. Somehow, he just knew he was on the road to recovery. The two new accounts that had come about last week, even if they were meager, were just the beginning. Best of all, his creativity was back. His brain was functioning again. His talent and skills hadn’t packed up and abandoned him, after all. And now he was ready to recoup the losses he’d suffered.

As if inspired by his optimism, there was a soft rap at Wheeler’s office door that sounded remarkably like opportunity knocking. He smiled at the very idea.

“Yes, Miss Finnegan?” he called out.

The door opened slowly, as if she were being extra careful not to create some debacle that would blow it off its hinges. Thankfully all that happened was that the door got stuck on a bump in the carpet, so she had to shove it a few times—real hard—to get it to open. Unfortunately she wound up putting a bit more effort into her final push than was actually necessary, because the door gave just as her shoulder made contact, an action that resulted in her barreling over the threshold at an alarming speed.

Fortunately—a wild occurrence for her—she recovered herself before she went sprawling onto her knees or into Wheeler—so she ended up only looking a little foolish, and not doing anyone any bodily harm. The bright spots of pink that appeared on her cheeks were almost exactly the same hue as the bright fuchsia outfit she wore—from neck to toe—and he marveled again that when it came to her wardrobe, she was just so terribly...uh...monochromatic. Still, there was a lot to be said for a woman in a hot-pink dress.

“Sorry,” she mumbled after she’d righted herself.

“No problem,” Wheeler replied automatically.

It was, after all, an exchange the two of them shared at least a dozen times daily since her arrival at the office.

“What was it you wanted, Miss Finnegan?”

“Oh. There’s a Mr. Bernardi on the phone,” she said. “I would have buzzed you on the intercom, but I sort of broke it. Again.” She blushed once more, then hurried on, “But this Mr. Bernardi...?”

Wheeler narrowed his eyes at the announcement, recognizing the name—who in Louisville wouldn’t?—but certain his optimism had overtaken his good sense. “Not Charles Bernardi? The CEO of Bernardi Electronics?” he asked, knowing he was foolish to feel so hopeful. It was probably Joe Bernardi, bill collector, leaving a threatening message.

But when Miss Finnegan brightened, Wheeler knew his first assumption must be correct. “Yeah, that’s him,” she said. “He’s a really nice man. His mother and my mother are both in the same bunco club—can you imagine the coincidence?”

“You know Charles Bernardi?” he asked, incredulous. There was no way she could be traveling in the same social circle as Louisville’s foremost businessman and rumored billionaire.

She shook her head. “Oh, gosh, no. At least, I didn’t until a few minutes ago. But he’s very easy to talk to.”

Now Wheeler squeezed his eyes shut. His temp had been out there chatting up Charles Bernardi? Oh, great. So much for hoping for that account.

“Anyway,” she said, “he wants to talk to you. You were recommended by the owner of Windsor Deli, who just happens to be Mr. Bernardi’s daughter.”

“No way,” Wheeler said.

She nodded, smiling. “Big way. So you might want to take the call.”

She didn’t have to tell him twice. Wheeler fairly leaped from his seat and snatched up the telephone.

Twenty minutes later, he had made an appointment to offer a presentation to the biggest employer in town, one that, should he land the account—and even after only twenty minutes on the phone with Charles Bernardi, he was fairly confident he would land the account—would pull his business right up from the bottom of the heap.

And for some reason, all he could think was that Miss Finnegan was somehow partly responsible. He had no idea why such an idea had landed in his head, but it was a feeling he just couldn’t shake. Funny, but ever since he’d taken her on last week, he’d gradually begun to pull out of his slump. He’d had a couple of very good ideas, had signed a handful of new accounts and looked to be this close to closing another, one that would be an absolute lifesaver. Or, at least, a business saver. This was definitely the beginning of good things for Wheeler.

Huh. How about that? he thought. Miss Audrey Finnegan, with all her ill fortune, was turning out to be quite the good-luck charm for him.

Wheeler smiled at the thought. Nah. That was going a bit too far. There was no way a woman like that, with whom bad luck walked hand in hand, could ever be a lucky talisman for anyone. Still, the morning’s events called for a celebration of sorts. So he rose and made his way to the outer office, where he found his secretary muttering something that sounded marginally profane under her breath at the computer.

“Miss Finnegan,” he said.

She jumped at the sound of his voice, spinning around so quickly in her chair that she almost tumbled right out of it. Thankfully, at the last minute, she grabbed the side of her desk and managed—just barely—to stay seated.