Unbreak My Heart (Rough Riders Legacy #1)(5)
Mostly because I’d chickened out. Again.
In addition to my tasks at Daniels Property Management today, I had a presentation to prep for next week for PCE—Phoenix Collegiate Entrepreneurs—a woman’s business group we organized at ASU when we realized there weren’t any support groups for our demographic: women starting home-based businesses or women in jobs where their colleagues were predominantly male. Ten business admin students, all female, all who’d had some level of success in starting a business, had banded together and pooled our knowledge so we could help each other. Within six months our group had fifty members and a dozen women in the community who’d volunteered as mentors.
Being a founding member of the group was one of the things I was most proud of. I still spent a considerable amount of time volunteering for PCE because creating a better business environment for women remained my passion.
I just wished I could do that here; reignite the passion I’d brought to this job. I couldn’t blame my restlessness on a lousy salary. Or limited opportunities for advancement. Although I was Gavin Daniels’ only heir, I’d insisted on an entry-level position at DPM. I could’ve gone to work for several other companies after graduating from college—I’d been heavily recruited due to my impressive resume, my work founding PCE, my GPA and the connection to my father. But since I’d indicated an interest in taking over both Daniels Development Group and Daniels Property Management when Dad retired, I figured I had at least a dozen years to learn how to run everything. Since I’d spent more time at DDG over the years, I wanted to understand DPM from the ground up.
That didn’t mean I was a third-generation slacker with entitlement issues and zero work ethic. During college I’d worked as my father’s virtual intern. No pay but what I’d learned had been invaluable.
There’d been resentment after I’d officially been hired at DPM. Management passed off the lowest-priority clients to me. I had bigger goals for myself than being a glorified landlord. So I convinced those clients to let me implement my ideas for total automation. Everything from direct deposit for rent collection to vetting potential service providers. Since DPM had a decent profit margin with the management fees we charged, when I cut new deals with the vendors on behalf of my clients, I passed the savings on to them.
When other DPM clients got wind of the changes…they demanded the same type of deals. Which was exactly what I’d banked on. So my first year as a glorified landlord I’d completely revamped the entire DPM payment system.
Color the CEO impressed. But he’d also been agitated that none of his long-time managers had attempted to modernize an outdated business model. So he’d rewarded me for my innovative thinking by granting me a promotion—a big promotion—from entry level to upper management.
That’s when the nastiness really kicked in; the implication that I hadn’t earned the promotion. My father was a brilliant businessman and the smartest guy in any room and thankfully I’d inherited some of his business acumen. But I’d risen up the ranks on my own merits. I’d put up the amount of hours I’d worked against anyone else’s.
Another fun aspect of the job in addition to the assumed nepotism was the sexism and the ageism. Men I’d known for years were patronizing and condescending when they dealt with me. How could I possibly know anything about real business? The ink on my diploma was fresh. I had tits, not balls. What really rankled were the smug remarks about having Daddy fight my battles. No wonder my enthusiasm had cooled.
Two raps sounded on my office door, then Nikki poked her head in. “Your eleven thirty is here.”
I frowned at my assistant. “Marty is early?”
“It’s not Marty. I assumed you forgot to enter in this appointment.” She sent another quick glance over her shoulder. “You want me to send him packing?”
“No. Show him in.” I printed out my questions for Marty. I planned to pick his brain about what to look for when hiring a headhunting firm. PCE had reached the stage where it needed a full-time paid administrator.
From the doorway I heard, “A corner office already?”
That voice. For years it’d haunted me, a deep rasp that couldn’t possibly be as sexy and compelling as I’d remembered.
I went utterly still behind my computer screen.
What the hell was he doing here?
A snarky inner voice said: He told you he’d track you down.
An equally bitchy voice retorted: So? He told me many things and never followed through with any of them.
“I’m impressed, McKay.”
And then Boone West sauntered through my door as if he had every right to be here.
I might’ve ordered him out, if I hadn’t been so busy drinking him in. I’d been too feverish in Sundance to mentally catalog the similarities and differences in Old Boone and this Second Edition Boone.
Old Boone had shuffled along, shoulders slumped, chin tucked down, hair obscuring his face.
Second Edition Boone had that military swagger: chin up, direct eye contact, super-sized body on full alert.
He’d filled out, becoming taller and broader. The extra height and weight looked good on him. Before, he’d worn his dark hair a little too long; it’d constantly flopped in his face. Now he sported a military cut. The shorter style accentuated the perfection of his face: the high cheekbones, the wide jaw, the broad forehead, those soulful brown eyes that sucked me in.