Saving Cruz (The Moran Family) Page 3

  Her dark gaze lifts briefly to mine. “The items highlighted in yellow, like the meeting tomorrow morning, I will need a location. Do you wish to meet here in your office, in a conference room, or off-site?”

  Hmm … I think to myself, this assistant might know what the hell she’s doing. “Let’s meet in the conference room next door.”

  She nods and taps a few things on the screen. “I will let everyone know.”

  I watch intently while she continues to make changes on the tablet then sets it aside and starts thumbing through the folder. She’s an intense young thing, barely able to hold my gaze and as driven to get the job done as I am. Or at least that’s how it appears. Her dark head is bent over the papers as she efficiently pulls out a few things and sets them on my desk, briefly making a comment on each.

  The same soft, tropical scent hits my nose, and I’m instantly reminded of white sandy beaches and the crash of waves onto the shore. Not that I spend a lot of time at the beach mind you. In fact, I can count on one hand the amount of time I’ve spent at the beach in the past twenty years.

  “Sir, I’ve read through everything you left for me, but I have a few questions.” I give her a nod and try not to smirk when she quickly looks away again. “Ms. Anders explained that the job will require long hours. I plan to be here by seven each morning and can stay as long as you need me to each evening. Will that suffice?”

  Damn. Where the hell did we find her? “Yes, that’s fine. I do travel and will need you to accompany me occasionally. I’ll try to give you as much notice as I can when we need to leave town.”

  “Yes, fine.” With one perfect manicured nail, she reviews the list on the paper in front of her. She confirms my lunch order for tomorrow, and we briefly discuss a few other items. Then she gathers up everything and gets to her feet.

  Those dark eyes quickly peruse the remaining piles of work on my desk, and then she hesitantly glances at me. “If you need my help with all that, please let me know.” She gives me another nod and moves toward the door, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t check her out thoroughly.

  For a tiny, little thing, she carries herself with a certain grace and dignity that makes her appear much taller than she is. Could be the four-inch heels she walks in, like they’re her favorite tennis shoes, or it could be the air of confidence that she wears, except when she’s looking at me. Her suit is cut to accentuate the lines of her body but still loose enough that I start to imagine what lies beneath.

  Disgusted with myself for getting off task, I turn my attention back to the work on my desk, remaining silent when she says that she’ll see me in the morning, pulling the door closed behind her.

  Tossing the pen back down onto the desk, I get to my feet and move to the window. It’s raining heavily, typical for this time of year, and yet I know without a doubt that if I were to step outside, the air would be warm and balmy. Traffic is heavy on the street below, and for a brief moment I consider how far my assistant has to drive to get home.

  Not that her home or anything about her is any of my business, but I won’t lie and say I’m not curious about her. She’s unlike any other woman I’ve ever met: equal parts competent and direct, but shy and insecure whenever she has to look at me.

  Leaning over the desk, I dig through the stacks of papers until I find her resume, buried at the bottom of the one stack I’ve yet to get through. Her name is splashed across the top, and as I peruse the information I can clearly see why we hired her. A business degree from the University of Miami, recently worked as an admin assistant at a large bank here in town. There are numerous other jobs, obvious part-time stints while she was in college, with each and every one being in an office environment. Clearly she’s more than qualified for the job.

  There’s no personal information to speak of, just a phone number and email address listed after her name and the token ‘references available upon request.’ I quickly punch her information into my phone, justifying to myself that I may need to contact her from home on occasion.

  Shoving the resume back under the stack of papers, I settle into the chair and attempt to get my head back into work and away from all the curiosity I suddenly seem to have about my new assistant. Chances are I’ll do as I’ve always done, pop off one too many times in a fit of anger or frustration and she’ll move on to greener pastures. Or if she somehow figures out how to deal with my moods, she’ll decide that no amount of money is worth dealing with my crap on a long-term basis and move on to another company. It’s what I expect and considering the number of assistants I’ve gone through in the past five years has topped a dozen, if I had to guess, chances are I’m not overreacting. Not one bit.

  But I reason as I glance at the perfectly color-coded calendar on my screen, maybe Miss Mia Elliott will be different. Maybe she’ll finally be the one to not only manage the office, but manage me as well.

  I sigh tiredly as I unlock the front door and step into my apartment. One lone light burns in a corner, perfectly timed to come on just before seven each evening. Thank goodness for timers, otherwise I’d always be walking into a dark apartment. The days of leaving at five with the rest of the worker bees are a thing of the past. I haven’t walked through the door much before eight these last few nights, which I have a hunch will be the norm.

  To say that Mr. Moran’s office is in a state of disarray would be a gross underestimation. The files are all out of order, and I finally had to go back through and start at the beginning because I kept finding things where they shouldn’t be. Whoever had this job before me didn’t know the first thing about organization, or filing for that matter. It’s a huge project for me to undertake that’s for sure, and I wish I could ask why things have spiraled so far out of control. I get the distinct impression from my new boss that he wouldn’t welcome such a question. Now that I think about it, he doesn’t much welcome any questions.

  Moving up the stairs toward the bedroom, I kick off my heels and slide my suit jacket off, letting loose another loud sigh. I really just want to pull on my pj’s and curl up with a good movie, but unfortunately my date will be here in less than an hour, which leaves me barely enough time to shower and dress, let alone take a few moments to decompress.

  The second story of the apartment features a larger than normal bedroom and master bath, complete with a Jacuzzi tub that I rarely use. The bedroom space is softened somewhat with light beige carpet and filmy drapes that flank the wooden blinds. I’ve kept the décor simple, just a pale green comforter with a few complimentary pillows and a few other accents around the room in the same shade of green, blue and white. The space is warm and inviting and a perfect haven on long days like this.

  Quickly, I shed my remaining clothes and while the water heats, I massage the tight cords at my neck. I’m exhausted, worn out by the long hours and the high demand of my new job. There’s no time to be idle when you work for someone like Cruz Moran, not that I’d sit behind my desk and file my nails even if I could. Between fielding the numerous calls, keeping his ever-changing schedule up to date, and attempting to right the crazy filing system, it’s no wonder I’m tense and brewing a headache.

  Stepping under the spray, I turn the faucet until the water is scorching, letting it beat down on my neck and back. I wonder if Darren would be content staying in tonight, but that thought is immediately dashed when I remember he told me how excited he was about taking me to this new restaurant he’d found. Darren may have his moments, though I’ll admit they are not nearly as often as they were when we started seeing one another almost a year ago.

  I understand that relationships change, but Darren and I never really had the honeymoon period people always talk about. Sure, we liked one another almost immediately, but my heart didn’t skip a beat when he first kissed me and my skin sure didn’t sizzle at our first touch. He’s not a bad kisser, I suppose, so I have to assume it’s me.

  When I step out of the shower, my skin has a nice, rosy glow from the warm water, and I can finally
feel the tension of the day start to fade away. I have the entire weekend to rest and relax, so I need to simply enjoy my evening out and shove the exhaustion aside until later.

  With that in mind, I pad across the cold, tile floor and give myself a reassuring thumbs up in the mirror. I’m a bit of a neat freak so all that lines the counter is a box of tissue, a small ivy plant, and a framed picture of me and my parents.

  I quickly reapply my makeup, deciding to leave my hair in the chignon I put it in this morning for work. Moving into the small walk-in closet, I pull on a sundress and sandals. A quick glance at the clock tells me I have about ten minutes until he arrives to pick me up, so I quickly spritz on my favorite perfume (one my Grandpa sends me from Hawaii a couple times a year), gather up my bag, and head downstairs.

  I love my apartment and if I had my way, I’d work from home and only leave when I absolutely had to. I count myself lucky each and every day to have found this place, especially after my best friend and one-time roommate barely gave me any notice when she decided, spur of the moment, that her longtime boyfriend was moving in. Lucky for her I like said boyfriend, or as well as one can like someone they barely know. Also lucky for her that I’d already been contemplating getting my own place. Sharing a two bedroom apartment with her, the boyfriend, and on occasion Darren was a little too close for comfort.

  My apartment isn’t large but it’s two stories with an open floor plan in the kitchen, dining and living room areas which gives it the appearance of being larger than it is. Like the upstairs bath, tile lines the main floor, which is fairly typical in this humid Miami environment. I’ve added warmth to the space with area rugs and overstuffed furniture, as well as a large Ficus plant, who I’ve nicknamed Grant, that resides in the corner. Grant and I have a nice relationship; I frequently use him as my sounding board and in turn I keep him nicely watered. I do not, however, ask myself why I choose to confide in a plant rather than a person.

  Moving to the glass double doors, I step out onto the small balcony and take a moment to inhale the balmy Miami air. I love living here, which is why I refuse to move back to my hometown of St. Petersburg. Well, that and the fact I’m a grown woman now and don’t necessarily have to live in the same town as my parents. Although according to my mom, who tends to take it personally that I don’t want to move home, I’m simply sowing my oats until I realize I’m meant to be near her and my dad.

  Chuckling, I make an internal reminder to call home tomorrow at some point. I do miss my parents, but not enough to drag my buns across the state every few months. We talk constantly on the phone and occasionally exchange emails, so I don’t feel particularly obligated to make more than a few visits home each year. Their trips to see me … much, much more often.

  I hear the buzzer of the doorbell and with one last, deeply inhaled breath, I move quickly inside and across the floor to the intercom, pushing the button to allow Darren access to the building. One last quick check of my face in the small powder room tucked under the staircase, I grasp my bag and pull the door open just as he starts down the hall.

  Darren is a nice looking man with close-cropped blond hair, pale blue eyes and a friendly smile. He’s lean, looks good in a suit, and has a degree in finance, which he likes to toss around whenever we’re at parties, like he thinks people will be impressed by it. They aren’t … ever … though I do admire him for trying. Clearly he worked hard for his degree, and he has no problem flaunting it.

  We met when I went to work at the bank where he’s a loan officer, and I remember I instantly liked his friendly manner and the ease with which he manipulated a conversation, especially since I tend to get tongue-tied in most situations. I’m not exactly what you’d call full of confidence, which I suspect he picked up on immediately. But he made me feel welcome and after a few weeks, we started having lunch occasionally.

  Our relationship moved from friendship to something different after we attended a beach party together and he offered to take me home. We spent the weekend sequestered in my apartment, and even though I’d classify our physical relationship as less than average, I can’t fault him. He does try, I’ll give him that, but I’ve just never fully understood what all the hoopla is about. Sex to me is … exhausting. And if I’m supposed to be breathless and numb and unable to speak in full sentences after it like all the romance novels say I should, obviously I’m doing something wrong. I barely break a sweat as it is, and mostly I find myself lying there staring at the ceiling, counting the minutes until it’s over.

  Gosh, I’m an embarrassment to women everywhere. The truth is that I find this extremely difficult to talk about, even to my best friend and ex-roommate, Amita, who has known me since our first day of college. Amita and I are as close as sisters, and there have been numerous times people have referred to us as such, merely for the fact that we look so much alike. Other than the physical resemblance we share, we are complete opposites. She’s outgoing and wild and tells me far too many details about her relationship with her long-term boyfriend, Victor. She and Vic are like oil and water—passionate to the core, but they fight constantly. And because they both work in the hotel industry, they are constantly trying to one-up one another professionally. That as well as the constant arguing makes me wonder how they’ve managed to stay together for over four years.

  The little I share with Amita about Darren the better. Since the beginning, she’s found fault with most everything he’s done. Not that I can blame her. She loves me and wants only the best for me. I want the best for me too, but given my lack of interest in the physical part of my relationship, I sometimes wonder if I deserve it.

  “Good evening,” Darren says with a smile, dropping a chaste kiss on my lips. “You ready to go?”

  I nod, lock the door behind me, and let him take my hand. He talks continually while we move down the hallway, the entire time we’re in the elevator, and even during the drive to the restaurant—never once pausing to ask how I am, comment on how I look, or make a general inquiry as to my well-being. Sad to say, but I started tuning him out back in the hallway, when he started in on his daily complaint about his boss.

  Darren has big, unrealistic dreams. He wants to be rich, wants to have a lot of people working under him, but he does not understand that you have to pay your dues to get to that place in life. I’d like to tell him to look at Mr. Moran, who spent years pounding nails and putting up drywall, working at the construction company he would eventually own and turn into a multi-million dollar enterprise.

  Yes, I’ll admit it—to myself and no one else—I did my homework on my new boss. I’m no dummy. I’ve lived in this town long enough to have heard of him a time or two. The Cinderella rise from the lowly construction worker to the wealthy, reclusive man he now is. The internet was abuzz with information about him. Although, photos seemed few and far between: usually at some ribbon cutting ceremony or the occasional black tie event. He’s far more intimidating in person than he appears in print, and I’m not too proud to say that the man scares me. Not in a physically threatening way, but in an overwhelming way that makes my knees knock together every time I have to step foot inside his office and speak to him face to face.

  Thankfully, we mostly communicate over the intercom, and since he’s not a big talker, sticking more to the standard yes and no the majority of the time, I’m perfectly protected from the Big Bad Wolf persona he wears as easily as he does his expensive double-breasted black suits.

  The few times I have had to sit across from him have left me with sweaty palms and an admittedly racing heart. There’s just something to be said about a man who is that sure of himself, who knows exactly what he wants and will stop at nothing to get it. Sure, he’s ruthless, especially with his employees, whom he has no problem dressing down if they stray off the reservation. Thankfully, I keep a low profile and a week into the job, we’ve only exchanged a few words face to face. I suppose I’ll eventually get used to it—and to him—but somehow I anticipate always being caught off gua
rd by those intense blue-green eyes and the larger than life persona.

  “You’re quiet tonight,” Darren comments when we pull up to the restaurant. I refrain from pointing out that he’s talked nonstop since he arrived at my door, giving him a nonchalant shrug as I exit the car.

  Once we’re seated at our table and have ordered a bottle of red wine, he starts in once again. I must say it seems worse tonight than on other occasions when he’d at least pause and ask how my day has been. He hasn’t once asked me about the new job, but maybe that’s because it’s still a sore subject with him. He simply can’t fathom why I’d want to leave the bank to pursue a job at a commercial construction company. I’ve handed over a variety of excuses and reasons why, but he very clearly has no interest in any of them. The only thing I haven’t told him is that I wanted to find a job that was separate from his, thinking that if we worked in different trades, we might have normal conversations that consist of equal parts give and take.

  As I sip my wine and gaze around the packed restaurant and he drones on and on, I ask myself why I continue doing this. I’m nothing special to him, and truly he’s nothing more than a friend to me. Not a very good one, if the past thirty or so minutes are any indication.

  We order our entrees, and he spends another ten minutes going on about the benefit of eating fish, which he ordered. I refrain from reminding him that I don’t like fish, and after a week of living off only one meal a day because I couldn’t find the time to eat properly, I’m quite satisfied ordering the calorie-laden pasta.

  He sends me a smile and reaches across the table for my hand, asking, “So how’s your week been?”

  I shrug. “Good. Busy. I like it though.”

  He glances away. “Oh, that’s good.” Then once more, he goes right back to talking about his job, his boss. Etcetera, etcetera … blah, blah, blah.

  Annoyed, I drain my wine glass and quickly refill it to the rim. I’m over him tonight, over this evening as a whole, and I half consider walking out and taking a cab home. The truth is I’ve considered doing this more than once over the past few months, which should be reason enough to part ways for good. This isn’t exactly a great love affair we’re having, that’s for sure. We are friends, one sided at best. I suppose I do satisfy his physical needs, not that I’d ever know for sure since he won’t ever talk about it. Or about us, I remind myself silently.