“I don’t roll with the punches,” he chuckles. “I like all my ducks in a row. On a chain, if possible.”
“How’s that working out for you?”
He falls back in his chair, seemingly surprised by my question. I do what he does to me—I wait him out. Just when I think he’s going to wait all day if it takes that for me to speak next, he shocks me and answers.
“It works for me. I know my style isn’t for everyone, Mallory. I like to have a plan for the back-up plan. It’s how I keep all the balls I juggle daily in the air.”
“What if one falls?”
“They don’t,” he replies, a brusqueness to his tone that ripples across the desk and chills me. “Failure is not an option, especially when it comes to anything for my family, and this business is a family business.”
The passion he feels for his family and work is palpable, something I’ve never seen in anyone firsthand. It’s another dimension to this man that I suspect has a lot of layers. “They’re lucky to have you running things for them.”
“That works both ways.” Before I can press him on this, he changes the subject. “What should I know about you?”
I inhale a deep breath. “I think my resume pretty much said it all. I just moved back to town. Nursing school wasn’t for me.”
“Do you mind if I ask why?”
“Have you ever had to inject something into someone?”
His face blanches. “No.”
“Yeah, not my thing. I also felt like I was going to get everything everyone had that came in. I just couldn’t imagine living every day with a box of bleach wipes in my purse, you know?”
“I’m one hundred percent sure I couldn’t work in the medical field. It’s too unpredictable.”
I wince. “Yeah, I can’t imagine you in a room full of people going every which way, coughing all over each other, liquids squirting everywhere.”
“That’s a disgusting image you present there, Ms. Sims,” he chuckles. He rests one ankle on the opposite knee and strokes his chin, watching me intently. “I’ll admit, I was surprised you were interested in the medical field to begin with. You always seemed so . . .”
“So what?”
He shrugs, weighing his words. “You were so studious before, so serious. Focused. Your Latin was impeccable. I remember you telling me you wanted to be an attorney and I couldn’t imagine you in front of a jury. Then we had a disagreement over our paper and I could exactly see you in front of a judge, winning your case,” he admits. “Law is a far cry from nursing. What made you change your mind?”
My spirits tumble as memories I haven’t thought about in a long time roll through my memory. When life was simple and hope seemed free. Before my senior year came and I was put in my place by my parents and made the best decision I could under the circumstances.
“I actually moved to Columbia with Eric Johnson.”
“Do I know him?”
“Probably not,” I say, not wanting to dwell on Eric.
Graham leans forward and narrows his eyes. “What does moving to Columbia have to do with you not going to law school?”
“It just didn’t work out. I was nineteen when we moved. I had to get adjusted there and I needed to work to save money to go. Part of that went to helping Eric get his degree and then, when it was my turn, I chose nursing. It seemed like a fast degree that would pay well.”
“Do you plan on going back now?”
My shoulders rise and fall. “I’ll be honest, I’m not sure what I plan on doing. So many things have changed for me and I’m not really sure where I sit these days. I’ve worked as an Administrative Assistant for years now. Even when I was going to nursing school, I worked at Beenmeyer Company. It’s all I really know and can do well.”
I look away because I feel like he’s trying to read me again. I’m afraid that this time, he’ll realize what a mess I am. That’s not something Graham will appreciate in all his organizational bliss.
“Eric Johnson,” he says finally. “Is he still in the picture?”
“No. I told him I wanted to drop out of nursing school, we had a fight, and I ended up leaving him.”
Something passes through his eyes. “I’m sure you don’t want to talk about that. I apologize for pressing you.”
“It’s fine,” I concede, finding my footing. “You didn’t press me. It’s still so raw for me to discuss.” Especially with you. “So, what happened in your life?”
“I went to the University of Georgia and got a Master’s in business. Pretty predictable, right?”
I grin. “Yes. But there has to be something more. No one gets through high school and college with no crazy tales.”
A knock comes to the door and Graham sags back in his chair. He holds up a finger to tell me to wait a second.
I sit quietly and listen to him converse with Raza, her giggle drifting through the room. I can’t help but roll my eyes.
“Let’s eat over here,” he says over the rustle of a plastic bag.
I stand and follow him to a circular table near a window. As he places the containers at our seats, I take a moment to admire his office.
It’s a large corner office with bright white paint, dark wood, and a loveseat against the back wall. A glass table is in front of it with what appears to be a handful of magazines of some sort and a small figurine that I can’t make out. A tree stands in the corner in a beautiful terracotta pot. Everything is clean, organized, smart . . . and slightly uptight. Just like Graham.
“Ready?” he asks. When I look at him, he raises a brow. “Like what you see?”
“It’s gorgeous.”
“I’m glad you approve.” His lips twist and I know he knows I wasn’t just referring to the abstract painting on the far wall. “I had your credit card reimbursed for your lunch.”
“I—” My objection is silenced by a look from Graham. “Thank you,” I gulp.
“That pained you, didn’t it?”
“What?” I say, opening the container in front of me.
“To just say thank you.”
“Kind of,” I laugh. “I’m just not used to someone doing something for me without expecting something in return. I’ve learned it’s easier just to do everything yourself.”
He cuts his sandwich in two pieces and lays half of his alongside my side salad. My mouth opens to object, but closes as his quirked brow silences me.
“First of all,” he says, “you’re right—it is easier to do things yourself. I understand that. It’s hard for me to trust anyone.”
“Is that why you went through so many assistants before me?”
He raises a brow.
“Sienna told me,” I say. “She also might’ve said you’re a little difficult to get along with, but if I give you time, I’d like you.”
“Did she?”
“She did,” I shrug. “Lincoln too, now that I think of it,” I admit. “I’m hoping they’re right.”
“So you don’t like me now?” The way he says it, a slight tease to his tone, is enough to send my hormones into a frenzy.
“I didn’t say that,” I blush.
He considers this as he takes a bite of his Rueben. I twirl my fork around in my salad, trying to focus on the colors of the tomato and lettuce and not on the way his eyes are beginning to turn a slight shade of blue.