“What?” Had she heard him correctly? Her mouth opened a little in surprise.
“Clothes,” Harry said without missing a beat. She had heard him correctly. “You look like a dowager duchess. Prim. Proper. Not quite the look we want. You’re what, twenty-something?”
“Twenty-seven.” Her voice was indignant.
“Right. Well you should dress sleek. Young. Professional. Not frumpy. We’re going into the fashion capital of America and you aren’t sixty.”
“There is nothing wrong with my clothes,” Megan repeated, reining in her anger. After all, her clothes were designer labels, she’d just found them in an upscale consignment shop.
Harry folded his hands into his lap and leaned forward. The movement allowed her to glimpse the muscles under the suit jacket and her mouth went dry. “I’ve been given the task of being your mentor. Why don’t you assume I do know some things and follow my advice. Since I am your mentor, you are now a reflection of me and my tutelage. Thus, I’d prefer you listen.”
He leaned back and put his hands behind his head. That movement emphasized other muscles. Megan resisted the urge to lick her lips.
What was it about him? Other men had sat in her cubicle, but why was Harry’s presence affecting her like this? Megan attempted to focus, her gaze instead watching Harry as he shrugged, his jaw flexing as he spoke.
“But, if you don’t want to update your wardrobe I suppose that’s fine. When you discover I’m right, it will come at your expense.”
She attempted to regain control of the situation. Harry Sanders, who always looked perfect, was in her cubicle telling her how to dress. The thought rankled, giving her some of the bite she needed. “I’ll see what I can do. Anything else?”
Harry took what seemed like forever to study her. Megan felt her body heat as his blue-eyed gaze roved over her. It took all her mettle not to move a muscle. Whatever this test was, she would pass.
He finally spoke, his voice a bit lower, huskier, than before. “No. There’s nothing else. Everything else, hair, makeup, is fine. Just fine. Make sure you lose the frumpy clothes. My sister usually shops at…”
He rattled off the names of some stores and then he was gone.
Megan stared at the empty chair. Had he really been there at all? She knew he had, but it seemed so improbable. Harry Sanders, extending an olive branch of sorts?
If that’s what it actually was? And if it was an olive branch, it was probably only because he was stuck with her, and her with him. But he was correct about one thing. He did know how to dress, and he always looked impeccable no matter what designer suit he wore
New clothes. Buying clothes would break her tight budget, but as much as she hated to admit it, Harry was right. She needed a young professional wardrobe.
New York, here I come.
Chapter Three
Jacobsen Enterprises Internal Memo
From: Joe Jacobsen, CEO
To: Andrew Sanders, president
Re: Harry/Jacobsen Stars
The meeting went well. Of course, both Harry and Megan looked a little upset that neither got what they wanted, but they covered well. Both have learned that first rule in business, never let them see you cry. Anyhow, I’m sending Megan to New York with Harry. Her ideas in the meeting were fantastic, and a full transcript will be on your desk by tomorrow morning.
J.J.
Jacobsen Enterprises Internal Memo
From: Andrew Sanders, president
To: Joe Jacobsen, CEO
Re: Harry/Jacobsen Stars
You truly are a crazy old coot. Do you really think forcing the two into some unhappy togetherness is going to spark romance? You’ll be lucky you get any type of merger out of this mess you’ve created.
A.S.
Jacobsen Enterprises Internal Memo
From: Joe Jacobsen, CEO
To: Andrew Sanders, president
Re: Harry/Jacobsen Stars
It’s an acquisition, and of course everything will work out. I have a gift, a natural talent, for both business and romance. Want to bet on it? Didn’t we say double or nothing on Harry?
J.J.
Jacobsen Enterprises Internal Memo
From: Andrew Sanders, president
To: Joe Jacobsen, CEO
Re: Harry/Jacobsen Stars
Here we go again.
A.S.
“LAST CALL FOR Flight 690 to LaGuardia.”
“Here,” Megan rushed up to the counter, her new designer blue Italian pumps already rubbing a blister on her heel. She handed the clerk her boarding pass and began digging for her driver’s license.
So much for being on time for her flight. She’d left home late, traffic through the city on Highway 70 had been terrible, and the only long-term parking had been in lot A, the farthest one away.
To make matters worse, her gate in Lambert International’s D-concourse had been all the way at the end, and she’d been practically running the whole way, including on the speed walks. It seemed that everyone had a flight out of the Saint Louis international airport at 8:00 a.m. on a Tuesday morning.
“Has your luggage been with you at all times?” the counter clerk asked.
“What? Oh yes,” Megan said, snapping her attention to the task at hand, getting on the plane. Within moments she was walking down the gangway to the Boeing 757 for the 882 mile flight to New York.
This was her first time flying as a requirement of her job. She’d always known Joe Jacobsen refused to hire charter flights or even purchase his own jet, so it surprised her to discover that instead of coach, her seat was in first class. The few times she’d ever flown before had all been in coach where she was lucky to even get beverage service.
“Welcome,” the flight attendant said as she took Megan’s boarding pass. “Second row, which is actually the first one on your left, the aisle seat. You’ll need to put your carry-on luggage under the seat. The overhead bins are full.”
“Thanks,” Megan said. She walked the few feet toward her seat.
“About time.”
“Oh. You.” Megan’s breath exhaled into a sigh of resignation as she saw Harry. He was already seated by the window, a partially full glass of orange juice in his left hand.
“Hello to you too, seatmate. Let me tell you how delighted and excited I am to share this two-hour flight with you.” His blue eyes narrowed. “But at least you followed my advice. New clothes. Nice.”
Her new V-neck silk blouse gaped open as she attempted to shove her carry-on bag under the seat. She wrestled with keeping her shirt closed while she tried to shove the bag into the small space.
“New underthings too?”
Great. So much for success with her shirt. He’d been staring at her breasts. She covered her mortification by remaining flippant. “You said new clothes. I bought new everything.”
She gave one last irritated shove and the carry-on bag slid into place. Her purse she shoved into the space in front of her. She took her seat and strapped herself in.
“Orange juice or V8?”
“Orange juice,” Megan replied, taking the plastic cup the flight attendant handed