Page 7 of Made For You
Ignoring his comments, I tapped on my desk, letting my fingertips mash against the hard walnut wood. “So, did you bring what I asked for?”
With a not-so-subtle roll of his eyes, he replied, “You know I did. It was easy enough. You’re lucky the group hosting the organization didn’t even password-protect the file with the list of attendees. After that, it was just using a simple background check to get everything you needed.”
His large hand dove into the leather bag and pulled out a stack of papers. Binder clips separated each person in question. The papers landed with a thud on top of my desk, triggering my laptop to come awake. I quickly folded the screen down and looked over at the person on top.
Reflexively, I grimaced as I took in the three-by-three image clipped in the corner.
“Gertrude Powers,” I said as I read her name. “Teacher of Biology at Sunset Hill High School.”
Glancing up at my friend, I asked, “People still name their kid Gertrude?”
“Well, she is fifty-two.”
“Fifty-two? Is there anyone remotely close to my age?”
Not that I had a problem with dating older women. Some of my favorite pastimes involved a woman knowing what she wanted in bed, and their age was key to that knowledge.
“There are a few. Not many though. You know, if you waited two weeks, there is that bridal fashion show hosted in the main ballroom. I’m sure one of those models would be a much better fit.”
“No. The teachers’ convention is perfect.”
Dean sighed as he leaned back. “Explain to me why again.”
“It’s simple,” I began, before there was a knock on my door, and Olive, my assistant, popped her head in.
“Good morning, Mr. Beckett. I’m clocked in if you need anything.”
“Thanks,” I responded, and then as she started to shut the door, I called out, “Olive, I need you to gather a list of all the check-ins for the teachers’ convention today and tomorrow.”
She hesitated, and I noted the confusion in her gaze before she agreed.
“We had some issues during the check-in last year. Multiple double bookings, and we were lucky they even wanted to return this year. I want to make sure all the attendees are personally taken care of.”
“Understood,” she replied as she closed my door. Through the transparent wall of glass, I could see her return to her desk and sit.
“You think she really bought that?”
“It’s the truth… well, mostly. We did have a ton of overbookings, which was why I changed out the ancient computer system the day I came on board. And a teacher will take what I am offering. The salaries are low, and time spent high. They are the ideal candidate to jump at the chance to gain one million dollars for a six-month commitment.”
Dean returned to sipping his coffee as I shuffled through the stacks of attendees. Each one grew more boring and duller than the last, and quickly my hope to get this deception underway fizzled out.
Ten minutes later, I’d only made it through a quarter of the stack, wondering if I was going to have to suck it up for the next six months until I could find someone my grandfather would believe could actually knock me off my feet. I was picky about my women, after all, and I had a clear type.
Did she need to match exactly? No, but she needed to have a spark about her. And none of the potential wives had anything that was jumping out at me. Except the one who was also a skydiving instructor. I always enjoyed an adrenaline rush. But she was already engaged and, though not a deal-breaker, I preferred not to start something messy, like a scorned fiancé.
“Dean, be real with me right now,” I said with a heavy exhale. I leaned forward, my elbows on the desk and my hands sliding back along my hair. It was moments like this I wished my strands were free so I could tug at them in frustration. “Is there any potential in here? I know you’re smart enough to skim through these before handing them over.”
“There are a few.” He nodded as he sat back against the chair, resting one of his feet on the knee of his other leg. Dean looked more at home in my office than I did.
“Tell me which one you would choose.”
He cocked one of his jet-black eyebrows as if he’d heard the most outlandish thing ever.
“I trust you, Dean. And I don’t have time to scour through this stack.”
“Fine,” he resigned as he stood from the chair and walked toward the console table against the other wall. It housed an antique whisky decanter and two glasses that hadn’t been filled in years. Turning toward me, he perched his frame against the console, large hands gripping the edge. “Third from the bottom. The clip is about a quarter of an inch offset.”
“Good,” I replied as I pulled it free from the others. “You should have just led with this one.”
