Chasing Perfect. Сьюзен Мэллери

      Blond guy shrugged modestly. “I always have time for anyone from the university. Sharon. Martin.” He greeted everyone else at the table, shook a few hands, winked at the old lady at the end, then turned back to Charity.

      “Sorry to interrupt. I’m sure under normal circumstances you could deal with this problem without breaking a sweat. But the reason we don’t have a deal isn’t the lease reversion or the traffic light.” He moved close and took the pen from her hand. “It’s the four acres the university has been offered by a very wealthy alumni family. They want their name on the building and they’re willing to pay for that privilege.”

      He flashed another smile at Charity, then turned back to the board. “I’m going to explain why that’s a bad idea.”

      And then he started talking. She had no idea who he was and probably should have told him to leave, but she couldn’t seem to move or speak. It was as if he projected some space-alien force field that kept her immobilized.

      Maybe it was his eyes, she thought, gazing into their hazel-green depths. Or his sun-bleached lashes. It might have been the way he moved or the heat she felt every time he walked by her. Or maybe she’d simply inhaled some weird gas when her computer had sparked, flamed out and died.

      While she enjoyed a boy-girl encounter as much as the next woman, she’d never been mesmerized by a man before. Certainly not during a professional meeting that she was supposed to be running.

      She knew the type, though. Had seen the power of the havoc they brought with them everywhere they went. Self-preservation stated she should stay far, far away. And she would…just as soon as the meeting was over.

      She squared her shoulders, determined to regain control of herself and the meeting. Then her mystery invader’s words sunk in. A gift of prime real estate would be hard for any university to refuse. No wonder Mr. Berman hadn’t been interested in her solution. It didn’t address the problem.

      “The research you’re talking about is important to all of us,” blond guy concluded. “Which is why the city’s offer is the best one on the table.”

      Charity forced her attention to Mr. Berman, who was nodding slowly. “You’ve made some good points, Josh.”

      “Just showing you a few things you might not have thought of,” blond guy said modestly. Blond guy who was apparently named Josh. “Charity’s done all the work.”

      She frowned. He was taking over her nervous system and her meeting and trying to give her credit?

      “Not at all,” she said, relieved the power of speech had returned. “Who could compete with your excellent points?”

      Josh actually winked at her, then reached for the folder on the table. “This is the letter of intent. I think the signing has been put off long enough, don’t you, Bernie?”

      Mr. Berman nodded slowly, then pulled a pen out of his suit jacket pocket. “You’re right, Josh.” Then, just like that, he signed the paper, giving Charity the victory she’d so desperately wanted.

      Somehow she’d hoped it would be a tiny bit sweeter.

      In a matter of minutes, everyone had shaken hands, murmured about setting up the next meeting to get the planning going and left. Charity was alone in the conference room, only the lingering smell of burned plastic and a signed document proof that anything had happened at all. She glanced at the clock. It was 9:17 a.m. At the rate things were happening around here, she could cure several diseases and solve world hunger by noon. Well, not her. So far her accomplishments seemed limited to frying innocent electronics.

      She collected the paperwork, went out into the hall and picked up her cold, dead computer. Had it really happened? Had some guy blown into her meeting, saved the day, then disappeared? Like a local super hero or something? And if he was so in the loop, why hadn’t he taken care of the problem weeks ago?

      There was no way she could have known about a private donation—no matter how much research and prep work she had done. But Charity still had a vague sense of dissatisfaction. She preferred to win through her own actions. Not because of a rescue.

      She made her way to her new office on the second floor. She hadn’t had much time to get settled, what with moving to Fool’s Gold over the weekend and the presentation preparation taking up all her free time. She’d brought in a box of personal items and dumped it on her desk shortly before six that morning. By one minute after six, she’d been in the conference room, going over her presentation, wanting it to be perfect. A complete waste of time, she told herself as she entered the second floor. Between the computer death and the mystery guy, she need not have bothered.

      That morning, the open space in the old building had been empty and quiet. Now half a dozen women worked at desks. Doors to offices stood open and the sound of conversation spilled out to create murmured background noise.

      She turned toward her office. Her assistant should have arrived, so they could meet face-to-face for the first time. Technically they’d been working together for a couple of weeks now, with Sheryl faxing and e-mailing information to Charity in Nevada.

      Charity had visited Fool’s Gold during her interview process. She’d met with the mayor and a few members of the city council, and toured the area. She’d never lived in a small town before. The closest she’d come was Stars Hollow, from watching Gilmore Girls while still in college. She’d liked everything about Fool’s Gold and had been able to imagine herself putting down roots in the lakeside town. She had even been in this building, had looked around. But apparently she hadn’t noticed the giant poster on the wall.

      Now she stared into a larger-than-life-size picture of her mystery guy. He smiled down at her, a bicycle helmet under one arm, a tight shirt and bike shorts leaving very little to the imagination. The print underneath the picture proclaimed Josh Golden—Fool’s Gold’s favorite son.

      She blinked, then blinked again. Josh Golden as in the celebrated cyclist Josh Golden? Second youngest winner of the Tour de France and possibly hundreds of other bike races? She’d never followed the bike racing circuit or whatever it was called. She didn’t follow any sports. But even she had heard of him. He’d been married to somebody famous—she couldn’t remember who—and was now divorced. He endorsed energy drinks and a major athletic brand. He lived here? He’d come to her meeting and had saved the day?

      Not possible, she told herself. Maybe she’d fallen and hit her head and now couldn’t remember the event. Maybe she was in a coma somewhere, imagining all this.

      She walked past the poster and moved toward her office. Just outside the open door, she saw a thirty-something woman on the phone. The woman, dark-haired and pretty, looked up and smiled. “She’s here. I gotta go. Love you.” The woman stood. “I’m Sheryl, your assistant. You’re Charity Jones. Nice to finally meet you, Ms. Jones.”

      “You, too, and please call me Charity.”

      Sheryl grinned. “I just heard you got the university to sign. Mayor Marsha will be doing the happy dance. They’ve been slippery little suckers, but you nailed them.”

      A flash of movement caught Charity’s attention. She glanced over her assistant’s shoulder and saw Sheryl’s screen saver had come on with a picture show.

      The first shot showed Josh Golden on a racing bike. The second showed him shirtless and grinning. The third photo was a very naked guy in a shower, his back to the camera. Charity felt her eyes widen.

      Sheryl glanced over her shoulder and laughed. “I know. He’s gorgeous. I downloaded these from the Internet. Want me to put them on your computer?”

      “Ah, no. Thank you.” Charity hesitated. “I’m not sure naked pictures are appropriate for a business office.”

      “Really?” Sheryl looked confused. “I hadn’t thought of that. I guess you’re right. I’ll take off the shower picture, even though it’s my favorite. Have you met Josh? He’s what my grandma would call dreamy.