SOFT SELL

Ricky finished proofing his term paper for management strategy. As he added his name to the first page, he paused before typing Richard. No one called him that. Outside of school, no one even called him Rick.

He had gone through a stage in high school where he’d insisted on Rick. It was the same stage where he’d cut his hair short, worn preppy clothes, garaged his bike, and bought a used car. When you grew up in a gang, that was teenaged rebellion. It lasted less than a school term before he realized that he was only rebelling for the sake of rebelling. He liked being Ricky Gallagher, with everything that entailed.

Someone rapped on the clubhouse office door.

“Come in.”

It was Wallace, his father’s sergeant at arms. Wallace did not go by Wally. A new recruit tried calling him that once. The result had required plastic surgery.

Wallace looked around for Don. Not long ago, that look would have been followed by, “Boss in?” But now it was just a visual check before he turned to Ricky.

“Got a lead on Tucker,” Wallace said. “Bastard’s holed up across the border in Wisconsin. Gonna go pay him a visit. You wanna ride along?”

“Sure. Give me five. Just finishing a term paper.”

Wallace’s gaze flicked to the laptop screen. No sign of derision crossed his face. This, too, meant Ricky was making headway. He’d grown up like the favorite nephew in a huge clan of uncles. Growing out of that role proved difficult. Going to college hadn’t helped. His father fully approved, but to the gang it was a sign that maybe their boy was a little too intellectual, too mainstream . . . too soft. Dropping out wouldn’t earn their respect, though. No more than insisting on being called Rick. He would earn his place, and he would do it as Ricky Gallagher, MBA.

After Wallace left, Ricky’s cell phone rang. Call display showed a number he didn’t recognize. He hesitated before answering.

“It’s Olivia,” a contralto voice said. “Olivia Jones. Lydia said you were trying to get in touch with me.”

“I was.”

The tightness in her voice told him this wasn’t a call she’d wanted to make. She might have flirted with him at the clubhouse, but after that business at Desiree Barbosa’s apartment, she’d clearly decided he was not someone she cared to know better. Damn Gabriel.

He made small talk for a few minutes, but her voice stayed tight, wary, and finally there was nothing more he could do but take his shot, on the very slim chance he was mistaken.

“Are you free for dinner tonight?”

“No, I’m sorry. I—”

“Tomorrow night? The night after that?”

A sudden laugh, as if in spite of herself.

“Yep, I am persistent,” he said. “And flexible. Name the time. Name the place. French cuisine next Saturday night or a hot dog stand for lunch tomorrow.”

“I can’t.”

“Sure you can. Where are you right now? I’ll bring a picnic.”

She laughed again. A good sign.

“See? It’s easier to say yes.” He shifted the phone to his other hand. “Go out with me, Olivia. Just once. I’m sorry about what happened with Desiree. If I’d had any idea that Gabriel didn’t warn you what he planned—”

“That’s not it.”

“No?”

“I’m having dinner tonight with my, um, former fiancé.”

“James Morgan?”

“Uh, yes.”

She seemed surprised he knew her ex’s name. He didn’t tell her that he’d come home after their first meeting and looked up everything he could find on Olivia Taylor-Jones. Prep work. Like being interested in a business and learning everything you could before initiating a takeover. Which was an analogy no woman would appreciate, and he’d never make it. But he wanted to get to know her better, and when Ricky went after something, he used every tool at his disposal. He’d learned that from Gabriel, a lesson taught by example from the moment Gabriel decided he wanted to be the Saints’ lawyer.

As for James Morgan, he hadn’t needed to research the man. Ricky was an MBA student who took his studies seriously. He knew exactly who Morgan was, and while he was damned sure he wouldn’t want to compete with him corporately, he suspected he had a decent shot here.

“So you’re having dinner with James tonight. Have lunch with me tomorrow.”

“I can’t. Dinner with James means—”

“You’re testing the waters for a reunion. Great. But as long as he’s still your former fiancé, you’re free to see me. Comparison shop.”

A sputtered laugh.

“One date, Olivia.”

“I really can’t. I’m sorry.”

He smiled in spite of the refusal. The honest regret in her voice told him he wasn’t out of the running yet. She just needed a softer sell.

“A drink, then,” he said. “Not a date.”

“I don’t think—”

“I’ll settle for coffee.”

“You really don’t give up.”

“Nope. I just downgrade the offer until I get buy-in. Have coffee with me. Absolutely no strings attached. I won’t even angle for a date.” When she hesitated, he smiled. “Coffee it is, then. Sunday afternoon—”

“I’m working.” A pause. “Can we make it Monday or Tuesday? Anytime before three?”

“Tuesday’s my heavy school day, so let’s go for Monday.”