Periodic Romance Collection

LOGAN

I chew on the end of my finger as soon as I click submit for the rental listing. I have to make sure nobody from the office comes across it. Not that any of them would be looking, but I know they’d call my listing number just to tease me if they found it. They always seem to find something to tease me about.

My watch chimes the hour, letting me know I’m on company time officially, so I put away my phone and get to work. 

I love my job, even if the other people here are just like everyone else…mean, vindictive, and eager to claw each other’s eyes out to get ahead. I know they all think I’m weird, but I have learned I can’t let that stand in my way. I’m here because I’m really good at financial analysis. I’m allowed to say I’m really good at financial analysis because I have an Ivy League degree in that subject. 

“I am not high falutin,” I mutter. This is objective fact. 

Living above my means in a condo I can’t quite afford is a different matter.

Always wanting what you can’t have, I can hear my mother’s voice saying. I shouldn’t have bought the condo so soon. I know that now. It’s just that I was struggling to find a roommate while I was still in Philadelphia and the relocation expert from HR pointed out all the benefits of buying something compared to renting. 

It’s not like I had anyone else to give me advice about this sort of thing. My classmates in grad school were paying for their degrees with generational wealth and my single mother has been raising me on her own since she was a teenager and her family cut all ties. 

I’m not out running up credit card debt on makeup and couture. Starting back with my first paycheck, I’ve been sending enough money home to my mom to cover her rent so she can finally let go of the second job. But I don’t think she quit yet. I think she’s still skeptical that all this is real.

I try not to think about the roommate listing while I dive into my first client portfolio of the morning. I was recruited to be an analyst here in Pittsburgh in my last semester of graduate school. I love the idea of being closer to Mom. I originally bought the two-bedroom with thoughts that maybe she’d come stay with me, or at least visit sometimes. It hasn’t worked out yet, though. As it turns out, I can’t quite afford to pay her rent and the mortgage on a posh condo in a trendy neighborhood. 

I remind myself that this is a college town. There are plenty of young professionals who will be eager to find a tidy, quiet roommate like me. “It’s just a cash flow problem,” I whisper. “I am not living outside my means.”

I talk to myself. A lot. I have to try and find my way forward as I straddle two worlds. One of my feet is always stuck in the sidewalk cracks in the neighborhood where I grew up, while the other reaches around in the dark, trying to find the right way ahead. So far, I’m my only guide.

I look up at my diplomas. Right now, they’re in a cheap frame from the dollar store, but eventually I’m going to have them framed with those nice mats I see fancy people have. I, Logan Miller, earned full scholarships to Temple and then to Penn, and now I’m sitting in my own office, working as an analyst at a hot financial firm in Pittsburgh. “Not a cubicle,” I mutter, admiring the view of the river from my small window. I’ve got an office, with a door. 

I’m lost in these thoughts when said door whooshes open. Marie, my supervisor, bursts in. “Let’s go, Logan,” she sneers, emphasizing my name. “Staff meeting with top brass.”

Hm, that’s very unusual. Top executives typically are scheduled out well in advance and meetings with them come with agendas and “save the date” notices from their administrative staff. I close my computer and grab my clipboard and notebook, tucking a pen behind my ear as I follow Marie to the large conference room. 

The space is buzzing when we arrive. All the analysts and sales staff clamor to find seats at the table before Mr. Alexander, our director—or is he the owner, I wonder—walks in with a pair of assistants at his heels. He types on his phone as he walks and hands the device to one of the assistants, while the other hands him a folder. I can see talking points paper-clipped to the top of the folder, but can’t make out the text. 

“All right,” he says, and the room goes silent. “I know this is an unusual meeting and you’re all curious why we’re here.” He looks up from his notes and around the room, where everyone is rapt and staring. “We have just received a signed contract to manage the investments accounts of the Rudy family.”

Jaws drop around the table and some of the analysts slap each other high fives. I have no idea what this means, so I put my business smile on my face—a practiced expression I’ve learned to wear in professional settings until I figure out what to do with my emotions. I write

RUDY

on my note pad as Mr. Alexander starts talking about how this high profile account means a lot of prestige for the firm. “I’ll be looking for my best analyst for this account,” he says, looking slowly, pointedly around the room, nodding periodically. 

I feel a flutter of hope at this statement. I might not know who this family is, but if they’ve got a lot of money to invest, I know I can help them do so profitably. Could Mr. Alexander possibly pick me, a brand new employee fresh from graduate school, to work on an account that is clearly meaningful to the company? 

“As this is a high profile account, I’ll be meeting with all of your supervisors in the coming weeks to determine the best team to service the Rudys. If I’m not being clear, that means pull out the stops for customer service. No limits on the budget for wining and dining.” Everyone starts murmuring and whispering and Mr. Alexander holds up a hand. “We will also be planning our regular gala to close out the fiscal year. All of our top clients will be invited, and you will be expected to attend and help them celebrate all the magic we have made together this past year.”

More murmuring from around the table, and sinking dread from me. I don’t do well at events. I worry constantly that everyone can tell I grew up poor, that they can smell it on me no matter how fancy a dress I buy or how carefully I walk in my heels. I am an analyst for a reason, and that is because I do not do very well talking to people. The account managers schmooze the clients, share the information I give them, verify the plans I map out. I sit in my office with my forecasting software and my multiple monitors and I run numbers.

I like numbers. They’re predictable and they don’t disappoint. They do not involve emotions.

Mr. Alexander ends the meeting abruptly, disappearing down the hall with his staff close behind, and everyone erupts. I bite my lip, unsure whether I should stay and eavesdrop to figure out what’s going on, or slink back to my office and keep going with my reports. 

Devin, a guy who has so far been the least mean to me, catches my eye. “Isn’t it great?”

I bite my lip, considering. Devin has not outwardly mocked my name and did not laugh at me the day I came to work wearing two different (but similar!) shoes by accident. I nod and decide I can trust him to fill me in on this. “Actually, you know, I’m not from Pittsburgh. Can you tell me who the Rudy family is?”

His eyes bug out of his head. “Oh my gosh, seriously? They own the Iron Men. The pro football team?” 

I grimace. “That Rudy??” This city is absolutely obsessed with its professional sports teams, and I grew up about an hour away. Football and hockey were the lifeblood of my hometown—an economically depressed, post-industrial area. I understand the allure of professional football. It brings people together and gives them hope. I can’t believe I didn’t make the connection. This family must have more money than God.

“Man, Logan, where have you been?” He shakes his head. “It’s gonna be a bloodbath battling for whoever gets that account.”

In high school and college, I was always waiting tables while football games were on in the background. Sports were the soundtrack to my life. It seems surreal to imagine I might brush up against this world in real life.

Devin shrugs. “Well one of us is going to be working a lot on this account, that’s for sure. You think we’ll get box seats at the games?”

I’m about to shrug and tell him I have no earthly idea when Marie clears her throat. “I see that you’re busy gossiping about the new client,” she says, narrowing her eyes at me (not Devin), making me wonder for the millionth time whether I just always seem to land in jobs with miserable colleagues or if people really are this grouchy. I guess I thought once I was working somewhere with a decent paycheck, my coworkers would be happier people. “Shall I tell your current clients to wait for their financial reports or would you like to explain to them why you put their work on hold to talk about other clients?”

Marie truly is impossible to please. I know she supervises at least three other people at this table and manages all their accounts, and they’re all actively squealing about the Rudy announcement. She must be able to be nice to clients, or else she would never have gotten to this position. What do I need to do to get her to use some of that kindness with me? I breathe slowly through my nose and stand up. “I apologize for lingering after Mr. Alexander ended the meeting,” I say, and I walk out of the conference room before she has a chance to say anything more. 

I close my office door and try to gather my thoughts. I conclude that expressing interest in a new and much-desired account would put a target on my back socially, and company culture is already pretty rough for me. I’ve only been here a few months. Better to build rapport and do good work with my current client portfolio. 

I hear a ping from my purse and realize I forgot to turn my phone on silent. I’m glad I left it behind when I went to the meeting. I would have been mortified if it chirped while Mr. Alexander was speaking. 

I slide my phone out of my bag, intending to power down until my lunch break, but I see that I’ve got a new email. 

Someone named Callie is interested in the apartment. I feel relief melting through my bones at the thought of the financial cushion I’ll get from the rent check. Callie offers to move in immediately, making me suspect that she’s also dealing with some sort of stressful situation. Through my closed door, I hear Marie in the hall talking to another analyst. “We’ve got this in the bag, guys. No worries. It’s not even a competition. You’re the best analyst we’ve got and clients love me face to face.” I hear them agreeing.

I’m not even sure who she’s talking to, but I know it’s a guy. There are very few women who work here. I knew finance was a male-dominated field. I had an advisor during undergrad who used to try to give me pep talks, tell me I had the right mind for this line of work but I’d have to hurdle over men who don’t know how to behave around women.

I start to daydream about how my work life could be better. If Marie and one of the jerky were assigned to the Rudy account, maybe they’d be so busy that I’d get shuffled to another team. People who respond when I wish them a good morning, or invite me to join their conversation rather than walk away as I approach. Maybe I’d have a boss who was more supportive, more like the teachers I had at Penn. 

My professors were tough, but kind. I had brief internships in a few different companies in Philadelphia throughout my coursework. The people there were a mixed bag—many of them as miserable as my colleagues here, but some had a certain spark, a love of their work. 

I’m sitting clutching my phone, remembering the week I spent shadowing in a tech startup, when Marie bursts into my office. Her eyes widen as she sees me sitting with my phone in my hand. “God, Logan, I can’t believe I have to micromanage you like this. Why are you not working? Seriously? Get your ass in gear so I can send the Emersons their third quarter forecast.”

I have no response. She has indeed caught me not working. I could remind her that I’m salaried and often work a few minutes late or come in a few minutes early. It’s okay if I take a break, surely. But I don’t say any of that. I swallow and nod and pull up my software, clacking on my keyboard until she huffs out of my office and stomps into her own. 

I feel so alone and confused. I wish for the thousandth time that I had girlfriends I could call about this. Everyone on television would be whisked away by a best friend for pedicures…or shots. A best friend could tell me Marie is rude, to brush off her comments and focus on the prize. 

It’s just that I’m not so sure I know what the prize is, actually.

My chest aches and I feel so out of place. I feel a tear form at the corner of my eye and I flick it away and shake my head. Nope. I chose this. I can do this. 

I pick up my phone and dial my mom, needing some sort of comfort and reassurance. “Lo?” I hear a lot of commotion in the background. Of course she’s at work. I check the time. Should be in between breakfast and lunch rush. 

“Hey, Mom,” I say, biting my nail, and then stuffing my hands onto my lap as if she could see me doing that. “You doing okay?”

“Eh, you know. Party of six left a ten percent tip this morning. Felt like chasing them down the sidewalk but it’s raining here. You know how it is.”

“Why do people do such a thing? I hate that for you.” She makes a grunting sound and I listen to the familiar noises of the back of the restaurant. Pans clatter, the dishwashers make jokes. Sounds like someone’s playing music. “Did you get the check I sent, Mom?”

“Logan.” She sounds upset. “You can’t be doing that, baby. You need backup money.”

“I told you, Mom, I can spare it,” I lie. I can’t quite spare all that I sent, but I wanted to pay her full rent. Let her drop the warehouse job, maybe live a little. She’s only 40. She shouldn’t have to work herself to the bone around the clock. 

Mom sighs. “I just…this is all very new. You’re very new there. You know how it is with new people at work. You have to pay your dues and we don’t know if you’ll still be there a month from now.”

I close my eyes. “You didn’t leave the warehouse, did you?”

Another sigh. “Baby, I can’t just give up a good job on a hope and a promise. I have a lot of seniority there.”

“Well they should pay you more, then,” I snarl and she snorts. 

“That’ll be the day, Logan, won’t it? Hey, what time is it? Are you calling from work?”

“I’m taking a break,” I tell her, reminding myself to stay late and make up the difference today. I hope Marie doesn’t wander past. God, what if she’s listening at the door. Is that really how people behave in professional offices? “I guess you’re right,” I say. “Things aren’t exactly what I was expecting here. Not really.”

“You causing trouble with your questions? You always had so many questions.” I’m not sure what I was expecting when I called my mother. This is always how it goes with us. No room for coddling. Tough love.

“I’m trying to keep my head down, Mom. I’m trying.”

“Well, I do appreciate the money you sent, honey. I really do. I’m real proud that you got a paycheck big enough to send me that kind of change. You just keep working hard and keep in their good graces.”

“I will, Mom.” 

She hangs up abruptly when someone calls her name. I remember being surprised in college to overhear some of the girls in the dorm talk about how the culture at restaurants was brutal. That was the word they used. Ever since I was old enough for a work permit, I’ve been working in restaurants. It felt very illuminating to hear someone use that word, to give voice to the type of energy I felt waiting tables. Brutal. 

I wish I could go back and find them and tell them things aren’t much different in business. My feet hurt less but I’m still holding my breath a lot. 

My phone pings again. Another email from Callie. No, cal e. Maybe she spells it weird, which is fine because I’m a girl named Logan. What a pair we could be, right? Maybe Callie could become my best friend and we could do spa nights with those mud masks on our faces to soothe our pores. I could tell her how much Marie makes me feel like garbage and she’d say something witty to make me feel better. 

I look at her emails again. There’s something comforting about the way she avoids capital letters, and I decide it means she doesn’t take up much space. To me, this signals that she is considerate. And clearly in a bind to live somewhere else, based on her enthusiasm. 

I silence the voice telling me it’s a terrible idea to sign a lease and live with someone I haven’t met. I ignore the niggling fear that I’m risking a personality clash. I take a deep breath and send her the generic lease agreement I found online and when she returns it, initialed and signed, I do a little dance. 

Things are looking up.

A collection of hot romance by USA Today bestselling author Lainey Davis that will STEAM up your glasses.

Love wasn’t part of the equation for these brainy heroines, but their heroes can’t resist the laws of attraction.

Inhale grumpy-sunshine, hating-to-dating, and men who pay attention in this trio of books highlighting women in engineering, finance, and botany.

Binge three stand-alone books bursting with bad words, loose buttons, and big … plants. Prepare for a heartwarming, often-hilarious happily ever after.

This set contains:

Vibration: An Accidental Roommates Romance

Current: A Secret Baby Romance

The Botanist and the Billionaire