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WHAT I'M LOOKING FOR
WHAT I'M LOOKING FOR Read online
What I'm Looking For
a nostalgic romantic comedy
Karen Grey
Praise
Boston Classics Series
★★★★★ “A rom com set in BOSTON in the 80s?? Yes please!”
- NYT bestselling author Erin Nicholas
★★★★★ “This author is truly a master at creating likeable, three-dimensional characters.”
- Laurie Reads Romance
★★★★★ I'm always happy to read Karen's books that transport me back to the 80s and 90s. I love her snippets of music, TV, current events of that time period sprinkled throughout the book for that hit of nostalgia.”
- Pixiedust reads
★★★★★ “I super, highly, and absolutely love and recommend this series! Readers who love the 80s/90s nostalgic era and maturing "broken" characters will be captivated with the characters, the plot, and the unforgettable era of the 80s/90s - the good, the bad, and even the ugly side of things.”
- Currant7recommends
★★★★★ “I am loving this series, each book is entertaining and contains plenty of laugh out loud moments and heartfelt ones.”
- Bookbub review
★★★★★ “Karen Grey has a lovely, deft touch with her characters, the plot, and with the world she's created.”
- Bookbub review
★★★★★ “I love these retro romance reads!”
- Bookbub review
★★★★★ “I’m all about this semi-historical genre. The music, the radio, the phones with cords. Every bit of it.”
- Goodreads review
Content Guidance
The content notes below are meant to give readers a generalized view of potentially triggering subjects within this novel.
Use of expletives: frequent but not mean-spirited
Sex/Nudity: several sex scenes
Violence: none
Death: none
Other: workplace harassment
If you’d like a more detailed list of content warnings (which may include spoilers) they are available at: https://www.karengrey.com/contentguidance
for Kristin Linklater
1936-2020
* * *
“Go to your bosom;
Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know”
—William Shakespeare, Measure for Measure, II, ii
* * *
“I can no other answer make but thanks,
And thanks; and ever thanks”
—William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night, III, iii
Contents
Chapter 1
KATE
Chapter 2
WILL
Chapter 3
WILL
Chapter 4
KATE
WILL
Chapter 5
KATE
Chapter 6
WILL
Chapter 7
KATE
Chapter 8
KATE
WILL
Chapter 9
WILL
KATE
Chapter 10
WILL
KATE
Chapter 11
KATE
Chapter 12
KATE
WILL
KATE
WILL
Chapter 13
KATE
Chapter 14
WILL
Chapter 15
KATE
Chapter 16
WILL
Chapter 17
WILL
Chapter 18
KATE
Chapter 19
WILL
Chapter 20
KATE
Chapter 21
WILL
Chapter 22
KATE
Chapter 23
WILL
KATE
Chapter 24
KATE
WILL
KATE
Chapter 25
KATE
Chapter 26
WILL
Chapter 27
KATE
WILL
Epilogue
Bonus Epilogue
Forget About Me: Sneak Peek
Also by Karen Grey
The Will & Kate Playlist
Afterword
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter 1
BEEP. Wednesday, 10:02 p.m.
Kate, you’re up third in tomorrow’s morning meeting. Good night.
KATE
My chest heaves. Every inch of my body is slick with sweat. My legs are as shaky as if I just sprinted the last hundred yards in the mile at a track meet.
Having reached the front of the conference room, I set my flip chart on the easel and place my notes on the podium while I psych myself up to face the rows of my firm’s traders and salesmen. Then I remember what Mr. Brady said to Jan when she was nervous to debate in front of a crowd. Unfortunately, picturing these guys in their underwear instead of suits as shiny as the gel slicking their hair back just recalls the images left on my desk on a daily basis my first couple of weeks on the job.
Xerox copies of what’s inside that underwear. Bet Jan Brady never had to deal with that.
Suck it up, Bishop. You didn’t eat breakfast, so there’s nothing to throw up like the first time you presented your Buy recommendations. You brought a glass of water so your mouth won’t get so dry that you literally can’t get the words out like the second time. What’s that new campaign slogan Nike’s about to roll out? “Just Do It”?
Gritting my teeth, keeping my focus on my meticulously prepared graphs instead of the sea of bored male faces, I manage to stumble through my list of stock recs. The anecdotes I planned to tell to make my conclusions more memorable? They all seem stupid now, so I skip them and woodenly read my notes.
Finally, it’s over and I get out of the way so the next junior analyst can take my place. Leaning against the side wall, I fumble for a pen so I can take notes on the rest of the meeting. The moment it’s finished, instead of lingering to answer questions I scoot back to my cubicle and my research, the part of my job I’m actually good at. But before I can even sit down, the phone on my desk buzzes.
“Roland would like to see you in his office in fifteen minutes.” The statement is followed by the dial tone. My boss’s secretary Gail rarely wastes words on greetings or goodbyes. Or names. Or hints as to my fate.
I have time to either scarf down the bagel I brought or change out of my pit-soaked blouse before this meeting, but not both. I’d rather face Roland in dry clothes, so I race to the ladies’ room before heading up to the executive floor. Breakfast can wait.
Exactly fifteen minutes later, I sidle up to Gail’s desk, hoping for a clue of what’s to come. She looks up and waves me through, her always pallid complexion revealing nothing. “He’s waiting for you.”
“Thanks.” My voice wobbles on the word.
Just do it, Bishop.
Gingerly sticking my head inside the lion’s den, I tap on the heavy oak door. “You needed to see me, sir?”
In contrast to the modern decor I’ve glimpsed in partners’ offices, this den is more Upstairs, Downstairs than LA Law. Posh surroundings aren’t what make my boss one of the most highly respected equity analysts in the world, but they do make me feel like a poor relation fortunate to share air with him.
He waves at me, patrician nose in a report. “Katherine Bishop. Come in, come in.” His royally accented voice trails off as he jots down notes. Neatly tucking everything to the side, he removes his reading glasses. “All right, then?”
I hover on the threshold. “Um, yes. I’m almost done with the quarterly for your athletic shoe manufacturers. I do
need to make a call to ask about an earnings upside at Adidas.”
He sits back in his chair and narrows his eyes at me. “Why haven’t we had you out in the field yet?”
I’m not sure how to answer. Isn’t that his call to make? “Well,” I begin, since he seems to be waiting for me to speak, “I haven’t really felt ready to—”
He interrupts me, gaze sharp and silver brows low. “Your presentation at the sales meeting this morning wasn’t ideal.”
“Yes, sir. I mean, I’ve been working on—”
He waves away my sputtered explanations. “Kate. If you can’t pull yourself together enough to present to a friendly crowd here in our offices, how will you face a group of institutional investors who will challenge each and every argument you make?”
I stifle a harsh laugh. Friendly crowd? It wasn’t just photocopies of private parts landing on my desk during my first month on the job. The traders sent me a stripper disguised as a bike messenger, and every single sales guy asked me out. Or suggested a quickie in their office. I’d be willing to bet they don’t welcome new male analysts the same way.
Of course, I can’t complain about any of it without sounding like a whiny little girl. “Well, I guess I—”
He interrupts me again, waving his hand. “Kate, please sit down. Your gorgeous gams are so distracting I can’t think.”
Pasting on a smile, I perch on one of the two spindly chairs that face his desk and carefully cross my ankles out of his line of sight.
He folds his hands on a spotless desk blotter. “What you need to do is capitalize on your strengths. If you want to succeed here, you need to be on the road, meeting with clients on both sides of the balance sheet.”
“I’m just concerned—”
He begins to count off a list on his fingers as if he didn’t hear me. “Strengths? You work hard. You admit when you’ve made a mistake and move on from it. You don’t panic when the ground shifts. I was particularly impressed with your calm during last fall’s debacle.”
We both shudder. October 19, 1987. Black Monday.
I’d been at the firm for less than a week the day the stock market fell twenty-two percent. The biggest drop in a single day. Ever.
To survive, I drew on the only thing I had: my history degree. Examining patterns from our country’s past recessions made the choices clear. Stick with stocks with solid fundamentals, no matter what they were doing in the short run. While a few guys in our department might have yelled louder as they recommended buying this hot thing and selling another doomed to fail, the meticulously reviewed reports I silently slid onto Roland’s desk must’ve resonated.
“Especially for a woman,” he continues. “You showed more emotional fortitude than most of the young men here, which I must say surprised me.”
Before I can fully parse that backhanded praise, he knocks on his desk. “This is precisely why we need those skills of yours out in the field. First, you’ve got to see the businesses you follow in person. That’s the only way you’ll get the full picture. Then you take that knowledge directly to our investment clients. You’ll be an invaluable resource to the sales department—if you can learn to command a room. And that’s the weakness you’ve got to overcome.”
Fingers spread like claws on the desk, he swoops in to finish off his argument. “If you’re unable to do that, we may have to rethink your position here. If it’s not going to be you moving up, I’ll be moving on to the next young man.”
After rapidly running my own personal debt ratios, an alternative squeaks out. “Could I go with you before I go out on my own? I would feel so much more confident if I shadowed you first.”
His gaze shifts toward the large picture window with a view of the Boston Public Garden.
After a painfully long pause, he opens his Filofax, flips through it and taps a page. “I do have a trip down south in a couple of weeks to tour several textile and apparel manufacturing sites. It’s a full one, so it might work to have an extra set of eyes and ears along.” Frosty blue eyes meet mine. “We could tack a marketing meeting with some of our investment clients in Atlanta onto the end of the trip. That way, you’ll get to experience meeting with business owners and money managers.”
“That sounds perfect.” I clear my throat and aim for a deeper tone. “Thank you.”
“All right then.” His finger points at a different spot in his calendar. “You are still planning to cover the sportswear conference at the convention center next week?”
“Oh, yes. I have appointments with a few companies.”
“It’d be even better if you scout at the trade show for new contacts.”
Ugh. Meeting more people. Why can’t I just stay in my cubicle and churn out models? Because then you’ll never get out of that cubicle, dummy. “I will try—I will add that to my plan.”
“Work out the particulars on the travel with Gail on your way out.”
“Great. Thank you again.”
“Thank you, Kate,” he intones, dismissing me.
I manage to keep my cool as I make my exit and speak with Gail about the trip, but the swell of emotions burbling inside threatens to spill over, so I make a quick detour to the ladies’ again. After running in place for thirty seconds, I’m back under control. I also have an idea. If I can find a sales guy I trust to have my back and work the room, then meeting investment clients would be easier. Maybe I could even audition one at the upcoming athletic wear trade show. Pushing out of the restroom while running pros and cons on the various sales personalities, I run smack into a broad chest cloaked in fine cotton.
Masculine hands grip my upper arms to separate our bodies. “Careful there, Kate.”
Deep voice, killer dimples, and chestnut brown eyes set off by a complexion that can only have come from a tanning booth this time of year. The sales guy the secretaries call “Hot Steve.”
Shuddering out a half-laugh, I take a step back. “Sorry. Need to watch where I’m going, I guess.” Clutching my portfolio, I ease out of his hold.
“Not so fast there, girl.” He drapes an arm over my shoulders like a spider cozying up to a fly. A smooth-talking, pheromone-leaking spider. “You going to join us at happy hour tonight?”
I know there are women at the firm who’d jump at the invitation, but his whole act just irritates me. I open my mouth to answer, so you guys can just make fun of me?
Before I can get a word out, he places a finger over my lips and whispers, “Shh, Kate. Don’t say no.”
Does he even know how cheesy he is? I remove the offending finger.
With impressive agility, he captures my hand and presses it to his heart. “It’s just a couple drinks. The other analysts join us when we can unchain them from their desks. Everybody just wants to get to know you better, see if straitlaced Kate can let her hair—”
Roland’s words echo inside my head, drowning out Hot Steve’s attempt at sweet talk. We may have to rethink your position here.
I retrieve my hand and awkwardly pat him on an impressively muscular upper arm. “You know what? I’ll go.” Happy hour with the boys isn’t my idea of a good time, but it might be the best way to observe the candidates in the wild, so to speak. The loss of one hour at my desk versus the loss of my job? The tradeoff is clear. “Yeah. I’ll go.”
Hot Steve’s posture stiffens. He sweeps the hallway with a hawk-like gaze. Grasping my elbow, he steers me to the water cooler. Casually bending down to fill a cup, he speaks out of the corner of his mouth. “Are you serious? Because there’s a longstanding wager that you’ll never go to happy hour. If you’re coming, I need to change my bet.” He looks over his shoulder before leaning down to whisper in my ear. “Meet us at the Bull and Finch—you know, the Cheers bar—at five thirty. Don’t tell anyone you agreed to come, and I’ll cut you in on my winnings. Now, push me away like you usually do when someone comes on to you.”
My hand floats into the air between us but before I can even touch him, he staggers back. “Wh
oa, Kate.” His hands rise along with the volume of his voice. “Calm down. Jeez, try to give a girl a compliment and she freaks out on you.”
I sure hope Steve never tries to switch careers and become an actor because he’d definitely fail. His performance is preposterous.
“Unbelievable, huh, Brad?”
Tall Brad nods on his way past. Hot Steve jogs to catch up to him, mouthing, “See you later,” to me.
Shaking my head at the dramatics, I head back to my cubicle where my bagel and piles of reports await.
By the time five thirty rolls around, the cubicles around me are silent. The boys have long since decamped to the bar. I run a hand over the stack of 10Qs I’m in the process of distilling into recommendations that need to be on Roland’s desk before I leave tonight.