Fresh air wrapped around Connor as he stepped out onto the sidewalk. He’d left the company car in the Hyatt parking garage, but it was considerably colder now than when he’d walked over. He shoved his hands in his pockets and strolled in the direction of the hotel. It was a clear night, but here in downtown Minneapolis he couldn’t see the stars.
Not like at home…
It’d been a March night just like this when he’d first met Melina. Senior year at Wheaton College in Illinois, too broke to go anywhere over spring break, he’d come back to Minnesota for a week—and had fallen for her. He’d been so idealistic then, even turning down job offers in Minneapolis to stay on the Iron Range.
Now, twelve years of marriage and two kids later, he missed the intimacy they’d shared in those early days.
Especially the sexual intimacy.
The last time he’d attempted that kind of connection, she’d claimed she was too tired. The thought of what he’d done after that caused guilt to prickle his skin.
You could watch it again right now…
He squashed the shiver of anticipation the thought gave him. Instead, he focused on Mel. He hadn’t texted her once today; he’d been too busy trying to figure out where four hundred thousand dollars had gone. No matter who’d screwed up—it sure as hell wasn’t him—he was the one on the hot seat when it came to the board of directors.
“Hey mister, you got a dollar?”
His head jerked toward the voice. The speaker stood hunched under the awning of a pawn shop. He wore an old Army jacket and tattered jeans.
Homeless.
Connor looked away.
“I didn’t think so,” Army jacket said.
The guy reminded him of the veterans Mel volunteered with at Haven for Heroes; he’d met some of them when Mel roped him into helping with the last fundraiser. She often said they were just plain lost as well as homeless.
Connor stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and pulled out his wallet. He extracted a twenty-dollar bill and held it out toward the man. “You got somewhere warm to stay tonight?”
The man’s surprised eyes lifted from the bill to Connor’s face. “Yeah, I got a place,” he said.
A place could mean anything from a temporary shelter to a car to a sleeping bag in an underpass, but Connor didn’t press. “Good,” he said.
The man hesitated.
“Take it,” Connor said. “It’s yours.”
The man reached for the bill as if he expected Connor to pull it back at any moment. “Thanks, man,” he said.
Connor nodded and headed for Fourth Street. His family had been poor at times—that’s the way it was in mining country—but they’d never been homeless.
He had a sudden urge to talk to Mel. Ignoring the cold, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed her number.
Unfortunately, it was her voice mail that greeted him. “This is Mel. Leave me a message and I’ll get back to you!”
“Hey, honey,” he said. “Busy day in meetings. Just finished having dinner with Ben and Carly. I guess he’s going back out on tour in another week. Anyway, just wanted to touch base. Say hi to the kids for me. Love you.”
He stepped through the automated doors of the Hyatt Hotel and glanced at the hotel bar. It wasn’t even eight o’clock, and he hadn’t finished his drink at dinner. And frankly, a drink was probably safer than too much time alone in his hotel room.
He headed for the bar and was surprised to see Jorgen Peterson, CEO of Mesabi Fabricators (and his boss) perched on one of the stools. He hesitated, but Jorgen turned and caught sight of him. “Connor!” he said. “Have a seat! Let me buy you a drink.”
Connor studied the other man. If he didn’t know better, he’d think Jorgen was more than a little tipsy.
“Jameson’s your drink of choice, am I right?” Jorgen said.
Connor nodded.
Jorgen signaled to the bartender. “Make it two.”
Connor took the stool next to Jorgen. He and Jorgen would never be bosom buddies, but he respected the other man and had shared many meals and drinks with him.
His Jameson appeared in front of him and he took a sip. Beside him, Jorgen did the same.
“Ah, that’s good,” Jorgen said. “You have good taste.”
Jorgen slurred slightly on the word taste, and Connor realized his first impression had been right. How many drinks had Jorgen had?
“Did you find the forty thou?” Jorgen said.
Four hundred thousand.
Connor didn’t correct his boss. “Not yet, but I will.”
Jorgen nodded. “I know you will.”
Connor’s chest swelled just a little; this was what made the stress of his job bearable. Jorgen believed in him, and so did the other executives. And as long as he did his job right, the 350 employees of Mesabi Fabricators could count on having a steady paycheck to support their families—unlike his dad, whose work in the mines had been on-again, off-again all through Connor’s childhood.
Jorgen stared up at the TV in the corner. “Something’s on my mind, Connor.”
“Something’s always on your mind.” Connor tried to lighten the mood; he’d never seen Jorgen this drunk. “That’s why you get paid the big bucks.”
“This is something I shouldn’t be telling you,” Jorgen said.
