by Amelia Wilde
Deep down, I knew what it was for. Or whom. Though it was extremely unlikely that I would run into a certain devastatingly handsome boss of mine, I couldn’t help but daydream about what might happen if, say, I ran into him in the elevator. Where he might shove me against the wall. And kiss me. And maybe rip the buttons off my jacket as he tore it from my heaving body.
Okay, so I hadn’t spent my entire weekend reading. Not even close.
“I heard you met Sterling on Friday.”
Eric’s voice shook me out of my daydream, and I swiveled around to see him shaking snow off his overcoat. He sat down in his own chair, and I scooted close so I could speak without anyone else overhearing us.
“Hey, be quiet,” I said. “I’d rather the peanut gallery next door didn’t know I ditched everyone to gallivant all night with our boss.”
“Gallivant, huh? And all night? Damn, Crosby, you must have some serious game. Not to mention stamina,” Eric teased.
I play-kicked at his chair. “You know very well that is not what happened. I’m sure Ana filled you in.”
Eric shrugged and gave me a sly grin. “All she knows was that you had breakfast there in the morning. Somebody helped you work up an appetite, huh?” He started grooving in his seat to self-made porn music, which earned him another kick. “Okay, okay!” He stopped, stifling chuckles. “She might have also mentioned that you slept in the guest room, all right?”
“Exactly,” I hissed. “Did you know that was his place? Tell me the truth.”
Eric shrugged again. “Sure. Probably.”
“‘Just some rich guy.’ Right. And you didn’t think to tell me that before I went wandering around?” I leaned back in my chair and shoved my hands through my hair, mortified all over again by the memory of being caught sitting in the window, all Little Miss Muffet on my very own damn tuffet.
Eric smiled that devious grin that I knew had caught countless other girls’ attentions over the years; as usual, it had no effect on me. Even though Eric had grown up in a classic six on the Upper East Side and attended some of the best private schools in Manhattan, a far cry from my family’s shabby house in Brooklyn, the carefree demeanor with which he approached women reminded me of the boys who hung out on the steps in my old neighborhood, catcalling girls as they walked by. If they didn’t know you, you weren’t much more than a piece of meat; if they did, you were practically a sister. To Eric, I was apparently the latter.
I stuck my tongue out, and he laughed.
“Hey, Crosby, no one told you to start playing Goldilocks up there. Besides, you wouldn’t have come if you knew,” he said simply. “And Ana wouldn’t have let me stay unless you did.”
“You are so gross,” I informed him.
“Yeah, but you love me anyway.”
Eric winked and grabbed the coffee canister he had set on the desk when he arrived. He pulled a Dixie cup out of his desk drawer and poured a small cup, which immediately filled the air with its aroma. Eric was an unbelievable snob when it came to coffee, claimed that the stuff the firm provided was basically battery acid. He came in every morning with a thermos full of some locally roasted, French-pressed brew.
“Anyway, of course I wouldn’t have come,” I said. “It’s a freaking name partner’s house! And I was just wandering around the first floor like some drunk college kid!”
Eric chuckled. “Yeah, that’s pretty classic. You sure you only stayed in your own room? Or maybe you wandered up a few stories…”
“Oh my God, no!” I hissed. “And I said keep your voice down! Nothing interesting happened besides me embarrassing myself, thank you very much. He chased me down the street after I ran out of there like a banshee. Then he polished my shoes and put me up in his guest bedroom. Probably more out of guilt than anything else.”
“Jesus Christ, Crosby. Only you would turn a potentially priceless networking opportunity into a way to turn one of the most powerful people in Boston into a shoeshine boy.” Eric shook his head.
“Yeah, that would have been super classy,” I replied. “‘So, Mr. Sterling, now that I’ve trespassed on your property, would you mind giving me, some strange girl whom you couldn’t care less about, a huge career boost despite the fact I’ve already turned down a job at your company?’”
Eric pursed his lip thoughtfully, inhaling deeply from his coffee before taking a sip. “I hate to tell you this, Crosby, but guys aren’t just naturally chivalrous—not these days. Ana said he put out your breakfast, not her. Doesn’t sound like a guy who isn’t interested to me.”
I shook my head fervently. “He wasn’t even there in the morning. I doubt he even remembers who I am.”
My vehemence was rewarded by another chuckle from Eric, but our conversation was halted as Ben, one of the junior associates, wheeled a dolly carrying five cardboard boxes into the room, a smaller box perched atop the others.
“I come bearing gifts of farewell!” he called out. “Depositions to summarize! The Walker trial continuance was denied.”
Everyone groaned though it was all in good fun. Our trial might be over, but we were being paid through the week, and there was always more work to be done. We were all used to going through depositions with a fine-toothed comb. Ben explained the case theory and indicated the dates and terms he wanted highlighted, along with a few other things to mark. Then he wheeled the dolly around to deliver each of us files.
“Hey, Skylar,” he said as he handed me a folder and a rectangular box wrapped in brown paper. Only my name was marked across the top in curt black print. “Looks like you got an admirer from upstairs. Before you start on these, you’re wanted up on the sixth floor.”
I furrowed my brow, ignoring the immediate clench in my gut. The sixth floor was the partners’ floor. “Did they say with whom?”
Ben shook his head. “No, just got the call a minute ago. Get going.”
He continued around the room, leaving me to face Eric, who was grinning like a clown.
“Well, let’s see what Santa brought, Cros,” he said, looking eagerly at my mystery box.
I snatched a letter opener off my desk and tore open the package. Under the anonymous wrapping was a white box with “Manolo Blahnik” printed quietly on one side. I lifted the top and pulled out a note that read simply:
Thought you should have a backup.
I folded the note closed and set it on the desk, turning back to the box. Beneath a layer of tissue paper, I found a pair of deep-red, size-seven pumps with pointed toes and delicate stiletto heels. They were gorgeous. And perfect. And completely inappropriate.
A low whistle cut through the busy hum of the office. Next to me, Eric held up his paper cup in a mock-toast.
“What do you know, Cinderella?” he said with a smirk. “Looks like Prince Charming came with both shoes this time.”
The elevators opened on the sixth floor towards a central reception area that matched the lobby on the first floor. The heather-gray tufted couches and chairs that decorated the lobby coordinated with dark-wood floors, both complementing the nineteenth-century building’s original interior while maintaining a stylish air. The receptionist, a girl with blonde hair and oddly tanned skin for this time of year, looked up from her desk.
“Can I help you?” she asked in a less than friendly tone as she looked me up and down. So much for a welcome reception.
I pushed my shoulders back and approached the desk, my impromptu gift cradled under one arm. “Hi, I’m Skylar Crosby, one of the interns downstairs. Ben said one of the partners requested me, but he didn’t say who it was.” I knew exactly who it was, of course, but she didn’t need to know that.
The receptionist raised an eyebrow as if she didn’t quite believe me. “Hold on a moment.” She picked up her phone. “Hey, Reese. Did anyone back there send for an intern? Skylar Cosby?”
“Crosby,” I corrected her.
She rolled her eyes and said my name again, this time correctly. “I know, right?” she said into the phone with a sm
irk at me. “Just check anyway. Thanks, Reese.” She replaced the phone. “Someone will be right with you.”
I gave her a tight smile and took a seat in an arm chair to wait. Within a few minutes, the phone rang again.
“Hey, Reese,” said the receptionist. “Really? Okay, I’ll send her back.” After hanging up, she looked over to me. “Mr. Sterling’s office is to the right, all the way at the end of the hall.”
She buzzed open the door behind her, and I walked through with a tight nod.
I followed a long hallway to the back of the building, my footsteps muted by the plush gray carpet. Most of the doors were open, revealing paralegals and assistants working at small desks that guarded offices of actual partners. Eventually, I found the open door marked Sterling, through which an older woman typed furiously as she listened to a digital recording through one earbud. She looked up as I entered.
“Ms. Crosby?” she asked, stopping her recording.
“Yes. Are you Reese?”
The woman snorted. “Absolutely not. Reese is one of the junior partners’ assistants—she’s just friends with Alexis, the receptionist. My name is Margie. You can go right in. He’s expecting you.”
Margie replaced her earbud, pressed her foot down to continue the recording, and paid me no more attention. I approached the office door behind her and opened it.
6
It was easily the biggest office I had ever seen. Like the kitchen at his house, it was bigger than my entire apartment. The first part of the wide, rectangular room had the makings of a typical if luxurious office space. A massive antique desk with dark, curling woodwork stood to my immediate right, faced by two overstuffed armchairs. Behind those were a four-person antique dining set and several dark-wood bookshelves carrying files, binders, and, of course, books.
Then the room opened to what looked like a common living space. There was a kitchenette in the far corner, an open door revealing a bed, and a plush navy couch facing a brick fireplace. Small flames blazed merrily. Through several large windows bright light streamed into the otherwise dark room, which was painted a deep, ocean blue. Most of downtown Boston was visible through the windows, including a view of Copley Square. Snow was starting to fall again outside, making the fire all the more welcoming.
His back to the wall, Sterling sat at the carved behemoth desk like a king, resembling a young JFK. The wall behind him was hung with various accolades: several Trial Lawyer of the Year awards, what looked like a letter from the mayor or governor, and three framed magazine covers featuring his handsome face. It was a setup that was both comfortable and intimidating—likely by design.
I stepped inside, and Sterling looked up when the heavy door slammed shut. His smile was so instantaneous and bright that I had to grab the doorknob behind me when my legs stopped working.
How had I forgotten just how handsome this man was? He still had that same ruddy complexion, the same slightly too-long, dark-blond hair that was combed back and curling slightly around his ears. I didn’t usually care for the slicked-back look, but he made it work, mostly because it was clear he did it out of expediency and not for looks. He looked positively leonine.
“Skylar,” he said, standing up to reveal shoulders and neck almost too broad for his crisp blue shirt the color of a summer sky. A simple black tie fell to his tapered waist. His black jacket was draped over the back of his chair, but it was clear that the man looked good enough in a suit to eat. “Come on in.”
“Hello, Mr. Sterling,” I said as I wobbled my way in front of his desk.
Uncertain if I should sit down, I remained standing as he stared at me without speaking. He continued to stare while I grew increasingly uncomfortable.
“You sent for me, Mr. Sterling?” I reminded him.
He blinked and shook his head, grinning again. “Sorry, just caught in a daydream. I was about to make some tea. Would you like some?”
“Um, sure.”
I followed Sterling to the back of the room, where he gestured I should take a seat on the couch. The heels of my cheap shoes sank into the thick Aubusson carpet. My cheeks reddened as I recalled the last time I was sitting in front of a fire with this man, my feet cradled delicately in his large hands.
“Is the fire too hot?” he asked a few minutes later. He sat down next to me and handed me a cup of hot tea. He also placed a small file between us. “Your face is a bit red.”
Sterling glanced down at the shoebox I had set beside me and frowned. I had to avoid flinching when I caught his expression. The friendly smile was replaced by a thick scowl.
“No, no, the fire is fine,” I said, pulling his attention from the box I obviously meant to return. “Perfect for a day like this. A bit unusual for an office, though.”
“This building used to be full of tenement apartments from the nineteenth century,” Sterling said, quickly reverting to his easy demeanor as he sat back. “We kept them on the partners’ floor. Sometimes I can sleep here when I have to work late.”
I tried and failed not to imagine him in bed, so I focused on my drink. The tea was just the way I liked it: strong with a bit of cream and honey. Strange that we had the same taste. Then I saw that his was black.
“How did you know how I like my tea?” I asked with a frown.
Sterling smiled again, that same Cheshire cat smile he had given me at his apartment to convince me to stay the night. Oh. Ana hadn’t just been asking for herself. How awkward for her to be spying for her boss.
I wondered how often he got people to do his bidding with that smile.
“Oh, I found out quite a bit about you since Friday, Skylar.” Sterling put his tea down on the side table and picked up the slim file between us.
“Skylar Ellen Crosby,” he recited. “Born April 8, 1989, in Brooklyn, New York. Daughter of Daniel Crosby, city sanitation employee, and Janette Chambers, heiress. Parents divorced, mother remarried to Maurice Jadot of Paris, deputy CEO with BNP Paribas.” He stopped, shooting me a quick, blue look. “Guy’s a shark. Hope he’s nicer at home.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
I couldn’t keep the bitterness from my voice. I could count the number of times I’d seen my mother in the last fifteen years on one hand, and I’d only met her fifth husband once. Christmas cards had informed me they had two kids together, Annabelle and Christoph. They lived outside of Paris in a house I had hoped to see when I had studied abroad in college. I’d never been invited.
You could say it was a sore subject.
Sterling cleared his throat and continued. “High school valedictorian, P.S. 117. Doubled majored in Business Finance and…Music?” He glanced up curiously. “Minored in Francophone Studies at NYU, where you graduated summa cum laude. Top-earning junior analyst at Goldman Sachs before receiving a partial scholarship to Harvard Law. Lives in student housing, I see—I went to HLS too, so I know the address. Speaks French fluently. Conversational German and…Yiddish, huh?”
“Jewish grandmother,” I said. “So. You know my resume and the contents of the background check you do on your employees. Doesn’t explain why you had your housekeeper do reconnaissance on my tea preferences, though.”
Sterling smirked, clearly enjoying whatever little game this was. “Ana’s a good spy.” His smile morphed back into a frown as his gaze again fell on the shoebox. “Why is that here?” he asked sharply.
I set my tea on the side table and picked up the box, which I offered to him. Sterling stared at it for a moment, then back at me with irritation. But he didn’t take it.
“What?” I set the box between us on the couch and pushed it toward him. “This is an incredibly ostentatious gift, and I work for you. Sir, it would be completely inappropriate for me to take it.”
“It’s a pair of shoes,” Sterling stated.
“That cost a month’s rent.”
“Are you planning to continue working for me?”
I paused. “No. Am I being offered a job again?”
“No,” Sterlin
g echoed. He leaned in. “Not unless you’ve changed your mind.”
I bit my lip. Every law student in Boston would be tripping over themselves for this kind of opportunity. But my instincts hadn’t changed. Sterling Grove wasn’t the right place for me. Especially if I was going to be working for someone with a penchant for over-the-top gifts that would do nothing but start a bunch of rumors.
“I haven’t changed my mind,” I said much more confidently than I felt. “But that doesn’t mean I can take these from you.”
“Sure, it does.”
“No, it doesn’t!” I sputtered.
I picked up the box and thrust it into his lap. It slid helplessly to the rug, and the sleek red shoes fell out. Sterling glared at me, his eyes now a dark blue. This time I glared right back.
We maintained our silent standoff while the fire popped. His knee just barely touched mine, sending heat coursing up my leg that couldn’t completely be from the fire or my temper. They did say there was a thin line between love and hate. It was all too easy to imagine us throwing the shoes across the room—maybe at each other?—before falling onto that soft rug. Naked. Wrestling. He would lean over me in the firelight and pin my hands over my head just as he eased himself between my…
“Skylar?”
I blinked. “What?” Christ, that had gone from zero to sixty in record time.
His scowl had transformed into a knowing half grin. He knew exactly what I was thinking. “Your cheeks are red again. Are you feeling all right?”
Goddamn my Irish complexion.
“I’m fine,” I said, reaching for my tea. I made a big production of taking a sip, rotating the cup in the saucer, and holding it in my lap so I could regain my composure. “Are you always this stubborn?”
“As an ass,” Sterling confirmed. With one toe, he kicked the shoes out of sight. “Usually it gets me what I want.”