I don’t think it’s too much to ask.
“What are you thinking about?” my sister asks, letting her daughter slide down her hip. Ellison runs back to the family room with her sister in tow. “You’re doing that thing where you chew the inside of your lip and get this far-off look in your eyes.”
I’ve never breathed a word of anything Reed-related to anyone in my family. When things were kosher, it wasn’t like I felt the need to mention to my family that I had a “fuck buddy,” and when things were bad and I moved home, I never felt the need to go into detail about the events surrounding my transfer.
No sense in rehashing the past now, even if the past is probably palling around my city this very moment.
Shaking my head, I say, “It’s nothing. Honestly. Anyway, I need to stop at the mall and grab a Secret Santa gift. Office party is Monday night.”
“Fun, fun.” Neve smiles. “Behave yourself now. Don’t get too turned up or whatever the saying is.”
“Neve, stop. Your Middle-Aged Mom is starting to show.”
“Hush.” She swats her hand at me as I grab my coat off the back of a kitchen chair.
A minute later, I’m bundled for the cold and digging my keys out of my bag. “See you Thursday. Don’t forget, I’m bringing the pie.”
Neve walks me out, and I dash to my car through blowing snow gusts and wind so ice-cold it could snap my bones if I stay out here too long. It’s times like these I miss LA. Those lucky bastards are still sipping cocktails on outdoor patios this time of year, listening to live music so vibrant even the palm trees can’t help but sway to the beat.
I start my car a few seconds later and let the engine warm, lingering in the driveway until the heat kicks on. Cranking it full blast, I wait until the icy build-up on my windshield is melted before pulling out and heading straight for the Mills Haven Shopping Center.
This year I drew Jodi’s name, and while she works in a different department and telecommutes half the time, I can’t help but notice she’s always wearing charm bracelets. A quick stop at one of those charm bracelet stores at the mall should suffice.
Snow collects on my window as I drive, and I hit the wipers, smearing the melting mess until it’s clear again. A Michael Bublé Christmas song plays softly on the radio, instantly making my skin hot and itchy. It reminds me of something, though I’m not sure what. I flick to a different station, settling on an old Bing Crosby holiday standard, and three songs later, I pull into the crowded mall parking lot.
It only takes twenty minutes to find a spot, and I almost get into a turn-signal war with a Rudolph nose and antler-wearing Dodge Caravan, but fortunately a second spot opens up, saving the day.
It’s a Christmas miracle.
Once inside, the place is elbow-to-stroller-to-shopping bag packed, but I manage to make it to the charm bracelet store on the north side in good time. I choose a star-shaped charm with tiny Swarovski crystals. It’s generic enough that I think she’ll like it, but it’s also sparkly and perfect for this time of year.
I tuck the little bag inside my purse and head back to the parking lot, dreaming about fuzzy socks and fleece pajamas and finishing The Family Stone as soon as I get home, but it hits me somewhere between Greenbriar Parkway and Beckwith Avenue that chances are Reed is going to be invited to our holiday party Monday evening.
Not only will I have to see him all day that day, but I’ll be forced to extend my cordiality into the evening. That plus alcohol plus all the words I’ve been swallowing over the past could be a lethal combination.
Gripping the steering wheel, I crank the radio and finish my drive home with the tightest of knots in my center and the tiniest voice in my head insisting that there’s no possible way this is going to go well—for either of us.
Past
Joa
“Mexican or Italian?” I yell from the bed of our rented condo in Miami.
Reed is in the shower.
I haven’t yet bothered to get dressed, just sitting here with the sheets wrapped around me while I look up local restaurants that deliver.
“Chinese,” he yells back. “But check the reviews on Yelp before you pick one.”
I roll my eyes. Sometimes he can be so … extra.
The door to the bathroom is slightly open, filling the bedroom with muggy steam that smells like him. Cedar and vetiver. Musk and sex.
This is our second trip together. Last month we went to the Catalina Islands for three days and stayed at some renovated cottage in the back of someone’s massive estate.
He was serious about the hotel thing, though he refuses to elaborate. Every time I try to bring it up, he shuts it down with a smart-assed remark.
At this point, I’ve stopped caring. And honestly, he’s so generously paying for the AirBnbs so at the end of the day, it’s only fair that he chooses the place.
I have to admit, I was a bit nervous last month when we took our first trip together. I kept overanalyzing every little thing I said. The way I was sitting or if I touched him too much or gave off any impression that I was trying to veer us toward boyfriend/girlfriend territory.
After the first night, I realized that by acting all self-conscious, I was inadvertently acting like a nervous new girlfriend, and I promptly changed my entire modus operandi from that point on.
It’s actually kind of nice, not having the confines and pressures of an actual relationship.
There are no important dates to memorize.
No gifts to give.
No parents to meet.
No arguing over movies since we don’t see them together.
And I like the fact that we don’t go to each other’s places. When Reed first proposed that, at first I thought maybe he had a wife or girlfriend and was trying to hide me from whatever it was he had going on at home, but I’ve recently become close with one of the other girls in the office, and she wasted no time giving me the full scoop on Mr. Reed York.
He’s not married. He’s a commitment-phobic LA bachelor who loves his job more than he’ll ever love a woman.
In other words, he’s as single as they come and he couldn’t be further from my type—which means this whole arrangement is actually pretty perfect for me.
All of that said, I couldn’t help but see the tiniest bit of red the other day when I saw Heather from IT trying to chat him up at the copier.
I was on the other side of the office, watching from afar, so I’m not even sure what they were talking about. For all I know, they could’ve been discussing last night’s episode of Game of Thrones. But his smile to her was like a punch in the gut to me—one that I absolutely was not expecting.
I forced it away.
I knew better than to feel any sort of ownership toward him.
Reed emerges from the shower, and I’m already on the phone, ordering his favorite General Tsao’s chicken with brown rice and crab rangoon. We’ve had enough takeout dinners that I know all of his preferences across varying cuisines.
It’s funny.
I could tell you that he loves rigatoni primavera from Paolo’s. I could tell you that he loves the butter chicken from India Star but not the butter chicken from Namaste. I could tell you he loves the chicken fajitas in corn tortillas with no onions and a side of salsa verde from Guadalajara’s.
But I couldn’t tell you his parents’ name.
Or if he has any siblings.
Or where he went to college.
Curiosity gnaws away at me sometimes, when I’m lying in bed next to him, jetlagged and unable to sleep.
It’s only natural to want to know things about people, to want to find out who they are underneath their carefully crafted exterior.
But if I ask too many questions, he’ll get the wrong idea. He’ll think I’m asking to meet his parents or that I’m trying to get closer to him by getting to know him better.
So I’ll keep my questions to myself.
We’ve got a good little thing going here.
I don’t wan
t to jeopardize it.
6
Reed
There’s something cliché about a suited executive carrying two dozen glazed Krispy Kremes into an office on a Monday morning, but it is what it is. I’ve never met ten out of eleven of the employees here, and I’m sure they’re all on edge. I figured I’d start the day with a quick meeting and a sugar high and go from there.
“Reed?” A man with thinning hair and smiling eyes appears from an office doorway.
“Yes.”
“Harold Coffey. Nice to finally meet you in person.” He extends his right hand, and I move the boxes to my left arm, meeting his handshake with the kind of firmness that lets him know I’m in charge here … just in case he’s one of those asses with the big heads who think they run the show just because they’ve got the words “branch manager” in their title.
“Good to meet you as well. Point me to the conference room?” I ask.
It’s early, about a half hour before most of the staff gets here, but I wanted to get a head start on setting up for the meeting.
And I wanted to be here before Joa got in.
“Right this way.” Harold takes the donuts and leads me down a hall, flicking on lights in the process. When we get to the end, he retrieves a set of keys from his pocket and impressively jams one into the lock with a single hand. “Here we are.”
The room is small. A ten-foot table with maybe twelve chairs centers the space, and a wall of windows provides a gray cityscape view clouded with fog and an even grayer sky.
I can’t believe she traded palm trees for this shit.
Sliding my leather messenger bag down my arm, I place it on the table and take a seat at the head.
“I’ll just work from here, if you don’t mind,” I tell Harold.
“Of course. We’ve got a spare office if you’d like that too, but wherever you’re comfortable is fine.” He smiles. In fact, I don’t think he’s stopped smiling since I got here. It’s not natural to smile that much. I don’t care who you are, no one is that happy all of the time.
I’m going to give him the benefit of the doubt and chalk it up to nerves.
Everyone gets nervous when one of the big dogs comes to town. The New York branch is the worst. They walk around all stiff-shouldered and shifty-eyed, their demeanors instantly on the defense like I’m the jerk who dared show up at one of the branches whose finances I oversee.
“I’ll let you do your thing,” Harold says, his fingertips tapping together as he lingers in the doorway of the conference room. “Everyone should be in around eight. I’ll send them down here shortly after that and we can get started.”
He messes with his tie for a second before flashing another smile and leaving.
Nerves.
Definitely nerves.
And he should be nervous.
I’m not here for a friendly hello. I’m here because shit’s about to hit the fan. But until I get the green light, I’m not at liberty to discuss that with anyone here. And in the meantime, I’ll get this quick meet-and-greet over with, do my thing, and go from there.
“Hi.”
I glance up and find an older woman with salt-and-pepper hair and a magenta sweater standing in the doorway.
“I’m Pam. You must be Mr. York?” she asks as she shuffles in, a yellow pad and gel pen in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other.
I check my watch.
“I always get here early,” she says with a chuckle. “I like to put a pot of coffee on so it’s fresh when everyone else gets in.”
She’s got the Midwestern, nice-for-no-reason thing going on, and I can appreciate that—as long as she doesn’t dawdle and waste my time with unnecessary small talk.
“Very thoughtful of you,” I say, turning my attention to my email.
“Would you like me to make you a cup?” she asks.
Oh, Pam.
I want to like you.
Please let me like you …
I glance up and make myself offer a tight smile. Small talk has never been my thing, but I know she’s simply trying to be hospitable. “No thank you.”
She settles into her chair, flipping her notebook to a clean page when two more ladies walk in, followed by a fresh-faced kid in a too-big suit. Two more suits walk in. Harold returns. Another woman. I count them all. Seven. We’re missing three more plus Joa.
My throat constricts just enough for me to notice. I swear it’s grown a little warmer in here in the last few minutes.
Two more women enter the room, napkins and paper plates in hand. One of them carries a carton of orange juice and a stack of cups. Do they just have that stuff lying around?
Another man walks in, dressed in gray slacks and a purple sweater.
That leaves Joa.
Of course she’s taking her sweet time. She’s probably doing it on purpose just to torture me, that little minx.
I smirk to myself, chin tucked, then I glance up.
And just like that … she’s ten feet in front of me, lingering in the doorway of the now-filled conference room. A notebook is clutched against her chest, a pen in her fist. Her baby blues scan the room in search of an empty seat, and when she realizes the only one left is the one to my right, she releases a little sigh no one seems to notice but me.
I rise, extending my hand toward the chair. “Joa, good to see you again. It’s been a while.”
All eyes are on the two of us.
Her stone-cold stare holds mine and in that short span of a few endless seconds, it feels like there’s so much that needs to be said, but she clears her throat, slides her hands under her skirt, and takes a seat next to me.
The sweet scent of her perfume fills the air around us and my cock throbs, like a fucking Pavlovian dog that’s been classically conditioned.
Taking my seat again, I rest my elbows on the table, the cuff of my suit coat pulling back just enough to expose the charcoal leather band and shiny platinum face of my Burberry watch.
From the corner of my eye, I feel the drift of her gaze and watch the way her thumb presses against the ballpoint pen in her right hand.
I knew she’d notice. She always did have a penchant for detail.
Pretending I’m oblivious, I smooth my hand along my tie—the one from our first time. The one I used to tie her wrists more times than I can count.
“Now that Ms. Jolivet has made her arrival, we can begin.” I don’t look at her this time, but I can almost feel her shooting daggers my way. “Forgive me for being all kinds of cliché today, but if you could just go around the table and introduce yourselves, that’d be great. And please help yourself to a donut if you haven’t yet.”
Joa leans back in her chair, long legs crossed, and a scrutinizing glare pointed at me.
I deserve that.
“Why don’t we start with you?” I ask the blonde with the thick glasses seated across from Joa.
“Lucy Clarke, Accounts Receivable,” she says before the next one takes her turn.
Jodi.
Piper.
Harold.
Richard.
Sam.
Carol-Ann.
Kennedy.
Pam.
Linc.
And back to Joa.
“All right. Thanks everyone,” I say. “I know you’re all wondering what I’m doing here and why I came on such short notice.”
The room is so quiet I can hear the woman beside me swallow the lump in her throat before reaching for a glass of orange juice.
“I’ve been tasked with performing an end-of-year audit on a few of our accounts, and in doing so, I’m going to be pulling a few of you aside for some questions.” I try to keep it as brief and to the point as I can. Panic isn’t going to help anything, nor will it change the outcome of the investigation. “I’d very much appreciate it if you would all carry on as per usual in the meantime.”
Harold wipes his pudgy fingers on a napkin before messing with his tie. He’s the only one who can’t seem to sit still out
of this entire group. I can’t be certain, but from this end of the table it almost looks like he’s beginning to sweat, then again, it is rather warm and we’re in a bit of a confined space.
“I’ll be working from the conference room this week,” I say, “if anyone needs me. Otherwise, you’re all free to go.”
“That’s it?” Someone—Kennedy maybe—blurts out from down the line.
“Excuse me?” I ask.
“You came out here last minute during the week of Christmas just to audit some accounts?” The woman gathers her things, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, Mr. York. You seriously can’t expect us to carry on as per usual when something is clearly going on behind the scenes. If our jobs are on the line, you owe it to us to tell us right now.”
My jaw tightens. She has a point, but I’m not in a position to speak on this just yet or to veer too far from my script. Foolishly, I’d hoped that these people would be so caught up in their pre-holiday busy-ness that they’d hope for the best and leave the questions to a minimum.
“Are we closing down?” someone else asks.
“We had record numbers last quarter. There’s no way,” one of the suits adds.
“Is this because we lost the Hyperion account?” another woman asks.
I place my palm up. “Everyone, if you could please return to your offices and get to work, I can begin my audit. The sooner I’m finished, the sooner we’ll know—”
“—the sooner we’ll know if we’re all being canned,” someone else finishes my sentence.
Scanning the room, I run a quick head count. We’re down to nine. A quick glance to my left and I realize Joa’s missing. She must have snuck out the moment I dismissed everyone. But who’s the other one?
The Executive Page 4