The Executive

by Winter Renshaw

  Debate team—obviously.

  From what I gather here and after spending Christmas Eve with her family, it’s clear to me that Joa had a happy, All-American childhood—one of the things I’d have given anything for when I was a kid.

  While the Jolivets will never know this, they gave me quite the gift tonight. To be a part of something I’ve only ever seen on TV or in the movies means more to me than they could begin to comprehend.

  I tug my shirt over my head and glance at my vibrating phone on the quilt. The screen lights with a picture from Bijou.

  I tap the message, a photo of her with a few friends, drinking out of festive glasses and wearing headbands with what appear to be blinking Christmas lights.

  “Wish you were here!” she writes.

  Good to know she’s having fun and not sitting at home throwing herself a pity party.

  She doesn’t ask what I’m doing tonight, and that’s fine. If I told her I spent the evening with a family who wears ugly Christmas sweaters, Santa hats, and holds holiday-themed karaoke contests, she wouldn’t believe me. And if she did, she’d give me shit. We might share the same DNA, but we’re cut from two completely different cloths.

  But I don’t care. I wouldn’t want to spend the holidays anywhere else or with anyone else.

  Past

  Reed

  “Trust me, York. I know what I’m talking about. I wrote a paper on this two years ago.” She leans over my desk on a scorching July afternoon, jabbing her pointer finger against a stack of paper. “The Coswell Growth and Projection Model is by far the most accurate out there when it comes to cryptocurrency. I don’t feel comfortable using any other method, not with our clients.”

  “The Greenleaf Model is newer, and they’ve incorporated Ripple and Dogecoin and Stellar’s historical data into their algo.”

  “Dogecoin and Stellar are irrelevant,” she says. “They’re ants compared to us. Their data is useless, and we’d be doing our clients a huge disservice by soiling their projections with inaccurate data.”

  God, I love it when she uses big words.

  “Let it go,” she says, straightening her shoulders. “If you want to go rounds, we can go rounds. I was the debate team captain all four years of high school, and I took us to state.”

  “Not the least bit surprised by that.”

  “So you can surrender now or we can keep going. It’s your choice.” Her right hand flies to her hip. “Why are you laughing? What’s so funny?”

  “You.” I rise from my desk, straighten my tie, and make my way to the other side where she stands with planted heels, her body terse. “Your passion, your intelligence… it’s sexy as hell ...” leaning in, I whisper, “You have no idea how hard I am right now.”

  I manage to get a smile out of her.

  “I think we need to plan on staying late tonight,” I say. “These projection model reports aren’t going to run themselves.”

  15

  Joa

  Four pies are stacked in my arms as I make my way up the front steps to my parents’ house, each step as careful as the one before. The moment I make it over the threshold, I’ll have to see him again.

  It’s bad enough he was the last thing I thought about before I went to bed and the first thing I thought about the second I woke up this morning. Now I have to spend the entire day with him, “making merry” because it’s Christmas.

  I scolded myself this morning. Silently, of course.

  I thought I was stronger than this. I was one-million percent sure I’d be able to resist his charms, that he wouldn’t be able to weasel his way into my good graces. But watching him play so sweetly with my nieces last night nearly melted the ice from my heart, and hearing how he shoveled the driveway for my dad chipped away at my resolve a little bit.

  The Reed York that I knew wouldn’t have done those things. He wasn’t generous, polite, or well-mannered. He was entitled and selfish and distant.

  Now I’m thinking there’s so much more to him than I ever imagined—not that it matters. And not that it changes anything. He did what he did. There’s no taking away from that. No going back. No undoing the damage.

  I show myself in and latch the door behind me, carrying the pies up to the kitchen where my mom is lining potatoes up next to the sink as she hums Little Drummer Boy.

  She doesn’t see me until I shrug out of my coat and yank my woolen cap off my head.

  “Oh, Joa,” she says, clutching at her heart. “When did you get here?”

  “Just now.” I stride over to her, throwing my arms around her shoulders from behind and breathing in the familiar scent of her Liz Taylor perfume and Redken hairspray. “Brought four pies. Hope that’s enough.”

  “As long as we don’t have four slices each, it should be plenty,” she says with a chuckle. “Though you never know with Logan. That man can put down two large pepperoni pizzas and still complain about being hungry an hour later.”

  “Some things never change.” I grab a spare potato peeler from the drawer and take the spot beside her at the sink.

  It’s quiet for a few moments. The metallic slink of the peeler, the steady stream of the water, the quiet thunks of the peelings landing against stainless steel.

  “You know,” Mom says, breaking the silence. “That Reed is a very nice man.”

  I want to roll my eyes. I know exactly where this conversation is headed.

  “Yeah, sure,” I say, not wanting to have a disagreement with my mother the morning of Christmas.

  “And I can tell, he really thinks the world of you,” she continues.

  I’m sure anything he’s saying is out of politeness. “I bet he does.”

  “I guess I just don’t understand the indifference.”

  I turn to her. “Mom.”

  “No, seriously, Joa. He’s smart and handsome and successful, and don’t think I don’t notice him stealing glances at you every chance he gets.”

  I laugh, reaching for another potato and running it under the stream of water.

  “That ship has sailed,” I say, opting not to go into detail.

  “Did the two of you date? When you were in LA?”

  “No.” It’s not a lie. “We never dated.”

  “Well, all I’m saying is to give him a chance. We all think he’s very nice.” She grabs a potato.

  “Didn’t anyone tell you?” I ask. “Nice boys went extinct a good decade ago.”

  “Logan’s a nice boy.” She shrugs.

  “Logan’s not a boy. He’s a thirty-five-year-old manchild,” I say, though manwhore might be more fitting. “And you have to say he’s nice. You’re his mother.”

  “So my opinion doesn’t count because I gave birth to him?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Joa Marie.” Mom shakes her head, rinsing a spot of dirt off her hand.

  “What?”

  “Would it be so bad if you just … gave him a chance?” she asks. “When the two of you worked together, did he ever flirt with you or anything?”

  I almost choke on my spit. “There was some flirting, sure.”

  She nudges me with her elbow. “See.”

  “See what?” I ask.

  “You two have chemistry.”

  I steady my hands on the edge of the sink, pulling in a ragged breath. I so badly want to blurt out, “He stole that promotion from me,” but I don’t want to ruin Christmas by shattering her warped perception of him.

  “He’s nice to look at,” I say. “And maybe once I thought I could see myself dating him … but trust me when I say, the two of us together would never work. Once you get beyond that annoyingly perfect exterior, there’s not much there to work with. He’s just as vain and vapid as the rest of them.”

  I’m going to hell.

  I’ve never spoken such mean words about anyone in my entire life—not even him—but I need my mom to drop it.

  Reaching for another potato, I stop when the familiar scent of Reed’s Creed cologne fills the space a
round us.

  “Good morning, Joa,” he says.

  I turn to face him, my heart in my teeth. His hair is damp from the shower, his eyes search mine. There’s a hint of sadness in the way he looks at me, an emotion I never knew he was capable of feeling.

  He heard.

  He heard everything.

  “Sleep well?” my mother asks, lashes batting.

  Reed nods. “I did. Thank you. Let me know if you need any help with anything.”

  His voice is terse, his jaw set. He turns to leave. I don’t know where he’s going, but I can see his anger in the tightness of his shoulders.

  “Fix this,” my mom whispers.

  Wiping my wet hands on a dishtowel, I go after him. I should apologize. I feel awful, I do.

  “Reed,” I say, stopping him between the living room and the hall to the bedrooms. “Wait.”

  He turns to me and says nothing.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  Still, he doesn’t speak.

  Hooking my hand around the bend of his elbow, I pull him into my room so we can speak in private.

  “I didn’t mean it,” I say, “I was just—”

  “—of course you did,” he cuts me off. “But that’s okay, Joa. Call me vain and vapid all you want. I’ve been called worse.”

  His demeanor is solid, iron-like and serious, and his gaze pierces mine.

  Parting my lips, I begin to respond until he silences me with a kiss.

  His hand cups the side of my face, his thumb bracing the underside of my jaw and his fingers slide into my hair.

  The kiss is soft and gentle and earth-shattering at the same time. I feel it everywhere. In the goosebumps on my flesh. In the empty cavities formerly known as my lungs. In the runaway gallop of my heart.

  Heat passes from his lips to mine, and I breathe it all in—the bittersweetness of this moment, the hurt, the anger, the longing … him.

  And then I push him away.

  Our eyes meet, his are wild, desperate almost. I’ve never seen this side of him, and I couldn’t look away if I tried.

  “I’ve failed you, Joa. I know that,” he says. “In more ways than one. And I can forgive your harsh words. But I can’t forgive the fact that you stand there and you continue to deny that I’m the only man who’s ever going to be right for you and you’re the only woman who’s ever going to be right for me.”

  I fold my arms across my chest, looking out my old bedroom window. “What am I supposed to do with that, Reed? Huh? What am I supposed to do with that? You didn’t just betray me. You blindsided me.”

  “I didn’t have a choice.”

  My gaze flicks to his. “Bullshit.”

  His left hand rests on his hip and the indentation below his cheekbone hollows.

  I move toward the door, stopping before I leave. “All you had to tell them was no."

  Past

  Joa

  I’m staring at the ceiling from a plush top king-sized bed in some one’s Newport Beach vacation rental when an email pings my phone.

  I’d turned on my alerts before we got here, knowing that HR was going to let me know if I made the cut for the final rounds of interviews for the VP of Acquisitions position.

  Madeleine retired months ago, but for reasons unknown, they’re taking their sweet time filling her spot. That tells me either they already know who they want and they’re biding their time … or they’re trying not to rush the process so they can examine each and every candidate until they find the best fit.

  From what I’ve heard, only a couple of other people from the office applied. The rest of the applicants have been from outside the corporation.

  I don’t want to get my hopes up, but I feel like the odds are in my favor.

  Reed is in the kitchen, grabbing a slice of cold pizza from the fridge. He hates it when I look at my phone in bed, swears the glow of the screen keeps him awake even when I’ve turned the brightness all the way down, so I grab my phone from the nightstand and tap my inbox, hoping I can read my email before he gets back.

  Traffic was a bitch on the way here this afternoon, and Grosvenor was on Reed’s case all morning about delays with some contract he’d been working on.

  Needless to say, he’s in a mood tonight.

  To: joajolivet@genesisfinancialsecurities.com

  From: HR@genesisfinancialsecurities.com

  Dear Joa,

  We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected as a finalist for the Vice President of Acquisitions position.

  Your next interview will be Thursday at nine o’clock.

  Please let us know if that time does not work for you.

  Sincerely,

  Paulette Duncan

  Director, Human Resources

  Genesis Financial Securities

  “You’re smiling.” Reed stands in the doorway holding a paper plate piled with stale slices of pepperoni and green pepper pizza.

  “Am I not allowed to smile?” I tease.

  “Here.” He hands me a slice of cold pizza.

  “How sweet of you.”

  “I try.”

  “I got the email,” I say. He knows exactly which email I’m referring to. He’s only heard me talk about it every day for months.

  He chews, swallows. “And?”

  The muted TV flickers to the side of him, playing an Office rerun—the one where Andy proposes to Angela at Toby’s going away party.

  “I’m a finalist.” I try to keep my exterior cool and collected but on the inside, I’m screaming. The inside me is begging me to pull a Tom Cruise and jumping on this bed.

  “Are you serious?” he asks before taking a seat on the edge of the bed next to me. “Joa, that’s … that’s incredible. You’d be perfect for that position.”

  His words are encouraging and he wears a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

  Did he secretly want the job?

  Or is he worried about how it’s going to be if I get the job and I’m no longer working side by side with him, sharing those late nights and stolen moments.

  “You weren’t interested in the job, were you?” I ask.

  “God, no. Working side by side with Grosvenor is a fate worse than hell,” he says. “But I’m sure you’ll do just fine.”

  I laugh through my nose.

  “Can’t think of anyone else more perfect for the job,” he adds. “You’re exactly what they like. Intelligent, diligent, and still green enough that they can mold you into the kind of VP they want you to be.”

  I know he isn’t wrong. They might try to mold me to an extent, but if they think I’m going to be some finger-puppet, then they’re mistaken.

  “You swear you don’t want the job?” I ask, studying him in the dark of the bedroom.

  “Trust me,” he says. “I don’t want the job.”

  16

  Reed

  We’re separated by two flickering red candles of differing heights and a plethora of mismatched dishware, but there might as well be an ocean between us.

  The twins pick at their food, both of them appear to be going for the all-carb diet with plates full of rolls, scalloped corn, and mashed potatoes.

  Neve gave them each a little scoop of green bean casserole, which prompted them both to stick their tongues out, and Cole muttered something under his breath about how “at least they’re eating something.”

  The scalloped corn is making its way around again, and I help myself to another serving. I’ve never seen so much comfort food in one place in my life. In fact, I can’t say that I’ve ever eaten a casserole for a holiday dinner.

  Today’s full of all kinds of firsts—including the first time I kissed Joa in over a year.

  Her attention has been laser focused on her plate for the past twenty minutes. She hasn’t looked up at me once.

  Tom and Cole are seated down at the end of the table, waxing poetic about the Bears while Neve and Logan and Bevin discuss the logistics of some upcoming family reunion in Napersville.<
br />
  The girls are busy shoving bread in their faces.

  That just leaves us.

  Our silence is obvious, though her family is the polite kind, the kind that doesn’t draw attention to the kinds of things that might make others uncomfortable.

  If my sister were here, she’d have said something five minutes into the radio silence. She didn’t come equipped with a filter, that one.

  In a few days’ time, I’ll be able to tell her everything.

  Until then, I just need to bide my time and try not to make anything between us more strained than it already is.

  “So, Reed, what might your family be doing tonight?” Bevin asks, dabbing the corners of her mouth with a holly-green paper napkin before reaching for her mulled cider.

  “Probably sitting on a beach somewhere on the other side of the globe, drinking Mai Tais and trying to remember what day it is.” I reach for my beer. A couple of them laugh until they realize I’m not joking.

  “No family traditions, I take it?” Tom asks.

  Shaking my head, I take a sip. “That’s never been our thing.”

  Correction—it’s never been Bebe and Redford York’s thing.

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters or is it just you?” Neve asks.

  “I have a sister. Her name is Bijou and she’s a few years younger,” I say.

  “You two don’t spend the holidays together?” Joa’s dad asks.

  “Depends on the year. Depends on our schedules.” I realize that I’m implying that I spend the holidays alone. I’ve never admitted that before. Not out loud anyway. I feel the heaviness of Joa’s gaze, but by the time I glance up, she looks away. “My family … we’re nothing like this.”

  “Well that’s perfectly fine, Reed,” Bevin says, lifting her glass and pointing it at me. “Every family is different. There’s no right or wrong way to celebrate—or not celebrate.”