I used to have a five-second heart attack every time the school nurse called, but I’m pretty sure I’m on their speed dial now. “Hi, Miss Ellen, is Cora all right?”
“Oh yes, but she has a bit of a hangnail, and it started to bleed.” Cora, a hangnail? She has found more excuses to get out of school than I could have ever taken credit for at her age. She has the imagination and creativity of a mastermind.
“Can you put her on the phone, please?” I tell the nurse.
Brett, the vice president, my direct boss, picks this moment to walk into my office and takes a seat in front of my desk. Unfortunately, he’s heard more than his fair share of my conversations with the school nurse.
“Hi, Mom,” Cora says.
“Cora, sweetie, I need you to pull the hangnail off your finger, have Miss Ellen give you a Band-Aid, and go back to class. Please, Cora. I can’t leave work this morning. You don’t want Mommy to get in trouble, do you?”
“But, Mom, it hurts, and it’s bleeding a little. You know I hate blood. It makes me sick, and I might throw up. If I throw up, I’ll have to come home anyway. It’s the school rules.”
“Cora, okay, I understand. Can you put the nurse back on the phone?”
“Hello, Mrs. Pierce. How would you like me to handle this situation?”
“Could you please clip the hangnail and put a Band-Aid on her finger?”
“No problem, I just wanted to let you know we have her down here at the nurse’s office,” she responds.
I love how even though she calls me almost every day, it’s as if I didn’t speak to her just a day or so earlier. “These calls make me very nervous. Is there any chance we can save the hangnail calls for true concerns?” I’m probably out of line for asking, but it’s seriously at least three days a week, and it’s usually a mosquito bite, a splinter, a paper-cut, or a hangnail.
“I’m afraid I can’t agree to that. It’s the school policy that we notify you when Cora comes down to the nurse’s office.”
“Ok, great. Talk to you tomorrow, then.” I hang up, frustrated as always.
Once I take a breath and unwind, I look up at Brett, whose eyebrows are hiked up an inch, and I’m wondering what he’ll have to say about this.
“Seriously, that nurse is out to get you,” Brett says with laughter.
“I’ve never heard of a school nurse who can’t just put a Band-Aid on a paper cut or a hangnail!” I’m sure I came home from school with an ice pack after I broke my arm on the playground, and my parents had no clue what was going on until I told them. Now, this is the norm?
“When Caty was around that age, we got the same thing. Every single day. It’s like once the kids figure out they can just leave class and take a little break for a bit, they’ll find anything on their body that needs a Band-Aid and milk it for all its worth.”
I close my eyes and shake the frustration away. “I should just switch the phone number on record to Rick’s number, but then I’d be afraid something would actually be wrong with her and … well, it’s Rick, so …”
“Yeah, you might feel better keeping that control. Plus, you’d start to miss those sweet little calls,” he says. I’m not sure about that, but I suppose he’s right. I cannot trust Rick with that crap.
“So, your new temp is starting today?” he says.
“Yes, he is.”
“Good, good. Hopefully, this one will be better than the last few.”
“I hope so too. I could use the extra hand to prepare for next week’s event.”
“Right, yes, for sure. It’ll probably be good to take the temp with you onsite too if he works out this week.” He smiles and takes a sip of coffee from his “World’s Best Dad” mug.
“I’m not getting my hopes up yet, but we’ll see.” Brett’s one of the only decent men in this office. He’s been a work and life mentor to me since I started ten years ago, except I seem to have fallen off the path he led me on somewhere along the way. He’s got this great marriage to an amazing woman, and three grown kids. I look up to him, hoping I’ll be in his shoes someday, but it seems like I may have to travel to the moon and back before I figure my life out like he has.
I answer a few more emails, and somehow, it’s already ten o’clock. “Hannah,” Brielle pops her head in through the door. “The temp is here. I’m going to go escort him or her up.”
“Thanks, Brielle.”
I have enough work for three temps, but I’ll take what I can get. Granted, this person will likely have no tech or marketing skills because the temp agency despises this company for a reason I’m still unsure of.
During the five minutes Brielle is gone, I manage to buzz through five more emails, all filled with rejections to proposed sales meetings. Why can’t these people try the shit sandwich technique at least? (A shit sandwich is simply the process of layering the negative babble with a compliment at the beginning and the end. Then it’s like nothing bad ever happened.) I swear, I’d respond quicker if they did it that way.
I hear the front door open and close, assuming Brielle is dragging along our newest employee for the week. We’ve gone through a half dozen temps and interns in the past month, so I don’t have much hope for this one. The last woman our agency sent in didn’t know how to “turn on” her email. I kind of just stared at her for a good five minutes before I walked out of her cubicle, but at least I kept myself from asking if she attempted any foreplay. I couldn’t understand why the temp/intern agency would think to send an admin with no technical skills. I did have a little chat with the agency after that, and they promised to send only competent people to me from now on, so I guess we’ll see.
Brielle knocks on my door before walking in, not that she typically does that, but I appreciate her setting a decent example for this person—err—man. I look up from my screen, finding Brielle in the shadow of the new temp. Like, he’s a man’s man. He’s got to be at least six-foot-two, a lot of muscle going on there, salt and pepper scruff, but dark hair that isn’t receding. He has crow’s feet, but he’s working them. He’s not a recent grad. No way. He’s dressed professionally, without fold creases on the sleeves that scream, “I just took this out of a plastic wrapper an hour ago,” and his pants are hemmed to fit perfectly. I’ve been sizing him up for like thirty awkward seconds now, and Brielle is clearing her throat. “Hannah, this is Logan, our new intern,” she says.
Intern? I stand up from my desk, and as I do, a button from my blouse catches on my keyboard drawer and pops off. Shit! I grab my shirt to hide the gaping hole as I reach out to shake Logan’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Logan.”
“You, as well,” he says, politely. Okay then, that is one deep voice. It’s illegal to ask him how old he is, but interns are usually a little younger.
“You’re an intern?” I question.
“Well, if you ask the temp agency, I’m an intern because that’s what they were looking to place with you. In truth, though, I did go back to school for a bit a little over a year ago after I was relieved from my MLB contract because of an injury—and yeah, I don’t want to bore you with my history, but I am technically an intern. However, we can go with temp if it makes you more comfortable, though.”
Baseball player, tight pants, picturing him in them. I’m the boss, stop it. “Awesome, well it’s great to have you. Do you have a resume I can keep on file? The agency didn’t send me one.” Shocking, with how organized they are.
“Sure thing.” He opens his leather folder and pulls out a resume on actual resume paper, which I haven’t seen in about ten years. “I take it you’re proficient with email?” I ask for my personal, snarky reasons, but come on, who can’t open a freaking email in 2017?
He laughs because he thinks I’m funny. I am funny. “Of course. As you’ll see on my resume, I’m proficient with the Microsoft Suite, Adobe Creative Suite, and web development.” Can I just make him a full-time employee now? I’ve never had an intern or temp with these credentials before. For that little fact, I’ll
let the agency off the hook for not sending his resume ahead of time. However, they could have sent me a headshot. That would have at least prepared me a little more for this interaction.
“Perfect! Brielle, will you get him set up in the cube outside of my office and have a tech team member come down and set up his email?”
“Of course,” she peeps. Brielle stands back, allowing Logan to pass by her, and she looks over at me with a look of shock.
“What the hell?” I mouth.
“I know, right?” she mouths back. That’s totally inappropriate of me, but he’s inappropriate for looking so good.
As he sits down at his desk, I realize I can see right into his cubicle from my open door. So, it looks like I’ll have to stare at him until the temp agency either steals him back or sells him to me.
I sit back down in my chair, glancing at my shirt bowed open in front of the roll on my stomach—the one I’ve tried so hard to get rid of with the four million crunches I’ve done this past year. I haven’t been able to get rid of the last of the roll, and now it’s taunting me.
Slouching into my chair, I grab the newbie’s resume and hold it in front of me. Major League Baseball player. No way, I’m not buying it.
Five years at Northeastern University, two years playing in the minors, and ten years in the major leagues for two different teams. Plus, his degree is in technology, which makes him a very smart baseball player with no marketing experience.
I stand up from my desk and paper clip the inside of my shirt together, so I’m not on the verging of being inappropriate. I love Mondays. I really, really do.
I make my way into Logan’s cube, finding him setting up his email without IT’s help. I guess it’s not a surprise since he’s tech-savvy, but it’s a good kind of reinforcement I need at the moment.
I rap my knuckles against the plastic lining of his cubicle, and he swings his desk chair around to face me. “How’s it going, boss?” he asks. That’s a lot of confidence right there for being in the office less than ten minutes.
I like it.
“Good, good. I have a few tests we require all interns and temps to take before starting any work. It’s to help us gauge what level of tasks you’ll be comfortable performing. Performing … dear God. Stop. It’s a combination of Word, Excel, PowerPoint, and some basic HTML. You mentioned you’re proficient with those programs, so I’m sure it will be a piece of cake for you.”
“Definitely. Is the test online? Do you have a link you want to send me?”
My head falls to the side. “Why are you starting out as a temp/intern, whatever?” He seems quite advanced to be claiming this junior title.
He smirks and leans back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. He’s way too hot to be working in this office with all these schmucks. Little pricks of pins and needles pinch my cheeks, and I can only hope I’m not blushing in his presence. He should stop smiling at me like that. “Well, the hiring agency had no permanent jobs available within a thirty-mile radius, but they had this intern position open, and it’s five minutes from where I live, so here we are.”
“But this isn’t a temp-to-perm position. Isn’t that what you’re looking for?” I ask.
“Sure am, and I might just shock the pants off you and make you change your mind,” he says confidently, with a wink.
Holy, no. This man cannot say that stuff to me. That’s arrogant, and I don’t need to be thinking about him taking my pants off …
“We’ll see about that,” I regain my composure and say in my motherly tone that doesn’t belong in the office. I sometimes wonder who I’ve become. Then, I realize it’s obviously my mother showing through.
“I’m just kidding, but, hey, you never know. Someone might pick up and leave, and it could put you in the position to say, ‘Well, Logan does know his stuff, so why not?’ I’m a risk taker.”
That’s hot. No, it’s admirable in a professional way.
“I suppose you never know what might happen,” I tell him, trying my hardest not to stutter. I’m the boss. I need to act like it.
I tap the top of his cube and turn back to my office, forgetting what I even came to say.
“Oh, and yeah, send me that link when you have a second. The IT guy from upstairs already walked me through the setup, and my email is up and working. It’s [email protected].”
Yes, I work with all men for a magazine named House Moms Today—just like Cosmo, and just as I always dreamed.
“Great, I’ll send that right over.”
2
Monday Afternoon—it should be Friday by now …
“Hannah, hold up, I need your signature on something,” Nick, our head sales manager shouts over to me as I have one foot outside of the office door.
“Nick, can’t this wait until tomorrow?” I need to leave now, or I won’t make it to the bus stop on time.
“It’ll really just take two-seconds. Come on.” He’s shoving the papers at me without a pen. “I need to get this in to the vendor by five.”
“Well, why did you wait until just now then?” I push his hand back and move toward the elevator.
“It’s two forty-five! The day isn’t exactly over.” For me it is. I work from home from three-thirty to five, and I’ve been doing so since the beginning of the school year.
“Thank you for that reminder, but I’m going to be late to pick up my daughter, and by the looks of it, you don’t even have a pen on you right now. Oh—look, the elevator door just opened.”
“You don’t have a pen anywhere in that massive purse of yours?” Nick asks, looking down at my “mom-bag.”
“I’ve got a pen,” a voice chimes from around the corner.
Logan jogs over to the elevator and hands me his pen. While I should be thankful for his considerate gesture, I was happier not signing the paper. Nick knows when I leave. He just likes to make it known that it’s disruptive to his schedule.
Nick hands the paper back to me and puts his foot against the elevator door to hold it open.
I press the paper against the wall and sign the damn thing before shoving it back into Nick’s chest. “Now, please move,” I tell him. As he’s grinning at me with a shit-eating smile, I hand Logan’s pen back to him. “Thanks, Logan. I appreciate it.”
“You’re a doll,” Nick says with what he thinks is a charming smile. Little does he know, his smile only makes me want to punch him more. He’s one of the pink wall painters, a real guy’s guy who believes women don’t have a place in the corporate world. Also, I was promoted ahead of him, which makes sense since I have five years on him here, but it annoys him. He and his counterpart, Taylor, are thorns in my side, oh, and golf buddies with Rick, of course—just a side effect of one of our company holiday parties a couple of years back when our spouses were invited. I should have known better than to bring Rick.
Logan slips into the elevator just as it’s closing, and I’m suddenly barricaded in a life-size box with the scent of cologne I can nearly taste. It’s like spicy rum and a sweet mango, mixed with a hint of sage. God, he smells good.
“Are you making a run for it already?” I ask him. I would be if I had the chance.
He gives me a quick chuckle and focuses on the blinking numbers above the door. “Nah, Human Resources wants to see me. I guess there’s some transitional paperwork from the temp agency I need to fill out.”
“Those agencies really like to make things challenging for us,” I tell him, watching the same numbers slowly tick down toward the lobby.
“Where are you off to?” he asks. I suppose I should have told him I leave early three days a week. I obviously have this boss thing down, like a boss.
“I completely forgot to tell you, but I leave early and work from home in the later part of the afternoon.”
“Ah, are you moonlighting?” That’s not very professional to ask a boss. I wonder if moonlighting has a different meaning than the one I’m thinking. I think he’s asking if I’m working a second job.
Not that it matters.
“No, I have to pick up my daughter at the bus stop,” I respond with a grim smile, knowing I just made myself look about fifty years older to this attractive man-temp.
“Oh, sweet!” He’s more enthusiastic than I would have imagined, although I still know this attraction is only one-sided; therefore, it wouldn’t matter if I had one kid or four. He probably has his choice of arm candy. “What’s her name?”
How long is this damn elevator ride? I hit the lobby button again, but the door opens on the third floor, welcoming no one onto the elevator. I swear there is some asshole running floor to floor, chasing elevators all day, ghosting buttons just so we have to stop at every other floor to find no one waiting to get on. “Cora. She’s five.” Maybe that makes me sound a little younger than fifty.
“That sounds like fun,” he says, glancing over at me, though I only notice through my peripheral vision because I’m too busy staring at blinking numbers to avoid his good looks that will surely be burned into my head for the rest of the day.
“She’s definitely a barrel of monkeys and keeps me on my toes, but I love her.” More mom talk, how cute. “Do you have any kids?” Of course, he doesn’t have kids. He’s the picture of single-manhood, plus he doesn’t have a ring on his finger. Not that I noticed, but—well, he went to press the button just as I did and—okay, I noticed. However, I’m not wearing a ring either, yet I have a daughter. I should stop assuming.
“Unfortunately, no.” Unfortunately? What single guy says that? Wait, no, what single guy who looks like him says that? He can’t be real.
“Well, kids are worth the wait.” Saying that makes me consider the thought of what my life would be like without Cora. If I had waited, I would have been left with nothing and alone after Rick’s dick move, so I’m glad I got something out of that marriage, even if she is a bit of a challenge for one person.
The door finally opens after the world’s longest elevator ride, and Logan presses his palm into the door, waving his other hand for me to walk out first. “Have a good night, Hannah,” he says.
The Man Cave Collection: Manservant, Man Flu, Man Handler, and Man Buns Page 34