One Kiss: An Office Romance

by Jess Bentley

  I stare at him blankly, wondering how we can have such different impressions of Greg’s productivity level. Greg had a surge? A surge of what? Binge drinking?

  And then it hits me. Greg didn’t have a surge. I did. All those deals I’ve been closing for him go into his cost center. Lou must think he did all the work himself.

  “It’s not competition… Actually, sir, I think there is something you should know.”

  I explain to him briefly what’s going on. I don’t call Greg out specifically, but I do list and number all the deals that I’ve done over the last three weeks. My guess is that every deal that I have worked on, Greg has taken total credit for. Lou Tolliver is an exceptionally sharp man. I’m sure he can do the math.

  “I think I understand,” he says slowly. “But what about before you? He’s consistently been a high producer.”

  “One hundred percent Clarissa, his former assistant,” I answer.

  “Are you sure?” he asks me slowly.

  “I’m certain of it. In fact, is that why she left? Did you ask her?”

  Lou glances up at me, shielding his expression immediately. I see something there, as though he almost winces.

  “I’m sorry,” I rush. “Did I hit a sore subject? I didn’t mean to pry.”

  Lou raises his old, gnarled hand and waves it slightly. “No, I’m afraid what you’re saying has a great deal of truth to it. Did you know that she is suing us?”

  “I did not know that, no. Suing us for what?”

  Lou sighs, appearing to almost get smaller where he stands. I can see that this is weighing on him significantly. “Wrongful termination,” he finally answers. “She claims that she was promised a promotion, and when she asked for it, Greg fired her.”

  I nod tightly. That is illegal, and we both know it. I don’t want to say it out loud to make the situation worse.

  Suddenly he looks over my shoulder, glances out the doorway.

  “Gregory?” he calls out, his voice surprisingly strong and sudden. “Will you come in here for a moment?”

  I turn around and see Greg rushing down the hall, then pivoting back into the office, a shocked look on his face. He enters warily, his eyes darting between us.

  “Just forgot my cell phone,” he explains as he enters. “You needed something?”

  Lou leans forward, resting his knuckles on the corner of his desk. Though he seemed tired and somewhat discouraged a moment ago, now he almost glows with strength, like a hot iron in a fire.

  “What was your reason for letting Clarissa go?”

  “Sir, I think we’ve been over this,” Greg blusters, nostrils flaring.

  “Yes, well, humor me. I’m old and forgetful. What was your reasoning?”

  “Insubordination, sir,” he answers through gritted teeth, his eyes flickering toward me as though he’s embarrassed to admit this out loud in front of me.

  “Insubordination, yes, I remember now,” Lou muses. “And remind me again? What was it she said?”

  Greg raises his hand and then lets it fall heavily against his leg. “Who even remembers at this point, you know? She just… went off. Saying all kinds of crazy stuff. You know the type. Just way out in left field.”

  Lou leans forward even further. “Is there anything to her claim that you gave the promotion you promised her to Maxwell? Passed her over? Because you were college friends?”

  “Well, I thought we were friends,” Greg mutters under his breath, so only I can hear him.

  “Excuse me?” Lou insists.

  Greg opens his hands out in front of him as though to proclaim his innocence. “She’s just an assistant, Lou,” he objects. “They come and they go, right? Maxwell is a team player. We’re lucky to have him. I brought him in so that—”

  “Is he strong enough to replace you?” Lou interrupts.

  Greg chokes audibly. “What?”

  Lou stands up straight, somehow losing forty years of age as he crosses his arms in determination. He stares Greg up and down, who shrinks in response.

  “Clarissa claims that your termination of her employment was wrongful and illegal. She’s currently suing us. Based on what you said here just now, I have reason to believe she’s telling us the truth. You’re dismissed.”

  “What?” Greg snarls dangerously. “Dismissed? What does that mean?”

  “It means you are done. You’re unemployed. You’re dismissed. Terminated.”

  Greg glares vengefully at me before backing out of the room. To his credit, he doesn’t say another word.

  When he’s gone, Lou lets the tension out of his posture and leans on the edge of his desk again.

  “Can you take on the VP role?” he asks, weariness plain in his voice.

  I make a mental assessment of the position, weighing the role against my skills. I can take it on. I have been doing it the entire time I have been here. But is that even wise to let this man offer me a VP position with only three weeks of experience?

  “Of course I can take it on,” I answer confidently.

  “And can you hire Clarissa back as your executive assistant?” Lou asks, peering at me shrewdly through bleary, age-tested eyes.

  “I thought you needed a Head Broker?” I counter, aware that if I were ever going to ask for anything from Lou Tolliver, now is my moment.

  He presses his lips together, sucking his cheeks in thoughtfully as he considers the predicament. “Well, I don’t know… But it does seem like we owe her, doesn’t it?”

  “It does,” I answer.

  “Of course, if it doesn’t work out, you will be taking full responsibility,” he smiles mischievously.

  Taking a deep breath, I weigh the possibilities. She could be wonderful. Greg slipped under the radar for this long, so she must know something. Or she could be awful, and I will continue to do a majority of the work to cover my own ass and her ass.

  What could go wrong?

  “Yes, sir. I think that will be fine.”

  Now I really need that coffee, I realize. It’s going to be a very long night. Lou finally shakes my hand as he leaves for the night and I go to the breakroom for a double shot of fairly decent Ethiopian espresso. Should be just enough.

  I guess I can look at the bright side… Since Greg shoveled all his work on to me, he never took the files out of this office when he vacated it. Everything is here. I should be able to pick up the thread of his responsibilities without too much of a problem.

  The files are kept in low, wide drawers that open heavily on sturdy metal rollers. Each of the tabs is neatly labeled with the name of the project, and then an update noted in pen with the closing date for the project. Quickly I find the section of open projects, remarking silently how efficiently everything is organized. Closed and abandoned projects are in separate areas, marked by color-coded dividers. It’s easy to figure out what I need to work on, and I tug the thick folders out of the drawer, balancing them on both arms before setting them on the long, wooden counter.

  Flipping through them, I quickly divide the projects between things I need to take care of myself, which is generally the things that are most urgent and require a face-to-face meeting, and things I can delegate to the new Head Broker. The stacks of folders end up more or less even. That seems fair.

  Yet as I flip through the folders, I can’t help but see the detailed, efficient notes that Clarissa left in strategic places. Suggestions for further developments… Details of meetings that were held… A cover sheet with open-action items and contact names.

  She really is excellent at this job. In fact, it will be hard to keep up with her.

  It is quite late before I get a chance to lock up my office and head out. I am the last one here. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Greg’s office door is ajar, leading into the darkened space beyond. Or… Not Greg’s office. My office? I should feel more eager about that promotion, I know. It just doesn’t sit right with me yet.

  The next morning I’m right back here. I’m happy to get started, mentall
y rolling through a list of things that I need to do, first thing. Cutting diagonally across the foyer, I just head right for the elevator banks. No coffee. Or, I can get coffee on the thirty-fourth floor.

  Eyes straight ahead, I raise a couple fingers to wave at the receptionist before walking to my old office. With a start, I realize Clarissa is already here. She stands with her back to me at the entrance of the cubicle just outside the Head Broker’s office.

  Despite myself, I feel a smile breaking. She accepted the job offer. That’s good. We have a lot to do.

  But when she turns around to face me, her eyes glint with suspicion. She crosses her arms immediately and tips her head to the side, cutting her eyes toward the conspicuous nameplate on the office door.

  “Good morning, Clarissa,” I murmur, feeling the smile fade. “I’ll ask maintenance to fix that straightaway.”

  She doesn’t say anything, just raises one light brown, fairly sarcastic eyebrow.

  “Well, then, yes…” I continue, not sure what to do.

  Do I tell her there’s a stack of files behind that door? Do I just figure that she will know that?

  My name is still on that door. Am I supposed to just walk down the hall and go to Greg’s place?

  By some extreme bit of fortune, I don’t have to answer the question. The maintenance man rolls his cart between us, depressing the brake with his work boot as he shoots us each a judgmental scowl as if to say, “Wasn’t I just here the other day?”

  “I guess that’s it then,” I shrug.

  She knuckles her hips, refusing to be impressed. “What would you like me to do next, Maxwell?”

  Her stare is beyond icy. Positively frigid. This is a woman with a promotion? A raise?

  “Go get yourself a cup of coffee,” I suggest. “I’ll have files for you in my office in twenty minutes. Will that work?”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine,” I answer automatically as I walk away, certain I screwed that up, but completely confused as to how.

  Chapter 2

  Clarissa

  If anybody thought that just painting my name on the outside of this door was going to make everything all right, they have another thing coming.

  I see the way they look at me. I catch the tail-end of conversations and sarcastic remarks they make when they pass by my office door. A bunch of frat bros and good old boys. I’ve invaded their club, they figure.

  And that Maxwell is no better. Lou tried to tell me that Maxwell insisted I get this position, but I know a fairy tale when I hear one. The truth is, if my brother Kevin hadn’t filed a lawsuit for me, I would still be unemployed. I shouldn’t have to make threats to get the promotion that I was promised, should I? Everything shouldn’t be that hard.

  I am a damn good broker, and they know it.

  Keeping my office door open was a good move, I think. They have to lower their voices when they walk by, at least. Some are better at that than others. But it also means that nobody thinks they have to knock before entering. Before I know it, Maxwell is leaning on the doorframe, that hapless grin on his face again. An expression that pretends nothing has happened. That everything is fine.

  “Lunch at eleven, right?” he starts.

  Every day, just like this. A hopeful, clean-slate expression on his stupid, handsome face. Like one of these days it will all be water under the bridge.

  Sort of enraging, really.

  “That is what the calendar says,” I confirm through gritted teeth.

  He steps into my office, and I keep my eyes cast down on the paperwork in front of me. What is it about men that makes them think they can just be anywhere they want? Just loom? To make a point or something?

  Boy, oh boy, these papers are sooo interesting. Completely enthralling.

  “So, okay then,” he announces finally, no closer to getting the clue than he was when he showed up. “I will see you at 10:45 and we can walk over. Together.”

  I nod affirmatively, then noticed that he hasn’t left yet, so I say, “See you then.”

  And finally, thank God, he actually leaves.

  Out of habit, my eyes flicker up when he is out of the room, only to catch a glimpse of Fred’s smug expression as he tracks Maxwell’s path. His implication is unmistakable: he thinks we’re sleeping together.

  Or, more precisely: he thinks I slept with Maxwell to get this job.

  Because of course he does.

  But here is the thing that Fred doesn’t know: he’s going to be an Associate Broker—basically the dead-end position where they just hope you quit or die of old age—for the rest of his life. Fred is kind of an idiot. He is related to Lou’s wife’s painting instructor or something.

  No matter what, I know that Fred will never get my job. I won. So there.

  Being here and being furious has its ups and downs. On the one hand, I know that I came back in here like gangbusters. By some magical coincidence, Maxwell gave me the easiest, most organized files to work on. I did all of the legwork on these, months ago. So I already know what’s up. And somehow, Lou got wind of it also. The first three closings I did, Lou actually knew about them. He shook my hand when I got back, stopping me on my way to deliver the commission check to accounting. That never happened before.

  I can do this, I tell myself as I focus on the papers. Even though stress seems to be eating me from the inside out, I have made some good moves. I deserve this job. I know it, and it is just a matter of time before they know it too.

  My stomach grumbles dangerously and after checking my cell phone, I see that I still have an hour before we leave for our lunch meeting. Looks like coffee is going to have to tide me over until lunchtime. For a moment, I consider heading to the lobby for a quick therapy session with Nayala, but really I do not have time for that.

  Keeping my head tipped back and proud, I head for the breakroom. Even before I get there, I hear all their voices. This company is like 95 percent men, and that’s where they congregate… to do whatever the hell it is that men do instead of working all day.

  And the first voice I can make out is Fred’s. He’s laughing, sneering, basically the audio representation of that smug look I just saw on his face a few minutes ago. But you know what? I still need coffee. I can’t worry about his jerky attitude right now.

  But just before I round the corner, I see a familiar pair of broad shoulders from the back. It’s not just Fred. There are five or six guys in there, including Maxwell.

  Shit.

  Never mind, nobody needs coffee that badly. I pivot on my heel but then stop, sure that I hear my name.

  “If she could have done the job, Greg would’ve promoted her ages ago. You sure, Max?”

  The pause seems to go on forever.

  I should walk away. I should not be listening in on other people’s conversations.

  “I wouldn’t mind having her assist me,” comes another voice that I am almost certain is Frank’s.

  “Yeah, you need all the help you can get,” Trevor laughs cruelly, and I hear the unmistakable slap of a high-five.

  “She would run rings around all of you guys,” Maxwell chuckles. “You’d never take the help. She would make you look like idiots.”

  “Hey!” Fred objects. “Leave some for the rest of us. If she’s that good—”

  But I don’t wait to hear the rest. Suddenly, I am wide awake and don’t need coffee anymore. I stalk back to my office, my cheeks burning with humiliation.

  Is that how they talk about me? Is that how they’ve always talked about me? If that is what I heard in thirty seconds, what other kinds of stuff do they say?

  Heart pounding, I slump in my chair and balance my forehead on my fingertips so that I can’t catch anyone’s eye when they walk by. I feel stupid. Conspicuous. I realize it has probably always been like this. Two years I have been here. Two years working with a bunch of overgrown high school jocks who would’ve been begging me for homework help back in the day.

  Of course, Maxwell did defend me. He
did point that out.

  No. He is still the reason all of this happened. More or less. I mean, I guess Greg is the actual reason. But if Maxwell was such an upstanding guy he would have insisted that I get the job the day he got in here, right?

  He didn’t know. So he couldn’t have done that. But if he did know? That would be proof.

  Okay, you are being unreasonable, I tell myself. He didn’t know. It’s not his fault. It’s Greg’s. And he was just sticking up for me.

  And maybe I have been a little bit harsh on him.

  And here he is again.

  I glance up when I see his shadow in the door, and there he stands, fixing his cuffs, staring at me again with that clean-slate expression of optimism and professionalism.

  Could I maybe just give him a chance? I wonder. Maybe just one teeny chance?

  Taking a deep breath, I force myself to meet his gaze and not automatically frown. That’s it. That is the best I can do for right now.

  But I think I see a glint of appreciation in his eyes as I stand up. He notices. It’s not a lot, but it is something.

  Stuffing the folder into my leather briefcase, I follow him to the elevators and we descend to the lobby in a silence that seems to buzz just a bit. This is different. It has some energy to it, I guess.

  Just one chance, I promise myself.

  Just one, teeny, tiny chance. And the moment he turns into a douche, I will let him have it.

  Real estate is still a fairly old-fashioned business, especially commercial real estate. Even though a lot of what we do is digital now, even virtual, a lot of it is still done face-to-face with handshakes and glasses of scotch and, in this case, giant slabs of really expensive steak.

  Isaac Nelson is already at the table when we arrive, and the maître d’ hustles us back through the rows of white linen-covered tables to the one in the center of the room, the one everyone can see as soon as they arrive. Isaac stands when he sees me, extending a hand to shake mine out of politeness, though his attention immediately goes to Maxwell, of course. Since he is the man.