by Maggie Riley
So he had been listening to me. And even though this wasn’t exactly what I wanted, I couldn’t deny that it would definitely provide more opportunities for interesting, personable anecdotes to liven up the book.
“Thank you,” I took the paper. “This will be very helpful.”
“Good.” He stood, and I did the same.
As I did, the static cling that had been a problem all morning decided to make a mess of my skirt, bunching it up around my knee. I tried to shove it down, but ended up shocking myself in the process.
“Ouch,” I muttered, putting my shocked fingers in my mouth.
“Ms. Hanson.” I could hear the disapproval in Jack’s voice – but when I looked up at him, his expression was anything but formal.
It was hot. Hot hot hot. And it made me hot.
His gaze swept over me, lingering at the still bunched up skirt. No doubt most of my leg was exposed. My breath caught as Jack stepped towards me, his hand reaching out. Five seconds to get me down to my lucky thong and heels? It would be more like three seconds if he kept looking at me like that.
“Jack, I–,” the words were breathy as his hand came up, reaching for my cheek. I leaned forward, anticipating the touch of his skin against mine.
There was a knock at the door.
Both of us were quick to jerk apart as Mrs. Reynolds entered.
“Your ten o’clock is here,” she told Jack. “He’s in the conference room.”
“Thank you,” said Jack, his steady voice belying the intensity of the moment between us. “I’ve given Ms. Hanson a list of employees that she should interview today,” he told his assistant. “Perhaps you could help her set up some of those meetings.”
“Of course.” Mrs. Reynolds gave me a smile.
“You’ll notice that you’re on that list as well, Mrs. Reynolds.” A small smile lifted Jack’s lips. “I hope you’ll speak kindly of me.”
“That depends.” Mrs. Reynolds raised her eyebrow. “Have we discussed my Christmas bonus yet?”
“We haven’t.” Jack managed a small smile. “But I have a feeling we will be.”
Mrs. Reynolds took my arm. “Follow me,” she said. “And I’ll tell you everything you want to know about this young man.”
Despite that juicy-sounding promise, all Mrs. Reynolds had to share was more of what I already knew.
“He’s very secretive,” she confirmed. “Always has been.”
“He doesn’t even discuss his personal life with you?” I asked.
“The personal things he’s discussed with me are not of any importance to this book.” Her voice was firm.
Dammit. I could only imagine how good Mrs. Reynold’s Christmas bonus would be this year. She did well by her boss, sharing a few innocuous stories but mostly talking about his passion for his work.
“He’s always the first one here and the last one to leave.”
“And you’ve worked for him since the company started?”
Mrs. Reynolds nodded. “I was a housewife for years, and after my husband died, I decided I wanted to go back into the workforce. The only experience I’d had in managing someone’s schedule was managing my husband’s. Mr. Harris was the only person willing to give me a chance.”
“One I’m sure he doesn’t regret,” I commented, quickly jotting down her statement, knowing that a story like that – a real human interest bit – was something I could use.
“Most certainly not.” She drew herself up straight. “I’m the best thing that could have happened to him,” she said with confidence.
I smiled. So maybe I wouldn’t find anything personal to include about Jack, but if the rest of his employees were as charming as Mrs. Reynolds than I would at least have someone for readers to relate to. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.
Chapter 9
LIBBY
I spent all day in one of the nicest conferences rooms I’d ever seen, interviewing employees, every now and then being interrupted by Mrs. Reynolds offering me a cup of incredibly good coffee or a fresh pastry.
“I feel like I’m getting buttered up – literally,” I told Mr. Thompson when Mrs. Reynolds brought us each an absolutely delicious – and buttery – croissant to go with our recently refilled coffee.
“That’s how it always is here,” Mr. Thompson informed me.
He was the head of PR for the company, so I would have had a hard time believing him if I hadn’t heard pretty much the same thing from the half a dozen of employees I’d already spoken to.
“Seems like a good job with some really great perks,” I noted.
“It is,” he confirmed. “And it’s not like anywhere else I’ve ever worked.”
Mrs. Reynolds had provided me with the résumés of everyone I was speaking to, so I knew that
Mr. Thompson had a pretty illustrious career behind him, working at some big name companies on high-profile campaigns.
“How is it different?” I asked. “Beyond the sweets.”
“We have steady hours, for one,” he told me. “The day ends at six. Everything shuts down and everyone goes home. It’s great for people who have families – which most of us do.”
“It seems like you’d all have a pretty big work load,” I observed. “I imagine it’s difficult to get everything that needs to get done, completed before the end of the day.”
Mr. Thompson shrugged. “You’d think so,” he commented. “And that definitely was the case at my last job. During my interview, they promised a reasonable schedule, but the work they assigned was always too much to handle so you were always taking things home – putting in overtime, or sometimes working off the clock, just to make sure it was done.”
“But that doesn’t happen here?” I asked, knowing a lot about those kind of jobs. Georgia definitely had one.
“Not really,” he told me. “There are a few exceptions, of course. For example, the Celero’s launch has us working later hours – sometimes until eight, but Mr. Willis tries to keep that to a minimum, and he always compensates us generously.”
“Eight PM?” I raised my eyebrows. I was pretty sure that Georgia considered that an early day at her job.
Mr. Thompson laughed. “I know, it sounds impossible.”
“It really does,” I admitted. “How does Mr. Willis make it work?”
“He hires enough people,” Mr. Thompson told me. “If the work load is too much, it’s usually because one person is taking on too much responsibility. We have almost twice as many employees than similar companies.”
“That’s incredible.” I wrote it down and circled it, knowing that I could definitely use information like that in the book.
“Mr. Willis thinks long term,” said Mr. Thompson. “Other companies might save money upfront, but this company is focused on the future. If we burn out talented employees, they’ll go somewhere else. If we nurture and encourage them, they’ll work harder and better. It’s a philosophy that’s served the company well.”
“It does seem to have a good reputation.” I had found several flattering articles about employee morale and how people were clamoring to get jobs here.
“Mr. Willis deserves all the credit.” Mr. Thompson took a sip of his coffee. “He thinks like an employee, which makes him a great boss.”
Great boss. That’s what I heard over and over again all day. No one had a single bad thing to say about Jack, but they didn’t have anything personal to add either.
“We talk shop,” one of his engineers told me.
She was young, a MIT protégé, according to her résumé, and I could tell that she loved her job. And her boss.
“He knows his stuff,” she told me, leaning back in her chair, arms crossed.
Kat was the first person I had interviewed who insisted on being called by her first name. She was also the first person I had seen all day that wasn’t wearing a suit. She was wearing all black, but it was black jeans and a black muscle shirt, which showed off her tattoos, of which there were many. Her dark hair wa
s shaved on one side, and she wore a nose ring and lots of black eyeliner. I liked her immediately.
“So there’s no dress code,” I had asked when she walked in.
“Nope,” she splayed back in her chair. “But most people like to follow the boss’s lead.”
“But not you,” I observed.
“Not me,” she confirmed, looking at her chipped black nail polish. “But the boss doesn’t care. He didn’t hire me for my looks, he hired me for my brain.” She tapped her temple. “And I pretty much stay in my cubicle, so I won’t scare any of the stodgy investors away.”
I laughed.
“Does Mr. Willis call you Kat or Ms. Anderson?” I asked her.
“Ms. Anderson,” she confirmed. “But I call him the boss. He likes that.”
“I bet.” I smiled, just thinking about Jack standing over a desk looking at Kat’s work, his tailored buttoned up style, a complete contrast to her biker chick vibe. “Do you get along?”
“Oh yeah,” she said, kicking her heels up on the table. “The boss might look like his investors, but he sure as hell doesn’t think like one. He thinks like a designer.”
“Interesting.” I made a note of that. Apparently Jack was good at getting in the mindset of nearly every position in his company.
“He knows engines,” Kat told me. “And he really knows his bikes.”
“Bikes?” I was confused for a moment. “Oh, motorcycles?”
Kat gave me a look. “You’re not really a car person, are you?”
“I’m not,” I confessed. “But I’m learning.”
“You can’t really learn how to be a car person,” she told me. “Or a bike person. You just are or you aren’t.” She tapped her arm. “It’s in your blood.”
“And it’s in Mr. Willis’s blood?”
“Oh, hell yeah,” Kat said, excitedly. “He knows more about bikes then anyone I’ve met. Apparently he’s got a really sweet ride, but he says he doesn’t have that much time to ride it anymore. I think he keeps it at Tom’s Bike Shop for the most part.”
“That’s his friend’s shop, right?”
“It’s so fucking sweet there,” Kat told me. “Best bike shop in the US. Maybe in the world.”
She was so enthusiastic that I couldn’t stop smiling, even after our interview ended. I made a note to pay a visit to Tom’s Bike Shop. It was the one hint I had into Jack’s personal life.
I couldn’t figure him out. How could a guy who was so distant and buttoned up be such a good, understanding boss? How could he get along so well with a twenty-two year old biker chick, a middle aged family man, and a former housewife turned secretary, not to mention all the rest of his employees who had sung his praise. If he was cold and closed off to them, they didn’t seem to notice or mind. No one found it weird that he never shared any of his personal life with them. All of them insisted they always talked about work and work only.
At the end of the day – six PM sharp – Mrs. Reynolds kindly brought me my purse and my coat, and offered to walk out with me. She had her own purse and coat in hand as we walked past Jack’s office. I glanced over, expecting to see his lights still on. Mrs. Reynolds had mentioned that he was usually the first person there and the last to leave, but his office was dark.
“It’s Thursday,” Mrs. Reynolds said. “He usually leaves on time on Thursdays.”
I opened my mouth, but she held up a hand.
“I’m not going to tell you,” she told me before I could even ask.
Darn it.
Chapter 10
LIBBY
I was grateful it was Thursday. Thursday was my favorite day of the week because it was when I hosted a weekly wine and crafting night at my apartment. I absolutely adored my apartment, especially when it was filled with friends. Ok, it was really small and really expensive, and I couldn’t fit more than half a dozen people inside, and even when I did, we all had to squeeze onto my tiny couch or sit on cushions on the floor. But none of my crafting ladies seemed to mind.
My place was cozy, they said, and I had done my darnedest to make it that way. Almost everything in the apartment had some sort of personal touch added to it. I had sewn the curtains myself, knit washcloths and throws that were spread everywhere. I had made my living room rug on a loom I borrowed from a client, painted the kitchen table with flowers and vines, stripped and refurbished most of my chairs, and sewn a collection of pillows for my lumpy, but still comfortable, couch.
And all of it was covered in cat hair, of course. I did my best to keep it clean, but Mr. Mistoffelees was a longhaired mix of some sort who shed incessantly. But when I rescued him off the street seven years ago, I hadn’t given much thought to all the fur he was going to bring with him. All I had seen was a scrawny, matted cat that needed a home.
A home that he now ruled. He was currently perched on the back of the sofa, looking out over his domain, waiting for his illustrious subjects to arrive and pamper him with chin and neck scratches. All of my friends loved him.
For a few hours every week, we would get lost in yarn and fabric and gossip and a few really good bottles of wine. On average, we polished off at least three bottles. But tonight, I had a feeling I would need at least one for myself.
Because I was still struggling to find the heart of the book I was trying to write. The interviews had been helpful, and definitely gave me something to use to breathe some life into Jack on the page, but it was still through secondary sources, and work sources, at that. Even though it was clear that everyone at his company genuinely adored him, it wasn’t special enough to showcase him in the way I felt he needed to be showcased.
I needed something more. And I was pretty sure he wasn’t going to give it to me.
By the time Georgia arrived, I had already gone through half a bottle on my own. She was followed shortly after by Cindy, Meredith and Jasmine, all of whom were armed with their own projects they were working on. I had been working on a lace shawl for the better part of the month, tricking myself into thinking I was ready for the extremely intricate and advanced pattern. I had done and undone it at least three times. Mostly because I kept working on it when I was drunk. Drunk knitting was never good knitting.
Unless you were Cindy. Cindy was an absolute knitting pro, and could do it anywhere – on the train, in the bath, in the movies. She had been working on the vest-thing that Katniss had worn in The Hunger Games because apparently her six-year-old child was going through a bow and arrow phase. She wouldn’t explain to any of us what a bow and arrow phase was. We had stopped asking.
Meredith and Jasmine had been working on socks for the past few weeks, and Georgia was always working on a bottle of wine. She wasn’t really a crafter, she mostly came for the gossip and the booze. If anyone needed to unwind after a long day, it was my best friend. One of these day, I was finally going to convince her to leave her job for a better one. Today was not going to be that day.
And by the way everyone immediately reached for the wine, I had a feeling it wasn’t going to be a very productive crafting night for anyone.
“My husband is driving me nuts,” Cindy told us, slumping on my couch next to Georgia. “Every time I leave to come here, he complains about babysitting the kids. And I always tell him it’s not babysitting if it’s your own children!” She took a long drink of wine. “He’s so not getting a tip tonight.”
Everyone laughed.
“I’ve just had the worst day at work.” Georgia grabbed the bottle and filled her glass to the top like it was water. “I hate that place,” she muttered, and then shot me a look. “And don’t tell me that I should just quit. I have a plan.”
“Yeah?” I took a sip of my own wine. “And how’s the working out for you?”
Georgia waved her hand at me, a scowl on her face.
“What’s the plan?” Jasmine asked.
Georgia leaned back, a smile playing at her lips. The only time I ever saw her happy in regards to work was when she was thinking about the job she was e
ventually going to get. Mr. Mistoffelees jumped off his perch on the back of the couch and snuggled up on her lap. Georgia obliged him with a long chin scratch. His loud purr filled the room.
“I just need to put a little more time in at American Express. One more promotion and one more year working at a higher salary with more responsibility will look really good on my résumé and then I can start looking at marketing jobs outside of credit cards and banks.”
“Are you up for a promotion?” Meredith asked, opening the second bottle of wine.
Georgia’s shoulders wilted. “No.”
“Is there an opportunity for one on the horizon.”
Georgia’s frown grew deeper. “No.”
I exchanged a look with the rest of the girls.
“Georgia, honey,” I reached out and patted her knee. “You have to stop waiting for them to appreciate your skills.”
“I know!” She buried her face in her hands, unseating Mr. Mistoffelees who came over to me, rubbing up against my leg.
I picked him up and placed him on my lap where he curled into a big fluffy ball.
Georgia looked morose. “But I don’t want to go somewhere else and have to start all over again. It’s not a perfect job, but at least I have seniority. Whenever a promotion becomes available, I’ll be the first one in line. That’s what my boss keeps telling me.”
“The same boss that keeps looking down your shirt during meetings?” Cindy asked.
Suddenly I had an image of a certain boss who I wished would look down my shirt. A certain tall, dark and brooding boss. A certain boss whose tie I wanted to untie. My skin got all hot and tight thinking about Jack’s burning gaze on me. All the intensity for his work could only mean he’d have the same kind of intensity in other areas.
“Libby, are you ok?” Meredith asked me.
I blinked and realized everyone was staring at me.
“Huh?”
“Your face is all red,” Georgia pointed out. There was a smile on her face as if she knew exactly what I had been thinking about. “You look flushed.”