Good Pet (His Pet Book 5)

by Jamie Knight

  “They expect something for nothing. They expect me to do work they won’t do, and then act like I won’t ever amount to anything.”

  Vanacore frowns. She gets a semi-dangerous look in those gray-blue eyes of hers. Again, they’ve almost turned silver under some ringlets of her white, wizard-like hair.

  “I’ve seen as much from the resumes and letters of recommendations from most of the other candidates we’ve interviewed. They are thankless and lackluster. Hoping to work with me, as if I’m some charity. Some distributor of free handouts,” she says. “But you look like you could hold up to my demands.”

  Demands.

  That has a strange ring to it and even stranger vibe. Something I’m not quite sure how to interpret but know I can’t ignore. Before my brain can get me to messed up over what I’m feeling and why, Charlotte jumps in.

  “What Ms. Vanacore is trying to say,” she says, allowing me to focus back on her for a moment, “is that she has very particular ways she wants her work done, and her office handled.”

  She leans forward a bit, allowing me to see a huge engagement ring on one of her fingers.

  “She has very tight deadlines. Huge caseloads,” she adds, emphasizing that last bit. “I’m talking on a daily basis, not weekly. It’s this kind of thing that most candidates for the job didn’t like. This is where they started negotiating that workload and those demands.”

  “But you don’t seem like you’re the type to do that — refuse my specific instructions or needs,” says Vanacore, bringing my attention back to her and back to the hands she’s folded on the desk in front of her.

  Again, her rings capture my attention and signal to me of her wealth, power, and dignity.

  “Are you, Tommy?”

  I nod my head, thinking I’m shaking it. Until I realize what I’m doing, and quickly change it.

  “Yes, I mean, uh, n-no, ma’am. I understand completely. I have specific ways I require other people on my floor to do their work, especially if they’ve come up to me and asked me to help them. Or do it for them, as is the case most times, just so everything can be uniform and not get spat back to us by the partners.”

  “I’m very demanding, Tommy,” says Vanacore, fixing me with her eyes again. “Very particular. I nitpick. I lecture, and I scold, when necessary.”

  The look in her eyes reminds me of an old-fashioned mother-figure type. The kind who wouldn’t hesitate to use a very fancy looking cane as part of her lecture or scolding. A thought that has me shifting in my seat and seeing her in a different light. Not as someone who might be putting a spell on me, but someone who might honestly wish to help me and give me the benefit of the doubt.

  “I am firm on my requirements but I am fair. And I don’t just pick anyone, Tommy. When I like someone, I like them. And it’s very hard for me to like the majority of men and women I’ve seen here.”

  She pauses, nibbling lightly on a fingernail.

  “But I like you. You’re young, but you have a good work ethic. You’re not the snappiest dresser, but you’ve got a grasp of how to communicate properly and effectively.”

  I blush, hating the fact that this damn suit brings me so much unwanted attention, but I remind myself that I can’t lose my poise.

  “Nearly every person we’ve interviewed has slouched in their chairs, has become informal, or even brought out their stupid cell phones. But not you. You’ve kept it all professional and well mannered.”

  “Thank you,” I say, hearing those words squeak a little. “Thank you, Ms. Vanacore.”

  “I don’t flatter, Tommy.”

  She licks her lips.

  “Flattery may work for some folks, but I only tell it like it is. I only will tell you something good about yourself if you’ve earned it.”

  I nod, feeling sweaty behind my ears.

  What’s with this woman? And what’s with the way she’s making me feel?

  My face has begun to warm under her words and energy. Again, I’m not sure if it’s due to something I’m feeling, or the power and presence of her eyes and whatever aura she’s getting me with.

  I’m not sure how I’m feeling about her, but it’s not really what I should be feeling at the moment. Not during this interview, and not toward my potential boss.

  “I’d say I’m inclined to give you a try,” says Ashton. “Based on your skills and the references you brought, those alone would be enough for me to strongly consider you.”

  I nod quickly. I murmur some thanks to him.

  “I’d say you’ve definitely outgrown your time on the associate’s floor,” Charlotte says. “I’m a bit of a go-getter myself, so I know what it’s like to feel stifled and limited by the job you have versus the job you want.”

  She smiles and neatly organizes my papers.

  “If it were up to me, I’d offer you the job right here. Right now. You clearly care about this company and the work you do for it, so nothing would make me happier than to give you a promotion.”

  She looks over at Vanacore, and then back at me.

  “But I’m not the woman with the job to offer. I’m just here to make it official if it’s to happen and offer my perspective.” She sighs, looking over at Vanacore again. “The rest is up to her. It is up to whether you satisfy those needs she has or not.”

  “Well, Tommy,” says Vanacore, clearing her throat. “I already said I liked you. I already said that you have a lot of things that people your age just don’t seem to have any more.”

  She licks her lips again, but this time I feel something more behind it. Something a little less to do with any dryness she may have there, and something more to do with ideas or plans lying elsewhere in her head.

  “But since there are particular ways these things get handled, I suppose I have to say it.”

  She hangs her head, as if thinking. It isn’t long. I get the feeling it’s just enough for the “show” of it. A few seconds later, she brings her head back up and finds my eyes.

  “Would you like to work with me, Tommy? If offered you the job, would you take it?”

  Her eyes suck out all the air in my lungs. For a moment, I can’t breathe or speak. All I can do is sit there and stare at her.

  Then, it hits me.

  She offered me the job. Me. After everyone else on the legal assistants’ floor said she was impossible to please and super picky, she offered me the chance to work with her!

  Come on, brain! Come on! Work! Say something!

  Vanacore laughs good-naturedly as if she finds me as dorky as she does cute.

  “Cat got your tongue, Tommy?”

  “Yes,” I say, not realizing that I’ve actually just answered her most recent question and not the one about the job.

  I shake my head out, like a computer program malfunctioning.

  “I mean, yes, yes, ma’am — I’d like the job very much. If you’re offering it to me, I’d like the opportunity very much to work with you, Ms. Vanacore.”

  I bring my head up and down quickly, not sure what to do or what I’m supposed to do. Never in my wildest dreams did I expect that she would be this interested in me, and this ready to offer me such a position.

  Though part of my rational mind says that it probably has more to do with something other than my qualifications, I bat that thought away.

  “Thank you, ma’am. Thank you so much for the generous offer,” I say.

  “The pleasure is all mine,” she says, and I feel something sharp on “mine.”

  It feels dangerous, though my mind won’t let me go all the way to that. It stops me short of it, just as Vanacore reaches out her hand to shake mine.

  “When I was your age, a man in the business of law gave me a similar opportunity, and I’ve been waiting forty years to return the favor.”

  She claps her fingers around mine, giving them a vigorous shake. She doesn’t seem to notice or care about the sweat on my palms.

  Her hands, by comparison, are dry, smooth, and faintly perfumed — with sweet bo
oze or Cologne, I can’t tell.

  Her grip is a firm one — steadying, but also dominating.

  “I consider this my opportunity since I have finally found the young man worthy of such a blessing.”

  At some point during this, she lets go of my hand. The reason I don’t notice this right away is because of the impression her hand leaves on mine, both literally and metaphorically.

  “Thank you, Ms. Vanacore, ma’am,” I say. “I’ll give you my best. I’ll give you my all. I promise.”

  Vanacore’s eyes shine.

  “I know you will, Tommy,” she says. “I know you will. You are just that committed.”

  An odd shiver goes through my stomach and down my back at this, but I brush it away.

  Charlotte pushes some papers my way with a smile.

  “If you sign these, Mr. Radner, I can get your pay rate change set up with payroll,” she says, handing me a really fancy pen. “If you sign these, we can complete this interview, and you and Ms. Vanacore can get to the rest of your morning.”

  “Yes.” I nod. “Fine.”

  With that, I sign the paperwork, still unable to believe I’ve done it.

  I’ve gotten the promotion I’ve been looking for and with a boss that no one else has been able to impress.

  Again, some parts of me aren’t entirely sure I’ve earned it for the reasons I think I do.

  Some part of me begins to pipe up and remind me that it seems like Ms. Vanacore might be looking at me for more than just my accomplishments and my recommendations, but again I push it away. I push it aside.

  I’m just glad to be signing my name on the dotted line to my future right now.

  I don’t want to mess it up with fears, especially before the ink has even dried.

  Chapter Eight

  Melissa

  After making sure that Tommy is looking his absolute best — and not like he’s just been getting through life by the seat of his pants — I, finally, make it into my office. But first, I greet Isabella in the coffee bar.

  She follows me to our shared office and proceeds to tell me about her weekend. She complains about the crazy comments her parents made this time since, despite her being successful, they are still up in arms about her having a job.

  I hate to admit it, but they sound like a lot of some of my friends back in England. The ones who were encouraging me to stay at home while my future husband brought home the bread.

  I frown at her and say, “Your parents sound like a nightmare. Almost as bad as mine, though, at least mine would let me get a job. Hell, they were pressuring me unbelievably to get one.”

  I unscrew the cap on my thermos of tea and take a gulp. The tea is still warm, but thankfully not scorching enough to burn my throat.

  “That’s part of why I moved across an ocean to get away from them,” I add.

  I’m serious enough, but Isabella just laughs.

  “Melissa, you’re killing me. I don’t like my parents as much as the next young person but across an ocean? Halfway around the world? Now that’s commitment!”

  I hum, tightening the lid on my drink container again. I don’t know what it is, but I have the feeling someone’s going to call any moment now.

  Curiously, I’ve built up a sixth sense around the phones. Somehow, I just know when someone’s going to call, or when I should call someone else.

  It’s part of the reason I’ve begun to feel that I was made to be a secretary while working here. It’s part of the reason it’s been easy for me to work here for ten years when most people would probably want to get moved up in the company or move on.

  Sure enough, my phone does ring. I quickly put on my headset, wave at Isabella as she sits down at her own desk, and press the answer button. Without missing a beat, I say the words I’ve said thousands and thousands of times by now.

  “Mr. McKenzie’s office, how can I help you?”

  As I listen to the caller’s request, I see Dennis — the photo I have framed of him — out of the corner of my eye. As I look into his eyes, study his mouth and face, part of me returns to our conversation earlier. He seemed so out of touch, cranky, and grumpy.

  The person on the phone wants to leave a message, so I send them through to the voicemail of the person they’re looking for. I’m not sure how, but somehow, I managed to hit all the right buttons, say the right words, even while distracted.

  Even with my mind on my boyfriend, I’m able to do my job seamlessly. I know this is only thanks to the muscle memory I’ve built up over so many years and hours of doing this job.

  Unfortunately, though, it’s this muscle memory that also allows me to spend more time thinking about my boyfriend than most secretaries would be able to while working. As the next few calls come in, I’m again wrapped up in thinking about Dennis and what could be causing his bad attitude.

  He seemed so disconnected, dare I say it — disinterested in our relationship, in our routine — though I can’t say how. I don’t want to think too hard on it since my mind is already coming up with a plethora of excuses. I keep thinking of reasons why he would be so unloving, and unromantic. Maybe it is stress and demands related to his work, but even so, part of my heart worries and frets.

  Something in me is beginning to wonder if someone else has captured his interest. Someone else could be vying for his attention and his time, but I quickly bat that thought away. I bury it in another round of phone calls and paperwork.

  Stop thinking that way, Melissa. You’re being silly. You’re being oversensitive.

  I tell myself this as I finish transferring yet another call to Kane’s office and sit back in my chair. I look at the beautiful picture I have of Dennis. I treasure the way he’s smiling at me. I love how tender and supportive his smile is.

  He’s having a rough time of it. He’s going through so many things that you don’t even know about, and yet through it all, he still tries to call you. And he has every right to be upset with you. After all, you weren’t planning to not see him for so long. You weren’t planning to go so long without seeing him or without traveling to him for some holiday, and yet you haven’t managed it. Not once.

  I sigh, feeling bad. I’m upset with myself for being so upset with Dennis, when I know, I’ve been upsetting him, too.

  “Long weekend, honey? Or not long enough?” asks Isabella, scooting her chair over to my desk.

  She’s eating a bit of muffin she’s picked out from the cafeteria and is now holding between her perfectly manicured fingernails.

  I look at her, and before I can come up with some other answer — one that doesn’t have anything at all to do with my boyfriend or the awkward video chat we had this morning — she reads me like an open book.

  “Boyfriend do something?”

  When I try to give her a look like “no way, you must be out of your mind,” she adds, “You’ve been looking at that photo like a crystal ball or tarot card, or something. And whenever someone looks at a photo like that of someone we love, it can’t be good.”

  “I wouldn’t say he did something,” I say.

  “It’s what he didn’t do,” she says, “isn’t it?”

  When I give her a look of surprise, she gives me one back. One that says, “really?”

  She takes another bite of her muffin and says, “Look, you and I both know it’s not the things that people do that make us look that way. It’s what they don’t do that does, Melissa.”

  She picks at her muffin, picking out her next little morsel.

  As she pops it in between her shiny, red lips, she says, “so what didn’t he do?”

  “He was a little late to our video chat this morning, and I was worried he had forgotten or found better things to do,” I say, surprised and mortified at how jealous and irritable I sound.

  I sound like a woman who just got broken up with, not made to wait for a video chat for ten minutes longer than I expected. I sound like a perfect queen and not the good kind.

  “Anyway, it’s not a big
deal. I’m the one being too sensitive and hormonal about it.” I sigh.

  “But he didn’t seem that interested. He seemed more excited at the prospect of getting off the video chat than he seemed about being on it,” I added, realizing that that’s the thing that’s been disturbing me the most. Dennis looked so happy when I said I needed to cut it short.

  Isabella shakes her head, and I enjoy watching her dark, tight curls of hair bounce as she does.

  “That’s not good. That’s not what you want in a boyfriend whose ass is late to your phone call — your digital date,” she says, saying what I felt like saying to Dennis but didn’t have the courage.

  He really did hurt my feelings by being late, and then looked so disinterested. He just lectured and yelled at me.

  “He even got after me for not coming to visit him,” I say, getting more and more frightened with how forthcoming I’m being.

  Isabella and I talk about a lot of things, but I haven’t talked to her about my boyfriend too much. I don’t talk too much with anyone about him as it is. I don’t think just anyone deserves to know about my love life, even Isabella.

  “Why doesn’t he come to visit you?”

  I smile.

  “I asked him the same thing.”

  “And?”

  Just then, the phone rings on her desk.

  She holds up her finger, scoots over, and does her spiel.

  While she’s on the phone, I hear her say, “Mr. Smith? No, he’s not available right now. I see that he’s in a meeting with HR. No, I think he’s busy taking part in an interview process or something.”

  She pauses.

  Hearing the words “interview” and “HR,” my thoughts turn to the legal assistant, Tommy. I suspect he is currently in that interview with Ashton.

  “Listen. The best I can do,” says Isabella over my thoughts, “is to patch you to his office, and you can leave a message.”

  She pauses again.

  “No, I’m sorry. I don’t know when he’s going to be available.”

  Another pause.

  “Sir, do you want to leave a message with him or not?”

  My mind wanders back to Tommy and his interview. I start to wonder how it went for him or how it’s going for him since it seems his potential boss is still in the conference room with him, Ashton, and HR.