And that threat about HR? I’d be happy to explain my plans for you to Isadora, but I’m not sure you want her hearing some of those details. Before you respond, I should also tell you that I still want—and plan—to take you to dinner.
You won’t regret it, but it’s your call.
-Oliver
I rapped my fingers on my desk to shake out the tingles bursting across my skin. I wanted to reply—God, did I want to—but I stopped myself and pulled my hands in my lap, wringing them together. It hadn’t taken him long to get into my head. Somewhere in L.A., he was probably sitting in his luxurious corporate office, waiting for me to continue this exchange with him, and the thought of that both thrilled and terrified me.
But here was the thing: Oliver’s job wasn’t on the line, so of course it wouldn’t matter to him that his mother had declared him off-limits.
It was my place to put an end to contacting him, no matter how much a part of myself reveled in his words.
I was here for Margaret, and the only way to get anything I needed from her was to give her what she wanted. Period.
Moving the Rolodex from the far side of my desk to sit right in front of me, I flipped through it until I found the business card for Natalie Roche Events. As I dialed the event planner’s number and got to work, I reminded myself again what I had to do—uncover, expose, and get the hell out.
Uncovering Mr. Sex-in-a-Business-Suit didn’t fit in those plans anywhere.
*
“How’s life on the seventh floor?” Stella asked as she held the door open to the bar she’d picked—a hole-in-the-wall called Sunny’s—on Tuesday. Processing the skeptical look I wore as I took in our surroundings, she released a throaty laugh. She hooked her arm through mine and led me to two open seats. “It’s a little rough around the edges, but it’s quiet here,” she promised, setting her Burberry bag on the bar. “Now, spill it, girl. How’s working for Mrs. Emerson?” She emphasized Margaret’s name, causing me to scrunch my nose. To my relief, she hadn’t noticed because she was digging around in her satchel in search of her wallet.
“It’s...” I slid onto the stool beside her and shrugged. “It’s different.”
“Yes, ma’am, it is.” She pushed a thick black curl behind her ear, causing her gold triple drop earring to swing back and forth. “What did you say you did before?”
I hadn’t mentioned it, but I’d gone over my pseudo-history so many times with Pen that I could probably tell people more about Lizzie Connelly than Gemma Emerson. “I worked for the VP of a telecommunications company.” I twisted the corner of the drink napkin in front of me. “My job was mostly answering the phone, not—”
“Picking up Margaret’s laundry, trying to remember her coffee order, and harassing people she thinks owe her for their existence?”
Stunned by the unconcealed animosity dripping from her beautiful accent, I stopped tracing the whorls in the counter’s worn wood and looked up at Stella. “You said it,” I replied carefully.
“Believe me, it’s easier to say when there’s nobody around to run and tell her.” She turned her attention to the blond bartender who was busy drying glasses a few feet away and called out, “Hey, Luisa? Can I get a lemon drop and a—” She looked at me over her shoulder.
“I’ll take a bottle of Pumpkin Ale,” I told Luisa, who winked at us before starting our order.
Placing her elbow on the counter top, she rested her chin in her palm, drumming her scarlet-painted fingernails gently against her cheek. “Didn’t take you for a beer drinker.”
“I’m not,” I admitted. “But I’m a bit of a Halloween junkie and anything pumpkin-flavored goes with the territory, including seasonal beer.”
“Mmm. You know, the company throws this big Halloween charity gala for foster kids, and—”
I cringed. “Don’t remind me, I spent most of Friday and today playing phone tag with the event planner.” I’d quickly learned that verify the final details with Natalie Roche meant that it was my duty to stay on top of the event planner until after the party.
“I’ve always heard good things about Natalie,” Stella said, her forehead creasing. “She’s not rude, is she?”
The bartender slid my beer in front of me, and I gave her an appreciative nod. Tipping the bottle up, I swallowed a liberal amount before shaking my head. “No, she’s nice. Hell, she’s probably too nice. I just—”
Noticing my hesitation, Stella leaned closer to me, her expression firm. “Honey, if I planned to tell you-know-who everything you say about her, I would’ve just asked you to come to my office. Anything said here is between you and me.”
Dipping my face close to her ear, I said, “The party is in two weeks. Natalie has everything ready—I mean, I personally have a walkthrough of the venue scheduled with her next week—but Margaret still has me harassing her a few times a day.” It wouldn’t have been so bad if I called the event planner with legitimate concerns, but it had gotten to the point where I felt like a broken record. Adding that to the fact she was thirty-six weeks pregnant and had another major event scheduled for this week, I was certain Natalie wanted me to go jump headfirst off a cliff.
I straightened my back and rolled my eyes. “Plus Margaret loathes waiting for a callback.”
“Lord, just now you sounded exactly like her. That woman loathes a lot of things.” Raising her glass, Stella shivered in delight as she took the first sip of her drink. “Ahh, I needed that. We’re launching a new marketing campaign, and it’s been a pain in my ass.”
I nodded understandingly. “How long have you been there?”
“At Emerson & Taylor?” she asked, and I moved my head up and down. “Just under a year. During that time, Margaret’s gone through two assistants.”
“Three assistants in a year is a little outrageous.” I ran my finger around the rim of my beer bottle. “So what happened to them?”
“Know that lovely little NDA Dora had you sign on your first day in the office?”
Keeping the surprise off my face, I bobbed my head. The truth was the HR director had never asked me to sign a non-disclosure agreement. For the second time in less than a week, Dora’s distractedness was working in my favor.
“Well, the PA before you started an anonymous blog about an unnamed, bitch-faced fashion CEO. She messed up when she blogged about a very specific argument she and Margaret had.” Snorting, Stella signaled the bartender for another lemon drop, even though she wasn’t halfway finished with her current drink. “And the assistant before her had sex in the conference room.”
“With Oliver?” I hated that he was the first person who came to mind when I thought of someone screwing an assistant on the executive floor—and I hated that my chest tightened at that thought.
She swirled her drink. “Oliver Manning steers clear of his mama’s employees.” She was silent for several seconds, and then, dropping her voice into a conspiratorial whisper, she informed me, “The VP was on the other end of the conference room romp.”
“What?”
“Uh huh. The man can’t keep it in his pants to save his life.”
Although he hadn’t been with the company when my father was CEO, I’d seen pictures of the company’s vice-president on Emerson & Taylor’s website. From what Margaret had told me, he would be on company business in London for the rest of the week, but I was in no hurry to meet him, especially now that I knew he was a horn dog.
“Well, since I don’t have a blog or a desire to hump a man whose official bio lists him as being happily married with four children, I should be safe.”
“Yes.” Stella murmured a “thanks” when the bartender set her second drink in front of her. Scratching her head, she leaned away from me, her dark eyes inquisitive. “You’re not going to ask about Oliver?”