That shit has to be nice.
Nancy clears her throat, reminding me of her presence, as if I could ever forget it. “I was enjoying the snow. Looks like we’ll have a white Christmas after all.”
She scoffs, pointing a blood red nail at the pad of paper on my desk. “From the looks of it, you have plenty to do. I could bet my bottom dollar you don’t even have an outfit for this evening’s party.”
I finally glare up at her, peering between a fan of lashes. “You’re right. How about I get started on that while you go get those nails filled. You’re long overdue.”
Nancy’s mouth drops open, but I’m only able to bask in the afterglow of her silence for a moment before the secretary drops a note on my desk. “Be nice, ladies.”
My eyes roll in a complete circle, but when they land on Marge, the irritation making my nerves itch, subsides. No one with a soul could be ugly to Marge. She’s nearing sixty and has worked here longer than anyone. She’s the momma to those who need a shoulder to cry on or to give some wise advice. The calm in the storm, an anchor keeping us from drifting to sea. Even the CEO can’t bring himself to be less than a gentleman when she’s near.
Hell, the one time she walked up right in the middle of him chewing my ass out, he snapped his mouth shut, turned on his heels, and finished his chastising in a professional email. I almost considered picking up my desk and moving all the way to the back near hers, but I knew he’d have a fit if I wasn’t within yelling distance. That man loves to control things...
“I just wanted to make sure she had herself together, Marge. You know she puts her hobbies first sometimes and has to be reminded of her priorities.” Nancy’s red lips curl into a smirk, and I have to fight the very real twitch in my palm not to slap her.
She knows marketing isn’t my forever job, and she may or may not have seen me typing a few articles. But to say I don’t put in the work here, is a total flipping lie, and she knows it. Like myself, it’s clear she’s the personal assistant to the wrong person. She fawns over my boss while I sneak around to work with hers.
I’d asked her to switch, but that somehow it made it back to him and he had another fit. Honestly, it’s probably because I’m the only woman in the building that will actually do my job and not try to screw him.
Marge nudges her thick black frames back up her nose. “I’m sure she’s got everything under control. Thank you, Nancy. Now let the girl work.”
Nancy brushes her bleached strands from her shoulder but doesn’t argue as she returns to her side and flops down at her desk.
A relieved breath huffs from my lungs. “Thank you, Marge.”
“Don’t thank me just yet, young lady. You do have a dress for this evening, right?”
I sigh, knowing that my next string of words will have her momma voice coming out to play. “I’m not going.”
“Run that by me again, dear.” She leans her right ear toward me, and I have to bite into my lip to keep from smiling.
“Marge. Listen. I’m here enough as it is. I don’t want to stay here longer than I already do, at a party two floors below here, where I won't even feel comfortable enough to drink. I’d rather go home, take a nice long bath, and watch a scary Christmas slasher or something.” I hear the high pitch in my voice and hate that I’m whining, but really, what I said is the truth.
Although I’ve been lucky enough to not have to set things up for the bash, I still ordered the majority of the stuff, and let me tell you, it’s going to be a snooze town. I have plenty of other things I can do, and none of which involve being on the thirteenth floor.
“You can’t not go.”
“Marg—”
“Of course, she’s going. Why wouldn’t the personal assistant to the CEO be at the annual Christmas party?” The deep voice of Satan's best friend coasts across the air, filling my body with the fight or flight response it’s learned since working for him.
Reluctantly, I swivel in my chair to face my boss, Roman Chen.
The six-foot-two, lean muscle machine, with the tailored suit and thousand-dollar watch. He’s got broad shoulders, a sharp jaw, and lips that look like mini pillows. And his hair? It’s the only thing not professionally kept because he can’t keep his big hands from skirting through it when he gets flustered—which happens a lot. It’s dark and falls over his head in that bad boy type of way, which pisses me off even more.
Ugly souls shouldn’t be so damn hot.
“I’m pretty worn out, sir . I thought I’d sit this one out.” I let the sarcasm drip into my words at the term, relishing in the way he rolls his dark eyes.
“Let’s not tonight, Miss Cartier.” He pockets his hand, and I know it’s to keep from pushing his hair back and showing me that I bother him. He nods to Marge but keeps his pointed gaze on me. “Did you complete the list she gave you?”
“The one she just put on my desk two-point-two seconds ago?”
“No need to be crass, Miss Cartier. Get it done. Then figure out what you’re going to do about your,” he pauses, his eyes dropping down the length of my frame and the act forces my back straighter. Damn these glass desks, “wardrobe situation. This is a semi-formal event, so I expect you to dress as such.”
Without another word, he nods to Marge and disappears into his office as if he didn’t completely bulldoze my plans for the evening.
Dick.
Marge pats me on the shoulder, an apologetic smile on her face as she returns to her own desk. And when I look down at the list, it takes everything in me not to throw one of my red bottom heels at his window.
Lunch from Saint Mary’s. Half a smoked turkey club panini and tomato basil soup.
Dry cleaning from fourth street. (lost ticket)
Coffee from Tony’s.
I stare at the list for three more seconds, remembering how, during my interview, he claimed I’d basically be running the office and not getting his laundry. That sweet scenario lasted two weeks. Now I do both. And I almost bet if it was legal for him to ask me to clean his house, I’d have to do that too.
The thought of ordering DoorDash and pulling up Favor flashes through my mind, but another look over at nosey Nancy, who’s now perched on her theoretical pedestal, with a smug smirk on her face, makes me realize I need to take an extended lunch break.
Maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll get run over by Santa’s reindeer.
H ow can anyone surrounded by fresh falling bits of movie-like snow, walking down main street, where the Christmas lights are twinkling and the wreaths are mounted on every post, still feel like the Grinch?