She pats me on the leg once more and gets up from the sofa, taking the hospital invoice from my hand.
“But no more of this,” she says with an air of demand as she tosses it on the coffee table. “Got it?”
“Yeah, I got it.”
I leave that afternoon feeling a little better than I felt when I went over there, not wanting to be alone in my apartment and needing the comfort I knew I could get from my mom. And although nothing can lessen the fear and despair I feel in my heart knowing Luke will be in Norway soon, I at least feel better about my decision to leave him, because I know it was the right decision.
Cassandra knocks lightly on my office door before pushing it the rest of the way open and letting herself inside. My boss is dressed in a black pencil skirt and a crimson silk blouse; her breasts are pushed up to show cleavage where the top two buttons have been left undone. A thin silver necklace with an infinity pendant dips between them. Long, dark hair sits like a wave of chocolate behind her shoulders and down her back.
She steps up to my hardly ever used desk and places an itinerary printout and a brand-spankin’-new credit card in front of me.
“The Bahamas,” she announces with a proud smile and an air of tamed excitement. “You leave next Friday.”
But I don’t share her enthusiasm.
Glancing down at the itinerary, I think about the plans I already had for next weekend, the off days I put in for nearly two months ago so that I can go with my mother to visit her sister in Oregon.
“But …” I start to say, pause and look at the paper again, then back up at my bright-eyed boss who—hopefully—must’ve simply forgotten. “I’m supposed to be off next weekend,” I say carefully.
Cassandra waves a manicured hand in front of her and purses her lips. “Oh, I know, Sienna,” she says as if what she’s about to say next will make it all OK, “but I think the commission you’ll make from this job will easily change your mind.”
I set the itinerary on my desk and just listen to her talk—because it’s all I can do at this point.
“You’ll never guess who the client is,” she says, gesturing her hands. “Trent Devonshire”—my eyes pop open a little more, hearing that I’m supposed to be planning an event for a big-time soap opera actor—“and you’ll be pleased to know that it’s the best kind of job: Money is no object.”
Normally that might make me excited about planning an event because then I could go wild with ideas. But this time I’m not the least bit excited. And I’m not as enthused as Cassandra probably expected me to be that my client is the Trent Devonshire. He would be my first celebrity client.
“Cassandra, I’m sorry, but I really can’t work next weekend.” Her smile is beginning to fade, just a little, but enough that I know she’s not pleased.
“Oh, Sienna,” she says, tilting her perfectly made-up face to one side to appear thoughtful. “You’re my best,” she goes on, turning on the charm, “and I already told Mr. Devonshire that I was going to send him my best”—she points at me with a ring-covered index finger—“that being you. So what do you say? Can you take this weekend off instead, or perhaps the weekend after next? I really need you on this one.”
I sigh and slowly stand up from my desk, shaking my head.
“I really can’t,” I explain politely, and with disappointment for having to tell her no. “My mom and I have been planning this trip to see my aunt for a few months. They’re expecting us next weekend. I made sure to put in for the time off far enough in advance.” And you signed off on it and agreed to it, I want to remind her, but I don’t.
Her red-painted smile fades more noticeably now and she crosses her thin, tanned arms underneath her uplifted breasts.