She had already learned this about him: that when he cared for someone, he couldn’t refuse them. Not when his brother abandoned their company to run for office, nor when his sister needed a last-minute venue for her wedding. That over the past few weeks he’d added her to that list was so beautiful, it was almost painful, and the responsibility not to mistreat his feelings for her was as overwhelming as it was unthinkable. She wanted him very badly, yes, but not at the cost of his conscience.
“Shall we forget it happened?” she asked.
He shook his head, hazarding a small grin. “Impossible. I’ll be living on it for a while.”
“Sorry for getting so emotional,” she said, trying to resist the melancholy that threatened to overtake her as he prepared to go.
He reached out and cupped her cheek gently. “We’ve become friends, Meggie. There’s nothing to be sorry for.”
“Friends,” she said, the word feeling flat and awful after the kiss they’d just shared.
“For now,” he said, with burning eyes, bending down to kiss her forehead and leaving without saying goodbye.
Chapter 8
Margaret resented the Saturday nights she had to stay in Philadelphia, but she was surprised by how irritated Geraldo had seemed by her text that she would be in Philly all day Saturday and that he wouldn’t be able to get into her apartment to work until Sunday. As she walked to work on Friday morning, she stared again at his message: I NEED to work Sat. How else I can finish the project?!?!?!
Margaret straightened her spine and wrote back: I’m sorry, but I’ll be home on Saturday. You may work on Sunday.
Her phone buzzed immediately:
I just work a little on Sat.
She widened her eyes at his pushiness. She didn’t want to wake up to Geraldo banging away in her kitchen. Her plan was to sleep in, meet Priscilla for brunch at noon, have their hair and nails done together for the gala tomorrow night, and be ready to go when Shane picked them up. Not that Shane knew that Pris would now be joining them, but something told Margaret that he wouldn’t mind.
Her fingers typed swiftly:
No, you won’t. You may work on Sunday, Geraldo, not Saturday. That’s final.
As she turned onto the street where the offices of Story Imports were located, her phone buzzed again: U messing up my schedule, lady.
“Huh!” she exclaimed.
As long as we’re being frank, you’re messing up my schedule too. I was quite certain you’d be more than halfway done by now, and you’ve barely completed the demolition. If you want to quit the job, please say so, and I will find someone else to take over. Otherwise you are welcome to continue your work on Sunday and not before.
A moment later, she received the text:
Fine. I b there Sunday.
She nodded at her phone, feeling satisfied, and tucked it into the outside pocket of her purse as she entered the elevator. Thus empowered, she decided it was also time to tackle another difficult male in her life, so instead of sitting down at her cubicle desk outside her father’s office, she marched into the sanctum sanctorum and crossed her arms over her chest as her father’s surprised, disapproving eyes slammed into hers.
“Good morning, Margaret.”
“Good morning, Father.”
She pulled out a chair from in front of his desk and sat down, her posture ramrod straight.
“Please, sit,” he said sarcastically.
“Thank you.”
“As you know, I prefer for guests to make appointments before dropping into my office.”
“I’m not a guest. I’m your daughter.”
He narrowed his eyes, sitting back in his chair. “A fact not lost on me.”
“And yet I feel certain it has been lost on you,” she said.
“Now, you listen here, young miss. I—”
“No, Father,” she said, with all the conviction she could muster, though she trembled inside, “you listen. I am your daughter. Not a guest. Not just an employee. Your daughter.”
“A well-established point.”
“You should treat me like one.”
He shook his head, huffing impatiently. “What is this?”
“It’s me standing up for myself.”
“You sound like Alice.”
“I admire Alice. I love her. You forced her into an untenable position.”
“Untenable!” he thundered. “I gave her a job here!”
“As an administrative assistant!” boomed Margaret, leaning forward. “She should have been your right hand! A manager! A vice president! She has an MBA, Father!”
“I know. I paid for it,” he said. “Damned waste of time.”
“What? Why?”
“Because you’re girls!” he exclaimed. “You’ll meet a man, and then what? Stay home and have babies, just like your mother. What’s the point of an MBA?”
“Maybe we don’t want to have babies! Maybe we don’t want to be mothers!”
Her father’s eyes widened in shock. “Is that true?”
It wasn’t. Not even a little bit. Her longing for children was a daily ache.
“That’s not the point. We’re all capable of more than being secretaries at the company started by our grandfather and saved by our mother’s money!”
Her father sat back in his chair as though struck, staring at Margaret in disbelief and fury. His voice was low with rage when he said, “You forget yourself, Margaret Anne.”
“No, sir. I think I’m finally remembering myself.”
“Get out,” he snarled. “You’re no better than your sister.”