I shake my head and purse my lips while rolling my eyes. “Goodbye, Holt.” I close the office door behind me and offer a brief wave to Mrs. King as I head back to my side of the floor.
Finally sitting down at my desk, I begin sorting through my emails and putting together recommendations for my client meeting this afternoon with Sergio Perez, a Columbian politician. Many South American politicians are involved in under the table “activities” to provide additional income. Most of these activities are illegal and involve drugs and/or guns. The idea of working with this man is causing my nerves to act up, and my stomach drops momentarily. I have to remind myself that this is a purely legal business transaction, and this is my job, regardless of how Mr. Perez made his money.
As I’m reviewing a list of “must haves” and requests from Mr. Perez, my interoffice instant message pings on my computer and alerts me to a new message.
Holt: That wasn’t so bad, was it? I’m going to have you deliver my coffee every morning.
I huff, trying to think of a witty comeback as my fingers hover over the keyboard.
Me: Mrs. King would be devastated. Getting your coffee in the morning is the highlight of her day.
Holt: I can’t stop thinking about you in that dress . . . red suits you.
I can see that he’s still typing a message, but I respond anyway.
Me: Holt!
Holt: What?
Me: I have work to do. See you at 12:30.
Holt: I like distracting you. I want you in that dress . . . bent over . . .
Me: STOP! Goodbye, Mr. Hamilton.
Holt: Goodbye, Ms. Phillips.
I shake my head and laugh to myself. How in the hell am I going to explain that to HR if they’re monitoring our instant messaging? I close out the message and return to my work.
As I complete my client folder for Mr. Perez and hit send on an email to another client, my instant messenger pings again, this time a group message. These are almost as bad as group text messages. I grumble to myself and open the message.
Kinsley: Rowan is holding out on us, Saige. Dish it up. He knows everything and won’t share.
Me: There’s nothing to tell.
Kinsley: You’re such a liar. We’re doing lunch out of the office today. We’re holding you hostage until you spill it.
Me: Uh, I have lunch plans today. Going to have to take a rain check ?
Isaiah: With Holt?
I don’t immediately respond as I contemplate what to say.
Emery: Saige?
Me: Fine. Yes. I’m having lunch with Holt. It’s not a big deal. I’m sure he just wants to talk about the two new clients I have.
Emery: He wants to talk about getting in your pants!
Kinsley: He’s probably already been in her pants. He wants more.
Me: STOP!
Emery: #HowHotIsHolt
Kinsley: Quick drink after work? Just the girls.
Rowan: I take offense to that.
Kinsley: You’re one of the girls, Ro. You’re more of a chick than I am.
Isaiah: LOL!
Rowan: Yeah, but seriously, #HowHotIsHolt
Me: OMG you guys. What if they monitor our messages?
Isaiah: They don’t.
Emery: Who cares if they do? So drinks?
Me: Fine. One.
Isaiah: Do ever feel like our group messages are a bit like having ADHD? We’re all over the place.
Kinsley: Yeah, but we all follow along.
Me: Some of us have to work, people. I’m out.
I click the small X in the upper right hand corner of the message and close it out. Then I gather my folder, my list of recommendations, and notebook, and head to the conference room where I’m scheduled to meet with Mr. Perez. I’m surprised to find him already waiting for me when I arrive, as I wasn’t expecting him for another ten minutes.
“Mr. Perez.” I smile at him and reach out my hand. “I’m Saige Phillips. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
He immediately stands up and pulls my hand into his, shaking it. “Please, call me Sergio.” His accent is thick, but he speaks English very well. He’s dressed in a gray tailored suit, no tie, with a white dress shirt. His dark hair is short and styled back off his face, and from the looks of him, he can’t be over thirty. He’s the spitting image of Enrique Iglesias, right down to the five o’clock shadow.
“Can I get you anything to drink? Coffee? Water?”
“Scotch.” He grins; his white teeth stand out against his tan skin. “On the rocks, please.”
I manage to keep my face straight. It’s early for alcohol. I normally offer that to my afternoon clients, but scotch on the rocks it is. If he’s going to be spending more than fifty million dollars with us, who am I to deny the man a scotch?
There is a small mini-bar at the end of the conference room. With the clientele we keep, it’s important that we have all the amenities, including a fully stocked bar. I deliver a glass of scotch to Mr. Perez, who has since returned to his seat at the head of the conference room table. A power move. I see it all the time with these clients.
I smile and take the seat to the right of him, pulling out my recommendations. “Mr. Perez—”