I spend the better portion of the day catching up on work that I missed while I was out the last few days. Joyce, Holt’s administrative assistant, has checked on me three times to make sure I’m feeling all right and has offered to bring me tea and lunch. I politely declined all of her offers, but she finally just showed up at two in the afternoon with a hot tea and a Greek salad.
No talking, no asking. She just drops the tea and salad on my desk and walks away, but not before giving me a sly smirk that tells me she’s won this battle of wills. I’m grateful for Joyce, because the salad is divine and the tea is delicious. I inhale both as I write up invoices for Sergio Perez’s plane so that the custom interiors can be ordered. As I hit send on the final email, my instant messenger pings. It’s a message from Kinsley.
Kinsley: OMG! Rowan told me about Sergio. How the hell do you do it? Holt and a goddamn corrupt Colombian politician both trying to get in your pants.
Me: Shut up.
Kinsley: It must be really rough to be you.
Me: Sergio Perez is all yours, Kinsley. He’s just tacky enough that you’ll find him charming ;)
Kinsley: God, I love your snark.
Me: Back at ya.
Kinsley: #HowHotIsHolt Have you seen your boyfriend today? He’s smokin’ in that fitted suit.
Me: He’s not my boyfriend.
Kinsley: Bullshit.
Me: Goodbye, Kinsley.
And I close out of instant messenger, although I can hear her laughing to herself over the cube wall. I decide that I’d like to thank Joyce for thinking about me, and I walk the perimeter hall around to the other side of the floor where Joyce’s desk sits just outside Holt’s office. I smile at coworkers I’ve never met before but occasionally see in passing. I find Joyce nose down, glasses on, writing frantically in a notebook.
“Ms. King,” I say quietly as not to startle her. “Thank you for bringing me lunch and tea. I’ve been so busy catching up from being out the last few days that I didn’t realize how hungry I was or how much I needed that tea until you set it in front of me.”
She looks over the top of her glasses at me. “Don’t thank me. Thank Mr. Hamilton. He insisted that I don’t take no as an answer from you . . . and you make it very difficult.” She laughs.
“You wouldn’t be the first person to tell me that,” I laugh back with her. “Is Mr. Hamilton available? I was hoping to catch a few minutes with him.” I try to look in his office, but the privacy glass doesn’t allow me to see in.
“He’s in with Jack Morrison. Let me call him.” She reaches for the phone.
“No, that’s okay. I’ll stop back later.”
Just then, the office door opens and I hear a familiar voice. It’s Jack, the man who was with Holt at Bar 51 the night I asked Holt out for drinks.
“I knew I recognized her at the bar. Getting involved with her is a huge mistake, Holt. How you managed to get yourself into this one is beyond—” Jack’s voice cuts out the second his eyes meet mine. “Saige,” he says with a forced smile. “Nice to see you again.” My stomach drops and I swallow hard against my throat.
Holt’s office door opens all the way, and I see him standing behind Jack, a horrified look on his face.
“Nice to see you as well, Jack.” I look between him and Holt.
“Saige, come in,” Holt says, practically shoving Jack through the open doorway and into the small space in front of Joyce’s desk.
I take a step back. “I was actually just heading back to get on a conference call.” I look to Joyce, and her eyebrows are raised in amusement at my lie. “I just stopped by to thank Ms. King for bringing me lunch and tea. It was very thoughtful of her.” I smile at Joyce, whose eyes are narrowed in confusion.
I nod to Jack out of politeness. “Jack. Nice to see you again. Holt,” I say with a curt nod, dismissing myself. As I quickly walk to my desk, I wonder why in the hell Jack is talking about me.
When I return to my desk, I dial Mr. Perez’s phone number and wait while the phone connects.
“Ms. Phillips,” he answers with his thick accent.
“Mr. Perez. Please accept my apology for the delay in responding. I’ve been out of the office, unexpectedly.”
“Thank you for returning my call.” I can almost hear the smile in his voice.
My heart thumps in my chest as I do my best to keep this conversation steered in the professional direction. “I wanted to let you know that everything has been ordered for your plane. If deliveries are on time, we should have your aircraft finished in three to four months.”
“That is excellent news,” he says with a long exhale, which sounds like he’s blowing a cigarette into the receiver of the phone.
“I thought you’d be happy to hear that,” I say, trying to wrap up the call. “I’ll keep you posted if there are any changes or delays—”
“Ms. Phillips,” he interrupts me. “The purpose of my call was personal, not professional.”
“Excuse me?” I sigh in frustration.
“I’d like for you to be my guest at an industry event,” he begins.
“You’re in Colombia,” I jump in, hoping to end the conversation.
“The event is in the States. Washington DC.”
Shit. “I’m sorry, Mr. Perez,” I stammer. “I just don’t think this is a good idea. I’d like to keep our relationship strictly professional.”