“He said it’s none of my business.”
She’s honest again. God, I like this woman. “It’s complicated.”
She snorts. “When is anything not around this place? How about we go to lunch today?”
“No,” I say quickly and when her eyes go wide I quickly add, “I mean, thank you but Shane will misread it. He’ll think Brandon Senior has me nosing around for information.”
She smirks. “No one in this place believes they can get information from me. We’ll do lunch. I can try and get details from you and you can keep dodging my questions. I enjoy the challenge.”
“Shane won’t like it.”
“I’ll take care of my boss. How’s noon?”
“Jessica—”
“Noon it is.” She turns and exits the bathroom, determined to get her way. She won’t. I’m not antagonizing Shane after what happened this morning. I glance down at the folder. I told you Shane would buy the Nina Thompson story. I need to tell Shane, but he might think coming from me that it’s a trick. I could tell Jessica, but I don’t know if Shane really trusts her. E-mail could be hacked and so could internal phones. That leaves only one option.
Decision made, I rush for the door, and I don’t stop walking until I find the security of my desk, relieved to find Brandon Senior’s door shut. Hurrying to my desk, I sit down and slip the contract into my top drawer before removing my cell phone and clicking Shane’s number. Not sure it’s really him, I pull up the text message option and type: This is Emily. It’s urgent. About a work thing. Are you there?
Him. I think. I’m here.
I study it and type: Please prove it’s you.
Him again. Your bra is hanging on a light above my balcony.
Impossibly, I laugh, quickly shaking it off to type: Before I give this contract to your father, I overheard Derek say quote: I told you Shane would buy the Nina Thompson story.
There is a long electronic silence before the he replies with: Give him the contract.
That’s it. I stare at it. And stare at it some more and then finally it beeps again with: Thank you, Emily.
Emily. Not Ms. Stevens. I stare at the screen all over again, and I type: I’m sorry. Then I erase it. I type it again, but I don’t hit send. The truth is, even if I could open that door with Shane again—if he’d let me, which I doubt—I can’t. And I really hate the reality that creates that certainty. I erase the apology and put my phone back in my purse, shutting the drawer, and with it, the short chapter of my life that was me with Shane Brandon.
If a man is dumb, someone is going to get the best of him.
—Arnold Rothstein
CHAPTER ELEVEN
EMILY
The rest of the morning, my cell phone does not ring with even one single call about a job, but the phone on my desk rings incessantly. It becomes abundantly clear that the primary business Mr. Brandon is involved in is the investment side of the company. Presently, he’s packaging a high-dollar hedge fund that has tensions elevated between him and his potential investors, and I’m getting the brunt of it all. By midday, my list of things to do is a mile long, I’ve been yelled at by him and at least three other people, coordinated two conference calls, both with groups of complete asses, and I’m pretty sure I’ve started to grow horns of my own.
It’s nearly noon when the intercom buzzes and I hear a loud cough. “Get in here, Ms. Stevens.”
Unfazed at this point by his barked orders, I walk to his office, entering at the same moment he bursts into more coughing. Then he scowls at me as he barks, “Why do I not have Mike Rogers on the phone?”
“His secretary says he’s at a team meeting,” I say, wondering how I’ve turned my low profile into calling NBA team owners who will actually answer.
“I don’t care where the fuck he is,” Brandon Senior snaps. “If I don’t have him on the phone in fifteen minutes, you’re fired.”
I bristle at the threat, and my first instinct is to retreat, which angers me for my reaction more than at him. I will not allow these damnable circumstances to turn me into that person. If he really intends to fire me, he’s going to do it no matter what, and if not, my response sets a tone for the future. “If you fire me,” I say, my voice firm and confident, “who’ll put up with your crankiness? And arrange your conference calls. And find Mike for you?”
“Well, you haven’t found him, now have you?” he asks, the challenge in the question sidetracked when he hacks a few more times.
“I have found him,” I retort when he settles down. “He just refuses to be interrupted.”
“When he’s on the phone with me, then you’ve found him. Get out of my office and shut the door until then.”
I’m not fired, apparently, and I don’t get out of his office, watching as he obviously chokes back more coughing. “Can I get you something hot to drink and some drugs to go with that cough?”
“Mike Rogers is the only drug I need.”
“I respectfully disagree.”