The doors part, I tell everyone on the elevator to have a good day, and then I head straight through the glass doors, looking for a Mrs. Pepplebum.
Reception greets me with a smile and I say, “Hello, I’m Charlee Cox, and this is my first day. I’m supposed to report to a Mrs. Pepplebum.”
“Yes, she’s in the conference room preparing for your arrival. Right this way.”
I follow the dear lady through many glass hallways to a conference room with tinted windows. The door swooshes open and I’m announced.
“Mrs. Pepplebum, Miss Cox is here.”
A lady in her mid-fifties, short blonde hair, raises her head and gives me a charming smile. Hand outstretched, she walks around the table and shakes my hand. “What a pleasure. Please, take a seat. Would you like anything to eat?” She motions to some fruit and muffins on the table.
I eye the cut-up pineapple and make myself a plate. “Pineapple is a weakness for me, I can never pass it up.”
“Me either.” Mrs. Pepplebum makes herself a plate as well before taking a seat next to me.
There are a few folders lined up in front of us, but she doesn’t get right to work. “So, tell me a little bit about yourself. I heard you worked for Harold Danvers.”
“Yes, he was such an amazing boss, and then the merger happened so I lost my job. I received a very nice severance package, which has given me some time off. Much-needed time off.”
“Oh, I bet. Where did you go to school?”
“University of Albany. I’m from Schenectady actually. I didn’t travel too far for college so I could live with my parents and save money. After I graduated with a master’s in business, I came to the city and I haven’t looked back.”
“I’m from the Adirondacks. It’s so beautiful up there during the fall, but the winter months, no thank you.”
I laugh and nod. “Yes, I’m grateful we don’t get that much snow here in the city, just crazy cold wind.”
“And that’s why scarves were invented . . . and taxis.”
We both laugh and spend a little bit more time talking, enjoying our pineapple before we get down to work.
Once our plates are pushed to the side, Mrs. Pepplebum says, “Okay, I have your basic employment forms to fill out and then we have the lease agreement for the apartment.”
“Oh, yes, I don’t think I’m going to take the lease. I live in a nice place in Brooklyn.”
Mrs. Pepplebum shakes her head. “That won’t work unfortunately. You’re going to need to live in Manhattan at least.”
“Oh . . . well, I guess I can start looking for a place.”
She laughs. “Not necessary. Mr. Westin owns many apartment buildings in the vicinity. He just had this apartment refurbished, and he said it was for you.” Leaning forward, she says, “If I were you, I’d take it. I saw the inside, it’s spectacular. Beautiful views and rooftop access.”
“Oh my. Okay.” I bite my bottom lip. “I just feel a little bad taking it.”
“Don’t, it’s a perk for working as Mr. Westin’s executive assistant. There’s also a driver assigned to you.” She looks through the paperwork. “Joel is his name. He’ll be at your disposal and before you refuse his services, it’s a requirement to use him when running errands for work.”
I nod. “Mr. Danvers was the same.”
“So, then you’re familiar. Joel is a lovely man. Grew up in the city, knows the ins and outs of every street. But has one of the thickest New York accents I’ve ever heard.”
“Oh, I can’t wait to meet him.”
For the next hour we go over the rest of the benefits of working with Mr. Westin as well as signing paperwork, and of course an NDA, which I’m very familiar with. It’s not uncommon to sign one when you’re working with someone of such stature. Although, to be so accomplished at Mr. Westin’s age is exceptional and surprising.
Once the paperwork is signed and I gain a copy of everything in different folders—the organization already has me excited—Mrs. Pepplebum, or Renita as she asked me to call her, stands and says, “With everything all set, it’s time you see your new office space.”
What I’ve been waiting for.
“Can’t wait.” I take all the file folders under my arm and follow Renita to the elevator I didn’t come through. She takes a keycard and activates the button. Then she hands me the card and says, “There are three keys to this elevator. Security and Mr. Westin have one and now you. It’s your private elevator, so don’t let anyone else have this key.”
“Understood.” Mr. Danvers had that, so I’m glad Mr. Westin has one as well. “Will guests be allowed up by security each time?”
“Those who security know won’t be announced if Mr. Westin is in the office. He tends to call downstairs and advise if he’s not to be disturbed. However, security will call through to you for business meetings and the like.” Makes sense. He is the CEO after all.
“Do you know if there are any specific tasks Mr. Westin wants me working on?”
“He’ll go over all of that with you. He has you scheduled in about fifteen minutes to meet with him.”
“Oh wow, okay.” I cringe as we ride up the elevator. “Not to be a bother, but are there any notepads upstairs?”
“There’s an iPad at your desk, ready for use, as well as your phone and computer, all personalized for you.”
“Wonderful.” I gnaw on the side of my lip, wondering if there are notepads though, because iPads are great and all, but I like making lists with pen and paper. Nothing to worry about right now.
The elevator dings and the doors part to an empty top floor. I glance around, the space feeling like a ghost town. Dreary lights barely light up the space, blinds cover all the windows, and there isn’t one person in sight as we walk past a conference room and down a long hallway to a desk right outside a grand door.
“Oh, are we on the wrong floor?”
“No, this is the eighty-eighth floor; it’s just you and Mr. Westin up here.”
“Wait, no one else works up here?”
“Nope. Mr. Westin prefers his privacy.”
Oh-kay.
We make our way to the plain black desk where there’s a new phone on top as well as a brand-new Mac desktop still in the box, and the aforementioned iPad. All waiting to be set up.
No pen holder.
No pads of paper.
No pretty nameplate.
No flowers.
No color . . . anywhere.
The walls are a muted grey. The floors are a sharp black, and the blinds that cover the windows are black as well. A few chrome touches here and there, but other than that, the space is very institutional with zero personal touch to it at all.
Rather depressing.
Well, that’s going to change.
“Everything is here for you. You are to meet with Mr. Westin at ten thirty. Just knock on his door. Until then, go ahead and set up your computer and iPad. Phone is already set to go.”
“Will IT be up here?”
Renita shakes her head. “Mr. Westin will give you instructions for a secure network he’s on. He is the only one with access to it. He doesn’t trust many people with his personal information, especially IT people.”
“Okay, but what if I have a computer problem?”
Renita places her hand on my arm. “Charlee, Mr. Westin is a very intelligent man. Top of his class at Yale. If there’s a problem with his executive assistant’s computer, he’ll be able to fix it faster than someone from IT.”
“And . . . I just ask him for help?”
“Yes.” She smiles. “He’s a very nice guy.”
So I’ve been told.
“Okay, well, thank you.”
With one more pat to my arm, Renita says, “You’ll be great. Welcome to Westin Enterprises.”
Renita takes off, leaving me to my devices. I take a seat in the very comfortable office chair and observe my desk. I open the drawers where I find one legal pad—yellow, yuck—and one pen with the com
pany name on it. The bottom drawer is empty.
Looks like I’ll be hitting up Office Max after this and then my favorite stationery store in Brooklyn, because this desk is ill-prepared for my particular office flare.
I’m in the middle of plugging in my computer and setting it up when the door behind me flies open and hits the wall behind it. I nearly fall out of my chair from being so startled when the figure of Mr. Westin steps out into the hallway. He looks at me sharply and then at his watch.
“You’re a minute late.”
“What?” I ask, scrambling to stand. I light up my phone and see that he’s right. I’m a minute late. “Oh my Gosh, I’m so sorry. I was so caught up with figuring out which plug to use for each device that I completely—”
“Just get in my office.” He spins on his heel and heads back inside.
Ummm.
What the?
Grumpy. But giving him the benefit of the doubt—maybe he’s having a tough day—I ease up on my opinion, grab my pen and paper, and head into his office.
With one look around, I can tell already that the man means business and nothing else, because there isn’t one personal detail hanging on the wall or propped up on a shelf. Instead, his office is flanked by windows and covered up by a dark tint. There is one light on, and it’s his desk lamp, casting a yellowish glow on the very bright morning. And instead of furniture in the very large space, he has a desk, an office chair, and two armchairs in front of his moderately sized desk.
That’s it. His office is bigger than my apartment and there are four pieces of furniture inside.
What the hell is that about?
He sits in his desk chair and looks up at me when I just stand there, a few feet away.
He robotically motions to the chair in front of him. “Take a seat.”
“Okay, wasn’t sure if you wanted me to make myself comfortable or not. Is this how you usually want me to take notes? Sitting in front of you? Or do you prefer for me to stand at your door. Either I’m good with, although the door is quite far away and the echo in here might make it hard to hear, but if that’s what you want, then I’m totally—”
“Sitting.” He navigates through his computer with a few clicks of his mouse and then starts feverously clicking at his keyboard.
I watch him, his brow narrowing, his jaw tensing, his fingers working speedily over the keys while his determined eyes keep track of everything he’s writing. I’ve seen people invested in their work before, but nothing like the concentration Rath Westin has. If I wasn’t so fascinated by the way he can fully zero in, I might be a little insulted that he snapped at me to get into his office but then completely ignored me.
After what seems like a few minutes, he finally leans back in his chair and stares me down, pen in hand.
“Did you sign all your paperwork?”
“Yes.”
“The NDA?”
“That would be included in all the paperwork,” I say, trying to make it sound more funny and less snarky.
He doesn’t seem to find my tone funny at all. Instead he brings his capped pen to his temple where he very slowly massages his sensitive skin.
“The apartment. Did you get the keys?”
“Uh yes, it might take me some time to move in, but—”
“Movers will be there tomorrow. Make sure there’s nothing personal you don’t want seen lying about.”
He sits up and goes back to his computer where he spends a few seconds reading something and then once again, types out some sort of reply. His fingers fly so fast over the keyboard that I secretly imagine him as one of those keyboarding typing kitties who wear ill-fitting shirts and bob their heads back and forth while typing.
Thankfully, I’m able to hide the smirk that wants to peek past my lips from the thought just in time.
He leans back in his chair and asks, “Is your computer set up?”
“Uh, not quite. I plugged it in though.” I give him two thumbs up. “Looks like I’m winning so far this morning.”
His lips twist to the side, his eyes falling to the pad and paper in my hand. “Where’s your iPad?”
“Where I left it. On my desk.”
“Why aren’t you using it?”
“More of a pen and paper gal.” I hold up the boring pen and paper. “But I will say, I’m used to more colorful things and gah, my favorite pens are the Paper Mate felt tip pens. They come in all different colors and I love color coordinating with them. Do you have any?” I glance at his singular pen on his desk. Guess not. “Don’t worry, I’ll pick some up for the both of us. My treat. You know the saying, pen pals? We can bring a whole new meaning to it. Oh, do you know what would be fun? If we had a color we used for each day and then before every meeting, we tapped our pen heads together as an initiation to the meeting. That would be so great.” I take a note. “I’m getting supplies tonight. I’ll pick some up and then write out a schedule for what color to use. And don’t you even think I’m not going to let you get away with just manly colors. Oh no, Mr. Westin, you’ll be using pink just like the rest of us.”
He doesn’t say anything, just stares. “Use your iPad. That’s what it’s there for.”
I’m thinking he doesn’t want to use pink.
“Get your computer set up. You’re useless to me without that. How am I supposed to go over my schedule and what I need?”
Useless, wow, that’s . . . that’s lovely.
Can you hear the sarcasm?
“Well, you know, we can always talk about your schedule. I can take notes and then when we’re done, I’ll go finish with the computer. You really didn’t give me much time to prepare.”
“If you’re working for me, Miss Cox, you won’t have much time for anything. Get used to that.”
Well, isn’t he pleasant? Was Renita talking about the same person who’s sitting in front of me?
He’s a very nice man.
Oh yeah, very nice indeed.
No welcome.
No hey, how are you?
No first day on the job fruit basket—not that I need one, but it’s a kind gesture.
Tapping my pen on my paper, I ask, “Did you have breakfast this morning? You seem a little crabby. Low blood sugar will do that to the best of us. Want me to call down for something? You know, a good lox and bagel might do the trick. Or . . . are you a sweets kind of guy? Dare I say, a donut connoisseur?” I ask with a smile.
“Are you always this chatty?”
“Usually worse.” I pose my pen. “Now was that a donut or lox and bagel?”
Chapter Four
RATH
Pure desperation can do funny things to a person.
Like encourage them to make a spur-of-the-moment decision.
Like hire a new assistant without interviewing them, basing the hire off recommendation alone.
I’m not a complete idiot. I called Harold this morning to make sure she was credible. The jolly man went on forever about how Charlee Cox was one of the best people he knew and that I should be grateful to have her working beside me.
Right about now, I’m questioning Harold Danver’s sanity.
The girl’s chattiness is unlike anything I’ve ever heard and her candid remarks, with no filter whatsoever, are astonishing to say the least. Asking about my blood sugar, calling me crabby, she really holds nothing back. Even on her first day.
And yet, she hasn’t set up her computer, doesn’t have her iPad, and is doodling absentmindedly on her paper while I talk.
Does she even realize her pen is moving?
I want to say no by the blank stare she’s giving me.
“So . . . what will it be?” she asks. “Either way, they both have holes you can bite into. Assuming you like holes.” She shakes her pen knowingly at me. “Oh yeah, you’re a hole man.”
Jesus.
Christ.
I know she doesn’t mean it in a dirty way, the way I seem to be taking it, but I still wonder, does she understand what she’s saying
?
“Not hungry.”
“That’s fine. I’ll order both. It’s on me. Think of it as a first day thanks for hiring me surprise. Let me just text my friend real quick. It will be here in less than ten minutes.” She types quickly, then pushes up her glasses and focuses back on me. “Now, I have some questions for you.”
“Why?”
“Why?” She laughs. “Because I’m here to help you do your best work.” She shakes her head and chuckles. “Such a silly billy goat. Oh”—her eyes widen—“that could be a fun nickname. I can call you Billy for short. How does that sound?”
“It’s Mr. Westin.”
She taps her pen to her chin. “You know, Billy just doesn’t sound right, so I’ll keep working on it. Don’t worry, I come up with the best nicknames.”
“Mr. Westin.”
“Yes, and I’m Miss Cox . . . you know like a bag of—”
“Yes, that doesn’t need repeating.” Seriously, what is with this girl? And what did I get myself into?
“Oh, that’s right, I already told you about the bag of penises at the convention. Sorry, I get a little nervous sometimes and just run my mouth, but let’s get back to work, the heavy-hitting stuff.” She zeros in on me and with her pen ready to jot down notes. “How do you take your coffee?”
These are her hard-hitting questions?
“You don’t need to know that.”
“Uhh, are you insane? Of course, I do. I don’t need you snapping at me to get you coffee only for you to turn around and chuck it at my freshly pressed blouse. Ironing is a sport in my apartment. At least a half day on Sundays I spend ironing my clothes and watching reruns of New Girl. Have you seen that show? Who’s your favorite character? You know, at first I was like who’s this Schmidt guy and then—”
“Enough.”
“No, Enough is not a character, unless I missed an episode, which I know I haven’t. Ninety percent sure about that. But if I had to guess, I’d say you’re totally a Winnie the Bish kind of guy, am I right?”
Boss Man Bridegroom Page 4
