by Cat Carmine
I choose my answers carefully, telling her about Georgia and about spending the day photocopying quarterly reports. That seems like safe territory. It seems to satisfy her, because she doesn’t press when I steer the questions steadily away from the subject of my boss.
Still, when my sister Emma calls me later, I find myself ignoring her call. After I got home yesterday, I had put two and two together and realized that I must have gotten this job at Cartwright Diamonds thanks to her. Her fiancé Tyler knows Mr. Cartwright socially, and I remembered her saying something about passing my resume along. I had texted her to thank her and Tyler for the hook-up, and I know she’ll be calling now to find out how my first day went. I can lie to Lucy, but I’m not sure I can bring myself to lie to Emma. Not to mention the fact that she’ll probably see right through me. My sister used to be an advice columnist, and she’s a little too good at sniffing out bullshit. Especially mine.
By the time I go to bed that night, I’ve convinced myself that my feelings today were just first day jitters. Sure, Logan Cartwright is attractive — but so are lots of men. Doesn’t mean I have to lose my head over him or anything. I’m fully capable of being a professional, here.
That’s the thought that I fall asleep to, snug in my bed and wondering what the next day will hold, sure I can handle it either way.
Despite those positive vibes, I somehow manage to be even later on my second day than I was on my first.
This time, it isn’t even my fault. I wake up on time and everything. And even though I board the right train, after quadruple-checking the map, the train I’m on ends up stuck between two stations for over twenty minutes, thanks to some kind of mechanical issue.
My confidence ebbs away with every minute we’re stuck there. All I can think about is Logan. About whether he’s going to fire me for being late. About the fact that my employment there seems so tenuous to begin with. About what the hell I’m going to do if this job doesn’t work out. By the time we finally get moving in, I’ve worked myself into a tight little ball of anxiety.
When we get to my stop, I lunge out the doors so fast so that I almost knock over a little old lady. I yell out an apology over my shoulder, but I’m already racing up the stairs and into the street above. I tear down the block, knowing there’s no way I can afford to stop for coffee this time. By the time I reach the elevators of the Cartwright Diamonds building, I’m a sweaty mess, just like yesterday. Great.
In the elevator, I smooth my locks down as best as I can. I hadn’t bothered with the braid today, since I’d freshly washed my hair, and now it hangs in long blonde waves, cascading down over my shoulders. I’m not going to lie, it looks good. I’d even managed to find another dress to wear besides the blue one. This one is fuchsia, and okay, maybe it’s a tad on the short side, but with Lucy’s blazer over top of it, it looks decent. I think. I hope. I use an old Chipotle napkin from my purse to dab at the sheen of sweat on my brow, then reapply a slick of pink lip gloss.
When the elevator reaches the thirtieth floor, I take a deep breath and stride out. The receptionist is sitting at her desk already. She’s a very large woman named Kath, who I’d been introduced to yesterday. When I say large, I mean truly gargantuan. Not just heavy, but tall, broad-shouldered, with thick cheekbones as big as ribs. I’ve yet to see her standing, but I’d guess she’s at least six feet tall. Even her hair is big — tight strawberry blonde curls, mounds and mounds of them, and today she’s wearing them piled on top of her head. She’s not exactly beautiful, but she’s certainly striking. And right now, I feel like I’m the one she wants to strike. She glares at me over the bridge of her thick, ruby-colored glasses, glancing surreptitiously at the clock.
“He’s been asking for you,” she hisses. Her lips — the same shade of red as her glasses — are puckered.
Crap.
“I’m here now!” I chirp, trying to sound cheerful and confident. Because that helps, right?
I hurry past Kath’s desk and toward my own. I decide I’ll dump my bag and stuff at my desk and then casually head over to Logan’s office, pretending I’ve been here for a while now. He doesn’t need to know the second I arrive, right?
Except as soon as I come around the corner, I realize that plan isn’t going to work. Mr. Cartwright is standing at my desk, his arms folded across his broad chest. And the expression on his face is pissed.
Double crap.
“Good morning!” I chirp again, trying to sound as cheerful and confident as I did with Kath. It works about as well on my boss as it did on her. Less so, probably, because the glare doesn’t leave his face.
“You’re late.”
“Yes. A little. I’m so sorry. The train I was on got stuck, and it was this whole big thing and …”
“You won’t be late again.”
“No,” I promise. “Definitely not. Absolutely. I’m going to leave earlier tomorrow, just in case—”
“No, I mean you won’t be late again.” His expression is inscrutable.
“Right. Got it.” I swallow.
“I’m giving you a company card,” he says. “You’ll take cabs to and from work. As my personal assistant, I expect that when I’m in the office, you’re in the office. Is that clear?”
“Crystal.” The lump in my throat is the size of a golf ball, and for some reason I feel like crying. I should be thrilled — getting a company card and the ability to take a cab to work every morning is a huge perk, and one that’s going to cut my commute by more than half. But all I can focus on is the disappointed look on Logan’s face. Like I’ve personally failed him.
“Good. I also expect coffee in the mornings. Cappuccino. Bone dry. Not from any of the chains, either. There’s a Bezzera machine here, or the Rocky Road Cafe is also acceptable. Understood?”
“Yes. Sir.” I add the sir for good measure, just because that seems to be the sort of mood he’s in. His jaw clenches when I say it, and I don’t know if I’ve made things better or worse. Did my sir sound too sarcastic?
“Well?”
I swallow. He’s staring at me expectantly now. The minute ticks on unbearably slowly. He doesn’t take his eyes off me. My knees are sweating. I have no idea what he’s waiting for, what he wants, or what I’m supposed to do.
“The coffee, Blake,” he says, finally.
“Right.” I let out a relieved sigh. “On it.”
I don’t breathe again until I’m out of Logan Cartwright’s view. It takes twice as long for the blush to leave my skin. I can’t keep letting him fluster me like this, otherwise I’m never going to be able to do my job.
I find the small executive floor kitchen and let out a low whistle. It’s nicer than the kitchen in our apartment — by a landslide. Maybe I should sneak Lucy in and let her do all her baking here.
I locate the coffee machine easily enough, since it takes up half the counter. It’s sleek and modern and huge. Actually, that’s an understatement. So is calling it a coffee maker. This thing is a stainless steel behemoth, with more buttons than a rocket launcher. Not that I’ve ever seen a rocket launcher — but I imagine it would have a lot of buttons.
For about five minutes, I just stare at the thing. I have no idea where to even start.
Okay, Blake. You can do this.
The answer comes to me from out of the blue. Like a bolt from the heavens. A whisper from God himself.
Youtube. The answer to — and cause of — all of life’s problems.
I race back to my desk, already loading up the app and inputing the name of the espresso machine. Sure enough, I pull up at least a dozen videos that demonstrate how to use the thing. They make it look easy, even — grind the beans, steam the milk, make the espresso. Voila. Easy as pie.
It takes me thirty minutes, but finally I have something that looks … not very much like a cappuccino. It’s sludgy and the milk is separating and I’m pretty sure there are espresso grinds at the bottom of the cup. But it’s going to have to do for now, because Mr. Cartwright is un
doubtedly already wondering where I am with his coffee.
I find a small tray and carry the cup carefully through the office. Then I get a stroke of genius and stop at my desk again. I look wistfully at the muffin Lucy had made yesterday, the one she’d insisted I take to work with me. I add it to the tray. Maybe the muffin will distract him from the dismal state of his coffee.
I bring the entire thing into Mr. Cartwright’s office. I keep my smile professional, trying to look like the kind of assistant who’s done this a thousand times before.
“There you are,” he says, without looking up. “Were you harvesting the beans yourself?”
“Sorry, no. Just took me a bit to figure out the machine. I hadn’t used that exact model before.”
“Right. Well, then.” He looks up finally, then squints at the tray I’m carrying. “What’s that?”
“A muffin. Banana chocolate chip with a bourbon pecan crumble.”
He’s still squinting. “Did you … make it?”
“God, no,” I laugh. “I’m not a baker. My roommate made it.”
“And you … brought it for me?”
No, I brought it for myself, but I’m so scared of you that I’m sacrificing my muffin in the hopes that it’ll keep you from noticing how bad the coffee is.
“Sort of?” I say, instead.
His jaw ticks again, and he doesn’t touch the muffin. Instead, he turns to the coffee … and his mouth slants immediately and noticeably downwards.
“Blake.”
“Yes?” I try to keep my voice neutral.
“What is this?”
“It’s your cappuccino. Sir.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Blake, this is not a cappuccino. This is a crime against humanity. How did you make it?”
I try to explain the steps I took, but they’re already blurring together and I can tell by the way his brow gets more and more furrowed that he’s not pleased. When he shoves his chair out from behind him and stands, I swallow down a nervous breath.
“Come with me.” There’s no emotion in his voice. Am I really going to get fired just because I don’t know how to make a freaking cappuccino? I can’t believe I’m going to go down like this.
But instead of leading me toward the elevators, Mr. Cartwright heads toward the kitchen. I follow behind him at a trot, barely able to keep up with his long strides. He comes to a stop in front of the espresso machine, aka the scene of the crime.
“I’m going to show you this once and only once,” he says sharply. “So pay attention.”
I nod. I can’t bring myself to form words as I watch his nimble yet masculine hands work the machine. They move so quickly and efficiently that it’s mesmerizing.
I wonder what else he could do with those hands?
I push that thought away in horror and try to focus on watching Logan Cartwright make a cappuccino.
It shouldn’t be hot. It really shouldn’t. I’ve seen a thousand different baristas whip up drinks more complicated than this and never felt even the slightest twinge of arousal. But there’s something about the way Logan moves his hands over the machine, about the way his shoulders tug at the fabric of his jacket, about the way his sleeves ride up to reveal a hint of those powerful forearms, the subtle glint of his watch. When he froths the milk, it’s better than foreplay. I want him to froth my milk. And maybe grind my bean while he’s at it.
By the time he finally pours that perfectly steamed milk onto the equally perfect espresso, my mouth is actually watering, and my temperature feels like it’s gone up by about ten degrees. I don’t know if that’s the heat from the machine, or the fact that I’m standing so close to him.
When he turns so that I can see the cup properly, I realize just how close I’m standing to him. I’m practically hanging over his arm, and he brushes against my chest as he turns. I let out an audible gasp at the touch. We both freeze.
Logan — Mr. Cartwright — stares down at me. His dark eyes seem to smolder, like there are embers burning in their depths. For a long minute, neither of us moves. I’m painfully aware of every rise and fall of my chest, of every pulse of blood through my veins. We’re still standing so close, so close that I’m sure he can feel my breath as it comes in short pants.
Finally, he pulls his shoulders back.
“And that, Muffin Girl, is how you make a cappuccino. Next time, you’ll get it right, or there won’t be a third time. Got it?”
I swallow. Whatever existed in that moment between us is gone. If I didn’t just imagine it in the first place, that is.
“Got it,” I say. My voice sounds strange in my ears, breathless and shallow and very un-Blake. Then I blink. And burst out laughing. Logan frowns at me.
“What’s so funny?”
I can’t speak. I can barely breathe. I have my hand on the cold marble countertop, and I’m doubled over, laughing so hard I think I’m going to pee myself.
“I just realized…” I huff, before another fit of giggles overtakes me. “That the cartoon guy in the flip animation, the one humping the coffee cup … that was supposed to be … you.”
By now, I’m howling. Until I realize that Mr. Cartwright is not nearly as amused as I am.
“Excuse me?” he growls.
I straighten up and wipe away a stray tear. I struggle to get my breathing under control. “I just mean … the coffee…”
“I don’t think so,” he barks. But there’s a very fine hint of color inching up his neck, along his throat. His jaw is clenched so hard that the muscles in his cheeks twitch. “Now, come with me. I’ve got something else for you to do.”
He turns on his heel and starts off down the hallway so quickly that I have to scurry behind him like an obedient puppy. I’m not laughing anymore.
Okay, maybe I’m still laughing a little.
Six
On Monday morning, I make sure to arrive at the office bright and early. Which isn’t hard, given that I now have a Cartwright Diamonds company card and can hop into a cab and sail into Manhattan instead of schlepping on the subway.
Before I left work on Friday, I’d also been set up with a company phone, a new email account, and a security badge with the world’s most unflattering photo. I’m not joking. That photo is what Miss Piggy would look like if she were a terrorist. And got her picture taken mid-bikini-wax.
In between all those administrative tasks, I’d spent the rest of the day handling Mr. Cartwright’s ‘special project’ … which turned out to be picking up his dry-cleaning. It had been dropped off somewhere by the previous assistant, he’d explained, and he had no idea where. Nor did he have the claim tag for it. I suggested to him that I just call the previous assistant and ask her where it was, but he told me in no uncertain terms that I wasn’t to call her. It wasn’t him that had an issue with it, he assured me, but legal. And so, he’d need me to go out and find it all on my own, because it was his favorite suit. Lucky me.
I’d traipsed around half of Manhattan, hitting every dry cleaner in a thirty block radius before I managed to find the damn thing. Of course, it turned out there was more than one suit. In fact, there were six. Do you know how heavy and cumbersome six suits are?
By the time I’d dragged them back to the office, I was hot and sweaty and somewhat annoyed. I was even more annoyed when I found out Mr. Cartwright had already left for the day and wasn’t even there to be impressed that I’d managed to find his favorite suit, along with five others for good measure. Then again, maybe he wouldn’t be impressed at all. Knowing him, I’d get a grudging nod, and that’s it.
The only time he’s been somewhat nice to me is when I found that drawing in the quarterly report. It was my one achievement here so far, the only time I felt like I was doing something good, that I was actually qualified for this job.
It didn’t help that my parents had called this weekend, wanting to know how my new job was going, if I was managing okay. They sounded really concerned, too, like t
hey’re both just waiting for me to fail and come running back to Connecticut. They’d never say that, of course. I don’t even know if they realize they’re doing it, but every time Dad mentioned the fact that my old job was still there if I needed it, I felt a pin prick of dismay.
So, I go in on Monday morning determined to get that can-do feeling back. I’m going to prove to Logan Cartwright — and my parents, and everyone else — that I deserve this job. That I’m a big girl. That I can do this.
It starts with the outfit. I’d spent the weekend shopping for dresses and skirts and blazers, and now I have a handful of pieces that I can mix and match. Today, I’m wearing a black pencil skirt, white button down, and grey jacket. It’s more my sister Emma’s style than mine, but I’m definitely going to fit in better at the office now. Everyone at Cartwright Diamonds seems to wear black or grey or white. It’s like watching an old black and white movie, except with less slapstick humor.
But if that’s what it takes to fit into their corporate mold, then consider me signed up. I’ve even managed to tame my wild blonde hair into a neat bun, which sits piled on top of my head. Give me a pair of glasses, and I could pass for a reference librarian.
As soon as I’m in the office, I head to the kitchen to start Mr. Cartwright’s coffee. That was the other thing I did this weekend — watch those damn YouTube videos a dozen times each, trying to memorize the process. Now that I’d seen my boss do it once, I could see the mistakes I’d made the first time, and I’m hoping I can avoid them today.
But by the time I carefully set the cup on his desk, I’ve thoroughly psyched myself out. I hold my breath while he takes a sip, watching the micro-expressions on his face, trying to gauge how good — or bad — I did.
“Passable,” is all he says, when he sets his cup down.
I guess I’ll take it. It’s better than ‘crime against humanity.’
Mr. Cartwright leans back in his chair. The feeling of his eyes on me gives me the same rush it always does, heating my skin from my scalp down to my toes. I wonder if he’s noted my new clothes — then mentally smack myself. As if my boss spends his days taking stock of my outfits. I’m sure he doesn’t care what I wear, as long as it looks professional.
