by Cat Carmine
I expect him to argue with me, but he only flashes me that same enigmatic quarter-smile again. “Fine.” He picks up the coffee I’d left on his desk and takes a sip. “Your coffee skills are improving.”
My lips twist in irritation. “Yeah, well, it’s just coffee.” I don’t know why I suddenly feel so irritated with him.
It seems like he can tell, because he sets the cup down with a sigh. “Blake, I’m trying to pay you a compliment. I’m saying that I notice and appreciate your efforts around here.”
“Oh. Well, thank you.” My tone is grudging, but I have to admit, it’s reassuring to hear.
Of course, that’s not going to stop him from firing me when he finds out what I have to tell him.
“Was there anything else?” he asks.
I take a deep breath. I could do it right now. Just tell him and get it over with.
But his eyes flick to the screen of his laptop, which he’s opened up again already. A frown comes over his face. He’s distracted now, and unhappy. Probably not the best time to tell him. Probably I should just put it off for another day or another year or whatever.
“I’ll be at my desk if you need me for anything,” I say, and slip out of his office.
I don’t see Logan until just before the meeting with SynthGem. I’m almost hoping that he’ll forget he even asked me to attend, but no such luck. My inbox pings with a message from him, telling me to meet him by the elevators.
We ride down the three floors together, to the large conference room on the twenty-seventh floor. I haven’t been down here since my first day, when I met with Georgia in the HR department, and that day I was hardly in the right frame of mind to absorb anything about the place. So now I spin my head around as we walk. There are offices with deep mahogany doors lining the hallway, and the floor bustles with people moving about from office to office and the sound of phones ringing and photocopiers whirring. The executive floor, where Logan and I work, is so quiet. I almost forgot that there were about a million other people who work for Cartwright Diamonds.
Okay, maybe not a million. “How many people actually work here?” I ask Logan as we walk.
“In this building? About twelve hundred. Fifteen floors. We rent out of the rest of the office space to other small businesses. We have another few hundred people working out on the west coast. Then we also have satellite offices — a couple in Canada, one in Bangladesh, three across Africa. Probably another five hundred or so people work across the outposts.”
“Wow. That’s a lot.”
“That’s not even counting our subsidiary companies. All totaled, we employ over twenty thousand people. We’ve grown significantly in the last five years. Since I took over from my father, I’ve put a lot of effort into expanding the business.”
“Did he retire?”
“Died.”
“Oh, shit.” I clap my hand over my mouth. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. It was almost ten years ago now — heart attack. Here we are.” Logan pushes open the door to a massive conference room. There’s a huge table in the center, with leather chairs surrounding it, enough space for at least two dozen people.
Most of the leather chairs are already filled. A homogenous group of jowl-necked, beady-eyed, pasty old white men. All eyes turn to face Logan and I, and I suddenly feel uncomfortable and very glad that I trusted my gut and wore a perfectly professional outfit. Still, the men in the room are all eyeing me now, and I feel hot and slightly ill. I slip into the closest chair, pulling it up to the table quickly before anyone gets any further opportunity to eyeball my legs.
There’s a chuckle from the room, and I look up to find Logan standing at my arm, smiling. One glance around the room, and I realize I’ve sat in the only free chair, the one right at the head of the table. The one clearly meant for Logan.
“Oh God. Sorry,” I whisper, starting to stand up. Logan’s hand on my arm stops me.
“Don’t worry about it.” He grabs one of the slightly less fancy guest chairs that are lined around the far end of the room and drags it over to the table. It doesn’t even have wheels, so it scrapes loudly against the shiny wooden floor, but no one dares to say a word about it to Logan. I shift my fancy leather chair over so he can pull his up to the head of the table.
“Gentlemen, this is Blake, my new assistant. She’ll be taking notes for us today.”
I look down at my hands in horror. My empty hands. I didn’t even think to bring a notepad. Oh my God, I’m such a dope. Can I blame this on pregnancy brain? My face is completely hot now, but I force myself to stand on shaky legs.
“One moment, please.” My voice sounds high-pitched. I flee the conference room and beeline to the office across the hallway. An Indian man with round spectacles and a navy suit blinks up at me.
“Paper,” I screech. “And a pen. Please. Now. Aaaargh.” That last part is more of a gurgle of humiliation than actual words.
He wordlessly turns and yanks a small stack of paper off the tray of the printer behind him, then gestures to the mug on his desk that says ‘I Work Numbers, Not Miracles’, which holds an array of pens and highlighters. I pluck one out and then grab another four to be safe.
With the paper and pens safely in hand, I hurry back to the conference room. I’m hoping they’ll have already started the meeting, but instead I find them sitting in relative quiet. Logan speaks in a low voice to the man sitting on his left-hand side, but otherwise, the room is silent. Everyone looks up when I walk in.
I wave the paper around. “All set.”
“Excellent.” Logan smiles, somehow still suave and totally in control. “Let’s begin then, shall we?”
Thankfully, from that point on, the meeting goes smoothly. I get a little distracted here and there, watching Logan present and taking in the way the rest of the room seems to bend towards him, like flowers to the sun. There’s something magnetic about him, something that even men are compelled by. Is it any wonder I fell into bed with him? Half the men in here have probably thought about it at some point. The thought makes me snort, which I quickly turn into a cough.
I take as many detailed notes as I can, though it’s hard without knowing anyone’s name. I write ‘Bald Guy’ and ‘Blue Tie’ and “Mister Polkadot’ and “Mouthbreather” and just pray that Logan doesn’t ask me to scan and email these notes directly to him later. I’ll get the correct names and type up everything properly as soon as we’re done here.
Before I know it, the meeting is over. Logan is reaching past me to shake hands with Mouthbreather and Mister Polkadot, and they’re smiling enthusiastically, despite the fact that he just negotiated them down by twenty percent and convinced them not to take any further meetings with Tiffany. That’s the power of Logan Cartwright — he can fuck you over, and you still find yourself smiling about it.
Logan stays talking with Mister Polkadot, while most of the other suits file out of the room. I hang around nearby, not sure if I’m expected to wait for him to finish here, or if I should head back upstairs to my desk so that I can start cleaning up my notes. I spend a couple of minutes hovering awkwardly near the boardroom door, trying to catch Logan’s eye so that I can tell him I’m going upstairs.
While I’m hovering, Mouthbreather approaches. “You’re new, aren’t you?”
The mouth-breathing, it turns out, goes hand-in-hand with some hair-curling halitosis. I smile politely while trying not to inhale. “Yes, just a few weeks now.”
“I’ll hand it to Logan,” he says, shaking his head with a chuckle. “He always manages to find the prettiest little assistants.”
“Yes, well…” I don’t finish my sentence, because what exactly am I supposed to say? Thank you? Your objectification is most appreciated?
He leans in closer, and I grimace. His greying hair is brushed into an unappealing combover, and up close, I can see a dusting of dandruff covering the no doubt expensive wool of his suit jacket. “I must wonder, though, if you’re as … generous … as some of his p
revious assistants.”
My eyes widen as his narrow. What a lech. I look around nervously, hoping Logan will come striding out of the boardroom, but he’s still deep in conversation with Mister Polkadot.
“I have no idea what you’re referring to,” I say. My voice is clipped but still polite. “But I should be getting back to my desk. Nice meeting you.”
Before I can duck out of his range, he puts his hand up, resting it against the wall beside my head and effectively blocking my escape.
“So soon?” he rasps.
Now I’m really starting to panic. I know he likely won’t really do anything, not here in the open like this. But I’m still in an uncomfortable position — I can’t exactly tell off one of Cartwright Diamonds’ clients, especially not after they just agreed to a big deal.
I hesitate for another few seconds, weighing the distance between here and the elevator, debating ducking back into the boardroom just to get away from him. In that time, Mouthbreather apparently decides to take things a step further. He reaches up and strokes one bent finger against my cheek.
“Don’t touch me,” I grit, turning my head.
“Oh, play nice,” he murmurs.
“What’s going on here?” Logan’s voice booms from behind me. Both Mouthbreather and I spin around in surprise. A moment of panic rushes through me when I see the mask of fury on his face. At least until I realize it isn’t me he’s angry with.
“Hello Logan. Just having a chat with your new assistant. Is it just me, or do they get prettier and prettier?”
Before I can even process what’s happening, Logan is striding forward, his fist closing around Mouthbreather’s neck, shoving him up against the wall. “You do not speak to or about my staff like that. Do we understand each other?”
His voice is cold as ice, and if it wasn’t for the slight redness in his face, you’d think he was still in that boardroom, calmly debating tariffs and shipping fees. My heart pounds.
Mouthbreather twists, but Logan’s grip is firm. “Let go of me,” he pants.
“I asked you a question. Do we understand each other? I won’t ask you a third time.” Again, he’s as calm and cool as the leftover ice in his scotch glass.
“Yes, yes, hell. Now let me go.”
This time, Logan releases his hold on Mouthbreather. The man rubs his neck, where a bright red hand print is already blooming. Logan turns to face me, the first time he has since he came out of the boardroom.
“Are you all right?” His voice has softened, just a fraction. It’s such a small shift that I’m probably the only one who notices.
“Yes. Thank you. I’m sorry.” I’m clutching my pages of notes in my hand, and I realize I’ve completely crumpled them.
“Blake, you don’t have to apologize for a thing,” Logan says firmly.
“Oh yes, she does.” Mouthbreather is back now, rubbing his neck where Logan had twisted his shirt collar. “I’m an important client here. I don’t expect to be spoken to like that by your assistants. Or by you, for that matter.”
The rage, which had started to dissipate from Logan’s face, settles back into place. His brow furrows into a tight knot of lines and creases. The color rises up the back of his neck, into his hairline and then forward through his face. His hands clench at his sides, but when Mouthbreather casts another lecherous glance over at me, Logan loses it completely.
His fist flies out before I even realize what’s happening. I can’t say that I’ve ever heard the sound of nose cartilage breaking before, but I know as soon as I hear that awful crunching that that’s exactly what just happened. Mouthbreather’s hands fly to his face, but not before I see an ooze of blood start from his right nostril.
Logan shakes off his fist and mutters a curse under his breath. I’m the only one close enough to hear it, especially over the much louder sounds coming from Mouthbreather. His breath sounds wet and raspy, and he’s shouting a litany of expletives that would make a biker gang blush.
The commotion draws people from their offices — the accountant I’d stolen the pens and paper from earlier, a woman in a pink suit who pushes her glasses up her nose as if to get a better view. And — shit — Georgia. I smile wanly at her as she peers over at us.
Then she’s jostled out of the way by an older gentleman who comes hobbling out of the office behind her.
Logan stiffens. “Ed. What are you doing here?”
The older man frowns, his fluffy grey eyebrows coming to a concerned point. “I was meeting with Christine. What’s going on here?”
“Just showing these folks out.” Logan’s mouth is a grim line. I’ve never seen him this upset before, but it seems to have more to do with Ed’s presence than the fact that he just punched a client in the face.
The man named Ed looks disbelievingly at Logan, but he doesn’t say anything else. Logan nods once at Mouthbreather and his crew, and they begin marching towards the elevators, muttering angrily amongst themselves.
Once they’re gone, Logan seems to regain some of his usual composure. “Georgia, you’ll want to take a statement from Blake. Ed, why don’t you join me upstairs in my office?”
Ed hesitates a minute, but then nods. “Sure, Logan.”
Georgia motions for me to follow her into her office, and I go with her. I don’t dare risk a look back at Logan, not in front of all these people. But I can feel his eyes on me the entire time, until the door of the HR department finally swings closed behind us.
Nineteen
Ed and I ride the elevator in silence and then cross the executive floor towards my office without saying a word. Once he’s seated across from my desk, I pour us each a couple of fingers of scotch without bothering to ask if he wants any. I set the crystal tumbler down in front of him, and then slip into the seat behind my desk.
“Logan,” he starts, but I hold up a finger, swallowing a couple of mouthfuls of the ashy amber liquid before I feel ready to talk.
“What are you really doing here, Ed?”
It’s his turn to draw out the moment as he sips on the scotch. “I told you — I had a meeting.”
“About what?”
“Oh, just this and that.”
I lean forward. “You met with my HR department, Ed, I think I have a right to know why.”
“Christine was going over the talent management strategy with me.” The words come easily enough, but then again, Ed has always been smooth. It’s one of the reasons I always liked him. Not so much if he’s using that against me. I still can’t put my finger on what’s going on — does Ed really have my best interests at heart, or is there more to the story?
“Talent management,” I muse. “I could have told you anything you wanted to know. You should have called me.”
He shrugs. “You’re busy. You were supposed to call me about dinner weeks ago.”
“Right.” That drops a stone of guilt into my stomach.
But Ed seems non-plussed.He takes another sip of scotch, and then says casually, “That new assistant you got sure is a pretty one. Best looking man I’ve ever seen, I’ll tell you what.”
Here we go. I stare him down, refusing to give anything away. I’m used to men like Ed. I was born into this business and raised every day of my life to be driven, focused, ruthless. I can handle myself around just about anyone. Except these days, Ed is the closest thing I have to a father, and the way he’s looking at me now is like a father who’s disappointed in his son.
“We hired her by accident,” I mutter. “And I figured it would look worse to fire her than just to keep her on.”
“I won’t ask if you’re sleeping with her,” Ed says.
“Good.”
Something unspoken passes between us. Ed’s fingers tighten around the glass, and he sighs. “Thank you for the drink. I still owe you a dinner. If you can find the time, give me a ring.”
“I will. And dinner is on me.”
He waves off my offer and shuffles out of my office.
I rub my temple
s, then finish off the scotch. I think about pouring another, but Blake’s face is tickling my mind again, and I feel the need to see her as soon as possible. To make sure she’s okay.
I ride the elevator down to the twenty-seventh floor again and stride over to HR. Georgia’s door is closed. I knock once and then open it without waiting for a response. Both Blake and Georgia spin around to face the door, and I catch Blake dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. Fuck.
Something primal and angry twists inside of me. “Georgia, I need to borrow Blake. Can you two finish up tomorrow?”
Georgia looks questioningly at Blake, who shrugs. “Of course, Mr. Cartwright. I think we’re just about finished here anyway, right, Blake?”
Blake nods. I see she’s already shoved the tissue into the pocket of her jacket. Her eyes are still red, but otherwise her face is a perfect mask of composure. We walk towards the elevator. When I hit the down button instead of the one to go back upstairs, Blake frowns.
“Where are we going?”
“Out of here.”
“What should I do with these notes?” She waves the sheaf of papers at me, the ones with her small, neat handwriting all over them.
I shrug. “Throw them out. We’ll not be doing business with SynthGem going forward.”
“Wait, but didn’t you just close the deal back there? What was the point of that meeting?”
“We did, but I don’t want to work with anyone who would treat … my staff … like that.”
“Oh.”
I point to the recycling bin near the elevator. “File your notes there, please and thank you.”
With a small smile, Blake lets the pages slip into the recycling bin. They make a fluttering noise as they fall, and then they’re gone.
Even though it’s still bright outside, the lights are dim inside my favorite Thai restaurant. Blake’s head whips around wildly, taking in the hanging jasmine, the velvet drapes, the scents and the colors. It’s a magical place, more like an opium den than a restaurant.
