Inappropriate

by Keeland, Vi

  “My meeting is over. Hang up on anyone who calls from Bayside Investments, if they ever call again.”

  “Uh…yes, Mr. Lexington.” Millie got up and followed me into my office, holding a notepad. “Your grandmother called. She said to tell you they don’t need a security system and she sent the installer home.”

  I rounded my desk and shook my head. “Great. Just great.”

  “I retrieved Ms. Saint James’s file for you and printed it out. It’s on your desk in a folder. There’s also a video of some sort that was on file in Human Resources, which I emailed to you.”

  “Thank you, Millie.” I sat down at my desk. “Would you mind closing the door on your way out?”

  ***

  Jesus Christ. Now I remembered her. It was a long time ago, but her story wasn’t one you’d forget too easily. Back when Ireland Saint James was hired, my father was still running things. I’d been sitting in his office when Millie had brought him the file on her. He’d used her story as a teaching example—an example of decisions you sometimes have to make to protect the company image.

  I leaned back in my chair. Every employee gets a background check—the extensiveness of it depends on the position. The more visibility someone has, the more their name and face can affect the brand of the company, so the deeper we delve. Human Resources and an outside investigation company usually do the vetting. When a person comes back clean, a manager does the hire with a signoff from the division’s director. For the most part, senior management isn’t involved—unless someone poses a possible threat to our name and a department head still wants to make an offer. Then the file gets sent up the flagpole.

  Ireland Saint James. I rubbed at the stubble already forming on my chin. Her first name was a bit unusual, so that was probably what rang a bell. Though I blocked out a lot of shit from ten years ago.

  I flipped through the pages of her personnel file—her background summary was barely a page. Yet the file had to be two inches thick.

  UCLA undergraduate with a major in communications and minor in English. Berkeley Graduate School of Journalism with a postgraduate fellowship in investigative reporting. Not too shabby. Never arrested, and only one parking ticket. We’d done an update to her background eighteen months ago, when she’d gotten the position she was in now. It seemed she was dating a lawyer. All in all, her investigation was unremarkable—she was an ideal employee and an upstanding citizen. But her father was a different story…

  The next fifty pages were mostly about him. He’d been some sort of low-level security guard in an apartment complex here in the city—though it was the time after his departure that was the focus of all of the news articles. Flipping through, I scanned the pages, letting them fan slowly one at a time until I got to one with a photo of a little girl in it. When I lifted it closer, the name in the caption confirmed it was Ireland. She had to be about nine or ten in the picture. For some reason, I stared at it like a bad car accident. She was crying, and a female police officer had a hand wrapped around her shoulder as they walked out of her house.

  Good for you.

  Good for you, Ireland—getting where you are today after that start.

  As fucked up as it was, I smiled at the picture. Things could have very easily gone the other way for her. It made sense that she’d written me a second time now—she was a fighter.

  I hit the intercom on my desk phone, and Millie answered.

  “Yes, Mr. Lexington.”

  “Would you get me some recent segments of the morning news with Ms. Saint James? She’s Ireland Richardson on air. Have them email up a link from the archives.”

  “Of course.”

  ***

  I might’ve paid more attention to the Broadcast Media division if I’d known it looked like this. Or I could have at least watched the morning news.

  Ireland Saint James was a damn knockout—big blue eyes, sandy blond hair, full lips, white teeth that showed often because she smiled a lot. She reminded me of a younger version of that tall actress from the last Mad Max movie.

  I watched three full segments before clicking back to the email Millie sent me earlier—the one from Ireland’s HR file. Three sets of tits greeted me when the video opened. I pulled my head back. Definitely not the news. The women were on a beach, wearing nothing but skimpy bikini bottoms and sipping drinks from coconuts with a straw. I forced my eyes up to examine their faces—none of them was Ireland. But a few seconds before the end of the short video, a woman walked up from the beach. Her hair was slicked back from the water and looked darker wet, but the smile was unmistakably Ireland’s.

  With the other women, I’d noticed their bodies first, yet it took me until the video ended and froze on Ireland to even look down—and it wasn’t because her body wasn’t impressive. Her breasts were full and natural. They went with the rest of her luscious curves. But it was the curve of her smile that made me feel like I should suit up in armor.

  I shifted in my seat and toggled to the X at the corner of the video to close it. Though she’d suggested I add it to my spank bank, I wasn’t going to be disrespectful. Now, if she’d sent me the video herself, that might be a different story. But I certainly wasn’t going to work up a stiffy in my office replaying the video a dozen times—no matter how tempted the asshole part of me was.

  I turned in my chair to look out the window. Ireland Saint James. You seem like a real handful. A woman I should steer clear of, that was for damn sure. Yet I felt compelled to learn more. For a few minutes, I debated digging further, maybe listening to more of her side of the story. But why would I be doing that?

  Because I was curious about Ireland Saint James, that’s why.

  Though was it because I wanted to ensure fairness at my company?

  Or because she had a mesmerizing smile, a killer rack, and a fucked-up history that made me curious?

  After a few minutes of deliberating, I knew the answer. Every warning sensor in my brain told me to delete the emails and run the personnel file through the shredder. That was the smart thing to do…definitely the right business decision to make. Yet…

  I hit the space bar to power my laptop back up and opened a new email.

  Dear Ms. Richardson,

  After further review…

  Chapter 3

  * * *

  Ireland

  Harold Bickman is such an asshole.

  Though I loved my job, my boss was the one thing I wouldn’t miss. The man was a dirt bag. He hadn’t been a fan of mine almost from the very beginning, ever since I’d found out he hired my male counterpart—who had less experience than me and less time with the company—with a salary of twenty grand more than mine. I’d brought it to his attention in a professional manner, and he’d proceeded to explain that there were pros and cons to every employee and every position. He’d said I shouldn’t worry, that I’d see benefits Jack Dorphman didn’t have someday soon—like when I took advantage of the great maternity leave policy the company had.

  I’d filed a formal complaint about my salary with Human Resources and gotten equivalent pay. But there was no going back from what Harold Bickman considered treason on my part. We’d found a way to work together without too much friction—mostly by avoidance, though his email today proved once again what a colossal jerk he was. And something in my gut made me think he’d had a hand in the station getting ahold of that topless beach video. Lord knows the man wanted to give my job to Siren Eckert bad enough.

  Side note, Siren is her real name, not her stage name. What were her parents thinking? Anyway…

  Harold Bickman, a fifty-four-year-old, overweight, balding man who smelled like day-old cheese, wasn’t the brightest bulb in the bunch when it came to women. I bet he thought he had a chance with Siren—the twenty-four-year-old former Miss Seattle runner-up—just because she batted her eyelashes at him. I bet he also thought I would follow the directions in his email.

  Dear Ms. Richardson,

  In light of the unfortunate events
and your recent departure from Broadcast Media, I have scheduled you to visit the office at 10 a.m. on Thursday, June 29th to collect your belongings. I trust you will conduct yourself professionally during your visit. As your employee identification and building card have been deactivated, you will need to check in at the security desk.

  Regards,

  H. Bickman

  Seriously? I wanted to crawl through my laptop and strangle the man. It made me cringe to think that he might’ve viewed the “unfortunate events.” He probably jerked off while watching the twenty-two-second glimpse of topless women, right before walking over to Siren and offering her my job.

  God, the one good thing about getting fired was that I’d finally get to tell that man what I thought about him on Thursday. Although, I wouldn’t put it past the wimp to be MIA when I came to “collect my belongings.”

  I sighed and hit the trashcan icon to get rid of Harold once and for all. But just as I was about to close my laptop, I saw another new email waiting. This one from Grant Lexington. Curious, I immediately clicked to open.

  Dear Ms. Richardson,

  After further review of your file, I’ve determined the decision to terminate your employment was warranted. However, I’ll reach out to your immediate supervisor and suggest he provide you with a neutral letter of recommendation based on your performance.

  Sincerely,

  Grant Lexington

  Great, just great—leave it up to Harold to give me something neutral. I probably should have shut my laptop and cooled off. But the last forty-eight hours had brought me to a boiling point. So I typed back, not bothering with the formality of a greeting or anything.

  Great. Harold Bickman hates women almost as much as he hates foot tapping. Oh…unless he thinks he has a chance to bang you—like he does my replacement. Thanks for nothing.

  ***

  Two days later, on Thursday morning, I was no less bitter when I arrived at the office. I was, however, almost forty-five minutes early since I had no idea how long it took to get to the office during rush-hour traffic. The roads were always empty when I left for work at four-thirty in the morning. Since I wouldn’t put it past Bickman not to allow me in early, I decided to go next door to the coffee shop. It would give me a chance to mentally prepare for cleaning out my desk, and dealing with him, too.

  I ordered a decaf, since my nerves were shot already, and went to sit at a corner table. Whenever I was feeling stressed, I watched Instagram video clips from the Ellen show. They always cracked me up, and that, in turn, helped me relax. I clicked on a funny clip where Billie Eilish scared Melissa McCarthy, and I laughed out loud. Looking up from my phone when it ended, I was caught off guard to find a man standing next to me.

  “Do you mind if I share your table?”

  I looked him up and down. Tall, gorgeous, expensive suit…probably not a serial killer. Then again, my ex always had perfectly tailored suits, too.

  I squinted. “Why?”

  The man looked to his left and then his right. When his greenish gray eyes returned to meet mine, I thought I detected the slightest twitch at the left corner of his lip. “Because all of the other seats are taken.”

  I surveyed the room. Oh. Shit. They were all taken now. Lifting my purse off the table, I nodded. “Sorry. I didn’t realize the place had filled up. I thought… Well, never mind. Please, help yourself.”

  That lip made the slightest twitch again. Did he have a tic, or was I amusing him?

  “I said Excuse me, but you didn’t seem to hear. You were engrossed in what you were doing.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Lots of work. Busy, busy.” I clicked to close YouTube and opened up my email.

  The handsome guy unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat down in the seat across from me. He lifted his coffee cup to his lips. “The one with Will is my personal favorite.”

  My brows furrowed.

  He smirked. “Smith. On Ellen. I couldn’t help but notice what you were watching. You were smiling. You have a beautiful smile, by the way.”

  I felt my cheeks heat, but not because of the compliment. I rolled my eyes. “So I lied. I wasn’t working. You didn’t have to call me out on it.”

  His little smirk turned into a full-blown grin, yet there was still something very cocky about it.

  “Did anyone ever tell you that you have an arrogant smile?” I asked.

  “No. But then again, I haven’t seemed to use it too much the last few years.”

  I tilted my head. “That’s a shame.”

  His eyes roamed over my face. “So why did you lie about working?”

  “Honestly?”

  “Sure. Let’s try that route.”

  I sighed. “It was a gut reaction. I just recently lost my job, and I don’t know… I guess I felt like a loser sitting here watching Ellen clips.”

  “What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a newscaster for Lexington Industries—or at least I was until a few days ago. I did the early-morning segment.”

  Mr. Doesn’t Smile Often didn’t respond the way most people did when I told them I was on TV. They usually raised their brows and had a million questions. But it sounded way more glamorous than it was. Yet the man across the table didn’t seem impressed. Or if he was, he didn’t show it. Which I found curious.

  “And what do you do that you wear a fancy suit and yet can sit in a coffee shop so leisurely at…” I looked at the time on my phone. “…nine forty-five in the morning?”

  That little twitch was back. He seemed to like my sarcasm.

  “I’m the CEO of a company.”

  “Impressive.”

  “Not really. It’s a family business. So it’s not like I started at the bottom.”

  “Nepotism.” I sipped my coffee. “You’re right. I’m a lot less impressed now.”

  He smiled again. If what he’d said about not doing it often was really true, it was a damn shame…because those full lips and that cocky smile could melt hearts and win poker games.

  “So tell me about getting fired,” he said. “That is, if you don’t have to get back to all that work you were doing on your phone.”

  I chuckled. “It’s a long story. But I did something I thought was harmless, and it turned out to be in violation of the company’s policy.”

  “And you’re an otherwise good employee?”

  “Yes, I worked my butt off for more than nine years to get where I was.”

  He studied me and sipped his coffee some more. “Have you tried talking to your boss?”

  “My boss has wanted me gone for years—ever since I complained that he hired my male counterpart for more money than I was being paid.” Which reminded me, I needed to get to the office to see that asshole boss. “I should get going. Said boss is waiting for me to clean out my desk.”

  Mr. CEO rubbed his chin. “Would you mind if I offered you a little advice? I’ve dealt with a lot of employment issues.”

  “Sure.” I shrugged. “Can’t hurt.”

  “Retaliation for reporting an illegal gender pay gap is illegal. I suggest you make an appointment with the Human Resources department and lay out your support for that claim. Sounds to me like there should be an investigation, and your boss might be the one who should be in here watching Ellen videos.”

  Huh. Scott hadn’t mentioned that retaliation was illegal when I’d told him what happened. But that didn’t surprise me. He was too busy lecturing me for being topless on the beach.

  I stood. “Thank you. Maybe I’ll do that.”

  The handsome man rose from his chair. He stared at me, almost looking like he wanted to say more, but had to deliberate over his words. I waited until it got awkward.

  “Umm… It was nice meeting you,” I said.

  He nodded. “Likewise.”

  I started to walk away, and he stopped me by speaking again. “Would you…want to have lunch later? You can’t very well give me the excuse that you’re too busy now that I know you’re unemployed.”

 
; I smiled. “Thanks. But I don’t think so.”

  Mr. CEO nodded and sat back down.

  I walked out of the coffee shop, not quite sure why I’d said no. Of course there was stranger danger and all. But meeting him for lunch in a public place wouldn’t be any more dangerous than going out with a guy I met at a bar. And I’d done that before. If I were being honest, something about the guy intimidated me—not unlike how I’d felt when Scott and I first got together. He was just too good-looking and too successful and, well, I guess I felt gun shy about the type.

  But that was just stupid. The man was seriously sexy, and my morning was going to be shitty enough. Why not go out to lunch and take a chance?

  I halted in place on the street, causing the person behind me to bang into my back. “Sorry,” I said.

  The guy made a face and walked around me. I rushed back to the coffee shop and opened the door. The CEO was standing and picked up his cup like he was about to leave.

  “Hey, Mr. CEO, you’re not a serial killer, right?”

  His brows jumped. “No. Not a serial killer.”

  “Okay. Then I changed my mind. I’ll have lunch with you.”

  “Well, now I’m glad I didn’t go on that rampage after all.”

  I chuckled and dug into my purse for my phone. “Put your number in. I’ll text you my contact info.”

  He typed into my cell, and I immediately sent him my contact information. When his phone buzzed in his hand, he looked down. “Ireland. Beautiful name. Fitting.”

  I looked down at my own phone, but he hadn’t entered a name. “CEO? You’re not going to tell me your name.”

  “Figured I’d keep you curious until lunch.”

  “Hmmm… Okay. But I’m guessing you have some sort of uppity CEO name that gets passed down, along with a trust fund.”

  He chuckled. “I’m glad I stopped in for coffee today.”

  I smiled. “Me too. I’ll text you later about lunch.”