by Lauren Runow
Running warm water over my face, I look up into the mirror and see I have red cheeks and black smudges under my eyes from where she lined them in eyeliner.
“Mr. Sexton, are you in there? They’re looking for you in the boardroom—” my new assistant says as she appears near the open door of the en-suite bathroom in my office.
I turn in her direction, making her stop suddenly when she takes one look at my face, immediately backing away, covering her eyes.
“Oh. I … I’m sorry. I can—”
“It’s not what it looks like.”
She holds up her hands. “No worries here. I don’t judge.”
“No, it’s just …” I drop my head in frustration.
“Tessa,” she says, and I can hear the smile she’s trying to hide.
“You could have warned me.” I suspiciously eye her through the mirror as I wipe more of it off, which only seems to be smudging it more.
Is this from the mascara? Jesus, women have to do a lot to remove this shit.
“Here, give me a second. I have something that will help,” she says as she walks out of the room. When she returns, she hands me a small plastic package. “They’re makeup remover wipes. I keep them with me if my eyeliner runs.”
I shake my head as a sigh escapes my lips. After I take them from her, she leans back on the doorframe.
“In my defense, I did try to tell you what she did for a living when you asked me to make you an appointment.”
I pause and raise my brows at her.
She clearly is not intimidated. “You were pretty set on seeing her. Is it too forward of me to ask who she is?”
“Yes.”
“Well, she must be someone special if you let her do this to you.”
“I meant, yes, it’s too forward for you to ask,” I growl, opening the pack and removing a wipe.
She shrugs. “Okay, sorry. Just thought I might be able to offer some advice. I mean, you obviously have a thing for her.”
“I don’t even know her.”
A tiny laugh escapes from her. “I figured. Do you know anything else besides her name and where she works?”
I wipe my face clean and then pat it down with a towel. “No. And I doubt I will now. She wanted me to send her a picture of me at my meeting with my face looking like a clown.”
She laughs out loud, her hazel-green eyes widening with amusement. I glare at her through the mirror, making her clear her throat and compose herself.
“Sorry. Yeah, I don’t blame you for not doing that. So … what did you do to make her mad?”
“Why do you assume I did something?”
Walking back to my desk, I straighten my tie and grab my padfolio. I open it and make sure I have all my documents for the meeting. She takes the spot on the other side of my desk and tilts her head at me, biting her lip like she wants to say something. I try to ignore her, but I have a feeling she’s going to say what’s on her mind anyway.
“Please don’t think I’m being out of line here …”
I slam my padfolio shut. “Those words are usually followed by something that is way out of line.”
Her mouth tilts up to the side. “You’re not the most charming.”
“You mean, like my brother?” I ask her with an air of insinuation.
She shakes her head. “Austin is not charming. He’s rude and condescending.”
I stand up straight and raise my chin. “Do I even want to know what that makes me?”
“Cold,” she says and instantly retreats like she’s afraid I’ll unleash fire and fury on her.
“Why would you say that?”
“What’s my name?” she asks confidently.
My mind goes blank.
Shit. Josselynn, Jessalynn, Jacqueline …
“Jalynn,” she says, ending my internal guessing game.
“My apologies,” I say sincerely. “I’m not a coldhearted asshole. I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.”
She brushes off my apology. “Not needed. You’re a busy guy. I get it. You’re also one of the most eligible bachelors in the city. I would think women are doing whatever they can to get your attention despite your less than warm personality. No offense.”
If she only knew what I’d been through with girls throwing themselves at me. Shit, it’s the only reason she has a job right now.
“None taken,” I say, finding I like her honesty, as unprofessional as it might be with this conversation. “And don’t worry. I’m giving up.”
“Funny. I didn’t take you as a quitter,” she says.
“It’s called cutting your losses. We do it in business all the time.”
“Is that why you’re going through with the purchase of the Seattle Gazette despite the numerous loopholes the current shareholders are putting you through?”
“That’s different.”
“Eventually, you’ll break down that wall,” she states with a definitive nod.
“How do you know she has a wall up?”
She shrugs. “We all do. It’s just a matter of who is worthy of tearing it down.”
For a young desk assistant, she has a maturity about her, like her life hasn’t always been a cakewalk. Only those who have endured struggle can easily spot someone else’s internal conflict. I give her a nod in acceptance of her advice and walk through my office.
“Oh, and, sir,” she calls to me as I’m almost out the door.
I turn to see her pointing to the side of her neck.
“You have a little concealer behind your ear.”
I grab a tissue and vigorously wipe the side of my face as I walk down the hall, and I toss it in the trash as I enter the five o’clock debrief. From there, I head to the sales meeting and am then pulled on an emergency phone call because our Chicago affiliate has run into a legal matter regarding one of its major stories for tomorrow. I’m late to my data report, and then I get on another call with Chicago before returning eleven other calls. I am out the door at eight thirty and down in the parking garage where Brantley is waiting for me with my car.
“Early night, Mr. Sexton?” Brantley says as I climb into the backseat.
My head throbs, my back is aching, and I just want to close my eyes, but I can’t.
“Still more work to be done, but I can take care of it from the home office.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Besides, I promised Sarah I’d have you home in time for dinner.”
Brantley looks back at me through the rearview mirror as he pulls out of the garage. “I work when you work. Don’t be cutting your day short on account of me.”
“Who said I was doing it for you? I like your wife too much to keep her husband waiting in a car all night on her anniversary.” I reach into my breast pocket and pull out a business card. “I reserved you a table at Aquerello. They know you’ll be arriving late.”
He holds up the back of his hand. “Sir, I cannot accept that.”
Leaning forward, I push the card between his fingers. “You can when it’s your fortieth anniversary. It’s the least I can do.”
Brantley takes the card and briefly looks down at it. When we’re at a red light, his eyes meet mine in the mirror with a crinkle to them. “You’re a good man. Just like your mother.”
I nod with a faint smile. Settled back in my seat, I look out the window and unbutton the top button of my collared shirt.
My mother would have done more than made a simple reservation for Brantley and Sarah. They’ve been part of our family for twenty years. Brantley used to make deliveries for my mom, and Sarah was our babysitter. When Sarah was diagnosed with breast cancer a few years ago, I offered him the job as my driver, so he’d have the flexibility to take his wife to her treatments in the middle of the day and keep his benefits.
I have my own car and don’t really need a driver, but it’s been nice to get things done while being chauffeured. Sarah is now in remission, but our arrangement stays. Brantley is not only a great driver who gets me around town, but he’s also a friend
.
“How did you and Sarah meet?” I ask.
“I met her at dinner.”
“A blind date?”
“It was a double date, except she wasn’t my date. She showed up with my best friend. The moment I saw her, I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. I spent the entire evening talking across the table, completely ignoring my date. By the end of the night, I told my buddy, ‘I’m going to marry your girl.’”
“You stole your best friend’s date? What did he do?”
“He gave me a right hook, and then he gave me her work address.” He laughs at the memory. “I had a shiner for days.”
“I’m sure she was surprised to see you at her job.”
“Surprised? She was livid. Ignored me for weeks. She worked in a candy store, and I stood out there every day for a month with a single rose, waiting for her to go on a date with me. She said she’d never date a man who went after his best friend’s girl.”
Sounds like someone I know. “How did you get her to agree?”
“Well, she wouldn’t go on a date with me, so I brought the date to her. Made a picnic right there, on the corner.”
“Seems like a lot of trouble to go through to get a girl.”
“When you meet the woman of your dreams, you don’t stop until she’s yours.”
Persistence. Old or young, the advice seems to be the same.
“Today, that would be considered stalking.”
“You don’t want to know the things we used to get away with that would be considered much worse than stalking,” he says as he pulls up to my building. “Would you require anything more for the evening, Mr. Sexton?”
I lay a hand on his shoulder. “Have a great night with your wife. Stay out late and take the day off tomorrow.”
Brantley starts to argue, but I get out and close the door behind me. I walk into the lobby while simultaneously emailing Jalynn to call See’s Candies in the morning and have a delivery made to Brantley and Sarah’s house tomorrow. I take the elevator to the forty-first floor and unlock my front door.
When I bought the condo last year, Austin didn’t understand why I needed a fifty-two-hundred-square-foot house. The penthouse, he understood. But three bedrooms for a bachelor seemed like a waste.
As I walk into the living room with the two-story-high ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows that look out into the city, I reaffirm why I bought this place—the view.
The apartment wraps around the building, giving me a three-hundred-sixty-degree view of San Francisco. The bright lights of the city are set against the pitch-black of night. From my bedroom upstairs, I can watch the sun rise over the bay.
I toss my briefcase onto the couch and remove my jacket. I grab a Peroni from the refrigerator and walk upstairs to my room.
Growing up, we lived in a beautiful home, but it was nothing like the opulence of this place. We had family pictures everywhere and lines on the walls to show how tall we were getting every year. The living room had an old shag carpet my mother found endearing and refused to tear up after it was no longer in style.
Each of our rooms was decorated to our own particular tastes. Tanner had his comic book artwork, Austin’s was fast cars, and I had a huge poster of Bora Bora above my desk.
My room now is void of any art—just white walls, gray furniture, and crisp white bedding.
I turn the television on Fox News to see what the networks are talking about tonight. These days, it’s all politics. It’s the same for the newspapers. There are fewer and fewer human-interest stories hitting the front pages. Everything is Washington with a dash of Hollywood. If we’re lucky, thirteen members of a Thai soccer team get rescued from a cave, and you remember that there is humanity in the world.
Our websites are different. There, the opportunity to expand our reach allows us to produce interviews and stories that were once the norm in the news world but have since become obscure. It’s been working great, as our revenue is up in digital.
I change my clothes in my walk-in closet where I have rows and rows of suits. I very rarely allow myself to wear jeans, and that’s mostly because I don’t go anywhere that would warrant them. A pair of linen pants is about as casual as I get outside of the house. At night, I relax, and that is because I am always alone.
I change into a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt and walk into the office that is adjacent to my bedroom. The East Coast papers will be finalizing their trades, and I like to view them before they go to print. I have yet to make a change, but I need to be in control of every decision because, at the end of the day, it’s my ass on the line.
I turn on my desktop, take a swig of beer, and click open my email. One hundred and seventeen have come in since I left the office. I run my hand down my face and look at the correspondence. I skim down and answer the most urgent first and work my way through the rest—like this one from Missy.
To: Bryce Sexton
From: Missy Sexton
Subject: Racing Article
As per last week’s meeting, I spoke with the mayor, and he is THRILLED we are investigating the underground street-racing epidemic in San Francisco. While your new assistant has volunteered for the responsibility of laying the groundwork, I’d like you to know I am assigning my own investigative reporter. It’s not that I don’t trust you and your assistant to do the work. I just don’t trust you … with assistants.
Missy Sexton, president of Corporate Strategies, Sexton Media
This is why my work never ends. In her bid to rid Austin of his shares, Missy is using our company to expose him as an illegal underground street racer. Of course, she can’t just do something like have the cops investigate him. Missy has to make it flashy and cause a whole lot of drama in the meantime. It’s all a game of control to her.
Not only do I have to run a company, but I also have to run interference with my family. I like my job because I’m fucking good at it, and it gives me honor to fulfill my mother’s legacy. I just never imagined it would suck everything out of me.
This is not how I envisioned my life at thirty years old. I was supposed to have a worn passport, a beautiful woman by my side, and maybe even a kid or two. Yeah, imagine that. Me with a family.
I certainly wasn’t going to live in a high-rise in San Francisco. I’d have a house in Montecito, coach little league, and have family game night on Saturdays, like we did as kids. The only games I play these days are how low I can get the Seattle Gazette for before the shareholders realize they’ve been swindled.
Keeping up with Austin is like having a teenager, and when I want to have a proud dad moment, I just talk to Tanner and hear all about his accomplishments in school.
Who am I kidding? This is no fucking life. I can’t even date because every woman I go out with is everything but the kind of woman I want in my life. They’re society brats or gold diggers or boring as shit.
God, I sound like a fucking asshole.
That’s because I am.
I run the heel of my palms over my eyes. In the darkness, I see her face.
Tessa.
I should be pissed at her for giving me a face full of makeup, but if I’m honest, it makes me only want to know her more. A woman who is ballsy enough to do that to a man, let alone a man of my stature, intrigues me to no end.
Most of all, I can’t stop thinking about her smile. Her full lips quirk up to the side when she wants to laugh but is too proud to let it out. She did it today, and I’ve been envisioning it ever since.
I slam my hands on my desk, shaking my head in defeat. I don’t have time for this. I don’t have time to be pining over a woman. I don’t have time to date. I don’t have time to be thinking about how I don’t have time.
Yet all I do is think about her … all the damn time.
Maybe, tomorrow, I’ll wake up, and she’ll be out of my head.
8
TESSA
“Either he really likes to park or he’s got some funky driving habits,” I hear Emmanuel sass behind
me.
I turn around to see him and Aiesha staring through the blinds of Lumiére Salon and Spa onto Main Street.
Aiesha puts her hand out, palm up. “Twenty bucks says he stays for another hour.” Her chin nods toward me. “Or until she goes out to talk to him.”
Emmanuel leans back and gives my body a once-over. “He’ll leave in ten more minutes.”
I walk over to stand next to them. “What are you two staring at?”
Aiesha points out the window. “That black Tesla was parked by Starbucks and then moved to the spot in front of our building before going back to Starbucks. Then, it sat by the drugstore for a little while, and now, it’s on the corner across the street.”
I look at the sleek car idling on the curb. It looks innocent enough, perfectly parallel parked between two cars. As if it—well, the driver—knows we’re talking about it, it starts to back up.
“See, he’s leaving. You owe me,” Emmanuel gloats.
Aiesha waves him off. “No. He’s just moving to the spot that just opened up. It’s perfectly in between here and Starbucks.”
I look out the window again and see the car is moving exactly where Aiesha said it would. “Why is that a perfect spot?”
“So he can pretend to bump into you when you leave and walk to Starbucks,” she turns to me and answers with a sashay to her body.
I stare at her, dumbfounded. “Who is he?”
“It’s your client. That tall drink of water, Bryce Sexton—the one who let you paint his face. The man obviously has a thing for you. That, or he has some serious drag aspirations,” she explains.
“He’s definitely not gay. And I have perfect gaydar,” Emmanuel chimes in, albeit disappointed.
Aiesha continues, “I saw him when I got my coffee earlier. He’s been playing musical parking spots all morning.”
“Bryce Sexton,” I repeat with dismay. This guy has gone from charming to stalker in less than a week. “Why would he assume I’d be going to Starbucks?”
“Everyone goes to Starbucks,” the two answer in unison and then resume their posts of spying out the window.
