Temp Girl

by Haley Oliver

"Yes, sir?"

  "Thank you," I add.

  So far, she hasn't been reduced to tears. It's been known to happen, and there's only so much tear-drenched paperwork I can stand before having an assistant starts to feel counterproductive.

  I operate with diligence, and I don't have time to slow down or preserve feelings. At least that's what I've always thought.

  The door to my office opens moments later and my secretary enters, ferrying a fresh mug in one hand and a tray of coffee add-ons in the other. She doesn't know my preferences well enough yet to guess I take it black. I watch how she manipulates the door open with one hip and crosses purposefully to my desk.

  She's attractive. I can't help thinking it, but I don't let it show on my face, or even let it grow beyond that. I'm nothing if not professional. Besides, she's the girl-next-door type, probably still dating the high school quarterback with plans to get married. Her eyebrows, I had noticed before, are incredibly expressive, but she's reining them in now as she deposits my coffee in front of me.

  "Cream?" she offers. I wonder if she'd actually pour it for me if I nod, but I don't.

  "No."

  I'm midway to taking my first drink and pause. I should probably say something polite.

  "Thank you, uh, Miss Queen. I hope it wasn't too presumptuous of me to ask you for coffee."

  I watch her as a quirky sideways smirk spreads across her face. "Presumptuous, no, sir. I don't mind…" her words trail to a soft unfinished ending as though she has more to say.

  "But?" I ask.

  "Well, perhaps you might use a word other than fetch. It makes me sound a little like a dog. Not that there's anything wrong with dogs, but being spoken to like I am one is somewhat demeaning."

  I nod, sipping my coffee, trying not to grimace as the lava-hot liquid burns my taste buds. "Noted."

  She shifts on the toes of her shoes. "Will there be anything else, sir?"

  The coffee is delicious. She sure knows how to make a cup of Joe. "Can you take on a few more tasks while I am in my meeting this morning? I probably won't be back before your lunch break."

  She smiles, a receptive grin, and I notice how full her lips are, and when they turn up at the corners, her eyes dance behind her thick-rimmed glasses. She's what my grandmother used to refer to as "salt of the earth."

  "Mr. Ridgemont?"

  I'm yanked from my inner thoughts. "What?"

  "I said I'm ready to do whatever you need me to do while you're gone. Just let me know." She stands at the ready, her digital notepad in hand, poised to make a list.

  Very efficient.

  I leave her with several files to update, a list of calls to return, and two reports to type up and deliver to the seventh floor. She beams when I mention she is to hand deliver the reports to Gabe's office. I'm not surprised. A lot of the women here are taken with the young, eligible bachelor. I am sure they all have their own reasons, but I don't peg my new secretary as one of the gold-digging, husband-hunting types. Perhaps my first impressions about her are off, but it's doubtful. Granted, I've only just met her, but I am an excellent judge of character. Rarely, if ever, am I wrong when sizing up a person's character. It's one of the finely honed skills that has allowed me to reach my current level of success. In fact, I sometimes play a little game of sizing up people only to prove that I still possess the talent.

  Being reminded of my dearly departed grandmother this morning only impresses upon me the urgency of the one life goal I have yet to achieve. I've built a billion-dollar firm and made a name for myself in the international business world, but I have yet to produce an heir to pass my legacy to someday. As Grandma used to say, "Home isn't a place, it's people."

  Before I can work on a family, though, I first have to get myself out of the isolation hole my personal life has fallen into and start dating a little.

  As I pass my secretary on my way out, I see her multitasking on the phone while she alternates between tapping on the keyboard and shuffling through a file.

  Hardworking. Not a husband hunter.

  If she is engaged to the quarterback (or maybe to the teaching assistant, yes, that seems more her type), then she's bound to be married soon. My own goal to be married and starting a family by the time I turn thirty-five hasn't seen much movement. I'm thirty-four this year. Maybe it's time to start taking Grandma seriously and put her words to practice.

  When I return to the office from my meeting thirty minutes later than anticipated, my secretary is still filing. I expect her to work, but not like a pre-programmed robot. "Take a break, go to lunch."

  She stops, a file in one hand, the other hand plunged deep in a cabinet drawer, holding her place. "I did."

  I look around the front office. All the piles I had given her are gone. A small, neat stack of communication lies in a wire basket on her desk, waiting for my return. I scan her blotter for the reports. "Did you—"

  "Yes, I delivered the reports on my way to meet Jane, I mean Ms. Fox, for lunch, Mr. Ridgemont."

  "Oh." I'm pleasantly surprised.

  "I can order some lunch for you, if you'd like?"

  That's attentive of her to offer, but I'm not much for midday meals. She'll learn that with time. I'll have her order me a protein shake around three. Then I'll hit the gym before going home tonight, my usual routine. Despite the chaos of the move across the country, I'm a stickler for keeping to schedules and routines. Tight discipline and focus are the two main ingredients to success.

  "Mr. Ridgemont?"

  I look up. My secretary has caught me off guard again, lost in my own thoughts for the second time today. "Yes?"

  She's still holding her place in the file cabinet with her hand. "Would you like me to order you some lunch?"

  "Right. No. I take a protein shake around three. They are familiar with my order at the place across the street. Dial it in at a quarter to three. They'll deliver."

  "Alright, then. I'm going to finish this filing, and then I am free to do whatever is next on your list, sir."

  She has a pleasant voice. Soft, low pitched, but firm—relaxing. I nod in acknowledgment, head into my office, and close the door behind me.

  I sit tapping the end of my pen absently against the desk blotter. My clock is ticking. As goal oriented and laser focused as I am, I've procrastinated long enough. How hard can it be to start a family? All I need is to find a decently attractive woman who will fit into my world as a corporate wife and who shares my desire to have a child. I don't have much time for relationships, so it has to be someone who is happy to occupy her time with fundraisers, committees, country clubs, shopping, and whatever else it is women do with their time when money is no object.

  The intercom buzzes. "Mr. Ridgemont?"

  "Yes?" I know there is an edge to my voice.

  "Mr. Sway has returned your reports with some notes."

  I stab at the button. "Send him in."

  "Oh," her voice is timid.

  "Is there a problem, Miss Queen?"

  I catch the end of her clearing her throat as she hits the button to reply. "Um, no, sir. I didn't mean to infer Mr. Sway was actually here. Jane," she clears her throat, "Miss Fox, his assistant, brought them."

  "Helloooo, Mr. Ridgemont," the other female's bubbly voice sing-songs through the speaker.

  "Ja—" the sound of Amanda's appalled reprimand is cut off as she releases the button.

  I can't help but smile. I have met Jane Fox before. She's a firecracker. "Bring me the report, please. Miss Fox, thank you for dropping it by."

  My secretary enters my office moments later with the heat of a blush coloring her cheeks. She extended the file to me. "I apologize for that."

  "Quite all right. I am acquainted with Miss Fox."

  "She's a friendly and helpful person."

  I raise my eyebrows. Have I offended her?

  "Yes, I am certain she is. I didn't mean to imply otherwise." I study my new secretary. She's a complete professional and I respect that.

  "Tha
nk you, Miss Queen—"

  "Amanda," she interrupts me quickly. I draw back a little, studying her, then shake my head. Whatever she prefers.

  "Thank you, Amanda. That will be all for now." I dismiss her and watch as she quietly leaves my office, closing the door behind her.

  As I peruse Gabriel's notes, I roll my eyes. He has marked it up quite heavily. There are a few things, though, that I'll have to address with him personally. I figure I might as well do it now, before my next meeting.

  "Amanda, I'll be back. Forward any messages to my email," I call to my secretary as I pass her desk.

  She glances up briefly. "Yes, sir."

  The later in the day it gets, the more I am sure the temp agency has chosen right for me. Hopefully, this one will stick around. If she is still dating a high school sweetheart, I know one thing, he's a lucky man. Women like Amanda are loyal.

  As I neared Alfred Wadsworth's office, I chuckle. The old guy codger has to be at least eighty-five years old and he's still working full time. I glance into his office on the way and see his assistant at her desk. She seems to spend more time studying her manicure than her keyboard. She's a looker, though, so old Alfred probably doesn't care. What's her name? Preston… Nicole or Natalie, I believe. As one of the oldest eternal bachelors in New York, old Al has nothing else but work in his life. Who can fault him for wanting a pretty assistant to look at every day? The thought sours my mood. Another nagging reminder to get myself out and into the dating scene, and quickly.

  Gabe and I discuss the report and I add a few clarifying notations of my own. And, when I leave Gabe's office, it's on a high note and with a side agenda.

  Unfortunately, when I pass Wadsworth's office, the front desk where his secretary is usually perched is now empty. I push through the door anyway, scanning the desk for a memo pad. Nothing. My intent was to ask the woman to dinner as part of my foray into the dating world, but I'm not about to go rifling through her personal workspace in search of a memo pad to leave my number. Perhaps I'll have time to drop by later. If not, I suppose an email will suffice.

  I don't get up from my desk for the rest of the day, and by five, my desk is relatively clear. I have dinner with an important client scheduled for the evening, and if I don't get out of here soon, I'll be late. It's not until I stand and gather some loose paperwork into my briefcase, that I remember about asking Woodworth's assistant to dinner. I check my Rolex. I really have to go. I grab a memo pad and scrawl a quick note.

  Amanda is sitting at her desk creating a spreadsheet when I exit my office. She stops typing and glances up at me. It's been a productive day, and all in all, I'm pleased. So far, she hasn't run out screaming.

  I drop all my completed contracts on her desk. Say something nice, polite, and friendly, Owen. Make her want to stay. "Uh, have a nice evening, Amanda, and I'll see you in the morning."

  Her smile is bright, the kind that lights up a room. "Thank you, Mr. Ridgemont. Will there be anything else before I leave?"

  I glance at the memo in my hand. "Actually, yes. Deliver this memo for me tonight before you leave. It's intraoffice."

  Amanda nods. "Of course, Mr. Ridgemont," she responds automatically as I fold the memo close, scribble on the outside, and pass it to her. "Anything else I can do for you?"

  "Yes. Come back tomorrow." I pause just outside the door to poke my head back in and add, "Please-and-thank-you."

  Chapter Three

  Amanda

  It's been a great first day. I pull the office door closed, testing the handle to ensure it's properly locked. Shadows play on the various surfaces inside from the hallway lights filtering into the now darkened office. I grin as my stomach rumbles. Grumpy and in need of nourishment and hydration, it's not yet used to ten hour days. I hike my purse over my shoulder and take another look at the intraoffice memo my new boss asked me to deliver. It's addressed to N. Preston, 515.

  Get this letter to 515, and sushi it is. I think I have earned it, I tell my stomach as I walk down the hallway reading the office numbers.

  Many of the offices are already empty for the night, while a few others still have workers finishing up for the evening.

  515 is at the opposite end of the hall from the elevators, and as I approach, I can see that the lights are still on. I ready the memo to drop it off as quick as possible and head to the closest sushi bar. But, as soon as I'm able to see inside the glass enclosure, my jaw drops and my appetite ceases like a switch has been thrown.

  Sitting at the front desk is the overperfumed, mean-girl blonde from the elevator this morning. Great. Lovely way to end my first day.

  "Okay, Amanda, buck up, you're a professional. Get your adult behind in there and do your job, just like you've done all day," I whisper to myself. I square my shoulders, plaster on a smile, and walk through the door.

  "Yes?" The blonde doesn't lift her head and barely acknowledges me. "Mr. Wadsworth has left for the evening."

  "Mr. Wadsworth? Um, no, I'm looking for a Mr. N. Preston." I lean back to take another look at the numbers on the door. They read 515. This is the correct office. When I turn back, the blonde has lifted her head and is staring directly at me.

  "Is he in?" I wince at the mousy tone my vocal cords produce.

  "She," she emphasizes, "is in."

  "Oh." I shift on my heels holding out the folded paper. "I have a memo for her. It's from Mr. Ridgemont."

  One sculpted dark-blonde eyebrow rises pointedly. "Really?"

  "Yes." Why does she sound surprised? They are colleagues. True, it does seem odd these days not to send correspondence electronically, but who am I to question policies or my boss's motives?

  The eyebrow stays aloft as she snatches the memo from my hand and scans the paper. I flinch.

  "Umm, that was supposed to be delivered to Ms. Preston," I feebly voice.

  "I am Ms. Preston, you twit. Nicole Preston."

  My face flushes in embarrassment. Well, Amanda, you know what happens when you ass-u-me. Then, I freeze. The nasty, disgusted grimace on her face reminds me again of the popular girls from my own high school days, the girls who would only date the sports team captains or star players. What's going on? What is in the memo from Mr. Ridgemont? It's only then that it dawns on me that it might be of a personal, rather than professional, nature.

  She crumples up the memo, throws her head back and laughs out loud, right in front of me. Then, she mumbles something under her breath. I can't quite hear what she says, but it sounds very much like "what a loser."

  My face flushes again, this time with anger rather than embarrassment. I'm not sure what I'm angry about. Maybe I already feel protective of my new boss, or maybe I've just been on the receiving end of so many taunts and jeers and so much pain from cruel, self-centered people like N. Preston in my life.

  I admonish myself for judging her. I might be wrong, maybe I'm misjudging the situation, or perhaps I misheard her mumblings. She might just be ultra-confident, and the memo might not be personal at all. But, as I stand waiting for a reply while she proceeds to ignore me, I become more and more convinced I've got her number.

  "Should I inform Mr. Ridgemont of your reaction or simply let him know you have no reply?" I'm being snarky, but I don't care. I find her rude and abrasive, and my ability to find any good, or at the very least socially acceptable, behavior has vanished.

  "I don't care what you tell him. I'm not interested in a low-rung like this Owen Ridge…whoever." She waves her hand in the air like she's swatting at mosquitoes. "The fact that he thinks I might be is laughable." She literally stops and laughs once more before continuing. "I have put far too much effort into securing my place in this company and working my way up to my current position to throw it all away on the likes of a nobody like…Owen…whoever. Let me give you a little advice, new girl. If you want to get to the top of the ladder, you don't fool around with the lower rungs."

  Throughout the entirety of that diatribe, all I hear is, "Moo-ve over Mandy!"


  I feel blood rushing to my face and ears. At this point, I am pretty sure that Mr. Ridgemont's note is personal. My eyes drop to the crumpled ball of paper in the basket. Her cruel and callous response has activated all kinds of triggers for me, and my stomach feels like I've swallowed a boulder. So far, Mr. Ridgemont has been all business, no-nonsense, and a little rough around the edges, but nice. At least he'd tried to be nice. Well, he'd wanted to be nice, and that's what counts. I hate that he's being responded to this way, but I have no idea what to do about it.

  You catch more flies with honey, as my mother always says. I smiled as sweetly as I can muster under the circumstances and take a step around the trash can and a little closer to blondie's desk, offering my hand. "I'm Amanda King, by the way. I think we shared an elevator this morning."

  Her scoff is loud and off-putting. "Are we through here? Don't you have any more hook-up letters to deliver?"

  My arm drops and my jaw falls. I stumble backward, knocking over the wire trash bin and almost falling on my behind. Smooth, Mandy.

  "Brilliant." She glances down her perfectly shaped nose at me with cold disdain. She pushes her chair back and retrieves a designer handbag from her desk drawer. "Lock the door behind you after you have cleaned up that mess," she calls as she strides through her office door muttering something about incompetence and low-rungs.

  My eyes follow her out as she walks down the hallway and out of sight.

  "Nice to meet you, too, N. Preston," I mutter as I bend over the wastebasket. Owen's crumpled memo sits on top of the paper avalanche.

  I stare at it.

  It stares at me.

  In a split second, my fingers reach out and snatch the wad of paper and shove it into my bag. I don't know why. I suppose I want to see just what triggered Mean-Girl Preston to behave so reprehensibly. Why had she laughed? Or, maybe I am simply being nosy. But I take it, get up, leave the remaining trash on the floor, and walk out.

  * * *

  Seated at the open sushi bar, I watch in a trance as the conveyor belt passes plate after plate of sashimi, edamame, and dragon rolls by me. My fingers are clutched around the crumpled memo I retrieved from my purse. I take care to smooth it out and absently notice the hard-angled script of the masculine penmanship.