by Haley Oliver
Nibbling on a spicy shrimp roll, I war with myself about actually reading it. How am I going to explain her rejection to my new boss? Do I need to explain it? Technically, I was only supposed to deliver the memo and I did that, so my job is complete. He never asked me to wait for a reply. I can simply toss it away and be done with the whole ordeal.
I grab a second plate, this time spider rolls, and glance down at the paper crinkled and marred by the callous treatment of that awful woman. I read the salutation. "Ms. Preston."
The food catches in my throat. Even her name is alluring, nothing like plain old Amanda, or Mandy. I continue on.
Ms. Preston,
I stopped by to invite you to dinner but found your office vacant. Would you care to accompany me to Le Chef-D'œuvre, the new restaurant that just opened on E. 82nd St. tomorrow evening?
Here's my number: 555-0827, give me a call.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Owen Ridgemont
I stare dumbfounded for a moment. Silly questions filter through my head. Does Owen Ridgemont actually know Nicole? I don't think so because if he did, he wouldn't have asked her to dinner. Would he? Surely, if he knew her at all, he would have anticipated the kind of response she gave. Nicole was tall, leggy, and perfectly proportioned. Men are often fooled by that kind of beauty. That was probably it. Owen probably thought she is as pretty inside as she is outside. It was clear to me in minutes that Nicole is not a woman who gets friendly with anyone unless there is some sort of benefit to herself.
Still, I don't know why she laughed. The dinner invitation wasn't funny at all. Besides, really, what could one date hurt? I'd heard of Le Chef-D'œuvre. There had been a write-up in the newspaper about it. It was on the Upper East Side and rated five stars, waaay out of my price range. In fact, dinner for two at a place like that cost about what I made in a month. Yet, she laughed.
My heart goes out to my boss. My wealthy, handsome, kind-words-to-others-are-overrated boss. I take up my chopsticks and chew over the dilemma. Regardless of his social skills, or lack thereof, he doesn't deserve such a callous response. No one does. Who can fault a guy for being attracted to Nicole's lithe figure and legs that go on for days? The guy might even be lonesome. After all, he is thousands of miles from home. I've only known the man for less than a day and already I respect him as a businessman. Of course, I also noticed his physical attributes. A girl would have to be blind not to notice. If I got an invitation to dinner like this from Mr. Ridgemont, I would agree to it in a heartbeat. No matter where we went. But then, men like Owen Ridgemont don't ask girls like me out on dates. They stick to the leggy blondes of the world.
With a stomach full of rice and raw fish, I tuck the gently folded memo back into my bag, pick up a small takeout carton, and head home for the night. I pull it out twice more on the subway, only to reread it, refold it, and tuck it back.
As I travel the block and a half from the subway to my fourth-floor walk-up, I extract the takeout box and hand it to the white-haired man in a moth-eaten cardigan sitting on the stoop a few doors down from my place.
"Hey, Eugene. It's sushi tonight."
His frail hand accepts the carton as his wrinkled face contorts into a smile. "Oh, my Mandy. You're a sight for sore eyes. A blessing from above."
I laugh. "Sweet talker." If I don't make sure Eugene gets a few good meals throughout the week, there's a chance he'll forget to eat.
As he opens the carton, he begins to sing in his Irish brogue, "Oh, the Lord above doth bless mine eyes… a vision so lovely each time she walks by..."
I grin and mumble, "I don't know about all that," as I continue on my way.
* * *
Lucy follows me, dutifully carrying her favorite toy, as I pace around my living room holding a steaming mug of tea. I shoot suspicious glances at the wrinkled memo laid out on the table. Every time I look at it, the idea in my head grows. Still, I haven't decided if I'm actually going to pull the trigger and do it.
Owen's face flashes before my eyes—those tired lines and hardened angles. Just because he handles his stress well doesn't mean he doesn't feel it. And I don't care if it is none of my business, no one deserves to be treated as callously, or with as much mockery, as to be laughed at like that.
I settle down onto the couch, and Lucy jumps up beside me. I drag the paper toward me to reread it.
What will Mr. Ridgemont do when he fails to receive a response? Send another memo? No, probably not. No, he'll probably confront Nicole face to face. I picture him facing off against the blonde B-word, but all I can imagine is her throwing her head back, opening her mouth and shouting, "Mooooo."
That's when I do it. My feet hit the floor and I run to my writing desk, rifling through it until I find a notepad. It's pale-pink and lightly rose scented, of all things. My mom bought it for me as a stocking stuffer last Christmas. I never thought I would find a real opportunity to use it.
Mr. Ridgemont deserves a polite letdown, not a yipping hyena of a response from a mean girl who can't see his true worth.
The tip of my pen flows across the page as I scribble out a hasty reply. Then, I sit back and read it aloud to myself.
Owen,
Unfortunately, I must decline your kind offer as I maintain a very strict policy on such things. I've found that office dating reflects poorly, if it even manages to evolve at all. It is for this reason that I have stayed true to keeping work and personal dealings separate.
With fondest regards,
I read it again. Not bad. But, it could be a little nicer. I add one more line just prior to the salutation before I'm satisfied:
In the short time I've been acquainted with you, I've been impressed not only by your sincerity and your business savvy but also by your dedication to your work, and I must say I am quite flattered to have received your invitation.
There. The only problem is, when I get to the end, I can't bring myself to sign her name. Come on, Amanda, you have to. It's from her, not you. Do it. I growl in frustration and finally chicken scratched out "Nicole." I'll drop it in with his mail in the morning before he notices.
With a satisfied smile, I prop the letter up on the side table near the door. There, now I can wash my hands of the entire thing. I head off to bed and fall sound asleep after a long and tiring first day.
Chapter Four
Owen
"Good morning, Amanda."
"Good morning, Mr. Ridgemont. Did your dinner meeting go well last night? Would you like coffee this morning?"
As I shuffle through the pile of mail neatly stacked on the corner of Amanda's desk, a pastel-pink folded paper slips from the middle of the stack. Strange. I shove it back between the business envelopes and catalogs and scoop up the entire stack. "Yes. The meeting went well."
Amanda's expression is cheerful and bright. I'm not surprised. I expected she was a morning person. "Good, I'm glad. I've started a new file for the Del More merger."
I raise my eyebrows in surprise. "How did you—"
"That's who you met with yesterday morning, correct?"
I nod as I headed into my own office. "You are an amazing asset already, Amanda." I honestly don't know how she's managed to familiarize herself with my office and my schedule so well already. She's a quick learner. Before I sink into my leather chair, I press down the intercom button. "Amanda?"
"Coffee?"
I grin. "Yes, and move all my meetings back thirty minutes this morning?"
"Yes, sir."
Shuffling through the mail once more, my fingers brush the pink paper. There is nothing written on the outside, and I haven't a clue what it is. Lifting it by the top corner, the bottom fold drops open, and I scan the delicately looping script. Interesting.
"Come in," I call when Amanda knocks with my coffee.
Holding a steaming mug, she steps through the door and freezes. Her eyes are on the pink stationery in my hand and her expression registers surprise that quickly changes to...embarrassment? I
watch a pink tinge creep up her cheeks. "Er…I'm sorry to interrupt…" What is that about? Does she know something I don't?
"Did you need something, Amanda?"
"Umm, no, no. Nothing." She shrinks back, pulling the door closed with her.
"Amanda?"
"Yes?" Her head pokes around the door again, but she keeps her eyes cast to the floor.
"You knocked for a reason. Coffee, perhaps?"
"Oh, yes, right! Your coffee." She scurries in and, with a slightly trembling hand and a tight smile, sets the mug down on the edge of my desk. "I'll just be right out there if you need anything more, sir," she mumbles.
"Thank you, Amanda."
I watch her leave, clicking the door closed behind her. Her behavior is very odd.
I release a slow breath and reread the note in my hand. Then, baffled, I sit up in my chair and, as I sip my coffee, read it three more times. The penmanship is beautiful, as is the graceful decline.
"With fondest regards," I read aloud quietly to myself. “You surprise me, Nicole."
But that is not the only thing that surprises me. The last thing I expected was a written reply from the blonde down the hall. What I had expected was for her to drop by and mention, in brief, that she accepts my invitation, or laugh, make a snide comment, and ignore me altogether. Not that I would have cared too much either way. It isn't as though I have any feelings for the woman.
What I had not expected was politeness, eloquent phrasing and, if I wasn't mistaken, genuine kindness. How have my powers of observation, and my innate ability to assess people, failed me so spectacularly? Me, the guy who could read a person in seconds flat, sometimes from across the room without ever speaking to them, was slipping big time.
I turn the handwritten note over, musing.
"Polite, eloquent...genuine. On pink rose-scented stationery, no less. Just who are you, Nicole?"
When I decided to start this dating phase of my start-a-family goal by asking Nicole to dinner, I had her pegged as a self-centered social climber—goal oriented and money motivated. Thinking back on it last night, I had already begun to anticipate a brush-off. Like everyone else in the office whose last name doesn't end in Sway, she doesn't know my how rich I am. I like to keep a lower profile than the Sways. What would her incentive be, then, to say yes? I've met enough of her kind to identify gold-digging traits from a mile away by now...or at least that's what I had thought. Maybe I was wrong about Nicole.
As I work through the morning—drafting mergers, returning calls, teleconferencing with the corporate lawyers—Nicole's note stares at me from the corner of the desk like it's Valentine's Day in elementary school. I can't bring myself to file it away just yet. The puzzle it represents is proving a distraction. People very rarely shock me. For maybe the first time in my life, I find myself unable to focus on one thing and one thing only.
I should let it go. I push back in my chair and stand, pacing the length of my office. Forget it. Move on. But I can't seem to get over the fact that not only was I wrong about the woman, I wasn’t even in the ballpark.
I think back to the limited interaction I've had with her. She appeared as easy to read as a menu. Frankly, when I penned the memo, I didn’t care one iota whether or not she went to dinner with me. There are plenty of fish in the sea, but she has my attention now.
When faced with something I don't understand, I hit back with questions. I hang on by the teeth and don't let go. Maybe I should go have a chat with her—hang a gilded carrot in front of her nose. If she runs for it, then I was right about her all along.
No, no, I have a better idea.
I lean forward and switch on the intercom. "Amanda, can you come back in here, please?"
No way I could have been so mistaken about her. I've never been wrong about this sort of thing in the past. Either I'm right on the mark and this note is a fluke, or I'll have to question my entire history of being an excellent judge of character up until this point. I scribble hastily on my memo pad.
My office door opens and Amanda enters. "Yes? What can I do for you, Mr. Ridgemont?" She straightens her glasses.
"I'm going to need another intraoffice memo delivered. Same place as yesterday." Ha! Two can play this game.
"You are?" she squeaks. She looks startled, though I can't imagine why. "I mean, you are!"
I smile a little to myself as I finish writing it. If she wants to play games, she's met her match. There's nothing I love more than winning. I'll peel back the layers of Nicole and reveal who she really is.
Thanks for your response and your kind words. I understand your discretion and respect your concern for office impressions. However, perhaps you're unaware that I am here at Sway International on a short-term basis, hired solely as a temporary consultant.
Should all go according to plan, I will be returning to LA in a few months.
I had assumed, perhaps incorrectly, that you'd heard of me. (I'm sure Google would be helpful in this instance.)
Owen
I grin slyly as I fold the paper. That ought to do it. Once she Googles me and discovers the size of my bank account, she'll be at my office door in no time, batting those big false lashes of hers and hinting at a newly discovered love for Le Chef-D'œuvre. I'm never wrong in my character assessments, and I intend to prove that Nicole is the kind of woman who only settles for the best.
She'd find the best nanny, the best preschool, the best designers, decorators, caterers. In other words, she'd fit into my world seamlessly. That's all I need and all I'm looking for in a wife. I'm not interested in Nicole, but after the surprise she gave me, I might even go ahead and take her to dinner after all—once I prove that she is whom I think she is.
"Here you go." I pass the note over to the waiting Amanda. "Please have it delivered by the end of the day."
"Yes, sir. Anything else?"
I lift my eyes, observing her. Is she teasing me? She's an extraordinarily astute woman. I am certain she can deduce a thing or two about the memo I had her deliver and now this new one. It doesn't take a rocket scientist. I wonder what she thinks my reasoning might be. Although, I don't really care what she thinks. She's my assistant, not my judge and jury.
"That's all," I say, dismissing her.
She quickly disappears the way she entered. As I sit and listen to her working in the other room for several minutes, I smile. I wonder if Amanda would ever consider relocating. It would be nice to have a reliable assistant who knows my expectations back at my home office in LA.
Chapter Five
Amanda
He wasn't supposed to send her a reply!
Several times my thumb passes over the memo I hold on my lap, still unread, as the subway hurtles me deeper into the heart of the city. What am I doing? What was I thinking? You weren't supposed to write back, Mr. Ridgemont. Why did you have to write back? I ask the vision of him in my head. Stop smiling at me.
I slump in my seat. It had been hard enough to see him reading the fake memo from Nicole in his office that morning, but when he asked me to deliver a second one, my heart was beating so fast, I thought it would burst right out of my chest. Tangled webs, Mandy, tangled webs.
Now, I'm faced with the dilemma of reading it or not reading it—replying or not replying. What if he sees Nicole in passing and starts up a conversation? What if she laughs at him, embarrassing him. It will be all my fault. Not to mention, Owen Ridgemont is a smart man. He'll figure it out right away if that happens. He'll know I read his memo and it was me who wrote back. I'll lose my job. Which, when I think about it, would be a blessing in that instance. I couldn't possibly face him every morning if he finds out what I did and how I had placed my gigantic schnozz in his personal business. It was so unprofessional of me.
Of course, I have no idea what he's written in response to Nicole. I haven't had the courage to peek at it quite yet. I try to enjoy my commute, try to turn my attention away from the lie I'm already planning to perpetuate. Maybe Owen only wrote her back to gra
ciously accept Nicole's gracious refusal, and I can just leave it well enough alone, right?
Yeah, right. Knowing my boss as well as I can claim to know him after only two days, fat chance of that.
I try to focus on the guy sitting across from me with the parrot on his shoulder, but even the curious people of New York, like today's subway pirate, can't pull my focus away from what I've done. "Tangled webs," I mutter under my breath. The woman sitting beside me glances at me in alarm and moves across the aisle of the car to sit beside the pirate. "Really?" I whisper incredulously, but this time I keep the words tucked even more privately under my breath.
Is this what Owen Ridgemont does to his secretaries, drive them crazy? I wouldn't be surprised if the last two to ten (the number varies depending on whom you ask in the lunchroom) had been carted out in straightjackets. Who knows, I amuse myself by thinking, maybe the pirate sitting across from me used to work for Sway International before he decided to pursue a more fulfilling career sailing the subway.
I get off when the subway car screeches to a halt and the door slides open. Whelp, I'll have to read it later. Saved by the subway stop. I shoved the memo back deep into my bag and exit onto the platform. Climbing the stairs to the street level, I emerge at Canal. New York City isn't a beacon of metropolitan cleanliness by any stretch, but Canal is just…dirtier. Sootier, maybe. There's definitely something Dickensian about it, and it might all have to do with the shabby figures shuffling on their slow errands amid the windswept plastic bags. I bat away one of these "synthetic tumbleweeds" as I rise up from the underground and cross the street.
