Bossy Nights

by Liv Morris

  “I get why people could go blind from having them now,” she says in a matter of fact way. I lift an eyebrow at her, surprised by this off the wall comment.

  “Who told you something crazy like that?”

  “Sister Mary Agnes.”

  “Sweetheart, I’m pretty sure that was a guilt tactic.”

  “Well, she can suck it. Nothing’s going to rain on my orgasm parade.” In a fit of giggles, Tessa curls into me, but I have a mess in my boxers. I forgot how awkward the teen years were.

  “I need a shower. Care to join me?” I get out of bed, and extend my hand toward her. Tessa scrunches one shoulder up and tilts her head. The blush across her cheeks gives me my answer. “Okay, getting naked together can wait. For now.”

  I bend over, kissing her on the forehead. “Get comfortable. I’ll be right back.” She sighs.

  After my shower, I find Tessa fast asleep, the covers drawn up to her chin. She barely looks over eighteen, and a pang of something twists in my gut. Probably guilt. Sister Mary Agnes would be proud, but frankly, I don’t give a shit.

  Before I slide in next to Sleeping Beauty, I text room service and order Pop-Tarts and coffee for two. I instruct them to deliver the food to Tessa’s room at eight a.m.

  Eating junk food in bed while watching junk TV is my Sunday morning tradition. It’s a welcome escape from the pressure I face at Hammond again on Mondays. I hope she likes the cherry-flavored ones. They’re my favorite.

  33

  Tessa

  The clock reads four fifty-five a.m. and I’m wide-awake. I went to bed at ten, thinking I’d be alert and ready for my two interviews this afternoon. But no. My overactive mind kept me up most of the night, focusing on all kinds of scenarios.

  Like …

  What if I don’t get a job? Then I’ll have to leave New York City and Barclay behind. Does Barclay really like me? He did invite me out to dinner tonight, so that’s a plus in my column. What if I do get a job? An apartment on my entry-level salary will be difficult to find.

  Question after question spun in my head. Poets call it the dark night of the soul. Others, insomnia. Me? A typical Monday when everything you’ve hoped for is on the line. At least the weekend with Barclay was wonderful beyond words. The lingering high will carry me through the day.

  At six o’clock, I drag myself out of bed to get ready. I pin my hair up in a French twist and add a minimal amount of makeup. The women here don’t seem to get all glammed up like those outrageous ladies on the housewives’ show.

  Aiming for a polished look, I pick a black skirt with subtle pink piping around the hem and pair it with a pink collared blouse that fits to form. The long sleeves button at the wrist, giving it a professional flare. After slipping on my comfortable black pumps, my eyes glance over to the black glasses Maggie bought me to wear during the interviews. The glasses are the fake non-prescription kind, but give me a definite librarian vibe. Maggie said it would make me appear serious and more accomplished.

  I push the frames over my nose and give myself a once over in the mirror, turning my head from side to side. I look older by a few years, more sophisticated even. Maybe she’s right. After all, I’m trying to nail a job in publishing. Looking more like a bookworm certainly can’t hurt.

  Right before I’m ready to start out for coffee, there’s a knock at my door. My heart skips a beat, hoping it might be Barclay before he heads to the office for the day.

  I hurry to the door, opening it to find a room service cart and a hotel attendant. She greets me with a big smile.

  “Good morning, Miss Holly. I have breakfast for you, courtesy of Mr. Hammond.”

  “Wow. Thank you.”

  There’s a pot of coffee along with several silver lidded plates. It reminds me of the breakfast Barclay ordered yesterday morning for us. But underneath the fancy spread were Pop-Tarts. I giggle remembering my shock when he picked up the silver tops.

  We sat against the headboard and used pillows for our trays like a makeshift picnic. Pop-Tart sprinkles spread all over the covers, but we didn’t care as we watched Seinfeld and had a sugar rush.

  After my last bite, I turned to him, his eyes filled with laughter, and he leaned over and licked away the cherry filling stuck to the side of my mouth. I’d left the jelly smudge there on purpose, hoping for a kiss, and it had worked.

  I move out of the way as the woman rolls the cart into the room, placing the tray on the desk near the window. As she passes by, I notice a medium-sized box wrapped with a pink ribbon next to the condiments.

  She refuses the tip I offer, telling me she’s under orders to accept nothing from me. I roll my eyes and smile knowing Barclay’s behind it. He treats me like a princess, and honestly, this last week in New York City has felt like a fairy tale.

  After she removes the cart and closes the door, I rush to the tray to see what’s in the box. There’s an envelope attached, so I open it first and find a handwritten note inside.

  Dear Tessa,

  Since I was unable to spend all of Sunday with you, I bought you something from Yankee Stadium. Lucas says hello. He also asked for your friend Maggie’s number after I told him she was moving here too. Because she will, since I’m not letting you go.

  We have reservations tonight at Mr. Chow’s if you’re still okay with outing our relationship. I know I am. After dinner, let’s head back to my penthouse for the night. See what comes up. ;)

  And wear something pink. It’s now my second favorite color. The first one is the blue color of your eyes.

  See you tonight, sweet girl.

  Yours,

  Barclay

  I place the card over my heart and smile like a lovesick loon. I seriously think I’ve fallen for this beautiful man. What woman wouldn’t? I remove the ribbon from the box and lift off the top. Inside, there’s a pink Yankee ball cap. I pick it up and laugh, imagining manly, six-foot-something Barclay Hammond buying such a girlie souvenir. It tells me one major thing: he likes me too.

  Deciding an impersonal one-line thank you text just won’t do, I call him. I need to hear his voice before I set out on my big day.

  “Good morning,” he says in a sexy, slurred tone. Two words from him, and my panties are wet.

  “Morning,” I reply, a bit too bubbly, but I can’t help it. “Thanks for the breakfast, and I love the ball cap.”

  “You’re more than welcome. I need to take you to a home game so you can wear it. I also upgraded your breakfast.” I lift the silver lids, revealing a delicious looking cheese omelet and buttery croissants. One even might be chocolate.

  “It looks divine. Thank you. Though, I loved eating Pop-Tarts in bed with you yesterday.” I pour myself some coffee and watch steam rise from the cup.

  “I think you can count on a repeat.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Listen, I need to leave for the office, though I’d rather talk to you. I have back-to-back staff meetings all morning. Another reason to hate Mondays.”

  “Oh, sure. I understand.”

  “Good luck with your interviews this afternoon. I’m sure you’re going to dazzle them, just like you did me.” I dazzled a publishing mogul? The thought makes me blush and gives me courage at the same time.

  “Thanks, Barclay.” It’s exactly what I need to hear before I walk out the door.

  “Knock ’em dead, sweet girl. See you tonight,” he says, ending our call.

  As soon as I set the cordless receiver on its cradle, the phone rings, and I jump.

  “Hello?” I ask, uncertain if it’s Barclay again or possibly my mother.

  “Is this Contessa Holly?” an unfamiliar woman asks.

  “It is,” I respond hesitantly.

  “Oh, thank goodness I finally reached you!” exclaims the woman, her voice rushed. She takes a quick breath. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you all weekend. Pardon me, I’ll slow down. I’m Reece Young, marketing director for Hammond Press. I’d like for you to come in for an interview this morn
ing.”

  The world stands still as I process what she said. Hammond Press. Interview. This morning.

  I’m totally confused, though. Barclay just hung up with me on the phone, wishing me luck on my interview with another company, yet an executive from Hammond is calling me.

  “Um, yes, of course.” Thoughts whirl in my head, but I have to say yes.

  Still, I can’t help but wonder, is Barclay behind this phone call? Surely he would’ve mentioned it to me. He does like to surprise me, though this would be an epic one. I have to text him. It doesn’t add up.

  “Great,” she declares. “As soon as we saw your résumé, we’ve been emailing you for an interview, but Helen Ratner, our human resource director, said there’s been no reply and there wasn’t a phone number listed on the paperwork. Finally, Mrs. Ratner spoke with Trevor Spears our CFO. He told her you were staying at the Hammond, basically in our own backyard.”

  “I haven’t seen anything from Hammond Press on my email account. Maybe it went to my spam folder?” Could I have missed their emails? It doesn’t seem possible, but then again, I’ve been distracted by the hottest man in New York City.

  “Possibly,” she says. “Can you be here at nine o’clock?”

  “Sure.” I adjust the fake glasses on my nose with shaky fingers. She seems to be pushing me to come in as soon as possible. I wonder what the rush is.

  “I’ll leave your name with security at the front desk. We’re doing things a bit different with you. I’ll meet with you first, then you’ll talk to Mrs. Ratner and go over the process.”

  The process? It sounds more like my foot will be under a desk soon, not just inside the door.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Young,” I say, feeling like I’m dreaming.

  “Looking forward to it. Oh, and security will give you the details on where to go. See you soon.”

  I’m frozen in place, shocked by her enthusiasm and the special treatment for me. She’s the director for all of Hammond’s imprints, and I’m a lowly college graduate without much to offer the company. It doesn’t make much sense that she would want me so badly she breaks protocol.

  Well, at least I know Barclay had nothing to do this interview, and is likely in the dark too, making it even more imperative I reach out to him.

  I text Barclay, wanting him to know where I’m headed before I walk into Hammond Press. It would be beyond awkward if I ran into him once I’m there.

  Please call me as soon as you can. It’s important.

  Forget eating now. My appetite is gone. I pace around the room for a few minutes, knowing I need to leave the hotel soon to make the interview by nine. Finally, I see the bubbling dots beside my text. I wait.

  Can’t call. Tied up in a budget meeting.

  Talking to him will have to wait. Dammit.

  I grab my bag, smooth back my hair, and leave for my interview. But something feels off. I should be ecstatic about getting the red carpet treatment, instead there’s a weight on my chest like a warning. I could be walking into the job of my dreams—or a nightmare since Barclay never made an effort to help me at Hammond and I don’t know why.

  34

  Tessa

  This time, I walk into the lobby of Hammond Press with both eyes wide open to avoid another coffee mishap. I approach the front desk and the security guard smiles at me. It’s the same one who was on duty when I was doused with four javas.

  “Hello, again, miss,” he says. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m here for a nine o’clock interview with Reece Young. My name’s—”

  “Contessa Holly,” he interrupts. “I have instructions here for you. They’re a piece of cake. Push the top floor on the elevator panel. Ms. Young’s office is a right turn off the elevator and down the last hallway. Her nameplate is on the door. Good luck.”

  “Thanks,” I reply, appreciating his good wishes.

  After being here last week, I know the way to the elevator bank and find one waiting open for me. This has to be a good sign. I hop inside and press the button to the top floor.

  I follow the guard’s instructions to Ms. Young’s office and stand in front of a slightly ajar door. Peeking through the small opening, I see a brunette sitting at a desk typing away on a computer. Behind her is a closed door. I’m guessing the woman is Ms. Young’s assistant.

  I knock on the door, and it opens wider. The woman glances up from her computer screen and gives me a welcoming smile.

  “Please, come in.” She stands up from her desk, waving me inside, and I enter the office. “You must be Miss Holly. I’m Margaret Lee, Ms. Young’s assistant. We’ve been waiting for you. Can I get you coffee or tea? Maybe water? How about a pastry? They’re fresh from the bakery across the street. I bought them myself.”

  “I’m fine, really. Thank you so much for offering.” Her greeting seems overly eager, making me feel like a rock star entering a Green Room backstage.

  This kind of attention is way over the top. It makes me wonder again about Barclay’s involvement.

  “Let me tell Ms. Young you’re here.” She starts to turn toward the closed door behind her, but stops herself. “By the way, I love your blog. Shakespurr’s my favorite. It’s so exciting to meet you.”

  “Thanks,” I say in complete shock. She spins around to enter Ms. Young’s office and disappears from view. I believe they have me confused with someone else, like literary legends Don Black or Steven Queen.

  When Margaret reappears, Ms. Young is walking right behind her. “Contessa. Welcome to Hammond,” Ms. Young says, her voice ringing with excitement. She strides toward me, hand outstretched. “It’s so great to have you here at Hammond,” she says as we shake hands.

  “I’m so happy to be here.” She’s a tall, classical beauty with shiny brown hair that falls to her shoulders. Her bright eyes show a keen intelligence, and like everyone in Manhattan, she’s gilded in black from head to toe, perfecting the title of senior executive.

  “Let’s get started. We have a lot to cover and little time.” She hustles me into her office, and I follow, confused by everything that’s happened, from the rush and press to get me interviewed and the way I’ve been greeted.

  “Please, have a seat.” Ms. Young gestures to the empty chairs in front of her desk and sits in a leather one behind it. After I’m seated, she begins. “Do you have any idea what kind of a publishing buzz you’ve created in this city’s marketing departments?”

  I scrunch my brows, unsure how to answer her question. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “Here’s the deal. Shakespurr brings all the millennials to the shelf. Every time the cat posts a review for a Hammond book, our sales dramatically spike in the twenty-something demographic. Even if the review is less than stellar. You’re reaching and moving a segment with your blog that is illusive to us.”

  “Really? I had no idea my blog was making such an impact … or being watched here in New York City.” I swear, my eyes have to be as round as saucers. I truly can’t believe what I’m hearing.

  “You have been, and we’d like you to continue doing great things here at Hammond. You’ve scheduled other interviews, correct?” I nod my head. “That’s what I’ve heard on the street. We want to make you an offer you can’t refuse. We need your help to build our millennial audience.”

  “What do you have in mind?” I ask, sitting on the edge of my seat. All those mock interviews I practiced with Maggie sure didn’t go this way. Ms. Young is practically begging me to come work here. Mind blown.

  “First, we’d like to buy the rights to Shakespurr for twenty-five thousand.”

  “As in dollars?” I mutter, shell-shocked.

  “Yes, only America’s finest currency here.” She laughs, and I try not to cry. It’s like winning the interview lottery. “You’d still be in control of the content, and we’ll throw marketing dollars behind it too. Your official title is junior marketing manager with seventy-five thousand as a base salary.”

  She pauses fo
r a beat, giving me a second to let it all sink in, but it doesn’t at all. I’m having an out of body experience, like she’s talking to someone else and I’m eavesdropping.

  “And since you’re moving here from out of state, there’s a furnished, subsidized apartment in the Hammond Hotel. The top ten floors are executive rentals, and there’s one available now. Perfect timing.”

  Wait! What? It feels like my wildest dreams are coming true, or someone is playing a horrible joke on me.

  “What you’re offering me is a substantial package, especially since I just graduated from college. Before I accept it, I have a question, if I may.”

  “Of course. Ask away.”

  “Mr. Hammond.” I take a breath and decide not to beat around the bush. I don’t think it will curb her enthusiasm if I pry just a touch. “What was his part in your decision? I’m curious how such a generous offer came to be.”

  My stomach twists in anticipation. Her answer will determine my future here at Hammond Press.

  “Well, it’s been a whirlwind,” she says with a crooked smile. “After viewing your résumé, I knew we needed you on board. The entire marketing department talks about your blog daily. Mostly wondering how you do it. Mr. Hammond knows I’ve been working on the millennial outreach for our imprints, so this was a no-brainer. He approved all the points in your offer.”

  “So, you mentioned me to him first.” She nods. “Has he actually seen my résumé, and does he know me by name?”

  “I’ve been working here for fifteen years. He trusted me and approved your résumé unseen.” She looks up toward the ceiling in thought. “As a matter of fact, I don’t believe I even told him your name.”

  When I exhale, a load lifts from my shoulders. I received this outlandish offer on my own. I feel like jumping out of my seat and fist pumping the air, but I don’t think Ms. Young would appreciate it.

  After a couple deep breaths, my need to freak out subsides to a controllable level.

  “My mind’s made up.” I beam from ear to ear. “Thanks so much for this amazing opportunity. I will do my best to be a valuable asset here at Hammond. I’ll be honest, I can’t really believe it, though.”