by Natalie Rios
I want to tell him to stick it where the sun don’t shine, but Kyle is watching. Mr. Connors might be playing some sick push-the-new-girl-to-quit game, but I doubt Kyle is in on it. I have to keep my moves subtle around him.
“Oh, I see. Well, I suppose I can just keep the coffee by me, letting it grow colder with each passing minute. At exactly 2:44, I can pop it in the microwave and reheat it for you. They’ve totally disproven that whole microwaves causing cancer thing and everyone knows reheated food is just awesome.”
“I don’t drink reheated coffee,” Satan replies through gritted teeth.
“Oh no!” I slap my hands against my cheeks, widening my eyes in mock horror. “I suppose I could always brew a new pot. Third time’s got to be the charm, right? Hey, Kyle?” I turn toward the younger brother and shoot him a secret wink. “There are thirteen fluid ounces in a cup, right? Like a baker’s dozen, but for baristas.”
Kyle barks out a laugh while Mr. Connors snatches the coffee cup from my hand. “It’s not funny, Kyle,” he grumbles. “You and Tanner managed to find me the most incompetent office assistant on the entire East Coast.”
“Nah. She’s just the right amount of feisty to keep you on your toes. Good change of pace from the last two.”
Satan grunts before slinking back into his lair.
“Ugh! I can’t believe you two were birthed and raised by the same people.”
“Believe it,” Kyle winks. “Looks like you’ve got things under control. I’m going to head back downstairs. Text me if you need me to run interference again.”
“Will do.” Kyle leaves and the rest of the day goes by without much fanfare. I complete my binding assignment way before the 4pm deadline and proudly walk the finished handbooks into Satan’s office. He barely glances at me, just waves for me to set them on the floor at the corner of his office.
I leave at my regularly scheduled time, 4:30pm. Day two with Satan wasn’t all that bad. I’m starting to think I can actually do this whole working girl thing.
Chapter Seven
Turns out, Satan was just getting warmed up. Either that or he needs to get laid again. Whatever the case, his good mood didn’t last long.
Day three went much the way of day two: quiet, with some minor snipping between the two of us. I tried a cranberry muffin with the morning coffee and rolled my eyes when I witnessed him throwing it away. Again, not a word as to why. Maybe he’s just not a muffin man?
Today, I’m trying a bagel.
Unfortunately, today is also the day the Satan I know and loathe makes his triumphant return.
“Miss Kensington, care to explain why you insist on plying me with baked goods from the café?” he asks as I settle in for our daily morning meeting.
“Well, I don’t think it’s such a good idea to drink coffee on an empty stomach and I know you don’t bring any breakfast so I just picked up a little something for you. You know, like a nice gesture? To get us back on good footing?”
“Your ‘nice gestures’ are costing my business money,” he says, using air quotes around the phrase. “Each one of those pastries could have been sold at the bakery for a profit. But instead you’re taking them, free of charge, and bringing them to me. They are only going to waste.”
“Yeah, because you keep throwing them away. They wouldn’t be going to waste if you ate them,” I point out.
“Considering I never asked you to bring me any baked goods and you’re taking them from the café, whose cooking supplies are paid for by this resort, you are in fact wasting sellable goods.”
A thank you would have been nice. Thank you for considering me, Charlotte. Thank you for caring about whether or not I ate breakfast. Thank you for going out of your way before work to pick up something for me. Whatever happened to the sentiment of thanks, but no thanks?
“Okay, fine. I won’t bring you any more baked goods.”
“We will proceed with my schedule then.” At the end of his long recitation, he adds that he set up an email account for me and gives me the password. “I’ll give you access to my calendar and we’ll no longer have to meet every morning.”
“Great,” I reply, unsure how I feel about this change in routine. On the one hand, the guy is a jerk half the time. On the other hand, is he trying to avoid me because he doesn’t like me? I’m not a horrible person. Sure, I can be a little flaky, but it’s not all bad. Right?
“You are dismissed.” Rolling my eyes at his haughty words, I organize my notes and get up to leave. I’m halfway out when, out of the corner of my eye, I spot stacks of paper. The handbooks. The ones he’d given me a deadline for earlier this week. Still sitting in the exact same spot I left them.
The. Exact. Same. Spot.
Whirling around, I try to take a deep, calming breath before speaking. “Why are those handbooks still in here?” Mr. Connors arches a brow in question. Exasperated, I point to the stacks behind me. “The handbooks you made me bind earlier this week. Why are they still here?”
“Because I haven’t moved them.”
Smartass. “That’s not what I meant. You told me you needed them by 4pm the other day.”
“Did I say that?” His lips curve into a sinister smile. Shrugging, he returns his attention to his computer. “Haven’t needed them yet.” My jaw drops. He’d given me a bullshit assignment. “I believe you were dismissed, Miss Kensington.”
Seething, I rock back on my heels and hightail it out of there before I do something crazy. Like fling one of those handbooks at him. Kensingtons are known for being an emotionally erratic bunch. But this is a game of chess. A sick, twisted version, but chess nonetheless. And you do not win chess by making emotional moves. Moves like that will make you happy now, but can cost you later.
So I work. And plot. And work some more. And secretly wish I had a picture of him to hang up and throw darts at. I would even draw devil horns and a trident on it, just to make it look authentic.
Actually, scratch that. If I had a picture of him, I would probably spend the entire day drooling over it. And then he would definitely have a reason to fire me since I’d be too distracted to complete his new project.
Satan had assigned me to type up and print a bunch of address labels. For all I know, this could be yet another bullshit assignment. There are well over a thousand names on the printed list he gave me and I find his claim that there isn’t an electronic version for me to copy and paste from highly suspicious.
Seriously, did he print this list out and then delete the Word document? And empty his recycle bin too? Who does that?
Whatever. I’ll do his ridiculous project, play his little game. Prove to both him and Jackson that they are underestimating me. Meanwhile, I’ll lay in wait and when he least suspects it POW! Yippee ki-yay motherfucker! The very idea has me smiling with satisfaction as I mindlessly continue my project.
A solid hour passes before I receive an email from Satan. A fucking email! Emailing me when only a few feet and a door physically separate us! The email contains a list of supplies he wants me to pick up from town. Most of it is typical office stuff, though there are a few food items on there. I wonder if he keeps a mini fridge in his office stocked with food and that’s why he never eats the pastries I bring him.
Ugh! Why is my brain trying to find a more rational explanation for his behavior? Maybe he’s just a dick. Ridiculously fit and with a face molded to rival the Greek gods, but still a dick.
I’ll bet you his cock’s ginormous. It has to be. I mean, every other part of him is huge. Plus, it’s always the assholes that have the largest dicks. I don’t subscribe to that whole overcompensating garbage. Find me the biggest douchebag you know and I guarantee you he’s got a massive schlong. Likely because he knows what he’s packing is enough to guarantee him some ass, regardless of how he treats the women before and after.
Dialing back my fury, I type out a response.
Subject: Errands
Dear Mr. Connors,
I would absolutely LOVE
to run into town and purchase these items for you. Leaving this office would be a much-needed figurative (and literal) breath of fresh air. Unfortunately, this trek is not possible due to the following:
I don’t have a car.
I don’t have a driver’s license.
Even if I were to somehow within the next ten minutes magically acquire items 1 and 2, I have no idea how to get into town or where to buy any of the items listed once there.
Alas, this mission simply isn’t meant to be.
Yours Truly,
Ms. Kensington
P.S. Is there any particular reason you’ve elected to email me rather than just opening the door? Don’t tell me you’ve lost your strength? Perhaps you should have eaten that bagel this morning after all. Siri says a plain bagel contains about 7.9 grams of protein.
He replies within minutes.
Subject: RE: Errands
Dear Office Assistant,
Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit. The obstacles you’ve listed are nonexistent. For a Yale graduate, you seem to lack some basic problem solving skills. I propose the following solutions:
Use a resort car. There’s a white truck parked right in front of this building, with the resort’s logo painted on the side. I’m sure you’ve seen it on your way to work each morning. The spare key is in your desk drawer.
Go home and retrieve your driver’s license. You really shouldn’t leave home without it going forward.
There is this app you may have heard of. It’s called Google Maps. Since I know you have the latest version of the iPhone, download it and look up the directions. Or maybe just ask Siri.
This is not a mission, but a job duty, as listed in your position description. Surely you read it prior to accepting the job offer from my brothers?
Sincerely,
Mr. Connors
P.S. I’m happy to hear you’re so concerned for my health. Let me put your mind at ease by informing you my doctor says I am the epitome of perfect health and will likely not meet an untimely demise that will leave you collecting unemployment. I’m simply conserving my energy for more worthwhile efforts later.
More worthwhile efforts my ass!
Subject: RE:RE: Errands
Dear Mr. Connors,
I see I’ve been demoted from Miss Kensington to a mere position title. Woe is me! How can I continue to live with myself???
Shocking to see a man such as yourself quoting Oscar Wilde (this is the part where I roll my eyes at your shock I recognized the reference. As a reminder, I did attend Yale where I completed a poetry class to fulfill my humanities requirement. On top of that, my ultra-elitist prep school forced me to read The Picture of Dorian Gray way back when. I’m even willing to provide you with an oral book report should you require further evidence). It’s nice to know the responsibility of keeping this place classy doesn’t rest solely upon my shoulders.
I’m happy to see you possess such superior problem solving skills! Unfortunately, your reading comprehension could use some work. I didn’t say I left my driver’s license at home. I said I don’t have a driver’s license. There really isn’t anything that can be done within the next few hours, or even the next few days, to rectify the situation.
I’ve heard of Google Maps, thank you very much. Have you heard of Match.com? Rumor has it there’s someone out there for everyone. Maybe you should test that theory. Matching you would be the ultimate feather in their cap.
Yours Truly,
Charlotte
P.S. My mother taught me if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all. So as to your health, no comment. I am, however, curious as to what you mean by collecting unemployment? Is that a Monopoly reference? Like collecting $200 when you pass Go?
Okay, so that last bit is just me trying to antagonize him. Give me some credit, people. I know what collecting unemployment means. Unemployment only gets mentioned, like, a zillion times during election season. But my email gets me the response I’m looking for.
He doesn’t bother emailing me back. Or calling. Instead, he comes barreling out of his office. A man that large can only barrel. Testy as ever, he glares down at me. “When you say you have no license, do you mean you’ve had it revoked? Or that it’s currently suspended?”
For the love of god. As if I would ever do something worthy of having my license taken away. “No. I mean I literally don’t have a license. As in, I’ve never had one.”
“Never? How is that possible? How do you get around?”
His judgmental tone puts my back up. “I’m from New York. I walk, hail a cab, ride the subway. Or, up until a few weeks ago, called for a car service or the family chauffeur.”
My answer floors him. He’s actually really cute with his mouth hanging open like that. Makes me want to pinch his cheeks. “But you do know how to drive, right?”
“Please,” I snort. “As I just finished explaining, driving wasn’t exactly necessary in my previous life. How far are we from town? I’ll just walk there.”
Swearing under his breath, he doesn’t answer me. Turning on his heels, he heads back into his office and slams the door shut. I’m sort of getting used to his abruptness. Whelp, looks like my trip has been cancelled. Time to continue with my bullshit label assignment.
A few minutes later, I hear him yelling. He must be on the phone with someone and whoever it is, things aren’t sounding too good for them. “Jesus Christ!” Satan shouts so loudly, I jump in my seat.
Then he’s there again, leaning against the door’s frame. His eyes are narrowed into slits, frown lines on prominent display. I’m going to go ahead and guess he’s irritated with me. Again.
“Since, for some baffling reason, you can’t drive yourself into town and no one else in this entire resort is available to escort you...I will be driving you.” He winces, as if the very idea of spending time with me in the close confines of a car causes him physical discomfort.
How melodramatic.
Rolling my eyes, I state the obvious. “Why don’t you just go by yourself? Clearly, you don’t want to spend any time with me. I mean, neither one of us wants to spend time together,” I quickly amend. Partially true. I wouldn’t mind spending time with him if his sexy mouth was wired shut. Though that would eliminate the use of his tongue and I can definitely – Nope. Not going there. Nope, nope!
“Some of us have actual work to do.” He holds up an iPad I hadn’t realized he’d been carrying. “While you’re shopping, I will be working remotely. Hopefully that means I only lose twenty minutes of my day to driving Miss Daisy.”
“You’re not Black and I’m not some rich old Jewish lady in the South. There’s no racial tension between us.”
He stares at me for a brief moment, with a gleam in his eyes I’m not quite sure how to interpret, before lowering his gaze to his iPad. “No, there’s no racial tension.”
His slight emphasis on the word intrigues me. Is he implying there is some other type of tension between us? Perhaps sexual? Okay, so there is definitely sexual tension, but I was under the impression it was one-sided. I mean, half the time, I think he hates me.
Do you have to like someone to be sexually attracted to them?
I print out the list of items he wants and grab my purse. I follow him downstairs to a car that is most definitely not a white truck. I’m dying to ask, but a part of me already knows the answer. This huge black SUV has to be his personal vehicle. Rugged and larger than life, the car certainly suits the man.
We drive in silence, me too busy pressed up against the window to catch my first glimpse of the town and Mr. Connors likely hoping to unnerve me by keeping things as quiet as possible. Or maybe he’s hoping I’ll open the car door and jump out while he’s still driving, roll my way into a ditch.
It could go either way.
We pull onto the main road in town and I’m completely fascinated by what I see. Quaint would be a good word to describe the little shops lining the streets, but I prefer the phrase out of t
his world. Seriously, I thought places like this only existed in the movies. Small houses converted into store fronts, with dozens of small mom and pop shops lining the street. I’m surprised by the number of people milling about, given the small population. Bar Harbor must be a more popular tourist destination than I originally thought.
“Not quite Fifth Avenue, huh?” Mr. Connors says from beside me. He’s baiting me, assuming I’ll be unimpressed with what this small town has to offer. But he couldn’t be more wrong.
“It’s different, that’s for sure. But I’ve traveled the world, Mr. Connors. I’ve been to a souk in Tangier, a laiki agora in Crete, the Mercado de Sonora in Mexico, and a handful of Landa bazaars across India and Bangladesh. They’re all different, but beautiful and unique in their own way. As is downtown Bar Harbor.”
My answer leaves him speechless, which is fine by me. Our conversations do not tend to end well.
We pull up to what appears to be a general store. “You have fifteen minutes,” he says as I get out of the car. Fifteen minutes when I don’t even know what all I’ll be able to find in here.
As if.
Completely ignoring his time frame, I analyze my printed list and proceed to walk down every aisle. If I can find everything in here, we won’t have to make another stop. A friendly sales associate asks if I need any help and things are a breeze from there. I get almost everything and it isn’t until I’m checking out that I realize I have no idea how I’m supposed to pay for this.
Shit. I didn’t bring my wallet with me so I don’t even have a credit card I can charge it to. And no way am I going to call Mr. Connors and ask him to bring it in for me. Not that I can call him, anyway. He hadn’t been a part of the great cell phone number exchange on my first day.
