Her Secret
Page 3
I thought about her questions. I was already paying an advertising agency to manage my promotions. In her position, my gut told me I could offer her something ridiculously small and she’d be thrilled. I bet twenty thousand a year and dental insurance would be like winning the lottery to her.
As it turned out, she wasn't the only one who was stubborn. I'd always been good at figuring people out. Give me a few cornerstones to build a profile from, and it wasn't usually long before I had a pulse on them. Violet was no exception. I could already imagine what was going through her head. She probably wanted to prove me wrong, get the job, and then leverage her position here for a fancy job somewhere else. Once she was gone, she could gloat about how I'd gotten exactly what I deserved for doubting her. So I decided to make her plan a little less clear-cut. I knew what other authors paid for marketing, and I mentally doubled it. Then I added some more, just in case, and then I added a little more because I had an ego. If she was planning on leaving, she wasn't going to do it without taking a pay cut. A big one. "Let's call it a hundred thousand per year. Healthcare. Benefits. Three weeks paid vacation. You'll have your own office and you'll be expected to work here five days a week. Overtime if needed. And be sure you dress professional and appropriate, starting tomorrow."
She tugged her skirt down again, and from the look on her face, she was biting back a novel’s worth of nasty things she wanted to say to me, but she was also trying to figure out if I’d really just offered her a six-figure salary.
"Good. You have self-control. I've got a phone call I need to make, but my assistant can see you out. I expect you here tomorrow at seven."
She opened her mouth to say something, but I raised my finger to cut her off.
“Remember,” I said. “No excuses. You’re here, or you’re fired. It’s that simple.”
She stood up, collected her things, and gave me a curt little nod. From the way her lips were pressed tightly together, I suspected she was staying silent because she knew speaking her mind would lead to trouble. Part of me wished she’d say it.
Watching Violet leave was a test in eye control, and it was one I failed. My gaze was glued to the way her ass seemed to battle for freedom against the tight little skirt—-how each step made her hips rock in that alluring, uniquely feminine way.
The sound of the door clicking shut snapped me out of the daze she’d put me in. I pulled my reading glasses off and rubbed my hands across my face. Fuck. I replayed the last few minutes and felt like I’d been watching my body being driven by my cock instead of my brain. I’d seriously offered her an assload of money on the hunch that she was planning to quit? What if she wasn’t? And why would she? Especially now that I’d just made her the most overpaid amateur advertising consultant in the city? Instead of getting Violet Browning out of my life, I suspected I’d just managed to make her a permanent fixture in it. Worse, I felt a dirty thrill at the idea, even if it was buried beneath a mountain of annoyance and irritation.
I had deadlines. I had so many fucking deadlines I could barely look at a calendar without breaking out in hives. On top of that, I had my personal projects I was trying to find time for in between it all. And there was the elephant in the room I refused to ignore. The big, glaring, gaping hole in my decision that was practically screaming for attention. I closed my eyes and pushed the thoughts back. Especially that one.
Hiring Violet was idiotic. Dangerous, even. But I’d done it, and what was done was done. I knew that better than anyone.
3
Violet
I gripped my steering wheel like it was the remote control and I knew the scary part of a movie was coming up. My knuckles were white, and my fingers ached, but I was afraid to let go, so I kept on squeezing.
“Mommy?” Zoey asked. “Am I going in?”
The sound of her voice stirred me from my thoughts. I breathed out my stress, at least for the moment, and smiled. “Sorry, yes, baby.”
It was five in the morning, and I felt beyond guilty for having to ask my mom to wake up this early to help me out, but it would have to do until I could find a daycare for Zoey. The good ones had waiting lists, and I still wasn’t even sure if I could actually count on the money Peter Barnidge had promised, but if the salary was real, I’d actually be able to afford it.
Even thinking of his name made goosebumps race across my arms. I couldn’t be sure if they were from the way he’d looked so irresistibly unattainable, or from the way I’d wanted to kick him in his irresistibly unattainable nuts for being such an ass. It was probably a little bit of both.
The reality of a hundred thousand dollars a year hadn’t set in, either. I knew taxes would take a cut, but that was over eight thousand dollars a month, which made the money I’d been pulling in before look like the lunch money bullies shook out of little kid’s pockets. To protect my sanity, I was mostly pretending the money wasn’t real yet. If this all turned out to be an elaborate, cruel joke by Peter, I’d be less devastated if I didn’t let myself get excited.
I got out of the car in front of my mom's apartment. She lived on the East side in a studio apartment by herself. I went to reach for Zoey, who was buckled tight in her car seat, but she waved me away once I opened the car door.
"No, let me do it," she said confidently. She started poking and prodding the buckles of her car seat. The look of concentration on her face was impressive, but her stubby little fingers had no chance. "Ugh!" she said, throwing her head back in the perfect, four-year-old impression of an angsty teenager. "I can't do it."
Something in her words made my chest tighten. I wondered if she’d been reading my mind just now—-if she’d seen me sitting there, squeezing the wheel and thinking about how I couldn’t possibly do this. How could I take a job from a man I was already pretty sure I hated? I’d walked into the interview with the intention of turning him down just to spite him, but his offer had floored me. On the other hand, how could I even accept such a ridiculous amount of money? I had a million questions and a million doubts.
I frowned. I knew Zoey was so little that most of my words would be lost on her, but I felt like it was important to say, either way. “Hey,” I said, stroking her chubby little cheek. “There’s a can’t do, and can’t do yet. Okay? You can’t get out of there by yourself yet, that’s all.” And I can’t imagine how I’m going to survive today, let alone a year working for Peter. Yet.
She thought about that with an adorable look of contemplation that seemed deeper than her years should’ve allowed.
I smirked. I wondered if she was advanced enough to make the connection to other parts of her life, like tennis. For the past six months, her obsession with the sport had only grown more intense. I happened to have one of Serena Williams’ matches on TV, and something clicked in Zoey’s head. Ever since, I’d been watching all the instructional tennis videos I could in my spare time since I couldn’t afford to get her a coach, and my own knowledge of the sport had been that you try to get the little green ball over the net—-or was it yellow?
Now I knew all about things like washing the window with your racquet to generate topspin, or coiling your hips for power. At least I knew about them in the theoretical sense.
I kept talking, even when I wasn't sure if I was trying to convince Zoey she'd get out of her car seat on her own one day or if I was trying to convince myself that I'd make it through a day in Peter's office. "We just keep trying," I said. "Because nobody gets good at something until they've messed it up a bunch of times."
“Is that why you sing so much?” Zoey asked the question with the kind of twisted innocence only little kids could manage. Deep down, I thought she knew she was making a dig at me, but there was enough genuine curiosity in her face that I could only laugh.
I was a horrible singer, and I sometimes wondered if child protective services could make a case against me for doing it while Zoey was trapped in a car with me. “Yes. Kind of. Sometimes you have to mess something up a lot before you get good at it.”
Peter was a high-profile, multi-million dollar author, and one look at his publishing company made sure you knew it. In some way, I thought men never got past turning every aspect of their life into some version of a dick-measuring contest. It wasn’t enough for Peter to be successful, apparently. He had to show the world he was a big shot by having a fancy, extravagant office in one of the most expensive parts of the city. The building was shared with a few other businesses, but Peter’s consumed the top two floors of the forty-floor building. The 39th floor housed the lobby, a conference room, and some private offices.
An attractive brunette in a black dress greeted me as soon as I stepped out of the elevator on the 39th floor. Her hair was pulled back in a businesslike bun, and the expression she wore was more grave than I would’ve expected on such a young face. There was also a nearly constant stream of well-dressed men and women unloading from the building’s main elevator and moving back toward the private elevator in the back of the lobby, which seemed to be the only way to the 40th floor, based on the way I’d been led in and up to Peter’s office yesterday.
“Good. You’re early,” the woman said. Her heels clicked aggressively on the polished stone floors as she came to greet me with an extended hand. She wasn’t the same one who had led me up to Peter’s office yesterday for my interview. That had been a sweet, older woman named Pat. This woman took my hand in a tight grip and gave it one good squeeze before letting go. “Peter acts like you’re late if you’re not fifteen minutes early.”
“Oh,” I said. I was still a little in awe—-not just because the lobby of his office practically screamed “money,” but because I was actually here. All the time I’d spent scrabbling for work and taking what little scraps I could get, and suddenly, this had landed in my lap. I hated how badly I would’ve liked to rub that in Dawson’s face. As usual, just thinking of him soured my mood. I couldn’t write off my time with him as a waste, because it had given me Zoey. I just wished I could’ve accepted a sperm donation from him and skipped the three years he’d sucked out of my life.
“I’m Anastasia, by the way.” She flashed a tight smile. “Peter’s cousin.”
“Oh,” I said again, already feeling stupid. Prove you’re not an idiot, Violet. Use your words. “That must be nice. Working with your family, I mean.”
She snorted, and the smirk she wore was the first genuine emotion I’d seen on her. “You did meet him during the interview, right?”
“Point taken. I thought maybe he was just being like… that with me. I didn’t exactly make the best first impression.”
“Bull-headed, cocky, and obnoxious? That’s just him. Lately, at least. He wasn’t always—-”
“I see you decided to show up,” Peter said suddenly. He was standing by the front desk with a pissed off expression on his face.
God, he was handsome. He was wearing those reading glasses that he’d worn during the interview again, and the combination with his tie, stubble-covered jaw, and dark hair was really working for him. Then again, I thought he probably would have made a banana hammock and a fake mustache work, too.
When the powers that be decided to combine that body and face with a personality as poisonous as his, they must have had a laugh at the expense of all the frustrated women they knew would follow. It wasn't much better than handing a kid a piece of broccoli inside a candy wrapper. Pure cruelty.
“Yeah, I showed up,” I said a little louder and more defiantly than I intended. I might have even puffed my chest out a little like I was squaring up for a fight.
Peter watched me for a moment. He didn’t look amused. “Come on. I’ll show you where your office is.”
“Didn’t you want me to—-” Anastasia started.
“I can handle it,” Peter snapped.
I hurried to catch up with him, because he started walking before I’d even reached him. He practically fast-walked to the elevator, except with his long-legged strides, it didn’t look like he was putting in the slightest effort to move so fast. It was like walking beside someone on one of those horizontal escalators at the airport—-people movers, I think they were called. The only way I could keep up without kicking off my heels and dropping into a jog was to do the very undignified butt-wiggling, hip swooping kind of movement that came with walking fast. It probably looked like I was rushing off to a bathroom or maybe making my way to the fridge for the last slice of cake and trying to shake a stubborn wedgie free at the same time. I silently cursed Peter for not just slowing down long enough for me to catch up.
By the time we reached the elevator, I was breathing heavily—-through my nose, because screw letting him see me panting for breath after a brief but intense walk. I made a mental note to work a little cardio into my life, especially if trying to keep up with Peter was going to be a regular part of my work day.
Peter gave me a scrutinizing look while we waited for the elevator. Even the way he looked at me was condescending. “You’re sweating.”
“I’m not sweating,” I said. “I just glisten a little when I’m nervous. And I put a jalapeno or two in my eggs this morning. So...”
He scrunched up his forehead. “What does a jalapeno or two in your eggs have to do with anything?”
“Spicy food. It warms you up.” I was talking out of my ass. I’d eaten those eggs hours ago. “I mean, not like in a bathroom kind of way. Like, I don’t have to—-” I clamped my mouth shut. For a second, I wished I was someone else so I could step in and slap the stupid out of me. Unfortunately, all I could do was close my eyes and wait.
The elevator politely dinged. “That’s us,” Peter said. “Unless you need to visit the bathroom, first.”
I followed him into the elevator, which, of course, was empty except for us. Peter pressed the button for the 40th floor and waited.
It was time to mentally rally. Working for Peter was like a medieval battle. His men had charged into my front lines. Meanwhile, my imaginary men were awkwardly fast-walking away from his, running off to the toilet and having trouble figuring out what they should do with their hands. It was a massacre. I needed to regroup, and I needed to stop making such a fool out of myself. I closed my eyes again and focused on my mental image of Zoey. For her, I could do this. I had to.
“If you’re sleepy, you could always quit and go home,” Peter suggested, probably because the only way I seemed to be able to keep myself from doing or saying something stupid was to squeeze my eyes shut.
“I’m just trying to focus,” I said. “And I’m not quitting.”
“Yet.”
“Excuse me?”
We reached the 40th floor, and Peter gestured for me to follow. “I said you’re not quitting yet. As in I expect you to quit soon.”
I stopped, ignoring the looks we were drawing from the handful of people who were working at standing desks around the open-plan office. Peter paused when he realized I wasn’t following.
“Are you being like this because I approached you at the convention? Because I’m not going to apologize for trying anything to—-” I closed my mouth, realizing I’d almost just said anything to support my daughter—-the daughter I supposedly didn’t have. I was even more thankful I hadn’t told Peter about Zoey during the interview. Just seeing a little more of him made me think he was like a wolf. Every time he looked at me, he was sniffing out my weaknesses and diagnosing the quickest and most brutal way to rip me down to shreds. Telling him about Zoey would’ve been like showing him my jugular.
Peter was waiting with raised eyebrows, but he scoffed when I didn’t continue. “Here’s some advice. Think about what you want to say before you start talking. It helps.”
I was glad he started walking through the office again, because I knew I was glaring hard enough to set him on fir
e. I couldn’t seem to unclench my fists or my jaw, and I wasn’t sure if my face was burning from annoyance or the embarrassment. I thought again about the post-it note I’d found after Peter dropped his things. I’d forgotten all about it until last night when I found it crumpled up in my purse. It was some kind of character sheet, like a brainstorming exercise. From what he’d scribbled on the note, it was detailing a character in a fantasy book. As in, not the sterile non-fiction world of Peter Barnidge, but the emotional and creative world of fiction. It hinted at some unseen side of the man I wasn’t willing to believe existed.
Peter led me straight to his office and pulled the door open. “After you,” he said.
“What? I thought you were going to show me to my desk.”
He gestured to the back corner of his office. The stacks of books, laminated pages, and folders had been shoved aside just enough to fit a small desk and chair. From the looks of it, the desk had been dug up from some storage facility. I studied Peter’s face for any signs of humor.
He’s testing me. He had to be. I walked toward the desk, carefully controlling my face and ran my hand over the surface. My fingers came away with a light coating of dust. “You want my desk inside your office?” I asked.
“It’s just for today. They need to do a little rearranging to make room for your workspace.”
“I assumed I’d be replacing someone. Couldn’t I use their space?”
Peter tugged at his tie and then sat behind his desk. “Your position will be a new one.”
I knew grinning was probably a bad idea, but I couldn’t stop myself. “You made a new position just to hire me?”
“That’s cute. Do you usually rearrange the facts and restate them in the most self-flattering way possible?”