by Mary Calmes
I shook my head. "There's something really bothering him, Miss Warner. I would just give him some time, if I were you, to sort through—"
"So you think everything will be all right then?"
"I don't know that I'm in any position to—"
"But you know him so well, Jory," she said, cutting me off.
"Please tell me what you think."
She wanted some kind of encouragement so badly. I sighed heavily. "Miss Warner, I don't know what—"
The office door suddenly opened and Dane stepped out. He looked at Therese, brows furrowed, and she started to cry. He took a deep breath and rubbed his forehead hard. I knew that particular movement well. I got it a lot. Like when he would talk to me and I would ask him questions instead of answering. I couldn't help it; I liked to delve into his life. Not that he ever let me but it never stopped me from trying.
He sighed deeply and put a hand on Therese's shoulder. "I want to apologize for what happened Saturday, I was not myself. I've had a lot of things on my mind lately, and I'm sorry it came to a head while I was speaking to you. I deeply regret having raised my voice to you. Please accept my apology."
"Of course," she breathed. I saw her melt just looking at him. She leaned toward him even as he took a step away.
"I should be more careful." He turned to me then and was going to say something, but stopped himself. He just looked at me and I stared back for a minute before I got uncomfortable.
"What?" I asked, feeling weird all of a sudden.
"What have you done about Miss Lawson?"
"I haven't had a chance to—"
"Do so now," he grumbled, turning back to Therese and giving her a little pat on the arm before dropping his hand from her shoulder. "I am sorry."
She just stared at him with this pained expression on her face.
His eyes fell to the floor and then were back to me like he was searching for something to say but was unable to find the words.
"What?" I repeated, keenly aware that Therese was staring at me instead of him.
"I'm hungry."
I smiled suddenly. I couldn't help it. "What do you want?"
"What do you want?"
I shook my head. "I'll just get you something."
"Something good," he muttered.
"Like I don't know what to get," I baited him, trying to get a response.
He raked his fingers through his thick hair, gave me a crooked grin, and then retreated back into his office and shut the door behind him.
"He's flippin' out," I said firmly, realizing I might be right.
If Dane freaked out, then my sanity was sure to go. He was the steadiest person I knew.
"What's the matter with him?" Therese asked me, as she followed me back to my desk.
"He's flippin' out," I repeated before I sighed heavily.
"Maybe you can give him a call later, huh?"
She nodded and left without another word.
"What did he mean when he asked you about me?" Sonja asked, looking at me pitifully.
I let out a deep breath before I reminded her about the roses I had taken to the lobby.
"Ohmygod," she said, her eyes filling up. "Is he really mad about that?"
"Not mad exactly," I said softly. "It's just that I think we've answered the question of whether or not you're going to be here permanently or not."
"We have?"
"Oh yeah," I drew it out.
"But I don't want to—"
"I'm sorry, Sonja," I cut her off quickly. "There's nothing that you or I can do about it now. He's made up his mind and when he does that, we both know that's it."
"It's just because of the flowers?"
"And all the other stuff," I sighed. "You've got a crush on him."
"He knows that?" She was incredulous.
"Everyone knows that."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah. You've made it very clear that you're interested in having more than a professional relationship with him."
"Who doesn't?"
I thought about it for a minute. "Well, me for one," I told her honestly.
"You're a guy, Jory, and Dane's not gay."
There was that.
"But I swear to God, you're the only one I know who doesn't want him. Both Celia and Jill are crazy about him too."
"Maybe so, but maybe that also makes it possible for me to be the only one who can work for him. You obviously can't." I knew that Celia Johnson and Jill Kincaid were both crazy about my boss, but they didn't work for him so he didn't know they wanted to jump his bones. Celia worked for Miles Brown and Jill worked for the third partner at the firm, Sherman Cogan.
"But," her voice dropped to a whisper. "I think he's starting to like me."
You irritate the hell out of him, I thought, sitting down on the edge of her desk. "He likes you fine, Sonja, we're just going to make sure you get out of here before he starts not to like you."
"You don't know what it's like to be around him every day and not be able to touch him."
Oh God, all these lovesick puppies in the office
The door to Dane's office opened, and he and Mrs. Bradley came out. He walked over to me as I stood up, sliding off Sonja's desk..
"I'll be out of the office until twelve, so get lunch for us and be back so we can go over the schedule for the Mamon house. I expect to find only you here," he said, making a point of looking right at me when he said it. "We've got a lot to do."
"Yessir."
"Don't be late."
"No."
"And don't forget my lunch."
I felt the frown, my eyebrows lowering fast.
"Fine," he grumbled.
"Should I get you a drink too?" I asked sarcastically. I obviously needed everything to be spelled out for me in big, neon letters. Since I was such an idiot and all.
He gave me a smile then and turned and followed Mrs. Bradley out of the office. Mrs. Bradley herself was a case of puppy love; she had asked me over the phone, without even having laid eyes on the man—their conversations alone sparking more than professional interest—if Dane ever dated his clients. I told her that I didn't know. She confessed to me that she found him compelling and impossible to get out of her mind. Having heard so many other such confessions, I had merely smiled on my end and given her an appointment time.
"Oh Jory," Sonja sighed. "Can't you just tell him I'm sorry and it won't happen again?"
I shook my head and was going to try and say something comforting when my phone rang. I went around my desk and answered.
"So Thanksgiving's in two weeks. You know that, right?"
"Nick," I smiled into the receiver because I never forgot a voice. Sometimes it was a bad thing because it gave people I hardly knew the feeling that I cared more than I really did, which was the case here. "What're you talking about?"
"I'm just reminding you that you promised."
"I'm sorry, what did I promise?"
Heavy sigh from a guy I had been on two dates with. He was very nice, a resident at the county hospital. "You're spending four days with me. My parents have a cabin in Tahoe, I mean in Incline Village, but it's like the same thing.
We can ski every day. You're gonna love it."
I doubted that, since skiing was not really my thing.
"Huh."
"And I know you're not psyched about it, but I really want you to go and you can just sit around and relax and drink all weekend with me and my friends."
"I see." I chuckled.
"I already bought your ticket."
"I can pay you back."
He cleared his throat. "C'mon, Jory. I don't wanna be paid back. If you don't use the ticket, it's not like I can't use it or—"
"Oh good."
"Not oh good." He chuckled. "I want you to go with me. I have a reoccurring fantasy of being under a mound of blankets with you while snow is falling outside."
I smiled into the phone. "That's very romantic."
"Don't I know it!"
>
I laughed at him. "I'll think about it, all right?"
"Okay, that's fair. In the meantime, can I take you to dinner tomorrow night?"
"Actually I've got a—"
"Jory," he cut me off, and his voice dropped to a whisper.
He was obviously somewhere other people were and he didn't want them to hear. "Baby, you can't just sleep with me once and blow me off."
"No? Most guys like it that way."
"I'm not most guys. I want to see you, I want to spend time with you. I have this great breakfast nook in my townhouse that you'd look great at first thing in the morning."
Which was nice. The problem was there was no spark at all. Not even a drop of chemistry. I had sex with him because I felt like if I didn't I would be a cocktease. I had a personal rule: if you made it to my apartment, you were getting laid.
He'd been there on the second date, and even though I didn't really feel like it at that point, I had sex with him anyway. I knew I was in trouble when we were done and he wanted to spend the night. I lied to get him out of my bed because I didn't sleep with anyone. Screw, yes; cuddle up with, no. I'd never loved anyone enough or trusted anyone enough to let them spend the night.
"Listen," I said gently. "Why don't I call you later after I see if my boss is gonna need me tomorrow night or not."
"Oh, you gotta work. I'm sorry, I thought you were trying to blow me off."
I was, but it was nicer this way. "No."
"Okay. Great. Call me later."
"I will," I lied.
"Maybe I should run over there and write the number on your hand so you don't forget it."
"No-no-no." I chuckled into the receiver. "Don't do that.
I've gotta go get my boss some lunch. I'm not even gonna be here in like five minutes."
"Then I'll leave it on your voicemail."
"You're persistent, Nicky, I'll give you that."
"You have no idea."
I hung up the phone, then thought about it, and was about to call him back and just be honest when Sonja plopped down on my desk.
"Talk to Dane one more time please, J."
So funny that she called my boss by his first name. I could never do that. It wasn't respectful enough.
"Jory, sweetie, please."
I closed my eyes and leaned back in my chair. Didn't she know that reasoning with Dane Harcourt when he had his mind made up was like reasoning with a hungry grizzly bear?
"If anyone can get him to come around it's you, Jory."
Why did everybody always say that? Why, when Sherman wanted something, did he come to me to break the ice for him first? Sherman Cogan and Miles Brown had been in this business with Dane Harcourt from day one, and yet they still walked around on eggshells with him. One of the men was himself a high-profile interior designer, with years of successful multi-million dollar projects to his credit, the other, one of the top landscape architects in the country. Yet they both worshipped my boss because he exclusively worked on residential homes. Apparently that was where the big bucks really were. I had thought that commercial buildings were where the money was, and I was right, but big-ticket contracts were harder to come by than society homes. And I had to admit that it was the name Harcourt that brought most people through our doors, having seen his work in Architectural Digest or Sunset or other magazines. The name recognition belonged to my boss.
When I first came to work for him almost five years ago, I had no clue who Dane Harcourt was. All I did know was that his firm had advertised for an assistant and I needed a job.
Being brand-new in town, I needed to get out of the YMCA and start paying rent. I had three days to figure everything out before I would be living on the street. I had put in applications practically everywhere and the panic was starting to settle in.
I had shown up, with at least a hundred others, to fill two positions at the design firm of Harcourt, Brown, and Cogan.
Debbie Towney was the office/accounting manager and she was done with it being just her and Jill Kincaid, the workload was just too heavy. Jill herself could not be expected to answer the phones, do all the typing, filing, Xeroxing, scheduling of hundreds and hundreds of business appointments and still remain sane. It had been decided that each partner would have his own personal assistant that would be responsible for only his work. I figured since typing speed hadn't been a prerequisite for the job, I could apply without making a fool of myself. I was wrong.
They made us all take a typing test. I failed miserably. I was allowed to return the next day because I got a perfect score on the vocabulary and spelling portions of the test, as well as knowing my stuff in the graphic design area. Not that I was a pro or anything, but the entire Adobe suite and I were very close friends. The problem was the next morning I had found a puppy—a Siberian husky mix, the vet said later—
walking around on the street on my way over. I tried to get rid of it but the little bastard followed me for eight blocks. He was tenacious, and when he almost got run over darting across Michigan Avenue after me, I broke down and scooped him up. The whimpers of joy melted me right there. The dog and I bonded. I told him he was lucky he had a heavy coat because we'd be living outdoors in the very near future. He gave me the angled head-tip that dogs do when they're not sure what's going on with you.
Since I figured I didn't have a hope in hell of getting the assistant job anyway, I took my new puppy with me to the second interview. Needless to say, I was the only one who arrived with a barking dog in a cardboard pet carrier. Jill Kincaid asked me to leave just as Dane Harcourt walked out of his office. Everybody smiled, I grimaced, and he scowled.
I was invited into his office and I sat down in front of his enormous, antique wooden desk. His office was dark, with a polished hardwood floor that made one think an English scholar lived there instead of an architect. Bookcases took up almost all of the available space and several beautiful oil paintings hung on the walls. In one corner were several large plants, and in the other, next to the big bay window, were two huge wingback chairs and a small coffee table that was inlaid with tiles. The tiles were each hand-painted, I later learned, and each piece fit together to make a picture of a peacock. It had been his grandmother's table and it made him feel good to have it in his office, close to him. It made him feel like he still had a piece of her with him. After several minutes, he had stopped talking and looked at me. Like he was surprised at himself for explaining. But everyone shared with me. It was a gift.
He started to ask me about my qualifications and my brand-new puppy started to howl. I answered as best as I could, and he seemed genuinely impressed that I was planning to pursue a degree in fine art, until he started grilling me about what I was going to do with it once I had it.
I told him I didn't know. I explained that I was going to major in it because I liked it and that was all. I was unsure of what I really wanted to do with my life. He replied that he wanted someone who was sure of their career choice, not some fly-by-night person who could be there one day and gone the next. I denied that would be the case when my puppy let out a bloodcurdling cry.
"What the hell's the matter with it?"
" He," I emphasized, "is just scared. He doesn't know where he is and I'm sure it's frightening."
"May I ask a stupid question?"
"Sure."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"You know perfectly well what," he smiled, and I knew I could like the man. "Why did you bring your dog to this interview?"
"Because I just found him this morning and I didn't have enough time to take him back to the Y, or else I would have been late to see you, and I can't really leave him in my room alone anyway, I mean... I'll have to sneak him in tonight as it is."
"You found him today?"
"Yeah."
"Yes."
"Excuse me?"
"I hate the word yeah. Say yes instead."
"Okay," I said slowly, because who hated the word yeah?
"Yes."
"When?"
"On the way over here."
"You found him just now."
I shrugged. "At least I stopped to get a carrier for him. I didn't want him taking a dump in your office."
"Very thoughtful of you."
I sighed deeply. This was a disaster.
"You found a dog on your way to this interview," he said, like he was trying to get it to sink in.
"Maybe it's a good omen." I smiled wide.
He stared at me. "Big believer in signs, are you?"
"Yes sir, I am," I said, using the word he preferred that time.
"Why not just take him to the pound?"
I squinted at him. "How is that hopeful?"
His eyes were locked on mine before he cleared his throat.
"You know your dog is loud, good luck sneaking him in anywhere."
"He's just noisy because he's stuffed in a box."
"Is that right?"
"Sure."
"Let's test your theory."
"Pardon me?"
"Let's see him."
"Really?"
"Absolutely," Dane said, getting up and walking around his desk and sitting on the edge of it. "If you don't let him out, it sounds like he'll die or something."
I leaned over and opened the top of the cardboard carrier and Shiloh stopped howling and sat down. He looked up at both of us and started to wag his tail. I was about to pick him up, when Dane bent down and scooped him out of the carrier.
My little puppy immediately started licking his face and then shoved his wet nose into the man's eye.
"Sorry," I half-laughed, "he's just happy to see you."
"He's real cute."
"I know. I can already tell he's gonna be a real pain in the ass."
Dane put him down and Shiloh proceeded to run circles around the room. "Tell me, Mr.—" he stopped, and looked up at me, "Keyes, is it?"
"It is," I answered, reaching unsuccessfully for my dog as he ran under my feet. "But you can call me Jory or J or whatever. I don't care."
"Tell me, Mr. Keyes, what do you think is more important, loyalty to me or loyalty to Harcourt, Brown, and Cogan? Are you a team player or more inclined to support the individual?"
I thought a minute, calculating what I thought he wanted to hear, but decided to just go with my gut. What could it possibly hurt? "If I work directly for you, Mr. Harcourt, then that's where my loyalty lies. I would be your personal assistant, no one else's."
