The Relationship Clause

Chapter 8

“Small dark roast,please, and make it snappy.”

Marlee stands across the counter from me, looking unamused at my “snappy” comment, which I made just for her. Her normally pink-tipped hair is purple today, meaning she must have dyed it over the weekend.

It’s different being on this side of the counter. Different, but not unpleasant, especially concerning the new amount listed in my bank account this morning. Seeing those happy little zeros trailing behind the other numbers gave me the biggest hit of dopamine I’ve had in a while.

“Have you found out if he’s a psychopath yet?” Marlee asks.

“All signs point to normal.”

“There’s still time,” she says, looking excited at the prospect.

Instead of making a snotty remark like I want to, I take out my phone. I’ve been trying to get a hold of my dad for a few days with no success. He works as a travel writer which means he’s often in remote places with no service. It can be hard sometimes, but I know he’s happy living his life this way. For some people, it would probably be a strain on the relationship, but it works fine for us.

“There’s my Juniper Tree.” Dad’s voice fills my phone, sounding far away and crackly.

“Hey, Dad. How’s it going? Where are you these days?”

“Getting ready to climb Mount Kilimanjaro. It’s a good thing you caught me when you did. I’ll be off grid for the next two weeks or so. What’s up, jitterbug?”

“Oh, nothing. I wanted to tell you about my new job.”

“That’s right, I heard your messages! Congratulations, honey. That seems like a big step up.”

“Oh, you got my messages? Good. I wasn’t sure you had since you never called me back. Um, when do you think you’ll be back in the States? I was hoping we could do lunch sometime.”

“As soon as we finish this climb, I plan on visiting for at least a few days. I’d love to get together.”

“Great! We could go to that little—”

“What’s that, honey? You’re breaking up. Hello?”

I move around the coffee shop, trying to find better reception, but the call drops. When I try calling him back, it goes straight to voicemail. I’m about to try again, but Pete appears along with the big order of pastries I called in earlier that morning.

“Junie!” He sets the boxes down and smiles, leaning against the counter.

I force my own smile, trying to shake off the failed attempt at a conversation I just had. It’s okay, I tell myself. This is how our relationship is, and it’s fine. Dad’s happy. I’m happy. Everything is okay. I will not let this tiny setback ruin my whole day.

“Corporate life looks good on you,” Pete says.

I blush and run a hand down my gray, fitted trousers. I paired it with my favorite pink blouse. One thing is for sure: it’s definitely more fun dressing up for the office than it is for a coffee shop.

“Thanks. Mr. Ferguson hasn’t been here this morning yet, has he?”

Yes, that’s right, I called him Mr. Ferguson and will be calling him that from now on. Yesterday, before leaving the office, he took me aside to speak with me privately. That was when he informed me that he would be calling me by my last name going forward, and he suggested I do the same for him in order to “keep things professional.”

I won’t deny the feeling of disappointment I got, which is stupid, because, hello, we’re in a professional environment!

But if the need to be professional is so dire, why does he seem to call every other person at the office by their first name? Why is it me he needs to create this distinction with?

It’s because of the contract. Or, more specifically, the No Romance Clause part of the contract.

I didn’t mind signing it. Honestly, I think it’s a good idea. (Good, not great.) But why did he feel the need to include that part at all? Is it maybe because he feels if he doesn’t, I’d try to hit on him? That I’d be so totally unprofessional as to think I could date my boss?

Well, I mean, I guess the thought did cross my mind…

Of course there is the other miniscule possibility that he actually included it because somewhere inside him, he’s worried that’s exactly what he’ll want to do. It’s a dangerously attractive thought and one I shouldn’t dwell on. (Spoiler alert: I am dwelling on it. I’m dwelling on it hard.)

Pete shakes his head. “No, Mr. Ferguson hasn’t stopped by. You mean this isn’t an order from the company?”

I shake my head. “Nope, I just wanted to do something nice for everyone for my first official day on the job.”

It’s actually part of my beautiful, evil, ingenious master plan titled: Become the Best Dang Secretary Em3rge Technologies and Mr. Ferguson Has Ever Seen.

Er, fake secretary. Fake-ish.

Okay, the title needs some work, but regardless, it’s part of my plan! I didn’t have this intention initially, but ever since that stupid question Mr. Ferguson asked about whether or not I can actually do the job, I decided it needed to be done. It’s the principle of the matter.

Since I know my tendency to run, I usually don’t go out of my way to try to win Employee of the Month at any of my jobs. I make it a point to skate by at barely above average, being the solid type who will almost always be there on time, who doesn’t complain (much) and who isn’t overly peppy or overly sluggish. I’m the gal you know will stock the shelf but also the one who never volunteers for overtime.

But this job is going to be different. It has to be different.

I don’t know why, but for some reason, knowing I’m only supposed to be here for three months has unlocked something in my brain. Not only can I be the best secretary ever, but I also want to be, if for no other reason than to prove to Owen—er, Mr. Ferguson—that I can.

I’m not sure what this says about me, but for now, I’m choosing to see it as a positive and not a negative.

My plan is detailed and thorough:

Step one: Make everyone in the office love me.

Step two: Make myself indispensable.

Step three: Find the corporate mole and become Mr. Ferguson’s hero.

Step four: Repeat steps one and two as much as necessary until I’m hired full-time.

Okay, so it isn’t that specific, but I’m already working on step one.

The way to everyone’s heart is through their stomach. That’s why I called in an extra-big order at Pete’s for the office. I know they usually only get a big order when they have their monthly meetings, but I don’t care.

“Gotta make an impression on my first day,” I say.

“I thought yesterday was your first day.”

“Oh, yeah, but I’m not counting it because it was all the usual first-day stuff like talking to HR, signing paperwork, setting up payroll, you know.”

Goodies in hand, including Mr. Ferguson’s coffee with Mr. TDC written on the side, I head to the office. I noticed yesterday, Owen didn’t have his normal coffee. I’m choosing to partly attribute his grumpy attitude to this. I mean, I know he’s normally a little uptight, but yesterday, he seemed more uptight than usual. There’s no way that was my fault, (cough, cough), so I’m blaming the lack of caffeine.

When I make it to Em3rge, I put on my sunniest smile and charge inside, reminding myself I belong here. As I walk through the open room, I make it a point to say hello to everyone I can and point out the pastries I’m holding.

I started working on memorizing names yesterday, and so far, I have Stefan and Tobias from marketing, Silvia from customer service, Reece from sales, and Summer from HR. There’s about forty-ish employees here so I still have a ways to go, and that’s not even counting the floor beneath us. Apparently, that’s a whole different section of the company run by Owen’s business partner, comprising tech and warehouse. I’ll have to figure out a way to get down there eventually because the mole could be there too.

The pastries work their magic.

Soon, I have almost everyone in the office following me like the Pied Piper. I lead them to the conference room where I lay out my goods, opening the boxes with a flourish. The scent of freshly baked bread and sugar intensifies.

“Oh my gosh, Junie, you are a lifesaver!” Kiera materializes in the room and nudges my shoulder. “I forgot to have breakfast this morning.”

“What’s the occasion?” asks Summer. She’s sidled up to me and Kiera. Her name was easy to memorize since I’ve heard Kiera reference her more than a few times. They’ve been pretty good office buddies since Kiera started working here, and I feel like I almost know her.

“No occasion,” I say. “Just wanted to do something nice for everyone.”

“Well, way to make a good impression. You’re a keeper,” Reece says.

Several other people make similar remarks.

Soon, we’re basically having a party, and I am the queen of the room. Oh, a tiara? For me? You shouldn’t have.

Muahahaha, my evil plan is working! Today the office, tomorrow, the world! Mr. Ferguson is going to be so impress—

“What is going on here?” asks a deep voice. “I didn’t call a meeting.”

Mr. Ferguson’s tall, broad frame takes up the doorway, and his grouchy demeanor is in full grouch mode. Several people in the room jump, but no one offers an explanation. His eyes take in the scene, the pastries, and he zeros in on me

“Miss Cousins.” His eyes flash, and I kid you not, it’s like catching a glimpse of a jaguar’s eyes in dense jungle undergrowth. “Please see me in my office. The rest of you, take your pastries and get back to work. Now.”

Most everyone listens, hopping to action immediately, with the exception of Kiera who grabs another pastry, takes a seat at the conference table, and leans back, chowing down like she doesn’t have a care in the world.

I grab her brother’s coffee and the last pastry in the box (yay!) and run for Mr. Ferguson’s already-retreating back, but Kiera stops me before I can get far.

“What’s that?” Kiera asks.

“Your brother’s coffee.”

She smirks but says nothing else. It’s unlike her to hold her tongue about anything, so I’m immediately on high alert.

“What?”

She shrugs. “What?”

“What, what? Why did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Ask about whose coffee it was and then smirk when I told you it was Owen’s.”

“No reason.”

“Kiera—”

“Miss Cousins!”

Now I’m the one scattering like a mouse. I make it to Mr. Ferguson’s office in record time, considering I’m wearing heels, but he’s already sitting there, waiting, hands steepled in front of him like he’s been here for hours.

“Close the door.”

I suppress a shiver and obey. His deep voice just does something to me, okay?

He probably wants me to cower and be all submissive, but that’s not how I roll. Not this time. Not this job. Instead, I stride forward and place his coffee and his pastry in front of him, then whip out my phone.

“What’s this?” he asks.

“Your usual,” I tell him. “Well, the coffee is your usual. The pastry is because every human needs to consume carbs once in a while, even you. Now, Mr. Ferguson, let’s talk about your schedule.”

“I eat carbs and—My schedule?”

“You’ve got a supplier calling at 9:30 so I’ll make sure to keep the phones clear for you during that time. After that—”

“Miss Cousins.”

“—you’ve got a meeting with your marketing and sales department. I’ve scheduled them tentatively for ten, but we can adjust as necessary depending on the phone call with the supplier. At eleven you have your—”

“Miss Cousins.”

“—weekly meeting with your partner. You didn’t have any time set aside for lunch so I—”

“Miss Cousins!”

I stop in my list, tilting my head. I’m an innocent little secretary. “Yes, Mr. Ferguson?”

“How do you know all of that?”

“Because I memorized your schedule.”

“You memorized my—?” There’s half a second where he looks as if he’s in awe. I take a mental picture and stuff it away to fuel my efforts. “No, no, I mean, how do you even know what’s on my schedule?”

“Summer showed me how to access it, of course.” I give him another bright smile, and it looks as if it’s still taking him some time to process, not because he doesn’t understand, but because he’s still trying to decide how to respond. “Is that a problem? Should I not have access to your schedule? I figured since I’m acting as your secretary, it’s something I should do.”

“Uh, no, um, it’s fine. It’s… Ugh. Miss Cousins, that is entirely beside the point of why I called you in here.” He stands from his desk and paces. The movement draws attention to his backside when he turns around, but I am definitely not noticing that. “Besides the fact that you were distracting my employees from their work, I don’t think it’s such a good idea for you to be so…”

He pauses and I jump in. “What? Friendly? Isn’t that kind of in the job description? Plus, I need to be friendly if I’m going to help you work out who the mole”—I whisper the word—“is, don’t you think?”

“...Yes.”

“Good, since that’s settled, I must get back to work. Please let me know if you need anything. Otherwise, we’ll speak again when I accompany you to your meeting with your business partner. I saw in the notes on your calendar that you usually have your secretary accompany you. Goodbye!” Then I run out the door when the phone at the desk rings.

The elevator ride to meet Mr. Ferguson’s business partner is a tense one. He hasn’t said a word to me since I basically steamrolled him this morning, and it’s starting to get to my head. When I formulated my master plan for this job, Step Number One: Make Everyone Love Me was supposed to imply Mr. Ferguson too. (Not in that way. He’s my boss and my best friend’s brother, so that would be wrong. Wrong, I tell you!) I just mean, I wanted him to see me as a peer, appreciate the work I put in, and value my efforts.

What I didn’t realize was that making everyone else love me in the office is apparently going to have an equal and opposite reaction with Mr. Ferguson.

It’s obvious he’s got that whole alpha boss thing down. He runs a tight ship and wants things done a certain way. Apparently bringing pastries to share upsets that delicate balance. Was there anything in the contract about him having the ability to fire me prematurely if he hates my guts?

Maybe I should have read it more carefully… Or maybe I should have read it, period.

The whole time we’re in the elevator, I am hyper aware of his scent. He probably uses one of those body washes called Saber Toothed Mountain or Mighty Aqua Dragon or Wild Warrior. Whatever it is, I want to bottle it up secretly so I can take it home and hide it under my pillow.

I probably smell the complete opposite, which is to say: bad. It’s the tightest quarters we’ve ever been in together, and I’ve never been so aware of my sweat glands in my life. Did I put deodorant on this morning? Being this close to him is making me perspire.

The doors finally open, and I follow him out into a large room similar to the office above, but this one has a much more industrial feel with taller ceilings, exposed metal beams, and a busy atmosphere. There’s a distinctive, more laid-back feel to the place too.

“This way,” Mr. Ferguson orders, because I’m still staring.

I follow him to a smaller, empty conference room. Mr. Ferguson grumbles something about “always being late” then he disappears and tells me he’ll be right back.

He’s only gone for ten seconds though when another man enters the room from the opposite direction, and I almost make an audible gasp.

“Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle. Junie Cousins?” he says, stopping inside the doorway.

My head feels weird, like I’m having a major case of déjà vu. “Shane Thatcher?”

A big smile breaks over the guy’s face, sending a dozen memories to my prefrontal cortex. “It is you!” Then he lumbers forward, and before I can say anything, he wraps his big arms around me in a way that is at once familiar and awkward. Or at least, awkward on my part. As far as I remember, Shane is never awkward about anything.

He wasn’t awkward playing football for the Gamecocks, or about the way he asked me out at a party after one of his games. Back then, he had this quality about him, this it quality. He still has it now, like he still has his boyish charm and likable charisma, but I can’t help noticing there also seems to be something different. Something I can’t quite put my finger on.

After three seconds that seem way longer than they probably are, he pulls back, holding me at arm’s length. “Wow, Junie, you look great. Seriously. What are you doing here?”

“I-I’m Mr. Ferguson’s new—”

“Secretary.” Understanding dawns on Shane’s handsome face, followed quickly by a smirky little smile. “That makes so much sense.”

“What does?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing, I’m happy you’re here, that’s all. I think you’ve made quite an impression on Owen already.”

He finally lets me go, and I take a step back. “So, um, what are you doing here? What happened to the football plan?”

“Aw, that didn’t work out. Injured my knee pretty bad. Pro teams wouldn’t take me after that.”

“Wow, I’m so sorry.” Football was Shane’s thing. He was more than good. Destined for the NFL, or so everyone thought. To hear him shrug it off so easily is more than a little surprising.

“That’s alright. Things happen. Owen and I wouldn’t have this company if I’d gone pro. Man, it’s so good to see you again.”

He comes in for another hug, but this time, I hold my hand out between us. One of his eyebrows lifts in amusement, but he takes my hand. Instead of shaking it though, he lifts my hand to his lips and kisses my knuckles as if we are in a Jane Austen novel. The gesture is so unexpected that I immediately blush.

It’s at exactly this Austen-esque moment that Mr. Ferguson reenters the room. His eyes narrow on our hands and Shane’s lips. I try to pull away, but Shane has a firm but gentle grasp, and he holds on for an extra few seconds before letting go. Those extra few seconds seem to last forever as Mr. Ferguson glares daggers at his best friend and business partner.

“What’s going on here?” he demands.

Shane shrugs and smiles, sliding his hands into his pockets. “Nothing, just catching up with an old girlfriend.”

I swear I see a muscle twitch along Mr. Ferguson’s jaw. “Old girlfriend?”

“Yeah, we dated for a bit after USC.”

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, suddenly self-conscious. This is the second ex-boyfriend of mine Mr. Ferguson has met in almost as many days. How is that even possible?

Mr. Ferguson folds his arms, looking grumpier than ever. “Funny, I don’t remember meeting her.”

“We weren’t roommates anymore during that time.”

“We only dated for a couple of months,” I burst out.

Both of their eyes snap to me, and I’m pretty sure my face is now the same color as my hair. Still, I can’t quite keep my mouth from making words despite the fact that my brain is desperately trying to smash the “abort” button.

“It was really fast. He needed some help with his taxes, and I was offering my services at the time. Not that I made it a habit to date clients. He was the only one. It wasn’t allowed, and I kept telling him that, but he wouldn’t listen, and eventually, I said yes, but it didn’t last long because—”

“Because you dropped off the face of the planet,” Shane interrupts.

“...No, I didn’t.”

“You totally did. Things were going great, then one text from you and you were gone. You took down your website, I couldn’t find you in any of your usual spots, you were gone.”

I wince, but thankfully Shane doesn’t look bothered when he says this, more like amused.

It’s true I did kind of ghost him. I pulled my usual Juniper Vanishing Act, which I’d learned from my dad. When things started to get too cozy, I rearranged my life so I could feel better about never seeing him again. I quit doing taxes as a side gig, got a new job, found different routes to my classes. It was painful, but it was better that way.

I shrug, then lift my arms halfway up, making a poor excuse for jazz hands. “Surprise!”

Mr. Ferguson does that thing where he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Is this going to be a problem?”

“No!” I say quickly, alarm shooting through my system. “Nope. Not a problem at all.”

It’s really not a problem for me. Other than some mild astonishment at the weird twist this day has taken, I don’t feel anything toward Shane. No flutters of heat or pangs of longing. And it better not be a problem for Shane. I already cashed the check Mr. Ferguson gave me and sent a good chunk of it to my plumber. The hope is I’ll have running water again by this weekend and can stop taking showers at the gym.

Mr. Ferguson turns to Shane and lifts an eyebrow. I can clearly read the subtext beneath that eyebrow raise as if it were written in Times New Roman above his face: You better not have a problem with this either.

I don’t blame him. Office drama is probably the last thing he wants with everything else going on. Because office drama is obviously the only reason Mr. Ferguson cares. It has nothing to do with other emotions like jealousy. That’s wishful thinking on my end.

Very wishful thinking.

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with dating someone from a different department as long as we report it to HR…” Shane does his best impression of an innocent puppy after he says this.

Mr. Ferguson growls. Yes, growls. Low and guttural and primal. It’s something that shouldn’t send goosebumps shivering up my spine, but totally does.

Behave, Junie!

Shane chuckles. “No, this won’t be a problem. Should we get on with our meeting? Some of us do have other things to take care of today.”

A curt nod and a grunt signify Mr. Ferguson’s agreement. We settle in for our meeting, and I bury my nose in my phone, adding one item to my grocery list before we begin: extra strength deodorant x2. I’m going to need something stronger to get me through the next three months.