Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Marley
My next day of work is a carbon copy of the previous: answering a phone that never stops ringing and silently praying for spreadsheet skills to magically download into my brain.
The only glimpse I get of Theo is when he breezes past me on his way to an important meeting at the financial institution down the street. He effortlessly radiates the kind of purpose and confidence I can only dream of faking.
“Hi, Mr. Prescott,” I say in a buttery-sweet voice.
He stares at me as if I’ve grown a second head. Not even bothering to reply, he nods once and leaves into the elevator.
The rest of the week, I don’t even catch a glimpse of him.
When I arrive, he’s already here, locked away like he’s hiding from humanity.
When five p.m. hits, I knock on his door and call out a goodbye through the solid wood.
He never answers, but I do it anyway. It seems like something a good employee should do—acknowledge her boss before leaving for the night, even if said boss refuses to acknowledge her existence.
As far as assistants go, I feel pretty useless. Without much training, there are only so many calls to field and emails to sort before I start wondering if I was hired for actual work or just to keep the desk warm.
More than a week in, and I’ve come to two conclusions: One, they’re paying us way too much for how easy this job is.
And two, everyone who quit before me must’ve known something I don’t.
Because besides Theo’s cold behavior, and the occasional angry caller, this position is miles less stressful than any waitressing position I’ve ever held.
I’m halfway through yet another mind-numbing video tutorial on spreadsheets when the phone rings.
It’s Mr. Pearson. The same shareholder who ripped into me last week for not letting him speak to Theo.
I sit up straighter, half-expecting another lecture about protocol, but his tone is different this time. Calmer. Less pissed-off businessman, more tail-between-his-legs energy.
“Hi, Mr. Pearson, how can I help you?”
He clears his throat, his voice gentle compared to the last time we spoke. “It has come to my attention that I acted out of place and need to apologize. So, that’s what I’m doing. I’m sorry for how I spoke to you the other day. I don’t intend to do it again.”
“It’s not necessary to apologize, but thank you. I appreciate the gesture.”
“It is necessary actually,” he replies, that familiar annoyance beginning to trickle into his tone. “Per Mr. Prescott himself.”
“Oh.” Huh, that’s the first considerate thing I’ve heard of Theo doing. Ever. “Well, it’s water under the bridge.”
When we hang up, I sit back in my office chair and process everything that happened.
Did Theo really call that grumpy older man solely for yelling at me the other day? I had no idea he had even overheard. My brain seems to short-circuit at the thought, struggling to reconcile Theo’s unexpected intervention with his usual coldness.
Maybe he does have a heart buried way, way in there somewhere.
Or he couldn’t miss his opportunity to find someone new to yell at.
Either way, it was kind of nice, but I’m not going to expect an anomaly twice.
The next morning at work, I make a point to arrive earlier than my shift begins. Even if Theo isn’t my direct supervisor, I don’t want to make my life a living hell by getting on his bad side.
I drop my bag at my desk and take a deep breath, mentally preparing for another day of social isolation and a slough of never-ending phone calls.
The entire top floor of the building feels like it’s been designed with Theo’s personal preferences in mind.
It’s an open, sprawling space with nothing but my desk in the middle, a large conference room, and his office tucked away in the corner, overlooking the city skyline.
It’s every loner’s wet dream, having an entire floor of office space to yourself.
Unfortunately for me, being alone makes my skin crawl, thus making it my own personal hell.
For once, his office door is open. After peering inside, I find it empty, with him nowhere to be found.
Logging onto my computer, I see an email from him that was sent this morning. I double-click it open with so much caution, it’s like I think he’s sending me one of those prank videos where a lady screams at the end and makes you jump.
From: Theo Prescott
Subject: Upcoming Meeting
Get me an Americano and bagel from Maple Oak Cafe down the street.
There’s a meeting at 11:00 a.m., so make it quick. You’ll need to be there to take notes.
-Theo
I narrow my eyes at my computer screen as if he could see my expression. I can tell he’s used to giving orders without remembering to say please or thank you. Or maybe he simply does not care enough if he sounds like a total dick.
I throw my purse over my shoulder before I realize I don’t even have enough money to pay for his breakfast. If they expect me to use my own money to be reimbursed later, then they’re in for a rude awakening.
I’ve already maxed out my credit card and have four dollars in my bank account.
At this rate, I’m not even sure how I’m going to eat until I get paid, let alone buy my boss coffee when there’s a perfectly good free brew in the break room.
From my office phone, I dial Noah’s extension. I’m embarrassed to ask for a way to pay for it, but there’s literally no way I can even make the purchase.
He doesn’t answer, so I opt to leave a voicemail and pray he gets back to me before Theo arrives.
“Noah, answer your phone,” I whisper. “I’m supposed to buy breakfast for Theo, but I literally have four dollars to my name.
I can’t afford to feed my rich boss. What the hell do I do? Just call me back. Please.”
Setting the phone down on the receiver, I swivel my chair, only to find Theo himself, large and intimidating, standing near my desk.
He has a permanent frown on his face, unless that’s a special response he elicits only in response to me.
Without a doubt, he heard every mortifying bit of my voicemail to my cousin.
“Good morning.” I give him my best look at what a kind, polite, not completely broke employee I am smile. His stare alone looks as if it could strike me down like lightning.
“You look nice today,” I tack on, in a poor attempt to butter him up.
It’s not an exaggeration, however. Every time I’ve seen him, he’s always impeccably put together.
His tan skin contrasts sharply with his dark hair, always styled into perfect place, not a strand out of line.
And then there are his eyes—deep blue, but intense, like the edge of a flame, that could scorch you from across the room.
“They should’ve given you a company credit card,” is all he says.
I shrug. “Well, they haven’t. Not yet, at least.”
He reaches into the inside pocket of his suit and fishes out a clip of cards and money. Throwing down a metallic palladium credit card onto my desk, he says, “Call Stewart when you get back to set you up with your own card.”
The brushed, shiny metal of his credit card is hands down fancier than any piece of furniture that I own. I wonder if he even realizes how privileged he is not to worry about when the next time he’ll eat.
“Use this, call Stewart. Got it. Anything else you need today?”
“Just do your job, and don’t bother me.”
Don’t bother me. I barely have enough self-control not to roll my eyes. But the growl of my stomach is louder than my pride, my body’s way of reminding me to stay in check. Like it or not, I need this job to survive.
Theo eyes me, clearly able to read me more than I’d like. Apparently, my face does a whole lot of talking even when my mouth is shut.
“What’s that look for?” he asks.
Don’t say anything. Keep your mouth shut, Marley. I tap my pen on the desk, trying to hold it together, before blurting out, “Lisa told me to tell you when you’re being an asshole.”
“And what?”
“Don’t make me say it out loud.”
His cheek twitches. “Are you implying I’m being one right now?”
I smile, all innocence. Standing up from my seat, I smooth out the hem of my skirt and square my shoulders, channeling all the debutante energy I can muster.
“Of course not, sir.”
It’s a bold-faced lie.
“When you say it like that, I get the sense I shouldn’t trust you,” he replies, disbelieving.
“And I get the sense that you don’t trust anyone to begin with.”
He exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Trust isn’t something I hand out freely. My family built this company from the ground up. It’s our name on the building. Our legacy. So yeah, I’m going to protect it, no matter what.”
I nod, flashing him an ultra-sugary smile like I wholeheartedly agree. Meanwhile, mentally, I’m flipping off the giant, gleaming letters of his last name plastered across the front of the building.
He narrows his eyes, attempting to determine if I’m messing with him. As I stand there, waiting to see what he does next, his gaze flicks over me so quickly I nearly could’ve missed it if I blinked. Then he clears his throat and heads back to his office without another word.
Thirty minutes later, I return with his Americano and bagel from the small locally owned coffee shop down the street. It smells so good that it’s a miracle it makes it to him in one piece.
Drooling over someone’s bagel isn’t how I had pictured adulthood when I was growing up.
At fifteen years old, I had thought I’d be the principal dancer for one of the largest ballet companies in the country. Living in a swanky high-rise apartment and exclusively dancing around the world.