11. Monday Morning, Fleetwood Mac
"Monday Morning," Fleetwood Mac
Victoria
“Our names look so good up there,” Alexander murmured as the sign maker cast a projection of our logo onto the wall behind the reception desk. "Why didn't we do this years ago?"
"Better than kissing the senior partners' asses,"I agreed, flush with satisfaction at my name on the wall of my own business, on the top floor of my own building. I hadn’t felt this much pride in my workplace since … well, since the last time my family name was on the building.
“Do you want vinyl mounted directly on the wall?” the sign maker asked. “Or acrylic that can be removed later?”
“Vinyl,” Alexander said as I answered, “Acrylic.”
I turned, keeping my facial expression neutral. His blue eyes darted between mine before lifting a brow. I pressed my lips together with a small head tilt. After years of negotiating across conference tables, we'd developed an entire language of minuscule eyebrow quirks and lip twitches.
Our silent battle was interrupted by our legal assistant, Connor. “You misspelled McNamara.”
We grinned, taking the coffees he carried before he moved behind the reception desk. “Let’s base the decision on the most important factor: how I look next to it. The acrylic would look best with my hair.”
I shot Connor an appreciative smile for taking my side.
Five years ago, when Alexander and I had been lowly second-year associates, Connor was a freshly hired legal assistant randomly assigned to cases. I’d worked my ass off on a real estate litigation case, only to have a partner usurp my presentation and mess up half the slides. It had still been good enough to settle out of court, and the partner invited Alexander to the celebration, leaving me behind.
After they left, Connor lingered in the conference room and said calmly, “Well that was a shitty way to treat you. Hamilton took credit for your ideas, then Alex left you behind instead of sticking up for you.”
So he’d seen Alexander’s apologetic look as Hamilton slung an arm around his shoulders like a proud father.
I shrugged, not sure if he’d run back to Hamilton to trade gossip for favors. “He’s a second year, he can’t push back against a partner.”
“Still shitty,” Connor muttered as he helped me pack up.
After that, I started requesting him as support staff on all my cases and helped him pass his paralegal certification. When Alexander and I got promoted to senior associates, Connor moved into the assistant suite between our offices, splitting his time between our cases. Other assistants pitied him—both of us had reputations for demanding excellence—but he’d figured out how to cool Alexander’s temper and melt my iciness.
Poaching Connor had been my first action after I agreed to start this firm with Alexander. When I returned to San Francisco, I’d taken him to a private lunch, carrying Alexander’s spiral-bound business plan, covered in my shorthand notes outlining how we’d really do things. Before I opened the cover, Connor practically jumped out of his chair. “I’m in, when do we leave?”
He laughed at my alarm that he would throw away five years of tenure. “When they passed you over, they lost my loyalty. And San Francisco is so expensive.” I softened at his logical reaction, then bristled when he added, “Plus Grace is so sweet on the phone, I’d love to meet her in person.”
Now, seeing him under our names in my building … it felt fucking right .
Especially because the acrylic sign did compliment his dark hair.
When the sign maker left, I surveyed the domain of our new office buildout. A temporary wall cordoned off half the third floor. Blackstone & Clarke would occupy the front unit facing the street. I’d posted the commercial office space listing for the back unit and already had a few bites for prospective tenants.
Last week, the development company hired movers to shift the cubicles into the back unit in case my next tenant needed them, or until we hired more staff. Originally I planned on that expansion happening after the move to Manhattan, but looking around the open floor plan, I considered keeping this space as a satellite office. Alexander could work here during holidays to take less time off, and support staff would be less expensive in the lower cost-of-living location.
The phone rang and Connor answered, “Blackstone & Clarke.” He shot us both a thumbs up before focusing on the call.
Alexander took my elbow and guided us from reception towards our future office suites for privacy. He took a deep breath—he does that a lot lately—and said calmly, “Listen, Victoria, you can cut the act.”
“Excuse me?”
“The guy on Friday? I’ll admit, it was a bold strategy. Find a good-looking guy, show me what I’m missing. Mallory said it’s a regular move in her arsenal.”
Shame tightened my throat that he was calling my bluff.
“You doubled down, too. That phone call the next day seemed real ,” he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry if I was short with you, Grace called me out for my tone. You deserve better from me, even when you …”
I raised a brow, daring him to finish his sentence.
You don’t have to explain anything to him, remember? Eric said after I hung up. I bit the inside of my cheek to retain my stern expression as his ridiculous lyrics about my ex-man ran through my mind.
To an outsider, Alexander would appear calm, but I recognized his tells: his shoulders were tight and his eyes wouldn’t meet mine. After years of reading his volatile emotions, I knew how to fight his fire by meeting it with my ice. I schooled my features and let him run his mouth.
“I can tell it’s an act. Victoria Blackstone wouldn’t bother with somebody with no career mobility. I mean, enlisted military turned personal trainer? Can you imagine Richard’s face if you brought that guy home?”
My defenses rose, frustration and shame cracking through. “Well, Alexander Clarke wouldn’t bother with this podunk Upstate city … yet here we are. And I trust your judgment enough that I bought a fucking building for our firm.” I held out my arms in a dramatic gesture around our office space. I released a bitter laugh, allowing the tension brewing below my sternum to escape.
“But you’re self-centered enough to believe I would concoct an elaborate ruse to make you jealous. God forbid I do anything for myself without your approval. Do I need your signed permission slip to bring a man home?”
His lips tightened. I dug deeper.
“You don’t know me as well as you think you do, because Eric—his name is Eric, by the way, not ‘that guy’—helped me realize how unsatisfied I’ve been before.”
He winced. Bullseye.
“Wait, Cruz’s first name is Eric?” he said, rifling through a stack of papers. He flipped through details about Mallory's business incubator through the Chamber, that she’d advocated for us to take over.
A cocky smirk rose as he handed me the documents and pointed to a line on the list of participants: Eric de la Cruz, Owner, Cruz Control Fitness.
My teeth ground together so tightly my jaw ached. He was already my building super, why would he need another job?
Instead of letting him see my frustration, I lifted my chin and said, “Can’t wait for you to see him satisfy me at our first incubator meeting tomorrow.”