Chapter 3
THREE
Colt
Davis leans over my shoulder, his hands supporting him on my desk, as he reads over my shoulder. The reflection of his sunglasses is visible from my computer’s screen and shake my head with a chuckle. I don’t know what on Earth possessed the man to get that drunk on a Wednesday evening.
“I can smell rum seeping from your pores.”
“God, I know,” he groans. “I showered twice this morning.”
“Just…stay in your office, or at least downwind today,” I laugh.
He gives the screen a couple of taps and tells me, “Tell them to bump that up another twenty, and we’ll consider. I’m takin’ a nap.”
I give him a quick two-finger salute as he walks – hobbles, really – out of my office and into his own, then I return to the onslaught of emails that have come in over the past twenty-four hours, sorting by most to least urgent.
This is going to be an incredibly tedious day, and I’m going to need coffee.
“Rowan?” I holler out the door.
Seconds later, she rounds the door to my office, wearing a smile. “Yes, Mr. Fowler?”
“I’m looking at about four million emails that need responses by end of business, and I’m going to need some caffeine if I’m going to manage that.”
“Usual order?” She asks.
“Yes, please. And check around the office if anyone else needs some, will you?”
“Of course. Be back in a jiffy,” she promises before sweeping down the hall, that sandy brown hair flowing behind her. I almost feel bad, giving her such menial work, but I think I might die if I don’t get a couple hundred milligrams of caffeine into my system in the next hour.
I tuck into my work, responding to emails, checking accounts, and otherwise making sure that the company is running smoothly both internally and externally.
We have a new development in the works, set to open in just a few weeks, and with Davis indisposed today, I’m running the whole show and all communications.
One arduous phone call and a handful of emails later, Rowan knocks on the door frame of my office before stepping in, carrying a tray of coffees in her hand.
“I come bearing liquid salvation,” she announces, lifting the tray with a flourish.
“Ah, just in time to save the day, thank you.”
She steps forward and moves to set the tray on my desk, knocking my stapler over the side of it with a crash as she does.
“Oh, shoot!” She bends down, scrambling to grab it. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Fowler.”
I chuckle at her use of ‘shoot.’ It sounds so innocent coming from her mouth, it’s kind of sweet.
“It’s fine, it’s just a stapler, not the cure for cancer.”
I move to stand, and catch her flinch at the movement. Just a microscopic reaction – so small it would have been easy to miss. A distant alarm bell rings in my head, setting me on alert.
“But if I’d broken it—”
Cutting her off, I tell her, “Then I would buy a new one.”
“But—”
“Rowan, it’s fine.” I pick the stapler up from the ground and turn it over in my hand. “See? Not a scratch on it, and even if there were, it’s a piece of cheap plastic. It could have been replaced.”
She seems to take a steadying breath before straightening her spine. “Right. Sorry.”
I set the stapler back on the desk and reach for her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Stop apologizing.”
Offering me an embarrassed smile, she reaches for the tray of coffee and plucks one out of it’s holding place, offering it to me with a trembling hand.
“Black coffee, one sugar, and a double shot of espresso.”
“Thank you,” I tell her as I take the coffee from her hand.
My fingers brush over hers and a flush creeps over her cheeks before she walks out of the office, leaving that flinch replaying in my mind. The way that such a small thing seemed to shrink her down four sizes. The tremble in her hands that sent the sparkle away from her eyes.
I’ve seen employees afraid to piss off the boss or make a massive screw-up at work, but this was different.
Someone did this to her.
I want to know who made her feel so small, so insignificant.