2. A Delicate Position
2
A DELICATE POSITION
CHARLES
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” A groan escapes me as I step out and spot Jimmy’s car in the parking lot.
Seeing his face first thing in the morning two days in a row couldn’t make for a worse start to the week.
“Do you want us to turn around and drive back home, Mr. Hawthorne?” Dave raises an eyebrow.
“Tempting, but unfortunately, my house is not off-limits for Mr. Garcia.” I give a parting nod to my bodyguards before stepping into the private elevator.
The tightness in my chest eases when I spot Daisy watering the two owl-shaped succulent pots on her desk, which she probably loves more than what’s deemed healthy. I once caught her in a video consultation with the local nursery, asking how to ensure that her plants never die, ever .
Her words not mine.
Today, she’s wearing a lilac circle skirt with a matching top, and there’s a dainty purple flower hair clip secured in her hair. As she turns, the elephant-shaped, plastic watering can slips from her grasp, spilling water on the floor, including her feet.
Thankfully, I’m at a safe distance.
“What the heck?” She jumps from the mess toward her desk. “You scared me. Why are you secretly gawking at me like a lunatic?”
This woman has completely forgotten I’m her boss.
“I have better things to do in life than gawk at you.” I step closer as she hastily covers the spill with pink paper napkins I left on her desk the previous evening.
She’s still on her knees when my custom Tom Ford loafers stop right in front of her. Daisy looks up and grins.
“Are you avoiding going inside because you know Jimmy’s here?”
She tips her head in the direction of my office. The mischievous glint in her eyes, her puckered lips, the tease of her cleavage as she’s still bent forward, are a huge nuisance.
My heart rate picks up as I once again notice that my assistant sometimes looks beautiful in a way that makes it difficult to breathe.
My fists tighten around my laptop bag as, like always, I try to shut that crazy part of my brain off.
“Don’t you know it’s not wise to provoke someone when you’re in a delicate position?”
Caught off guard, her almond-shaped brown eyes framed by thick lashes widen. I catch her subtle glance toward my zipper before she blinks a few times and rises hastily, cheeks flushed. Dumping the wet paper into the wastebasket, she avoids my gaze.
“What? No comeback?” I enjoy seeing her flustered, which is a rare sight in this office.
When she turns back to me, she’s more composed, with a smirk tugging at her lips.
“Go into your office, Charles A . Hawthorne. Let’s discuss delicate positions after Jimmy leaves.”
Of course she’d bring out the big guns. Right now, that abbreviated “A” in my middle name sure as hell doesn’t stand for Ashcroft.
But when I make no move to walk toward my office door, Daisy shakes her head.
“You can’t avoid him forever, Charles. So instead of wasting time talking to me, go inside.”
“You’re coming with me.” I grab the silk frill of her top resting on her forearm and tug her forward.
“You look mighty tough using someone half your size as a shield against your PR manager.” Daisy giggles as if she expected nothing less.
“Yeah, I’ll worry about how pathetic I look later. Right now, I have other priorities over self-pity.”
She continues to laugh as we enter the room. Jimmy glances up from his iPad, his brows furrowed as he regards us.
“Thanks, Daisy, for finally getting your boss for me.”
I glance down at my hand on her. “How does it look like she dragged me here?”
“Do you really think I can’t imagine you debating whether to turn back when you saw my car in the parking lot, Charles?”
“You’re not as hard to read as you think, boss.” Daisy chuckles, slipping out of my grip with ease. It’s like my morning misery is her personal comedy show.
“You’re supposed to be on my side.” I raise an eyebrow at her before settling behind my desk.
“Aww, I’m always on your side.” She slips into the empty chair next to Jimmy.
“What now?” I turn to my PR manager, eager to get through whatever media nonsense he’s brought today.
“Did you read the articles I sent you?” he inquires.
“You already know the answer to that. I’m not wasting time on gossip columns. I have a PR team and you for that job.”
“Did you read them?” Unfazed by my words, Jimmy repeats his question to Daisy.
My assistant nods enthusiastically as if she’s in a classroom and will be graded for her knowledge about some dirty gossip.
Satisfaction lights up Jimmy’s eyes, as if Daisy’s affirmation validates the value of those articles.
“I want to help you, Charles. I swear on my sweet dog that I want the announcement of your CEO position to be met with unanimous agreement, not just in town but across the state. I want everyone to see that there couldn’t be a better person than you for this position.”
His words tighten like a noose around my neck.
Isn’t this exactly what I want?
I thought I had it all under control. How is the company’s success and the growth under my leadership not enough? When did my personal life—or lack thereof—become the focal point, overshadowing everything else I’ve achieved?
“I know what you’re thinking. But they call Cherrywood the Hawthorne town for a reason. You can never just be a businessman here, Charles.”
“What does that mean? My life isn’t mine?” I run a hand through my hair. I’ve heard these words before, but lately, they’ve been haunting me every waking moment.
“It is, but a part of your life will always be under scrutiny. I can help you balance it, make sure you’re the one in control. If they want to talk about you, then we’ll give them a slice of your life on your terms instead of being at their mercy. But ultimately, I can only advise you. If you don’t act on my suggestions, it’s better you let me go. I’d rather work for someone who values my input and doesn’t see me as a nuisance.”
The room falls into a weighty silence. It’s the first time Jimmy has hinted at leaving.
“Are you threatening to quit?” I ask slowly, once the initial shock subsides. I watch Daisy in my periphery as she sits straight on her chair, her gaze fixed on Jimmy.
“Not yet. I’m asking you to listen to my advice for once. Instead of letting the media drag you down, leverage it to your advantage. Give them the real Charles Hawthorne, not the one they’ve conjured up in their minds.”
“I won’t—” I begin. Jimmy’s about to interject when I halt him with a raised hand. “I can’t handle social events.”
The mere idea of being in a crowded room sends a throbbing ache through my forehead. My collar feels too tight, and it becomes hard to breathe.
My eyes drift to Daisy, and there’s a mix of seriousness and an emotion I loathe—pity—reflected on her face. I look away.
“What if it’s a private event?” Daisy says softly, and I once again meet my assistant’s gaze, finding a small encouraging smile on her lips.
In the four years we’ve worked together, I’ve learned to decipher the meaning behind the subtle movements of her mouth. The smile she’s wearing now, directed at me, reassures me that everything will be fine.
“No crowd. Just a handful of reporters at your convenience.” Daisy pauses, giving me some more time for her idea to sink in.
“Then make it an exclusive interview,” I say, keeping my eyes locked on hers. If this is the only way, then I’ll make sure to put a final stop on this social recluse nonsense. “Bring in the top reporters of the state—no, make it the top five in the country. Let’s settle this once and for all. Pour a significant amount of advertising money into it. Let’s market it as one of the biggest entertainment news stories of the year.”
Daisy’s smile widens with each word I speak, and I only tear my gaze away from her when Jimmy squeals.
“That’s fantastic! An hour with Charles Hawthorne—raw, personal, and honest.”
A wave of anxiety washes over me, but I push it aside, focusing on the reward and not on my fear.
“Where do you want to do this?” my PR manager asks.
I’m about to suggest my office, where I feel safest, but Daisy speaks up.
“How about the Hawthorne Heritage Room in the town hall?”
“That will do.” I nod. At least that way, no strangers will be lurking in my office.
For the first time, there’s a grin on Jimmy’s face as he leaves the room. He pauses with his hand on the doorknob and looks back at me.
“You won’t regret this, Charles. I promise.”
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m actually looking forward to opening our office in Cherrywood, Charles.” Vincent Beaumont’s smile widens on my computer screen.
“I’m thankful you gave Hawthorne Holdings a chance.”
“Your sister didn’t leave me much choice. She can be very persuasive, by the way.” Vincent’s gaze shifts to Daisy as she steps into the camera’s view. “Where were you hiding, beautiful?”
My hands ball into fists at him referring to my assistant so informally. But Vincent is not just a client, he’s also my sister, Chloe’s, friend.
“Hi, Mr. Beaumont,” Daisy responds with a giggle. “I was right here, listening to that cute French accent of yours.”
My eyes narrow into slits as I focus on the woman beside me. But she simply shrugs while Vincent’s laugh fills the room through the speakers.
“I’m sure you’ll hear it in person when I visit Cherrywood, ma belle . Maybe I’ll convince Chloe to join me.”
“If you can bring my sister home, you’ll be my favorite man.” I forget my temporary irritation toward the man.
After the call ends, I pivot my chair to face Daisy as she efficiently moves the Post-it of CALL WITH VINCENT into the row of completed tasks.
“What the fuck was that?”
“What was what?” Daisy’s eyebrow arches as she meets my gaze. The playful grin she wore during the call has vanished.
“Your comment about Vincent’s accent. He’s a client, not your friend. It’s unprofessional.”
“He didn’t seem to mind.”
“Of course he didn’t. When you throw yourself at him like that, why would he mind?”
“Are you serious right now? I didn’t throw myself at anyone. If I had, your computer screen might not have survived.”
“You find this funny?”
“How dare I do such a thing?” When I don’t respond to her dramatic gasp, she sighs. “I know he believes his accent is sexy, and I just complimented him on it so he leaves the meeting in a happy mood.”
“His accent is sexy?” I lean back in my seat, and unlike hers, my surprise is one hundred percent original.
Daisy drops the papers she just collected, her palms flat on the glass table. Instead of backing away, she leans forward, looking right into my eyes.
“I said, he believes his accent is sexy. I know how much you love twisting others’ words to your advantage, Charles A. Hawthorne. It might impress people in a boardroom, when you’re winning an argument being like a bossy alpha book boyfriend, but don’t you dare try that with me.”
I file away her “bossy alpha book boyfriend” remark for later and mimic her stance. My hands are a sliver away from hers, and when I lean in, I catch a whiff of her delicate perfume, making my pulse jump.
“Are you secretly consulting with Vincent to learn his thoughts and opinions?”
She gulps, eyes widening. I hold her gaze as she struggles to put the smile back on her face, and finally, after a few successful attempts, she wins.
“Are you feeling jealous?”
The last word rolls in her mouth. She speaks it at a snail’s pace, as if savoring it. I watch the way her tongue brushes against her upper lip before resettling at its place.
For a brief moment, I feel a pang of exactly the emotion she assumed—jealousy. I hate that she spent her time collecting personal insights about a client instead of thinking about me.
About the work, I mean.
But I refuse to give her any satisfaction.
“Do I strike you as the jealous type? If after all this time, you think so, maybe you should focus on getting to know me better before worrying about clients like Vincent.”
I hold her gaze, but she starts to giggle, pulling back and taking that enticing scent with her.
“You’re definitely the jealous type, Charles. But just so you know, I’ve got my hands full with you. I don’t have time to learn about our clients, French or otherwise. Your sister texted me this morning that if the meeting goes sideways, I can always compliment Vincent’s accent, as it seems to uplift his mood.” With a playful grin, she snatches the pages from my desk and plops down in a nearby chair.
Irritable relief hits me at her comment, but I ignore it and arch an eyebrow at her instead. This time when she leans forward with elbows on the table, her expression is all curiosity.
“I have a question,” she begins, confirming my suspicion. “Feel free to skip it if you’d rather not answer. No pressure.”
“Spit it out. I have a lot of work, and so do you,” I reply, my interest piqued.
She straightens up, a spark in her eyes. “Do you think there’s something going on between Chloe and Vincent? I mean, Vincent brings up her name in every meeting.”
“What?” I blink. That was a total curveball. “Are you serious? There’s nothing going on between him and my sister. Vincent’s just a flirt, in case you haven’t noticed, ma belle. And Chloe? She cannot fall for someone like him.”
“Oh, so is it some kind of rule that Hawthorne girls can’t date European men?”
A mix of emotions akin to surprise and humor locks inside me.
“What soap opera are you watching now, Daisy? Please stop because it’s killing your brain cells. And if you’ve gossiped over my sister’s love life enough, we both can go back to work.”
“I’m not gossiping. I just think they’d make a cute couple,” she mumbles, backing away from my desk.
“For your own safety, please don’t share that opinion with Chloe,” I warn, and a beat later, I hear her heels clicking away. But before she can leave, I remember something. “How are we coming on with the gifts for the hospital?”
Her pout melts into a broad smile, and she hurries back to my desk, flipping open her iPad and placing it before me.
“Look, this is my plan.”
There are beautiful gift baskets wrapped in pink and blue cellophane.
Damn, she’s good.
“What do you think?” Daisy asks carefully. She knows how much these gifts mean to me, and every year, she surprises me by doing a better job than the previous year.
“Looks great. You made sure everything is of the best quality?” I ask, even when I know she sure has.
“Absolutely. All baked goods are from Cherrywood’s finest bakeries. I’ve personally verified them for taste, quality, and hygiene. The same goes for other gifts.” Daisy nods, moving her stylus from one item on the screen to another.
“Sounds right.”
“Can I say something, Charles?” Her words are slow.
“Can I stop you?”
She grins before the mood in the room turns too serious, and I know where this is going.
“What you do for the hospitals during the holiday season is amazing. I just wish you could someday see the smiles you bring to the faces of the people.”
The pang of inadequacy returns, but I quell it. “It’s for them, not for me to feel good. That’s why it’s anonymous.”
A sad smile touches her lips before she straightens. “I understand.”