CHAPTER 7 #2
"Listen, listen," Ciara laughed, waving her hands in front of her face to calm herself down.
"Aunt May completely put me up to it! We were at the hair salon on Saturday, and Aunt May was talking about how Naomi’s been walking around the neighborhood like she owns the culinary registry of the West Indies.
Aunt May said Naomi needed a little bit of competition.
She said she needed to remember to be humbled by the elders. "
"So you decided to sacrifice your own safety?" I raised an eyebrow.
"Look, you and I both know Aunt May cannot come anywhere near Naomi’s cooking," Ciara admitted, her tone turning into a conspiracy-laden whisper as she leaned across the desk. "Yes, Aunt May can sure as hell cook a pot of rice and peas, and her gravy is decent, but Naomi’s oxtail? Helisa, that stuff is a masterpiece all by itself. It’s art.
It belongs in a museum. Aunt May just wanted to drop Naomi’s confidence a little bit...
take her off her high horse, you know how these old church ladies play with each other. "
"I see," I said, setting my espresso down, the tension completely leaving my shoulders as I indulged in the silliness of it. "I figured that much. Naomi was ready to declare war on the entire block. She told me your palate was completely broken."
"My palate is pristine!" Ciara protested, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "But seriously, we should probably do something about it before they start throwing seasoned meat at each other in the supermarket."
"Maybe we should make the two of them have a cookout one day," I suggested, my mind instantly turning the neighborhood rivalry into a logistical structure. "Set up an event or something. A real competition."
"Yeah! That’s an excellent idea!" Ciara’s face lit up instantly, her corporate instincts kicking back into place.
"We can do it through the E-Tech Charity Foundation. We can set up a massive block party in the park next month, set up two large outdoor burners, and let the kids from the local shelter eat for free. We give back to the community, we get some incredible local press, and we let the two old ladies fight it out with the competing spirit intact. It’s a win-win. "
I looked at her, standard admiration clearing my throat. "Mmm. I like the sound of that, Ciara. This is exactly why I pay you the premium salary. Excellent strategy."
I straightened up, walking around to the back of my desk, my eyes drifting back through the glass toward the desk where Miley was currently typing away.
"Speaking about food... Naomi wants you over for dinner tomorrow night back at the penthouse.
She told me she needs to look you in the eye while you eat her food. You coming or not?"
"Are you kidding?" Ciara chuckled, leaning back in her chair with a wide grin. "I wouldn't miss a dinner at your place for the entire world, Helisa. You have the best cook in the five boroughs, hands down. I'll starve myself all day tomorrow just to prepare."
"You're right about that," I laughed, my voice relaxed. I was just about to tell her about the brutal level-ten sprint Naomi had forced me into on the treadmill this morning when suddenly, a sharp, confident double-knock rattled against the glass of my office door.
Through the frosted pane, the distinct, statuesque silhouette of Miley Palmer was perfectly visible.
"Ms. Smith?" her voice drifted through the frame, clear, steady, and entirely devoid of the normal hesitation that interns usually possessed when interrupting the chief executive. "The Tokyo briefing papers are ready for your review."
Ciara stood up from her chair instantly, her high heels clicking as she walked over to the door, turning the lock with a quick flick of her wrist. She slid the glass panel open and offered a wide, encouraging smile. "Come on in, Palmer. Perfect timing."
Miley stepped into the room, and it felt as though the oxygen levels in my office instantly dropped by fifty percent.
Up close, the scent of wild strawberry and vanilla was absolute artillery.
She wasn't carrying a laptop; she had a single, thick, black leather folder clutched in her hand.
She walked straight toward my desk, her posture perfectly erect, her long box braids shifting against the fabric of her cream blouse with a soft, rustling sound.
"Here you go, Ms. Smith," Miley said, extending her arm to hand me the papers. Her voice had this rich, grounded cadence—that unmistakable Harlem undertone that felt completely solid, completely real, amidst all the fake corporate jargon of Mid-town.
"Thank you, Ms. Palmer," I said, my voice dropping back into its professional chest-voice. I took the folder from her fingers, our skin brushing for a fraction of a second—just a tiny ghost of contact, but it felt like a static shock against my thumb.
I opened the folder, spreading the white ledger sheets across my leather blotter.
My eyes scanned the text, looking for the usual mistakes—the misaligned currency conversions, the poorly formatted shipping matrices that usually plagued the work of twenty-somethings.
But as I flipped through the pages, my internal corporate critic went completely silent.
The report was flawless. She hadn't just compiled the shipping data from Yokohama; she had cross-referenced the current fuel surcharges with the maritime union contracts and highlighted three separate loopholes in the Tokyo tariff structure that my own legal team had missed during the spring audit.
The writing was sharp, persuasive, and metered with a maturity that didn't make sense for someone her age.
"This is... excellent work, Ms. Palmer," I murmured, my eyes tracing a brilliantly executed line graph demonstrating our projected margins for the third quarter.
Ciara stood near the door, her arms crossed over her pink blazer, a smug, triumphant smile on her face. "I told you she was good, Helisa. I don't select ordinary people for this floor."
Miley looked down at me, and then it happened. She let out this wide, uninhibited smile, and a pair of deep, symmetrical dimples carved themselves into the rich dark skin of her cheeks. It wasn't a corporate smile; it was an authentic, brilliant flash of warmth that caught me completely off guard.
Instantly, a chaotic swarm of butterflies exploded in the pit of my stomach, fluttering up into my chest until my throat felt tight.
My heart skipped a full beat against my ribs.
I froze, my hand hovering over the edge of the paper, my brain completely failing to process the next line of data.
I had to look down at the tariff column just to hide the sudden, uncharacteristic flash of heat that I knew was rising into my face.
"Ciara," I said, my voice slightly tighter than usual as I kept my eyes on the folder. "Give us a minute, please."
Ciara’s smile softened into something slightly curious, her eyes darting between me and the intern for a beat, but she didn't question the command.
"Sure thing, boss. I'll go check on the London data stream.
Let me know when you're ready to dial Kenji.
" She stepped out of the office, the glass door sliding shut behind her with a soft, heavy thud that left the two of us entirely alone.
I closed the black leather folder slowly, organizing my thoughts as the silence of the room settled around us. I lifted my head, meeting Miley’s steady, brown gaze, and gestured toward the empty leather chair across from me.
"Have a seat, Ms. Palmer."
Miley didn't hesitate. She smoothed down the front of her charcoal pencil skirt with a quick, elegant motion of her palms and sat down, crossing her long, thick legs.
The movement caused the slit of her skirt to shift slightly, revealing a brief glimpse of the smooth, dark skin of her thigh before she settled into the leather.
"This really is amazing work, Miley," I began, dropping the 'Ms. Palmer' as I leaned forward, resting my forearms on the polished mahogany.
"The level of detail you've included here is astonishing. You’re incredibly meticulous.
I like that. In this industry, a single misplaced decimal point can cost us three million dollars before the market opens in London. "
"Thanks," Miley said, her smile lingering, those dangerous dimples still teasing the edges of her mouth. "I have a pretty good teacher out there. Ciara doesn't let me get away with anything short of perfect."
I sat back in my massive leather chair, tilting my head slightly as I studied her face.
"True. Ciara is an exceptional executive assistant, and her standards are notoriously high. But let’s be entirely honest here—she has had many interns sit at that specific desk before you, Miley.
Dozens of them from the Ivy Leagues, girls with resumes from Wharton and Harvard.
But you are the first one who has ever executed a foreign market brief like this.
And I am definitely not saying that lightly. "
"Thanks, I appreciate it, Ms. Smith," Miley said, her fingers reaching up to subtly adjust the collar of her cream blouse, the movement opening the fabric just enough to highlight the elegant curve of her collarbone and the dark, soft shadow of her cleavage beneath the silk.
My eyes dipped down for a fraction of a second—completely against my own executive willpower—tracing the smooth line of her skin before I caught myself. I cleared my throat quickly, my fingers reaching out to tap the edge of the Tokyo folder to give my hands something to do.
"Please," I said, my voice dropping into that smoother, more personal register I’d used with Naomi this morning. "When we are in this office with the door locked, call me Helisa."