Chapter 13 – Alexis
13
No One Likes a Hostage Situation
Alexis
I’M JUST FINISHING wiping down the office coffee station when my boss strides through the door. Grant flashes me a grin as he crosses the small main lobby. “Good morning, Alexis.”
I return his smile as I chuck the paper towel I’m holding into the trash can beneath the counter. “Morning.” After settling his favorite mug onto the platform of the single-serve maker, I rattle off his morning agenda. “Mr. Rivera’s your ten o’clock. His company’s file is on your desk.” I load in a coffee pod and set it to brew. “Since he usually runs over his allotted time, I placed a lunch order so you wouldn’t be rushed for your one o’clock with Miss Burton.”
“Shit. I forgot about that.” Grant pauses beside my desk. “I told Jules I would take her to lunch today.”
“I can call and add another meal to the order.” The coffee finishes brewing and I tip in a tiny bit of half and half from the hidden mini fridge before passing it off to him. “Do you want to choose it or should I pick?”
Grant snorts. “You already know the answer to that.” He turns toward his corner office then stops, twisting back to face me. “And I forgot to tell you how much she loved her Christmas gift. She says you have amazing taste.”
My eyes widen. “You told her I’m the one who ordered it?”
My boss is a great guy. He’s kind and smart and pays really fucking well, but he has terrible taste when it comes to women’s clothes. Luckily, he knows it, which is why Grant always enlists my help when it comes to birthday and Christmas gifts for his wife, mother, and grandmother.
“Oh, no. I tried to take full credit.” Grant sips his coffee before continuing. “She knew damn well I didn’t pick out those pajamas.”
Technically I didn’t pick them out either. I had them specially made. When my boss told me his wife’s favorite pair of pajama pants were falling apart at the seams and he wanted to replace them, I discovered a complete lack of banana-printed loungewear. Lucky for him, I don’t mind putting in a little leg work when it comes to fashion, so I spent an afternoon tracking down every cotton stretch banana fabric I could find, ordering two yards of each. Then I took the fabric to the seamstress who does all my altering. She used Julia’s old pants to make a pattern and stitched up ten pairs of sleep pants.
Plus a couple pairs for me from the extra fabric. Sometimes it pays to be pint-sized.
“I would have backed you up.” After trashing the spent coffee pod, I wipe the counter again, removing any trace of oversplash.
“Then she would have called us both dirty liars.” Grant lifts his coffee cup. “Thanks for this.”
“Anytime.” I finish with the coffee bar as he goes into his office and gets to work. After that, I check the bathroom, replacing the vial of scented oil in the warmer plugged into the corner outlet. Then, using a Clorox wipe from the cabinet below the sink, I give the counter a quick wipe down.
Technically none of this is in my job description, but I like the office to look as put together as possible. It’s the same as adding accessories to a really great outfit. Without them, the clothes look fine. But once they’re layered on?
Impeccable.
I’m just getting back to my desk when Helen, Grant’s former assistant, walks through the door. After she graduated with her accounting degree, he promoted her to help him juggle his constantly growing client list and hired me to take her former position.
At first I was a little worried she’d judge everything I did and compare it to the way she’d handled things. Nope. Helen is awesome. She’s cool and calm and kind and happy to let me do things my own way.
She’s also freaking gorgeous. Tall and slender, with rich brown skin and long shiny braids, she’s exceedingly glamorous, and I look forward to seeing what she’s wearing every morning. Today, the former beauty queen has on a pair of wide-leg, camel-colored pants, paired with a white knit top. Chunky gold jewelry is draped around her neck and wrist, and a pair of large diamond studs dot her earlobes, completing the ensemble.
As always, she looks insanely good. And, as always, it’s an outfit that would look way less fantastic on my five-foot-one curvy frame.
But maybe I could pair a shirt like that with a nice pencil skirt—
“Good morning, Alexis.” Helen’s brisk tone doesn’t bother me. Probably because it’s a whole hell of a lot like mine. As is her temperament. And her love of quiet.
“Good morning,” I greet her. “I’m placing a lunch order for Grant. Would you like me to order something for you?”
She pauses at my desk to collect her mail, quietly contemplating for a second. “I don’t think so. I’ll probably work through lunch.”
Dillon, Helen’s assistant and my biggest recent mistake, strides into the office, the remnants of his morning protein shake sloshing around the shaker cup in his hand. “We’re working through lunch today?”
Up until a few months ago, I was juggling both Grant and Helen’s needs. It wasn’t easy, but I was managing. When Grant discovered I was taking work home with me—as well as coming in early and staying late—he hired Dillon, bumping me up to the title of office manager. I didn’t complain because it came with less work and more pay.
It also came with Dillon, which I thought was a good thing at first…
“ I’m working through lunch.” Helen sorts through her mail as she passes Dillon on her way to her office, eyes never going his way. “ You can do whatever you want.”
Dillon watches her go. Once she’s safely closed in her space he turns to me with a scoff. “What does that mean?”
“It means you can do whatever you want.” I don’t look at him either, focusing on the emails I need to respond to as he continues loitering in the main lobby instead of finding his way to his own desk.
The footprint of Grant’s accounting firm was originally two separate businesses. When we moved from his old office—in a strip mall a few blocks down—to this much larger and much nicer building a year ago, a couple walls were torn out to create the open area where I work. But the small waiting room connected to Helen’s office was left intact because it was oddly positioned and wouldn’t add any useful space to the lobby.
But it’s perfect for Dillon. When he freaking uses it.
“If I can do whatever I want, then maybe I’ll take you to lunch.” Dillon comes my way, one hand tucked in the pocket of his slacks. “Now that the holidays are over, it seems like things have finally calmed down in your life, so we can have that second date you promised me.”
Ugh. I knew this was coming.
Dillon had barely waited until I’d finished my coffee on our first day back after Christmas before he was sniffing around, trying to figure out how I knew Gavin and what he was to me. As much as I wanted to lie, Gavin’s too well-known for me to be able to pull it off, so I was forced to tell him the truth.
Gavin is nothing more than my brother’s best friend.
He’s also an asshole, but I left that part out.
In light of that information, I was expecting Dillon to ask me out then and there. Instead, he’s made it all the way into the second Friday of the new year before making me hurt his feelings.
Because there’s no way we were ever having a second date, and I sure as hell didn’t promise him we would. He’s not what I’m looking for. At all.
I take a deep breath before spinning in my office chair so we’re face-to-face. As if he has no idea what’s coming, Dillon perches one ass cheek on the corner of my desk, giving me a smirk. “Unless you’d rather I make you my dinner.”
My stomach turns at the thought. Once upon a time, I tried to talk myself into liking this guy. Actually thought it would be relatively easy to accomplish. He’s technically good looking, with blond hair, blue eyes, and a dimple in one cheek. He’s also got a nice body and great teeth.
The only thing that’s lacking is his personality. And boy does it leave a lot to be desired. I might not be a huge talker, but I want to be with a man who listens to what I say when I do. A guy who pays attention to more than just himself.
A flash of a red and white cashmere scarf skips across my brain, the reminder of how soft it felt under my fingers making them twitch. I can’t believe Gavin even noticed I owned a scarf, much less the colors and patterns on it.
I mentally kick myself.
Because Gavin—and his attention to detail—is irrelevant to this conversation. And my life.
Shoving all thoughts of dark hair and broad shoulders aside, I return my attention to the man in front of me. “I’m going to have to pass.” I say it slowly, hoping it will sink into Dillon’s self-centered brain.
Proving he only listens to himself talk, the man continues on like I didn’t just try to let him down easy. “We could go to The Pearl for a nice meal, and then I can eat dessert at my place.” His hungry gaze drops to my lap like I wasn’t already picking up what he was putting down.
It’s probably an offer most women would jump on, but the mention of that act only drags my brain right back to the jerkface of a man I’ve been working hard to forget.
Freaking Gavin. Why’d he have to go and be a dick? We could have had fun together.
Plus, he owes me one.
“Still going to pass.” I say it with a little more force. If this was some guy I met at a bar or on a dating app, it would be easy to cut him loose. But I have to work with Dillon every day, so I don’t feel the least bit bad when I start stretching the truth. “I’ve got some family issues going on and it’s been a really hard time for us.”
The claim isn’t entirely false. My family is having issues. Thankfully I’ve managed to keep myself out of the line of fire, but Leo’s relationship with Maddie Miller is really driving a wedge between him and my parents, and it’s making shit weird.
Dillon’s jaw clenches and, for a second, I think he’s going to keep pushing, but then he reaches out to take my hand with his. “You still need to take time for yourself.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I try to pull my hand away, but Dillon grips it tighter, forcing me to use more and more strength until it finally flies free.
“Did you want me to make Helen her tea?” I redirect the conversation, hoping he gets both hints I’m not so subtly throwing at him. I’m done with this conversation and he needs to start doing his job.
Dillon stares at me a second longer before offering a tight smile as he slides to his feet. “Of course not.” His expression hardens just enough that I know he suspects I’m lying. “Wouldn’t want to put anything else on your already full plate.”
He’s being sarcastic, and it takes every bit of self-control I have not to match his tone. “Thanks. I appreciate it.” Turning to my computer, I go back to the list of emails filling my inbox.
As the office manager, it’s my job to field the inquiries that come through our website, and today there’s a ton. It’s always like this after the new year. Business owners wake up January first deciding they need to get their shit together, and Grant has built a reputation as the go-to guy to help make that happen.
But even with Helen now handling some of the workload, there are more potential clients than we can juggle. I spend the rest of the morning writing up preliminary reports on each one so Grant can start narrowing them down to the ones that might be a good fit. Between that, answering the phone, and checking in appointments, the time flies by.
Before I know it, Grant’s wife Julia is coming in, all decked out in her army green pants and matching T-shirt printed with the logo of the botanical garden where she works. As usual, she’s a little dirty and sweaty, but sporting a wide smile when she sees me.
“Hey, Alexis.” She stops at my desk, looking over my pleated midi-skirt and the emerald green blazer I buttoned over a tweed bustier. “You look cute as shit today.”
“Thanks.” I smooth down the front of the white, light as air fabric covering my lower half. “I love after Christmas sales.”
Julia purses her lips. “I need to take you shopping with me the next time I go.” Her mouth twists into a wicked little smile. “I used to drag Grant’s grandma along, but her taste is a little scandalous.”
“Not shocked.” Sylvia comes into the office pretty regularly, usually to steal coffee and snacks while she’s out and about town. “She once told me if her books looked like mine she’d go topless everywhere she went.”
“I feel pretty confident saying that’s probably true.” Julia glances up as Grant steps out of his office. “Hey, nerd.”
He flashes her a panty melting smile. “You’re early.”
I try to look away, really I do, but the way my boss’s gaze devours his wife holds my attention. And brews up a little envy.
Not jealousy. I’m happy Julia has someone who looks ready to eat her up, even when she’s sticky and muddy. She’s sweet and funny and kind and deserves the adoration Grant has for her.
I just feel like that’s never going to happen for me. I’m not like Julia. I’m not sweet or funny or particularly kind. I’m standoffish, and dry, and serious. So far the only men I seem to attract are the ones who only care about themselves. At least I’ve gotten better at identifying them.
At one point in my life, I would have convinced myself Dillon was the cat’s tits instead of figuring out what a turd he is on the first date. Too bad I didn’t notice it earlier. Then I wouldn’t be stuck trying to come up with a way to avoid his advances without making shit awkward and tense at work.
“I’m early because you said Alexis was ordering me lunch and I didn’t want to miss it.” She moves in close, grabbing the front of Grant’s button-up and pulling him in for a kiss before snapping one of his suspenders. “And because I wanted to come stare at you.”
Ugh. Puke. I hate the way they interact as much as I love it, so I’m relieved when they disappear into Grant’s office. A few minutes later, their lunches—and mine—arrive. After delivering theirs, I settle in at my desk, enjoying my egg salad on a croissant as I scroll on my phone, pausing to watch a few of my favorite creators put outfits together. I’m so focused on a cute and casual combo of cropped jeans and a chunky cardigan layered over a fitted tank, that when my phone vibrates to let me know I have a new message, I drop it right into a pool of the creamy, eggy goodness that leaked out of its vessel.
“Shit nuggets.” I set down the sandwich and pull my phone free of the mayonnaisey muck. “Gross.” I love egg salad in my stomach. Not so much on my electronics.
As I go to work wiping it down, first with a napkin, then with one of the Clorox wipes I keep handy, the vibrations continue. By the time I finally have it cleaned off, I’m already over whoever’s messaging me—especially since it’s probably a freaking group text.
Aka, a hostage situation.
To my extreme disappointment. I’m right. After opening the message app, I find an already lengthy stream of texts from my friends reminding me we’re going out tonight to celebrate Lola’s birthday. The final message—from Isla—dashes any hope I had of a nice, quiet evening at home.
And don’t try to get out of it, Alexis. You’re coming out and you’re going to have fun. We might even find you a date. God knows you could stand to get laid.