8. EIGHT
“I don’t need an Executive Assistant,” Roscoe told the woman in HR over the phone.
Poppy Fields…
The name was there on his screen, in black and white. He’d been stuck staring at it unblinking for so long it was probably going to be burnt into his retinas forever. The same way the feel of her waist was burnt into his fingers.
The sound of her dismayed laugh when he tried to kiss her.
Let’s be honest…everyone knows how it works at BG…
Melanie in HR left a polite pause. If Aubrey was right about his supposed influence at BG, she ought to nod, agree, and cancel this ridiculously unnecessary staffing arrangement right away. But Roscoe clearly held less sway than his friend assumed. Because Melanie said, “Of course, it’s entirely up to you to structure your team as you see fit. But it’s going to take a while for you to recruit the people you want, which is why it’s a great idea to take Poppy on secondment from George’s EA team. We’d normally recruit a temp, but with your current workload, George suggested that someone who knows the company already would be a better solution—someone who can dive right in. And Liz and I agree. Liz suggested Poppy, and I have to say, I know her, and she’s extremely capable. Very bright.”
Heat prickled the back of his neck. His hand was sweaty on the phone. It felt more like anger than embarrassment, but the two had been mingled together in a fairly toxic brew ever since Friday night and he could barely tell them apart.
“Just get me a temp. No need to take anyone out of George’s team.”
“I’m sorry, Roscoe, but Liz already discussed it with Poppy. If it’s really not what you want, we can rescind the offer. But as I said, it’s only a secondment until you recruit your own people. Is there, ah, any reason for not wanting Poppy Fields in your team?”
Because she thinks I’m an exploitative man-slut?
He could say no. Put his foot down. Melanie wouldn’t argue. Liz, his dad—he could fob them off. Surely Poppy didn’t want this? There was no way she could ever want to be in the same room as him again.
But he kept remembering her face. The tremble in her voice after he’d shouted and raged. Please don’t get me fired.
Melanie, Liz… They wouldn’t fight him on this. But they might wonder why he’d turned down bright, capable Poppy Fields, the perfect bloody person for the job.
Suppressing a sigh, he kept his voice light. “No. No reason. I just…didn’t want to disrupt George’s team.”
“Don’t worry!” chirped Melanie. “I’m sure she’s excited to come work with you! This is a great opportunity for her.”
Yes. And she didn’t even have to sleep with him to get it. How lucky for her that she’d dodged that bullet.
It paid more money, that was why she said yes. And it would look great on her CV. And she couldn’t think of a single reasonable explanation for saying HELL NO, not with Liz looking at her like a proud mother hen.
Roscoe Blackton has accepted your meeting invitation.
She had been staring at that little notification for an unhealthily long time. It might as well say: Your execution has been scheduled!
Two minutes to go.
She reached for her notebook with a sweaty hand. Failed to stand up.
Was she going to be late for her first meeting?
Was she going to be able to walk in there without throwing up?
Was this her, standing up from her desk and walking on shaky knees out of the sanctuary of her little office…?
Maybe if she tried really, really hard, she could simply cease to exist. Will herself out of the world. And everything would go away and she wouldn’t have to rap on this half-open door and she wouldn’t hear Roscoe Blackton say, “Come in.”
But no. Reality kept happening.
He was sitting at his desk. He threw a glance vaguely in her direction, then stood up. Then stood there. Then sat back down again. His hands were clasped on the desk in front of him, and she was vividly struck by their strength and size, the tendons standing out on the back of them. Or maybe that was because he was clasping them together in a white-knuckled grip.
They fitted perfectly around her waist.
“Take a seat,” he said.
She took one.
Her notepad was on her knee, clamped there with one damp palm. She had a pen in her other hand. For some reason, her brain decided the perfect thing to do was to start tapping the pen on the notepad. She heard another tapping sound and looked up. Roscoe’s fingers were drumming on his desk. Their eyes snapped together, and they both abruptly stopped.
He’d had his hair cut. It took some of the warm softness from his face. Made him look chiselled, harder. Maybe that was why he’d done it. Shaping himself for this new role. Someone older, more professional, more responsible. But she couldn’t help but remember how those soft waves had felt between her fingers and a part of her she tried to ignore asked, Is that why he did it? To remove the taint of my touch?
“So,” said Roscoe.
“Yes.”
“This is temporary.”
Poppy nodded and said “Yes” again.
“I don’t really need an EA. So—”
“Liz said you’re heading up a big project and—”
“I can field my own calls and emails. Can’t risk missing anything important—”
“If you debrief me on who—”
“And I prefer making my own travel arrangements—”
“But your time—”
“I can manage my own diary—”
“Is this—?” Poppy was already hot all over, but her face burned brighter still as she realised that, yes, her mouth was indeed about to say what it was opening to say. “Is this about the other night?”
Roscoe’s jaw clamped shut. It was probably just as well he had access to excellent private dentistry because she thought he might crack a tooth.
“No. Well… No. But about that…” He cleared his throat. There was a pink tinge on his cheekbones. And it was extremely annoying how forcefully Poppy was made to acknowledge that the sight of Roscoe Blackton blushing was one of the most delicious things she had ever seen.
“I just want to make it clear that whatever my…um…intentions, my sentiments, might have been the other night, you can be assured that they will not be repeated. It was extremely unprofessional. And I apologise.” He cleared his throat again. “And if you… If you want to inform HR or recuse yourself from this post, then I will understand and support that.”
She actually, literally sat there with her mouth hanging open for a moment. He was apologising to her?
“And further,” he continued in the manner of a man making his last forced confession before death by firing squad, “it has been brought to my attention that my…my unique position in the company gives me…perhaps…a degree of undue influence, and if you felt, on Friday night, that my…my…approach to you was in any way an exertion of that influence, then I—”
“No. No.” She cut him off, for both their sakes. “I didn’t…erm…think that.” She uncrossed her legs. Recrossed them. Nearly dropped her notepad. She tucked some hair behind her ear with the hand holding her pen and wasn’t entirely sure that she hadn’t accidentally drawn on her face.
“Right,” said Roscoe. He nodded. Looked to the side as though wondering if an escape hatch might have magically appeared in the wall. But when he turned back to her, a featureless mask of professionalism had settled over his features, and his mouth was pressed into a cool line. “So. As I said. I’m not in much need of an EA right now. But I’ll let you know if I need anything. Thank you, Poppy. That will be all.”