4. Maeve
MAEVE
A week later, I find myself moving with a new kind of purpose—and, yes, I have to admit, it’s from Allison’s idea.
I was terrified to do the photo shoot. I almost cancelled half a dozen times, my hand hovering over the phone, my stomach in knots.
But I finally went through with it despite the crushing weight of my own anxiety.
The woman Allison recommended was in her sixties, an artist with a quiet, knowing gaze who had spent decades photographing professional burlesque dancers.
She had a soothing presence, and as the shoot went on, I really did start to feel more comfortable in my own skin. More present in my own body.
Now I’m excited to see the results. Nervous, too, I can admit that.
I had fun doing the shoot—more than I expected—but that doesn’t mean the end result will be something I like.
I might get the photos and find out that I look ridiculous, that my attempt at sensuality was a clumsy, laughable failure.
At least if the photos look bad, I have something else to cheer me up: it’s entering the holiday season, my favorite time of year.
I fell in love with the holiday season through food.
I love cooking and baking, and there’s no better time to do that than the holiday season at the end of the year.
Thanksgiving, Christmas, and all the rest—it’s a time when everyone wants to eat treats, and I love making them for people.
There is a quiet power in creating something that brings people joy.
It’s a way to take care of people and to make them happy, and I think food is a universal way to bring people closer together, no matter what else.
Already, some of the other employees are asking me what I’m going to bake this year. Last year I brought in a treat every day for the month of December, and I’m pretty sure that’s what won everyone over to me. I’m excited to do it again this year. I’ve drawn up an entire calendar.
“Keller?” Hayden’s voice cuts through the morning quiet. I don’t even have to look up to feel his presence looming over my desk, a storm cloud in a bespoke suit. “You want to explain to me why the Nagasaki papers haven’t arrived yet?”
“I sure would.” I don’t look up from where I’m logging into my various computer accounts. “Except they have arrived.”
“Then why aren’t they on my desk?” he demands, his tone dangerously soft.
“Because they didn’t change the language on page three the way you instructed, so I sent it down to legal to handle. Or would you rather I waste your time having you do it yourself when you have a meeting in fifteen minutes?” I hand him a file I had prepared. “This is the brief for your nine a.m.”
Hayden takes it, flipping it open. His dark eyes scan the first page. “I see you added your usual personal touch.”
I included a little Post-it that reminded him of some personal information on the people he’s meeting with.
Unlike Gabriel, who makes a point to remember everyone’s personal stuff so he can charm them, and Ford, who remembers because I’m pretty sure he has a blackmail dossier on everybody he’s ever met, Hayden seems to make it a point of pride to not know or care about people’s personal lives.
“Why am I not supposed to mention Switzerland? They know how much we rely on Switzerland for account holdings, right? Especially for non-monetary valuables like?—”
“Like art and jewelry, yes, I know, but the chairman’s wife died two months ago in a skiing accident in Switzerland, so just try and not sound callous, okay? I know it’s a challenge for you, but I’m sure if you try hard and believe in yourself you can manage.”
Hayden closes the file with a sharp snap. For a long moment, he just looks at me, his expression unreadable. “Well, good to know you’re on top of it.”
That’s as good as a parade in my honor, coming from Hayden. “Glad to hear it. Do you need me to schedule a block in your calendar for ‘practicing empathy,’ or are you good?”
“Keller, do us both a favor and don’t push your luck. It’s not even nine yet.” Hayden turns on his heel and stalks off toward his office.
Huh. He’s more on edge than usual. I wonder what that’s about .
As I’m contemplating that thought, the elevator door opens, and several workmen enter, carrying ladders, boxes, and garlands.
Shit. The decorators.
“Gentlemen!” I hurry over. “Right this way, thank you, if you could just…”
I get them directed where they’re supposed to go, and I can’t wipe the smile off my face. Even though the colors of most of the decorations will be a bit, well, colorless, I still love seeing them. It reminds me that it’s the best time of the year.
When I get back to the desk, I see there’s an envelope on the desk for me. It has a note from Rachel who works the lobby desk on the first floor, telling me that it was for me so she sent it up.
My heart gives a nervous flutter. I recognize the name on the return address—it’s the photographer. These are my photos.
I quickly open the envelope and sneak a peek inside to be sure. Yup, it’s them.
“Miss Keller?”
I look over to see one of the workers holding some wreaths. “Would you like us to place these on the office doors?”
“Yes, please, but make sure the name plaques can still be seen.”
“Even for, uh, Mr. Russo?”
I put the envelope down. “Don’t you let Mr. Russo get to you. He’s fine with it.”
“We don’t use nails, actually, can’t damage the door, we use these hooks that have adhesive backs…”
The worker gives me instructions and I take one of the wreaths myself.
Hayden scares people regularly, but he usually leaves the contract workers alone.
It’s one of the reasons I can’t truly dislike him.
He’s genuinely kind to blue-collar employees.
If he’s being a jerk at the moment, it means something big must be going down.
He only gets like this before a major play.
I wonder what it is.
I’m wrapped up in my thoughts, wondering what the deal could be and why I don’t know about it, when I reach my desk and my heart stops dead.
The envelope. It’s gone.
Ice floods my veins. I look around. None of the workers are even looking at the desk, busy decorating. I clear my throat. “Has anyone here seen an envelope that was on the desk? A manila one?”
“Tall guy with wavy hair grabbed it,” one of the workers informs me.
Oh, god. Gabriel. I look at the desk again, and there, set neatly to the side, is the stack of files that I had set aside for him. I often set files and such aside for the men, and they know that. Gabriel must’ve thought the envelope was his stuff.
My stomach plummets. I rush over to Gabriel’s office, hoping against hope that he just put the envelope aside and hasn’t had time to open it yet?—
When I push open the door, I see him standing there, envelope open, photos pulled out far enough that he’s definitely seeing everything.
And the expression on his face is one I’ve never seen before. The charming, easy mask he wears for the world is gone, stripped away to reveal something unguarded underneath. He’s gone utterly still, his striking amber eyes fixed on the photograph in his hands.
He must be disgusted. No, even worse, amused.
Gabriel is gorgeous, rich, French, and charming.
He flirts regularly with supermodels. He’s probably slept with the most beautiful women in the entire world, and now he’s staring at these pictures of me, the ones where I dared to believe, for a single afternoon, that I could be sexy.
“Those aren’t the Lanstock files,” I manage to choke out.
Gabriel slowly looks up at me, and my breath catches in my throat.