Chapter 17
Nathan
“ W here to, boss? Home?” my driver asks me as we sit in an idle car.
“I, um… Give me a minute.” I don’t know where I want to go. It’s not home. After rehashing all that traumatic shit at dinner, I don’t want to go back to my home and sit alone with the ghosts of my should-be family.
I dragged out dinner as long as possible with Finn so I wouldn’t have to face my grim thoughts.
But when he opted to skip dessert, I know he just wanted to get back to his wife with her dinner while it was still hot.
He promised he’d check in with Senior about the parking lot, and I very subtly told him to warn his grandpa about possible spies in his company.
Of course I didn’t tell him my dad was behind the whole debacle, but I felt a warning was the decent thing to do.
What are they going to do? Find Casey and fire him?
From what I understand, he already put in his resignation.
I just want to ensure no bugs were placed or important documents are missing.
“I can’t wait here much longer, Mr. Hatcher. We’re half-blocking a fire lane and a cop keeps circling. He’s bound to notice. Should I pull into a parking garage?”
Still not answering, I release a deep sigh. My chest slowly rises and falls like the emotional exhaustion is inhibiting my breathing. I’m not sure what to do. For three years straight, I wanted to be alone. But now, when I’m dreading it, I don’t have anyone I can call. Or, do I?
It’s past eight on a Friday night… I shouldn’t call my assistant. It’s creepy. But, then again—she didn’t get the reports done I asked her to. Maybe that’s excuse enough.
Finding Spencer in my contacts list, I press the green call button. She answers on the first ring.
“I know ,” she snaps. No hello, or what do you need. She was expecting my call, and probably anticipating some form of verbal discipline.
“You know what?” I ask, playing dumb.
“Oh.” She sighs into the phone. “Sorry, what are you calling about?”
I picture her big brown puppy-dog eyes, probably thinking she dodged a bullet. Nope. “I’m calling about the fact I asked for the voicemail notes on my desk by Friday. As far as I’m aware, it’s Friday. ”
“Nathan, I tried my best. I got everything else done on the list. I’ve been listening to voicemails in the car, on speaker while I shower, and basically every single waking moment.
I’ve only made it through about half. I don’t know why you think one person could get this done in time.
I sent you an email earlier with my progress and the spreadsheet. ”
I’ve been at dinner with Finn. I haven’t checked my email in a few hours. “What spreadsheet?”
“My old boss, Hank, was a data guy. I became quite the whiz at Airtables while I was working for him. I figured you wouldn’t want to read through hundreds of pages of my call notes, so I made a spreadsheet organized by property location, complaint type, and severity.
There’s even a column in the spreadsheet about profanity level, scale of one to ten. ”
“Profanity level? Impressive.”
“That’s actually a pretty useless column. They are mostly all nines and tens. Go ahead and assume everyone calling these lines is beyond irate.”
“What are the tenants so pissed about?” I look up and meet my driver’s stare through the rearview mirror. He widens them in a look that asks, What the hell are we doing?
“ That’s the thing ,” Spencer says, surprising me with her sudden enthusiasm.
“The great thing about spreadsheets is it’s easy to identify patterns.
I listened to about half of each property’s voicemails and for Midlake Townhouses and Falcon Crest Apartments, the complaints are pretty varied.
Some legitimate, some bogus, but there’s a good mix of various issues.
Now, with Lakeshore and Graystone apartments, that’s where it gets interesting. ”
I relax in my seat, enjoying the sound of her voice. We’re talking about work, but suddenly I don’t feel so alone. “Well, Nancy Drew. Sounds like you’re on a trail. Fill me in.”
“Nancy Drew? As in you’re calling me a child?” Her question has a bitter edge.
“Spencer, I’m ten years your senior. Please believe me, when people in their thirties call a young twentysomething a ‘kid,’ it’s a compliment, and out of pure envy.”
She laughs. “Okay, I’ll take it. Anyway, I live at Graystone.”
“You do?” I cringe. Those are mostly corporate housing apartments in desperate need of a facelift.
We get an obnoxious overhead return on those units because they were cheap as fuck to build, yet because of the location, we can charge about triple what they’re worth.
From a businessman’s perspective, it was a fantastic investment.
Knowing Spencer is living there leaves a bad taste in my mouth.
“Yes. Remember a couple weeks ago when my closet flooded? It’s still not completely fixed.
Building maintenance came through and put up new sheetrock where the water leaked, but the plumbing issues in the unit above us are still ongoing.
I overheard the maintenance team complaining to each other that the plumbers were purposely dragging out the job for more billable hours. ”
I shrug as if she can see me. “Not ideal, but that’s common in the industry. They have to feed their families somehow.”
“Well, yes, except one of the maintenance guys said that his brother was licensed and bonded and could have the pipes repaired same-day, except… And this is where it really gets interesting, boss.”
“You have my full attention.” It’s the truth. I’m enjoying playing into her skit. She seems very proud of herself.
“Graystone and Lakeshore apparently have an exclusive agreement with one plumbing company—Ottman Plumbing. They won’t call in anyone else to do plumbing repairs so all the residents have to wait on that one team.”
“Again, Spencer, not to burst your bubble, but that’s not uncommon.”
“Bup, bup, bup—let me finish,” she chirps.
“Remember how you asked me to get that detailed breakdown of the invoice from the construction company? The office manager warned me they’d be switching plumbing providers before the final construction because they didn’t like how Ottman Plumbing makes their clients sign an exclusivity agreement saying if they do the initial installation, they are the only ones who can service the plumbing for a minimum of fifteen years . ”
“Fifteen? Nothing in plumbing is under warranty for fifteen years as far as I’m aware.”
“Exactly!” she exclaims with glee. “Don’t you get it? They are purposely doing shitty jobs during construction, banking on the plumbing failing, then they reach into your pockets again for the repairs. Not to mention, they are also half-assing the repairs for more billable hours.”
“Holy shit?—”
“And guess who was contracted for plumbing at Lakeshore and Graystone apartments?”
“Ottman.”
“Yup. And guess what kinds of damages almost all of the voicemails for Graystone and Lakeshore are about?”
“Plumbing?”
“And the fallout from shoddy work. Water damage, mold, warped floors, mildew odors. Boss, your complexes are basically giant soggy boxes of cardboard. I’d move if I could afford to.”
I spring up in my seat, pressing the phone tightly to my ear. “So it’s not the tenant or the property management company’s fault. We need to take the plumber to court.”
“Precisely.”
“And you have a paper trail?”
“I think so? I have detailed documentation with time stamps, and just in case, I made sure to save every single voice message I listened to.”
I could kiss her right now. We’ll need the documentation to bury these corrupt fucks. She’s so smart for keeping it. “Spencer, you did amazing. Good girl. ”
“I…uh…okay. Thank you.” She clears her throat like she’s uncomfortable, and I can’t for the life of me understand what suddenly tripped her up.
“You said there’s still more messages?”
“Yes, I was actually still listening when you called.”
And now I’m the asshole who has my assistant working late on a Friday night. My brilliant assistant who might’ve just saved my company hundreds of millions of dollars in the way of lawsuits.
“Have you eaten?” I ask.
“Huh?”
“Meet me at the office. Run me through your spreadsheet and I’ll help you listen to the rest of the calls.
We can order a late dinner. Breakfast too if we pull an all-nighter.
I want to get my legal team as much ammo as possible to build a strong case.
We’re going to bury these assholes, immediately. ”
“I would, Nathan. I want to help. But I can’t leave my apartment.”
I scoff. “What, you got a hot date over there or something?” It’s a joke, but my stomach churns at the idea of Spencer with a guy.
I realize she’s not mine. But also, she’s mine.
If I’m going to give her a fair shot as my executive assistant, she really doesn’t have time to be talking to any other guy.
“My sister is underage and I don’t have a babysitter.”
“Oh.”
“But I’ll keep plugging away tonight and will report to your office first thing on Monday after I drop Charlie off at school.”
No. I want my lawyers on this now. And also, every bone in my body is aching to see Spencer. Tonight.
“Do you like Chinese food?”
“Yes, but I’m still on my diet.”
“Oh, fuck your diet.” If I weren’t her boss, I’d tell her it’d be a travesty for her to lose even an ounce of her curvy hips or plump tits.
I’d happily bury my face between her beautifully thick thighs and suffocate there.
It’s a crying shame she doesn’t see what I see when she looks at herself.
“I’m going to pick up dinner, then I’m on my way. I’m not far from Graystone.”
I ate, so this is mostly for Spencer. I just don’t want to show up empty-handed. Breaking bread together is always the best way to start a truce.
“Spencer, is that all right?” I ask when she doesn’t say anything. “I won’t if it makes you uncomfortable.”
She hesitates for so long, I’m certain I overstepped. I’m doing mental gymnastics, trying to figure out how to rescind my offer with my dignity intact, when she finally answers, “Charlie likes orange chicken, but not spicy. I like pork lo mein and hot and sour soup. We’re in apartment 3F.”
“Attagirl. Give me a few, I’ll be right there.”
“Hey, Nathan?” Spencer asks.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for being cool about me being late with this project. I’m so relieved. I thought you were calling to yell at me.”
“Of course.”
The call ends and I instruct my driver to head toward Lucky Buddha near Graystone. Spencer’s words bounce around in my mind as we pull into traffic. She thought I was going to yell at her? Am I that far gone?
I get my past assistants didn’t like me. Admittedly, I never gave them a chance.
But Spencer? I don’t understand. If she thinks the worst of me, why has she stuck around? Is her stubbornness and determination honestly about the job?
Or is it about me?