Chapter 3
The timid woman holding my executive assistant’s cell phone stares at me blankly.
Is she awake?
She appears to have just rolled out of bed. Her auburn hair falls in messy waves around her face.
Her wide, blue-green eyes peer up at me as if I’m an ogre, with a third eye on my forehead.
Or, worse, a demon with actual horns.
I’m not a demon.
I’m her boss, apparently, though I can’t exactly remember hiring her. She’s probably new. I do believe HR recently hired a few new people to the Shipping Department. I have only a vague recollection of seeing her around, perhaps in the hallway once or twice.
“I have some sort of… um… bad news,” she whispers.
“Speak up.” I don’t have time to stand here, straining to hear her. I have a massive to-do list today, plus that big meeting with my designers at noon. And so much research on trends to catch up on. Research that Amanda was supposed to send me, which I have not yet seen in my inbox.
This woman before me… she’s making me feel impatient. Her long pauses feel extra drawn out, given the work I feel piling up on my shoulders as we speak.
I clench my jaw and resist the urge to snap my fingers.
Hurry up already.
Get to the point.
Time is money, and we’re losing too much of it right now.
Though the tips of my fingers itch, I don’t snap like I want to. I heard her call me a monster already. No need to reinforce the label by acting like a jerk. With great effort, I push down my impatience.
She swallows hard, then slides the cell phone across her messy and cluttered desk toward me. Next, she scoots the tablet forward. “Your assistant walked out about ten minutes ago. I think she quit for good. At least, it sounded that way.” She glances nervously over at Elizabeth Rixon, seated beside her.
Elizabeth, I know, at least. She came highly recommended, and she’s met with me once a week since she started. Her Human Resources updates are always succinct, brisk, and efficient, which I appreciate.
“Elizabeth, what’s going on?” I ask.
“It’s like Gwen is saying, Mr. Benson. Sorry to be the ones to give you the news. Amanda Lackey walked out of here minutes ago after telling all of us her intentions to quit. I can reach out to her to confirm and get an official notice, but I believe she meant every word of it. We should move forward as though she’s not coming back.”
I swallow down a curse word.
I am not a guy who gets slowed down by obstacles like this. In my experience, it’s better to do exactly as my Head of HR suggests and move forward.
“Hire a replacement,” I say.
Immediately, a bunch of worries bubble up. Amanda Lackey wasn’t good at her job, but she did juggle a lot of things all at once. Now I feel those balls dropping out of the air, bouncing chaotically around me.
I hate chaos.
The research is for the clothing design meeting. Where is it?
Did she mail out Vanessa’s swimsuit, like I asked?
What’s the status of this week’s podcast editing? Did she contact Pete, or must I delegate that to someone else?
I like to be on top of things. I can’t stand when plans go awry. Amanda was supposed to handle all of those things. And now… what? Getting a replacement on board and trained up will take at least twenty-four hours.
Maybe longer.
The cell phone that the timid woman pushed toward me starts to ring.
I wait for her to answer it again.
She actually did well on the phone, her long pauses aside. She was polite and friendly and seemed to handle the incoming issue regarding my travel plans competently.
That’s more than I can say for Amanda, who often had a negative attitude when on the phone, as if every call was ruining her day. That always irked me. Answering that phone was her job. What I paid her for. She should have owned it and not gotten so offended every time it rang.
The shy, messy-haired woman peers wide-eyed at the phone.
What did Elizabeth call her?
Gwen, I think.
Yes, Gwen.
Her slender throat moves slightly as she gulps. “You don’t want me to—I mean, I can’t really… I’m not qualified to…”
Her voice is barely above a whisper now. She’s still blushing. She lifts those oceanic, blue-green eyes and stares at me with so much fear that I start to feel like a bad guy.
I remind myself that I’m not a villain.
I’m driven. I have high standards. But I’m not evil.
I point to the phone. “Could you pick that up?”
She wrings her hands, then tucks a strand of kinked hair behind her ear. The phone goes to voicemail.
Another item… dropped chaotically.
This day is getting messy.
I hate messes.
My eyes rove over the desk before me, which is a total disaster. Stacks of papers clutter one end. The wire rack of file folders is off-kilter, and the tabs look worn and jagged. A crumb-covered napkin serves as a plate for not one but three donuts, and multiple mugs are scattered about, too.
Then, there are the vases of flowers and picture frames—too many to count. It sets my teeth on edge to see how close the water-filled vases are to the important-looking paperwork.
I feel like I’m going to break out in hives just looking at all the chaos.
So, I look down at my wristwatch. An icon tells me I’m due in my office in five minutes to take a call.
“I’m really sorry,” Gwen frets.
Don’t be sorry. Just be a good employee.
I expect my employees to work as hard as I do. Is that too much to ask?
My blood boils with the impulse to walk. I like to be on the move, and I’ve already spent too long standing here.
My leg muscles burn from the presses I did earlier today. Yep, that’s lactic acid building up. I need to get moving.
“The next time that phone rings, please answer it,” I say.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” she murmurs, with a worried look at her computer.
There are stickers around the computer’s edge and so many Post-it notes I feel dizzy just looking at them.
She won’t meet my eye as she goes on. “I mean, Mandy—er—Amanda, I mean—she had experience working as an assistant. I wouldn’t know how to jump in and sort through everything she was in the middle of. It might be better to wait and get someone more qualified.”
“Waiting is not one of my strategies,” I tell her.
If I “waited” for things to happen, I would not be where I am today.
I shake my head. “I heard you handle that incoming call regarding plane tickets, and you did well. Answer just like that, and you’ll be fine.”
“I’m sorry to be like this—I really am,” she protests. “I want to help. I really do. I want to be a team player. It’s just that I have a lot of work to do with my shipping and customer care duties. I couldn’t possibly add on all this other stuff.”
She gestures to the phone. “I mean, Mandy—um, Amanda—was running errands for you and everything, right? She’s supposed to mail that bathing suit to Vanessa today.”
“You know about Vanessa?”
It pleases me to hear how much this timid, polite woman already knows about the tasks Amanda was juggling. “That’s good. Perfect. You’re already stepping into her shoes.”
“No—no, I have my own shoes. They’re clogs.” She pokes her leg out from her desk and wags a hideous brown clog my way.
The brown color matches the frumpy cardigan draped over her shoulders like a big, woolen potato sack.
“I don’t mean that literally,” I say as I eye the second foot she pops out from behind the desk to match the first. Two brown clogs. One green sock, one pink one. Yikes…
My watch beeps.
I am officially missing the call from one of my top pro-athlete clients. Great.
“I know, I know, I get that.” She tucks her feet back behind the desk. “Oh—I guess I should relay Vanessa’s message. She said she had an awesome time on Saturday night.”
She seems to fight a smile as she goes on. “And that the cocktails were killer. Oh, and she added kissy-lip emojis to her text. Three kisses. That’s a lot.” Her lip twitches.
I search the clutter on her desk and finally spot her name placard. Gwen Temple.
“Are you making fun of Vanessa’s text message, Mrs. Temple?”
“Oh, no.” Her blush heats her cheeks. Her blue eyes glitter with a liveliness I didn’t see, before. “Nope. I wouldn’t. I’m just trying to pass on the message accurately.”
She pushes the phone toward me again. “And make the point that I can’t cover both jobs, since your assistant has to handle personal errands, and I don’t have room in my schedule for that.”
“I’d like you to make room. I will pay you extra, of course.”
That stirs more life in those big, wide eyes.
Now that I’m paying a little more attention, her face is actually quite pretty. It has a heart shape. Her nose is cute, her lips red and plump. Her eyes are her best feature—so wide, expressive, and blue as the Caribbean sea.
“You will?”
I nod. I need to wrap this up. Now. “Whatever you want. Name your price.”
Her eyes flick over to the right.
Since I’m facing her now, I can’t see what’s over there. I swivel to the right and catch Elizabeth Rixon hitching her thumb into the air.
The meaning behind her gesture is clear, and I nod. “She’s right. You hold the cards right now, Mrs. Temple. Aim high.”
“You can call me Gwen.” She bites her lip and swivels in her chair nervously. Her elbow bumps one of the vases on her desk, and it wobbles. “I think… I think I could manage these assistant duties and my regular tasks if I put in some extra hours. Could you possibly pay me, um, three times my current hourly rate?”
I nod. “Done.”
I glance over at Elizabeth, aware that every passing second makes me later for the important call I’m supposed to be on right now. “Elizabeth, please set it up and draw up paperwork that reflects Gwen’s new responsibilities until further notice.”
“Wait, this is just temporary. Until you find a replacement, right?” Gwen asks.
I barely hear her. I don’t have time for this. “And, Elizabeth, please post a job posting for the exec assistant position on all the usual recruitment sites. Bump the annual salary up by ten thousand. I want my next assistant to last longer than six months.”
Gwen opens her mouth, but I don’t have time to listen to her thank me—which must be what she’s about to do.
I did just increase her hourly wage by three-fold, after all.
“You can thank me another time,” I say over my shoulder as I walk away. Then, I turn. “Oh, and one more thing. Gwen—get rid of the flowers. All of them.”
At the elevators, I take a deep breath.
Business is like boxing. One needs to be good at both avoiding hits and throwing punches. I’ve played enough defense for the morning, and now it’s time to make some offensive moves.
First, I’ll jump in on the call with my pro-athlete client.
Then I have a meeting with my design department. That will be tough, given how underprepared I feel. We’re supposed to nail down the final cuts for next year’s spring looks, and there will be many decisions to make, all of them with high-risk, high-reward potential.
But I can handle the pressure.
Time to go into attack mode and make some of the quick, money-making decisions I’m known for.
Amanda’s abrupt departure threw a kink in my Monday morning, for sure, but I handled it. I’ve dodged the damage that would surely come if I went without an assistant for any time.
That Gwen woman will bridge the gap, and I’ll soon have another assistant on board… One who’s better suited to the job than Gwen Temple.
A person who doesn’t take annoyingly long pauses between sentences. Someone more efficient with communication, and more confident.
Better-dressed would be a plus, too.
A person’s wardrobe says a lot about them, and Gwen’s didn’t inspire confidence.
Those mismatched socks spoke volumes—not in a good way. Did she get dressed in the dark or something?
Also, her brown sweater was awful, and I saw a mysterious tan flake nestled in the yarn.
Wood chip?
Sawdust?
I don’t know, and I don’t want to know.
The elevator arrives, and I step inside. Time to get this day back on track.