Chapter 9 Jules
JULES
Toward the end of the week, according to Jeannie’s “tea time” reports relayed to me in code via the ever-loyal Wendy and Carmen, it comes to my attention that Veronica and Misha are bitter because they were “demoted.”
Apparently, Ms. Drecken’s assistants are turning other coworkers against me in whispers and stares because they want to aid the handsome new exec.
It’s not like I had a say in the matter. They can park outside his office and receive his steely glare all day for all I care.
My glowy Care Bear heart isn’t cut out for this kind of toxic office culture.
After my run-in with Sullivan on the reference floor, we’ve kept a safe distance from each other.
The man has a firm grip, a wicked stare, and a smug smile I’d like to kiss off his face—I mean, strangle. You know, if that weren’t so violent.
Also, I’m still not sure what happened to the painting in the Eaton Boyd Collection. For now, the mystery remains unsolved because Mr. Party Pooper wanted me to review the Ellicott Collection—a bachelor without a loving bone in his body, according to reports.
That will have to wait because with a stack of Post-its, I create a different vision. Have a new mission. I’m out to prove that not all corporate employees need to be drones and not all executives need to be sons of Satan—Drecken may as well be his bride.
I am going to rise to the top with grace all the way.
After all, that’s my middle name. Someday, when I run this place, we’ll celebrate Mondays with pastries from Flour Hour (that’s for you, Wendy!), have a group game night, and wear casual attire on Fridays (come in with your favorite Hawaiian-print dress, Carmen!).
I can see the future as I sit upon a cotton candy throne with not a single member of the Meridian community hating me. In fact, the current top executives will wonder why they were doing things so backward.
However, between now and then, I’ve mastered the art of sneaking down to the Collections Processing Department when Mr. Sullivan is out for lunch.
I’m like a cat whose family moved and keeps returning to its old house, hoping for a saucer of cream.
It should be noted that Carmen keeps the good stuff in the break room fridge and doesn’t mind when I add a splash.
We collectively fear that the non-perishable “creamer” in those tiny cups contains formaldehyde.
My visits to the thirty-third floor have become an oasis in my work day—a brief respite where I can actually breathe without Sullivan’s disapproving stare following my every move.
On my way, I leave happy little sticky notes on the desks of all whom I pass.
“Juliana!” Wendy pops up from the supply closet when I announce my arrival.
Carmen bustles over from a filing cabinet. “We were discussing your new boss situation earlier.”
I slump into the empty chair at my old desk. At least I haven’t been replaced, yet. “Situations have exits. This does not.”
“But this is what you wanted.” Wendy chirps, far too cheerful for a Thursday afternoon.
I rub my temples where a headache is starting to fester.
I wanted to finish my degree without being saddled with all of my father’s debts, then maybe get a real position in acquisitions or authentication.
Not become someone’s glorified gopher. I’ve met Matt and have utmost respect for the dorky kid fresh out of college who wears suits that he’ll soon fill out if he indulges in the board meeting pastries to quell his sadness.
“The truth is, I should be grateful. A job means security, at least for now. But why does it have to be with him?”
“Can we talk about how dreamy he is?” Jeannie appears with a folder, fanning herself dramatically before dropping it off and slipping away. Of course, this snippet will make its rounds through the building, likely morphing into the latest hot gossip.
“Silver fox,” Wendy adds with a long sigh.
“I don’t see any gray hair,” I protest.
“We mean foxy,” Wendy clarifies.
“Who are we talking about?” I glance between them, confused.
“Objectively speaking,” they chorus.
My eyes widen in question.
Wendy leans forward conspiratorially. “Don’t tell me you don’t know. Mr. Sullivan is the head of the company’s son.”
The words are slow to process, like the geriatric computers in the mailroom.
“We know exactly what he’ll look like when he ages. These are the kind of good genes you look for when you get older.” Carmen, with her cat-eyes, winks.
My stomach drops. But they must be wrong. The big boss is Frank Andresen. The ogre who occupies the chair adjacent to my new office is Mr. L. Sullivan.
“Jeannie says, and I quote, ‘Andresen is scary hot in that intimidating billionaire way,’” Wendy continues, oblivious to my internal meltdown. “‘Can you imagine what Linc will look like in twenty years?’”
Frank Andresen has steel-gray hair and piercing blue eyes that seem to see straight through a person and into their soul.
He commands every room he enters. The fact that I practically lied to his face last week, while in a hostage situation with Sullivan and his buddy, is an anomaly.
Though technically, I intended to visit the Research and Reference Department.
As much as I wanted to go boating with the dangerously attractive Eastern European giant and see if, when water touched Mr. Sullivan’s skin, he’d hiss and deflate like a movie monster turning to dust, I didn’t want to get fired.
Wendy’s eyes cloud over. “I’m having a secondhand crush just watching you two interact.”
Mine bulge. “You’re what? We’re not—we don’t—when did you see us interact?” I ask, struggling to get the words out.
“At the quarterly meeting yesterday, in the hallway, outside the east elevator.” Carmen nods pointedly.
Wendy counts off on her fingers. “You two have a certain kind of magnetism. Chemistry. A sizzle. It’s undeniable.”
But deny it I will. ‘Til the death!
“Admit he’s handsome.” Wendy smiles sweetly.
Carmen’s hand lands on her hip.
I’m not getting out of here before Sullivan is back at his desk upstairs unless I cave.
Clearing my throat, I say, “He’s fine.”
“Nineties slang F-I-N-E fine?” Carmen asks.
Wendy closes her eyes and nods as if our coworker speaks the truth.
We go back and forth for a few more minutes before I lose the battle as they scale new heights and dredge deep lows by claiming my boss and I are at the budding stage of what’ll blossom into an office romance.
When I was still working down here, because I was the only single lady, they appointed themselves matchmakers.
Last season, they even submitted my name as a contestant for the “Sweetheart Report.” They’ll never stop unless I relent.
Arms firmly crossed like a barricade in front of my chest, I say, “My boss is objectively attractive in a ruggedly handsome way that’s completely at odds with his stodgy executive status. This is not one of those stories that will end with us going from bitter nemeses to madly in love.”
“But why not?” Wendy frowns like I claimed her baby is hideous.
“For one, he’s my boss. For two, he’s horrible. For three, he’s not my type.”
“Why isn’t he your type?” Carmen asks.
As if I’d ever date that beast in a three-piece suit.
“He’s terrifying,” I say.
“Terrifyingly attractive,” Wendy pipes.
“He has a resting brute face. He made Suzie in Licensing and Rights Management cry.”
Carmen sighs. “But she’s so sweet.”
“Exactly.” I flip my hand, gesturing to put a fine point on it. “He’s not my type because I’m pretty much his maid and I’d prefer a guy who tidies up his own messes.”
“Does he make you clean up after him?” Carmen asks, aghast.
I waffle. “Well, no.”
“So you’re more like a personal assistant. Do you have to fetch his coffee?”
“No, but—”
Wendy whispers, “Does he want you to do other things? We could report him to HR for you.”
“No, it’s nothing like that.” I push back the cuticle on my thumb. “I got my dream job, researcher and archivist, in responsibility only. Not in name. I’m his Special Projects Assistant and get zero respect—”
“You have that look,” Wendy interrupts, studying my expression like an art authenticator examining a suspicious Monet.
“I do not. Whatever expression you see on my face is one of loathing. Deep, unadulterated hatred.”
They both laugh like I’m Ken from shipping and receiving, who is ready with a new “dad joke” whenever he rolls through.
“The man is minty,” I continue, desperate to make my point.
Carmen inhales dreamily. “I bet he smells ah-may-zing.”
“Like mint?” Wendy asks.
“Probably more like a rat that just crawled out of a sewer and then stepped in dog—”
“Then what did you mean by minty?” Wendy interrupts again.
I search for the right words. “You know, harsh. Sharp. Like he could cut you down with a single look.”
But even as I say it, I remember the way his aftershave lingered in the elevator earlier—clean and crisp.
“Speaking of your minty boss,” Carmen says, glancing at her computer screen, “you might want to head back upstairs. He just sent out a company-wide email asking for you.”
My stomach lurches. “What kind of email?”
“The kind that says, ‘Has anyone seen Julita? I need her in my office immediately.’ I assume that’s you.”
“He still doesn’t know your name?” Wendy whispers as if she’s about to get in trouble by proxy.
“He certainly knows it, but doesn’t hesitate to call me anything other than Juliana. Most recently, he referred to me as Buttercup.”
Wendy bounces a little. “Like from Princess Bride? That means he’s your Westley.”
“You’ll fall in love after peril and a grand gesture—a declaration of devotion!” Now Carmen has gone over the top.
“Never.” I roll my eyes, but before I can fume, I take my leave.