Chapter 16
“Well, well, well, don’t you two look like brunette Ken and Barbie?
Nicely tanned and relaxed.” Trystan rises from his desk, headset cast aside over the back of his chair.
He rises to greet both of us, frowning when he realizes I’m alone.
We stare at Mason’s retreating back as he continues into his executive corner suite. “Is he grumpy? He looks… grumpy?”
I smack his shoulder. “No, he’s not grumpy. He’s focused. You of all people know how he is about missing any work. And deadlines, plus Helen being away with her family. He’s not grumpy, maybe he’s a little on edge.”
“Yeah, that’s grumpy, babe. How was the—”
Thinking he wants details of the nuptials, I gush details of the ceremony and reception like a fountain before two upturned palms fill my field of vision.
“Noooooo. I don’t want a word about the wedding,” he seethes. “But I’ll hear about Harbour Island. The last time I was there was amazing until we had to leave when a hurricane was bearing down on us. Good times,” he adds, almost wistfully.
“Mason took me sailing,” I gush again. The four days spent away with Mason in a setting so relaxed you almost had to feel for a pulse were surreal.
Media Mason was back here in New York, and I was accompanied by a charming, adventure-loving rogue who refused to shave and was mostly in our Buré naked.
Gloriously so. My artist's eye drank every pore of him in with renewed appreciation. From the dark hair dusting his legs, arms, and across his chest, to the way it thickened, forming an arrow bisecting his lower abdomen and Adonis belt. He moved with an easy assuredness, whether delivering me a perfectly brewed coffee after unfurling me from the toga of sheets I’d draped myself in, or dragging me under the frigid outdoor shower with him when we’d returned from a day sailing.
“He loves to sail but doesn’t get out as often as he’d like.”
“He told me,” I say, jostled from the memory of the way the ship’s wheel glided through his capable hands as he deftly steered us toward an island for a closer inspection. “Look at these photos!”
Trystan catches my phone and flicks through the dozens of shots of Captain Mason, eyes focused on the horizon as we cut through the water like a blade.
“He looks almost human again,” he jokes, his index finger swiping one way, only to go back and study an image further, eyes crinkling as he focuses on the small screen.
“Christ, woman, how many shots did you take?”
A lot! “I was thinking of doing one as a charcoal drawing. So, I took several bursts to help with tone and definition. I’m not sure what shot I’ll use but there is enough to make the decision an easy one.”
“This one,” he offers, tilting the screen my way before sending a copy of the photo to himself.
His eyes bore into the image with a kind of softness I haven’t seen from Trystan before.
Old memories unlock a surge of dopamine and serotonin in tandem.
Did Trystan sail with Mason? They’ve worked together for a long time, so it wouldn’t be out of the ordinary.
“By the way, here are your messages. Who is Geoffrey?”
I stare down at the neat lines of text. Confirmations of upcoming meetings, a request to meet with a vlogger, and the message from Geoffrey.
Please have her call me. I can’t seem to get in touch with her private number.
Shit. I took one phone with me to Harbour Island, and it was my work cell.
I didn’t think an absence of four days would warrant anything catastrophic.
If something had worsened with Caitlin, Mom would call, not Geoff? Unless it was something with Liam?
“Did he say why he was calling?”
“No, just said he’d tried your number twice over a couple of days and it had gone to messages.”
“Did you tell him I was out of the country?”
“Fuck no. In this business, you throw no bones to any dogs. Who is he, anyway?” His chin rests on his fist as he stares at me with wide eyes and a hint of a curl on his lips.
“Geoffrey is my brother’s partner.”
“His what?” he hisses, head turning left and right in search of eavesdroppers. In Trystan’s executive office, there is no one. The only other person who could overhear our conversation is Mason, and I have nothing to hide from either of them.
“My brother’s partner. Boyfriend is a little lame when he’s in his mid-thirties.”
“Wait. Your brother… is gay?”
“Yes. One is. One might be bisexual, but he’s still working that out, and we’ll support him, regardless. The eldest one is married with kids, and the other just got back from backpacking around Europe with his girlfriend.”
Trystan’s jaw sits slack, the fist it was resting on now gripping his desk. “I assume he is chasing up a charcoal piece I’m doing of the both of them. It was our mother’s suggestion, and she’s almost as bad with the nagging about when it will be done.”
He shakes his head incredulously, mouth still agape. “Your brother is gay,” he says, raising one hand, “and your mother knows about it?" Up comes his other hand to mimic the other.
“Yes, and yes. Trys. You make it sound like some dirty secret, when it’s far from that. Love is love, my friend.”
He nods at me with pursed lips as if on autopilot.
The truth of my words smacking against him like the wave colliding with the yacht hull from yesterday.
Is Trystan homophobic? For someone so modern and progressive, I’d hate to think he harbors such outdated and outlandishly sheltered views on same-sex relationships.
But Mason mentioned something about Trystan’s ex being the groom rather than the bride?
“Yeah, Bri. Love is love until it isn’t.” Leaning back in his chair, he swivels to face our CEO, his head barely visible as he clacks away at his own keyboard.
“Hold the fort here while I bring Captain Grumpy up to date with everything, including some news about the Fenkel/Grenfer arrangement and the Warner night that he’s now going to.”
“He said no to Warner…”
“Oh, I remember. This comes from higher up the food chain. He’s going. They all are. Sean will take the bulk of the calls, obviously, but has his own meeting at ten, so just be prepared to chain yourself to the desk in the interim, okay?”
“Aye aye,” it comes out as a joke, paired with the most pathetic salute of all time.
I scoop up all the correspondence and head back over to my space, intent on checking in with Geoffrey and helping Trystan cover for the absence of one of the most amazing secretaries I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with.
Helen is a true enigma. It’s no wonder the civilization of Troy was enamored with her; the woman is a magician.
Working twelve-plus hours every day, not to mention trying to placate an exasperated Eden and Jaspar who are growing tired of my constant vagueness when it comes to my birthday celebrations.
(In the Group Chat)
Jas
Pick a fucking day, cheese, it’s not that hard.
Me
Swamped with work. I’m trying.
Ed
Thursday. Tacos and Margis.
Jas
Yesssssssssss
Me
I’m working crazy long days. We have staff away. Can I meet you there?
Pen
Me too. What time again?
Ed
Seven. I think someone said 7? Was that you, Jas?
Pen
I’ll be there x
Me
I might be a little late. But I’ll be there too.
Ed
You’re the birthday superstar Savvy B.
Ed
You’d better be there. I can’t make my Savvy b wind jokes if you’re not there.
Jas
Wait. What? What have I missed?
Ed
All of it. 7pm Thursday, big guy.
As I continue through the color-coded reminders Helen has set up, it dawns on me that the woman has her shit together because she’s been doing this a long time.
She began working for Mason before Trystan did, and going back earlier, worked for Michael in some capacity too, or in one of the subsidiary companies.
She’s the motherly type nurturer every executive needs, and her organizational skills make Marie Kondo look like an amateur.
She has a steadfast side that some are unaware even exists until they try to sneak an impromptu meeting past her, or present to Sean in the hope she will let an unscheduled visitor sneak through because they are here now.
She entertains none of their crap, often winding up phone calls with an eye roll or a muffled huff once the phone receiver meets the cradle.
The soup she brings in to heat for lunch has a heady aroma wafting throughout the entire floor, and yes, it tastes as good as it smells.
Now that we’re gripped in the clutches of cooler weather, I make a mental note to ask for an extra thermos of soup to take to my chess-playing champions.
“Mason, I was wondering if I could leave by 6:30 on Thursday?”
“Unlikely.” It’s a bulleted reply without him even looking up. His tie sits askew, the first hint of a crack in the polish.
“It’s just that I have something on that evening and I’ve eaten lunch at my desk every day this week so—”
“You just spent days in luxury in the Bahamas. And earned ten thousand dollars while you were there lounging around.”
“I know. And thank you. But I need to be—”
“You need to be here, Ms. Broe. Where you are paid to be at my beck and call, or have you forgotten? There is a meeting first up on Friday we are ill-prepared for. This deal is too valuable. The Warner function is on Saturday. Your job is to work, and then my needs come before yours. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Mr. Mercer. I understand, and I apologize.”
Thursday rolls around just like every other day of the year.
There are emails to act on, meetings, reports, and a horde of delivered snail mail that is mostly invitations to some event or another.
Almost all of them receive a gruff, “No, next,” in response.
The afternoon has Trystan in and out with appointments, appraisals, and presentations he’s required to attend.
By 6:30 p.m., we are still in Mason’s office brainstorming new angles for the imminent meeting with Fenkel and Grenfer.
Abe Grenfer was the host of game shows when I was little.
My grandmother was and still is obsessed with his dark brown skin and velvety vocals.
His son, Isaac Grenfer, is spearheading a project to get him back in the public eye, albeit in a podcasting capacity via radio, as a heavy weight gain made the man self-conscious about his appearance on camera.
An adverse reaction to weight loss injections cemented the notion that Abe’s soothing voice still had merit, and radio was the only answer because the man banned cameras and phones.
By 8:30 p.m., my vibrating phone is silenced after a caustic Mercer glare, and at 10 p.m. we break for a dinner of sorts.
I let the group chat know I’m still at work and burst into tears when Pen calls me straight back.
I crawl into bed, exhausted at 11:47 p.m., the day's makeup wiped off with a wet cloth and the barest slap of night cream smeared on dehydrated skin. I have a seven-step routine provided by a high-end salon that waxes me to Mason’s exacting requirements.
Skipping straight to number seven, the night emollient, I drag thin smears under my brimming eyes before padding into the bedroom and pulling back the covers.
Happy fucking birthday to me, I sob, before curling up in readiness to do it all again in less than six hours’ time.