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“Um, I don’t know. I imagine they probably will.”
A twinge of guilt trickles through me at realizing I forgot Dad’s birthday is coming up. Sort of. It’s two months away, but my parents have already been talking about it. Who plans for their birthday each year months in advance? I’ve never actually seen Dad’s handwriting inside the card full of money that Mom hands me each year on my birthday though, so I doubt he’d be too offended I forgot that his is approaching.
Preston’s curious expression tells me he’s disappointed by my lack of insider information. Now that I think about it, Dad’s annual birthday bash is one he and his wife attend, although they’re never together past the moment they walk through the door. I have so many memories of Randy mucking it up at our ballroom bar with his friends during countless parties that they all run together.
“I…usually only stop at Mom and Dad’s once a week or so since I moved back,” I explain, my face heating at the realization that he thought I was still living at home like a kid. “I’ve got an apartment on the east side of town.”
“Oh, no shit?” He grins devilishly. “About time. You’ll never get laid living at the mansion.”
As my face burns, a throat-clearing sound resounds beside me. Trisha. Talk about humiliating.
“Mr. Rodgers, Tom Winton from the Atlanta plant needs you to call him about the holiday product launch, and the timesheets from last week need your approval in the system so they can get pushed to payroll,” Trisha advises. “Hi, Cameron,” she adds softly, with a tired smile. I should stop being surprised that people I don’t know are familiar with my name.
It dawns on me that she just addressed Preston by his last name. I think she trained him. How awkward to now be his underling. I can’t help but wonder if hearing someone call him by his first name when I entered the room was the reason for the agitated look that he flashed at me earlier. It’s one more display of the narcissism I’ve discovered in Fairway’s upper echelons.
“I wasn’t managing last week,” he snipes. “Can’t you approve timekeeping?”
“No,” she replies, looking worried. “I…it has to be by the direct supervisor assigned to them in the system.”
Sighing, he waves his hand dismissively. “Fine. I’ll get to it later.” Grabbing up the file that I delivered, I watch in awe as he hands it to her. “Here. Sign these and get them back to HR. Oh, and I need some document frames.”
“Document frames?”
“For hanging documents,” he enunciates, gesturing to his ‘I-love-me’ wall. “Check if the supply room on the first floor has any.”
The poor woman looks to have swallowed her tongue. This will be so awkward if she gets upset while I’m still in the room.
It wasn’t allergies making her teary-eyed in the elevator the other day. I know a full-on cry when I see one. My mother used to do the whole careful eye-rubbing thing to hide her tears, too. She’d plaster on a bright smile and tell me to run along and play or sneak me into the kitchen for treats and fashion grandiose adventures for us to have that never came to fruition once she was over whatever row she had with Dad. Trisha has yet to look like she’s over the reality of who her new boss is. I can’t say I blame her. Preston’s certainly not the type to be bothered to sign his own name, let alone console distraught women in elevators.
When she starts for the door, I follow. Pausing, I throw him an obligatory wave. “I’ll, uh, see you, Preston.”
“Yeah. Take care.”
Out in the hallway, I’m faced with the abysmal option of turning left to head back down to HR. Glancing to my right at the restroom in the opposite direction, it’s a simple decision. I don’t need to go. It’s more of an excuse to walk past where I want to go.
I need to know. I need to know if it’s still there or if I imagined it.
My pulse kicks up a notch as I casually pass by office doors, receiving the usual suspicious glances. I rarely have a reason to be up here. The last time I did was three weeks ago.
I’d picked up a retirement packet from an older man across the hall and then made use of the restroom when I was done. That’s when I saw it. As I approach the door that reads Pete Carver, I slow my steps just enough that it won’t appear as though I’m snooping. The air floods out of my lungs when I find what I was looking for.
It’s real. It’s still there, and Pete isn’t, allowing me time to pause. Stopping, my face heats. I’m just standing here, staring, like an imbecile all because of a little potted succulent on another man’s desk.
I can’t tear my gaze from it though, nor stop the little smile that’s creeping across my face. The sight of the bright rainbow design on the pot against the modern backdrop of his office is a beacon that makes my heart soar with hope and solidarity. Unlike Preston’s office, that little plant is the only decoration in the room, making it a focal point for my starved soul. I want so desperately for it to mean what I think it means.
Pete Carver would be ideal to help me with my plan. More than ideal, actually. He checks each of my boxes and a few I didn’t even know I had.
He’s definitely easy on the eyes with his fit build, broad shoulders, thick black hair, and an incredibly kissable-looking mouth. More than that, though, is the way he carries himself. There’s a confident air about him that makes me shiver every time I see him. The way he walks through a room looking unflappable, rather than like the callous, boot-crushing kind of businessmen that run rampant at Fairway, meshes with the gossip I’ve paid special attention to since I discovered his succulent pot.
People throughout the building look to him whenever they have an unresolvable problem. He’s the go-to guy for any crisis, even those not in his department. That speaks of the level of compassion and patience I’m looking for. He’s also one of the few account managers that people enjoy working for. His staff admire and respect him.
Not married. No children. Way too impeccably groomed to be in the same class as most of the other men here who look like their suits are shot out of a t-shirt cannon each morning. And he files his nails meticulously.
Brice laughed at me when I confessed that was one thing that sent up a red flag for me regarding the possibility of Pete being attracted to men. It is absurd, I admit, and stereotypical, but I’ve never seen Preston, my brothers, or my father scrutinize their cuticles so intently in the middle of the workday the way Pete did the last time I walked by his office.
I should go. I can’t dally here like a pampered son of the company’s owner, but leaving that little ceramic pot makes me sad.
It has to be true. The idea that it is makes Pete Carver that much more attractive to me—this confident, well-respected man, proudly decorating his office with a Pride flag symbol on a cute little succulent. How sad is it that I’ve never felt a sense of belonging as strong as standing ten feet away from that pot, bravely existing in a sea of machismo? I admire its audacity to thrive here—as well as its owner.
