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“Until we meet again, Miss Anderson,” I say softly, opening the door to let her out.
She steps out and fuck me if I don’t find my feet and walk with her, escorting her up the hallway to the elevators. Even my receptionist does a double take.
“Sir? Can I be of assistance?” she stammers. I rarely see her, in fact, I don’t even know her name. Her squeaky voice used to appear over the intercom to let me know about appointments, but I got sick of hearing it. That’s why Doris now takes all my calls. Poor Doris. I should give her a raise.
“No,” I reply curtly.
The elevator door opens and Imogen steps inside to face me.
“Think about it,” I tell her. “About what we could do here.”
I want you to be mine.
Her lips part. “I guess your Krasavitsa is going to have to give it some thought, isn’t she?” The doors close in my shocked face and I bang a fist against the door.
Regaining my composure, I move off and stalk back to my desk.
I pick up the phone and dial, ignoring the flashing buttons on my computer telling me a conference call is waiting.
“Doris. Have the florist send Imogen Anderson two dozen roses to her home address please.”
“Sir? Is everything okay?”
“Yes, I may have upset her in the interview.”
“Lord help us. Not another lawsuit,” she grumbles. “What happened?”
“Never mind. It also might sweeten the deal. Come Friday, you’re the only staff member I have left.”
“Sir, please don’t do anything hasty.”
“You have to be kidding me. This team is completely useless.”
“While I tend to agree with you, I don’t know if Morgan and Johans can pick up all the slack.”
I sigh. “Funny, I thought that’s why I hired executives. So I don’t have to deal with these issues, yet here I am, in fucking Seattle with a bunch of useless imbeciles who can’t get one thing right, present company excluded.” And Imogen, of course.
“Sir. Please take Mr. Teriyakis’ call. I’m in negotiations with some temp agencies now for replacements. I’ll touch base with Morgan and find out what she can do on her end until we can train the new staff.”
“Thank god I have you, Doris. Or we’d all be fucked.”
“Language, Mr. Petrov. You know I tell Stan off about swearing every damn day.”
Stan is her beloved husband, together for as long as I’ve been alive. I like Stan. He’s a retired house painter from the Bronx who now spends his days relaxing in the overpriced apartment in Manhattan that I threw into Doris’ employment package. Doris refuses to retire, even though I’ve made it clear I’m not stopping her.
“You know, damn is a swear word somewhere in the world.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Fine, have it your way, but don’t forget about the roses. Red.”
“Will you pick up your call!” She hangs up and I stare at the receiver and chuckle.
If only I had ten more of Doris.
Me
I’m downstairs
