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I tagged along to work with my dad enough times to learn the value of treating everybody right. My dad owned an insurance company until he retired two years ago.
He was born with what he called a diamond-encrusted silver spoon in his mouth. My grandparents were filthy rich, and my great-grandfather was too. Inherited wealth can be as much a burden as it is a joy.
I step off the elevator exactly an hour before I start work for the day. Arietta needed to get to her office early to handle a call from her boss, who is still in Italy. We took Dudley to doggy daycare together before we made a pit stop to get our morning coffees.
I glance around the office. No one is in sight, but a sliver of light is peeking out from beneath Keats’s door. I can hear the muffled sound of someone talking, or maybe it’s more than one person.
I can’t tell, so I take a few tentative steps closer to the door.
Keats’s deep voice is unmistakable, and the generous pause every so often tells me that he’s on the phone.
I glance at the office phone on my desk, but the light next to his direct line isn’t flashing red, so he must be on his cell.
Setting my steaming hot cup of coffee on the desk, I drop my purse into the bottom drawer.
Just as I’m about to take a seat, a large bang startles me.
I stand straighter, my hands darting to my chest.
My heart races as I try and calm my breathing.
It does little good because another bang, even louder than the last, sets me back a step.
“Fuck this!”
I look toward Keats’s office at the sound of his voice.
What am I supposed to do? What if he’s in trouble? Did he fall? Does he need help?
“What the hell? Stop. Just stop.”
The panic in Keats’s voice is unmistakable, so I do what any good assistant would.
I grab the dusty umbrella hanging on a coatrack behind my desk, I march toward my boss’s office door, and I swing it open.
My breath catches as I take in the sight in front of me.
Glitter rains down on my half-dressed boss as he turns toward me with his hands swatting the air.
My gaze travels from his unkempt hair to the shocked expression on his face. He’s wearing a white button-down shirt, a bowtie, and a tuxedo jacket, but his legs and feet are bare.
On the floor in front of him is a glitter cannon.
As my eyes dart back to his glitter-covered thighs, he leans toward his desk. He grabs an empty bottle of champagne and positions it in front of his boxer briefs.
Shaking my head, I exhale once and then again. “What? Why? I mean…how?”
He drags his free hand through his hair. “Good morning, Maren. You missed a hell of a celebration last night.”***Once I saw that my half-dressed boss was fine, I took a seat at my desk.
Every part of me wanted to text Arietta so I could explain what I just saw, but I dropped my phone into the bottom drawer of my desk next to my purse.
I have to digest this before I can share it with anyone, because what the actual fuck is going on?
I steal a look at Keats as he comes strolling out of his office. At least he put on his pants, although he’s still missing socks and shoes.
“I need you to arrange a trip for me, Maren,” he says calmly.
I glance in his direction because are we just going to pretend that all the glitter in his office doesn’t exist?
He lost the bowtie, and with his hair neater than it was, he looks shockingly gorgeous for someone who must have a raging hangover. The glitter specks on his face and in his hair force a smile to my lips.
“It’s a trip for two,” he continues. “Look into a two-week vacation in Fiji. I’m thinking of a five star resort with a private villa. The best food, massages, the works.”
Envy tugs at me, but I shake it off because I’m not here for anything but a job. It doesn’t matter to me who he’s heading to Fiji with.
Maybe it matters a little, so I push for more details. “What are the dates for this trip? I assume it’s a romantic getaway, so you’re thinking of rose petals on the bed, maybe moonlit dinners on the beach?”
“Yes, and yes.” He nods, and another burst of glitter falls from his hair. “Departure date is this Saturday. I want this to be a honeymoon to remember.”
My eyes dart to his left hand, but his ring finger is bare.
Did he get married last night? Is his wife somewhere in the office missing half of her clothes?
I glance over my shoulder at the darkened corridor and closed office doors.
