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There’s no way I can know the Newmans well just by studying their social media accounts, but I think I have more insight into who they are than I did last night.
I have more insight into Keats too.
My online treasure hunt resulted in learning a few new things about my boss. He’s been photographed at restaurants and clubs in Manhattan with some of his famous clients. In almost every picture, a different woman was hanging onto Keats.
In one of the images, a leggy brunette had her arms wrapped around his neck as they danced. In another, a blonde was straddled on his lap as he sat on a bench in a club. The image that caused me to close my computer’s browser was of Keats on top of a bar kissing a woman with black hair as people around them raised their fists in the air.
Earl Newman had a point when he questioned Keats’s reputation.
I turn to look when I hear the ding that signals the elevator’s arrival. Relief washes over me when I realize that Keats is finally back.
He’s dressed in the same dark blue suit and pink tie he had on when he left this morning. His clothing isn’t wrinkled. His hair is still in place.
“Maren!” he calls out my name. “The countdown is on.”
I stand as he approaches my desk. He stops mid-step as he takes in the pencil skirt and blouse I’m wearing.
Earlier, our brief exchange happened when I was seated, so he didn’t get the full impact of Arietta’s fashion advice and makeup magic.
“Can I get a minute?” he asks with a perch of one brow.
I nod.
He waits for me to lead the way. I wonder for half of a second, whether that’s because he wants to get a glimpse of my ass.
I shake my head trying to chase that away because we’ve already crossed so many lines that I’m dizzy with confusion.
Once he closes his office door, he rakes a hand through his hair. “The Newmans are set to arrive soon.”
I almost make a comment about stating the obvious, but instead, I concur. “We don’t have much time to get our stories straight. What are we going to tell them?”
His hand drops to his chin. “What do you mean?”
Did he completely forget what happened last night? The Newmans are under the impression that Keats and I share more than a boss and assistant connection. There has to be a way to explain that away without losing Fletcher as a potential client.
“Let’s tell them we broke up last night,” I spit out.
The corners of his lips curve up. “We’re not telling them that.”
I close my eyes briefly. “They think we’re in a relationship, Keats. We’re not.”
“I know,” he blurts out. “But you showed them another side of me.”
I didn’t. All I did was go along with the lie. If anything, that shows a side of me I don’t want to exist.
I drop my hands to my hips. “What do you suggest we do?”
Keats’s gaze follows my movements. He stares at my skirt. “We won’t confirm or deny it today. They’re coming to meet the team. We’ll bring them in here for a quick hello, you’ll say you have an important meeting to get to, and I’ll take the reins from there.”
Hypothetically, that could work, but the lie will still be in play. “When do you plan on telling them that I’m your assistant, and not your…”
“Lover?” Keats fills in the blank I left when my voice trails off. “I’ll sign Fletcher and then down the road, I’ll mention that we decided we’re better as colleagues.”
It can’t be that easy.
“Maren,” Keats whispers my name as he steps closer to me. “You did me a tremendous favor last night by not correcting Earl’s assumption about us. It gave me a fighting chance. Without you there, the meeting would have ended before it started.”
“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you giving me this job, Keats.” I feel my skin heat. “But, I’m not sure I should have been at that meeting. My presence complicated things.”
His arms cross over his chest. “I needed you there.”
“Not really.” I half-laugh. “I know virtually nothing about sports. I just started working for you, and my job description clearly states that I’m your executive assistant. The list of responsibilities on the contract I signed is all about tasks within this office.”
A smile ghosts his mouth. “You didn’t read the contract.”
I’d take offense at that, but I can’t because he’s right. I skimmed it over quickly before I signed because I felt the building pressure of my parents breathing down my neck.
That’s not exactly what happened. But my dad was trying to reach me the morning the contract was delivered. Once I got here, and spoke to Keats, I signed the contract in front of Everett after I gave the first two pages a glance.
