Page 30 of Mr. Perfect

I stare at her, wondering if I should lie.

“Don’t do it,” Ming warns. “I see everything, Ellie Hatcher. And so does Ellen Abraham, AKA Ellen Interoffice-sexcapades. Because she has been telling everyone that she caught you and McAllister,” she says his name in a fake dreamy sigh, “in the stairwell yesterday morning having a tryst. Now the only thing I want to know is—”

“Later,” I say, standing up. “Paul is here. Later, Ming.” I rush out of the office and don’t dare look over my shoulder to see the look on her face. Because now she definitely knows, and if Ellen Abraham really did guess, or God forbid, see us, then it’s all over campus by now.

After I escort Paul to Building Three, I have to hurry back to the hangar, timing it just right so I don’t have any chance of having to wait around with Ming and her demanding questions, so I can pick up Allison Salok and escort her over to Building Ten.

I barely make it back to Adeline’s set to hear her sing, which is just beautiful. I take her back to a limo that’s waiting in front of the Atrium and tell her the plan about searching McAllister’s office. She promises to be back at six to make a scene so Ming can sneak in and get the phone.

What could go wrong?

Plenty, I’m sure, but I don’t have any time to think about it. Thursdays are crazy, which is the real reason we dress up and count the minutes to happy hour after work, so I’m nothing but a whirlwind of activity as I bustle the guests from transportation to studios.

So by the time six o’clock rolls around, I haven’t had any time to think about this plan of mine at all. I text Ming as I ride the elevator up to the seventh floor.

Ellie: I’m going in. Where are you?

Ming: You’re in the elevator. :) I’m watching. Adeline is in her limo, ready and waiting for my signal. Text me when you get him in your office and we’ll do our thing.

Ellie: K

I prepare a go-now text in my phone so all I have to do is press send and then drop my phone in my blazer pocket just as the elevator door opens. To my dismay, the whole seventh floor is still working. Including Stephanie Guards-the-door. Jesus, doesn’t anyone up here go out for drinks on Thursday nights like normal people?

“Go on in,” Stephanie calls to me as I approach the corner offices. “His office, not yours, Ellie. He left specific instructions.”

“Left? You mean he’s not even here?” I’m so annoyed.

“He’ll be back in just a minute. He had to pop down to the legal department.”

Great. Probably going to threaten me with a lawsuit or something. His door is open, so I just go in and take a seat. But then I realize, maybe Ming and Adeline don’t even need to get involved? I’m in here alone.

I get up, peek out the door to see what Stephanie is doing, and find her busy chatting with people at her desk, completely ignoring me.

I smile. And go over to his desk. It’s a huge desk. In fact, it’s not the same desk as yesterday. Not Heath’s desk, in other words.

Hmmm. Now that I think about it, a lot has changed in here in one night. All of Heath’s things are gone from the shelves. They’re empty now. There’s not one thing left of my former boss. But the oddest thing is that there’s nothing of my new boss to replace it.

I peek out the door again, just to make sure Stephanie is still busy, and then inch my way around to the executive chair and take a seat. Jesus, it’s luxurious. It must be nice to plant your ass in this thing all day long.

McAllister has a nice view of the hills, not the city. I never noticed that before. Heath had his desk on the opposite wall, and the blinds were almost always partially closed because he hated the constant sun.

Do I smell paint? Did McAllister paint the walls in here too? I don’t remember this place being so bright. Heath liked that old-school dark paneling look. Like the god-awful smoking room that is now my office.

I look down to my left and spy a stack of drawers. My fingers are just reaching for the handle when McAllister bursts in, slamming the door closed behind him. I pull away just as he lifts his eyes from a file in his hands.

“Making yourself comfortable, Miss Hatcher?”

“Sorry,” I say, standing up and scooting off around the side of the desk. He shoots me a squinted look as he drops into the chair I just vacated and I stand in front of him, my hands clasped together, feeling very nervous for some reason.

“Well,” he says, slapping the open folder down on the desk. “I have good news. You can publish the book.”

“What?”

“The book you wrote, Miss Hatcher? On company time, using company clients as your main focus?”

I can’t even with this guy. “Who the hell—”

“You do realize Stonewall employment contracts have a proprietary clause, right?”