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Cap
A calendar alert pops up on the screen of my computer, reminding me about the call I have scheduled for tomorrow with a client named Gene Huffman, and I curse under my breath.
Shit. The Huffman case.
I knew I had something on the docket for tomorrow that I needed research for, but with the chaos of today’s office environment, I couldn’t remember what the hell it was until right this moment.
“Heather…Heidi…Hoda!” I yell quickly, trying to get my new assistant’s attention.
“Jesus Christ,” Milo Ives, founder and CEO of Fuse Technology, mutters in my ear. “Are you requiring alliteration in your harems now?”
I suppose some might consider it bad form to be on the phone with the CEO of a billion-dollar empire without giving him my undivided attention, but I, Caplin Hawkins, am a one-man show.
Also, Milo is one of my best friends, and he can simply fucking deal with my lack of focus on whatever the hell legal contract he’s wanting me to nail down so he can add more zeros behind the number on his bottom line. The man has enough money to last him a lifetime. Surely, not being able to acquire another tech company under his umbrella wouldn’t be the end of the world.
Basically, I run my office in much the same way I run my life.
There are no partners to turn to, no office lackeys to count on, no wife to answer to when I don’t come home at a certain hour.
I make my own decisions, and in work, I know I’ll do the job the way I want it done.
But it’s that mind-set that’s gotten me where I am today.
At a mere thirty-one years old, I’m a man—a damn good-looking one, I might add—who has built one hell of a successful career as a corporate lawyer.
But I only have so much time to give, so many hours in the day, and as a result, in both the office and my relationships with women, multitasking is always necessary, bad form or not.
“I fucking wish,” I grumble, scrounging desperately around my cluttered desk to find the Post-it note I know I put somewhere. After a straight twenty-four hours here at the office, there are files and Red Bull cans and takeout order receipts on every square inch of usable surface. “I’m trying to remember my assistant’s name, and I’m pretty damn sure it starts with an H.”
“It’s Liz,” he deadpans, and if we weren’t on the phone, I’d definitely give the asshole a big hug—right around the neck with only my hands. As it is, and we are, I chortle a fake laugh.
“I know Liz’s name, Jackwagon. But she decided she needed time off from work to have a baby, if you can believe that. Like working for me isn’t a vacation every single day of her life.”
Nine months ago, my regular assistant Liz, my right-hand woman—my Girl Friday—up and decided to have a baby. Just like every other goddamn person in my life, she succumbed to settling down into marriage and babies and happily fucking ever after.
Pffft. Happily ever after. As if proverbially handcuffing yourself to one person for the rest of your life is going to result in bliss. Divorces would be a hell of a lot lower than fifty percent if that were the reality.
Frankly, I don’t understand the disgusting practice, and as much as my love-sick friends like to believe otherwise, I never will.
Of course now, something that’s annoying on its best day—the Leave It to Beaver epidemic—is even worse. Now that Liz is a part of it, it’s actually inconveniencing me.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t dislike babies and I’m happy for Liz and all that fucking jazz, but goddamn, she couldn’t have picked a worse time to procreate.
“I don’t think you can really call maternity leave vacation, Cap,” Milo advises in my ear. “She’s caring for a newborn.”
“Not yet, she’s not,” I argue petulantly. “She still has three days until her due date. You’d think she’d do me the courtesy of sticking around until the blessed event. We’re busier than we’ve ever been, and she’s left me on my own.”
He snorts. “You’re a real asshole, you know that?”
“No, Milo. I’m a man in distress. There’s a very big difference. Miniskirt McGee is making my life a living hell today, and I’ve got at least twenty appointments with people way more important than you that I’m not even remotely prepared for.”
As Milo chuckles cruelly, I test out every goddamn H name I’ve ever heard in my mind.
Helga.
Harper.
Haven.
Hillary. Hillary!
Yes, that’s it!
“Hillary!” I yell victoriously.
“Jesus,” Milo grumbles. “I need that eardrum, asshole.”
I ignore him as the door to my office opens, and a glossy-lipped, mile-high stiletto-wearing Hillary pops her head in. “Did you, like, need me for something?” she asks and proceeds to rest a black miniskirt-clad hip against the doorframe and file her fucking nails.
