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But that “best friend” of mine doesn’t seem much invested in being my best friend at all today. He’s more invested in staples and whatever’s on that computer screen across the room.
My lunch break is cut in half by an urgent summoning of all the employees in the office to the floor. I’m standing in the back of the crowd when Rebekah and the three department heads—Julian, Samantha, and Quentin—address the room.
“Our favorite pop star client Hawk—the Jersey boy—will be coming through town tomorrow,” announces Julian loftily, “and plans to drop by the office. He is scheduled to meet with Mr. Gage at four in the afternoon.”
“That being said,” picks up Samantha, her voice unexpectedly deep and grainy, “Mr. Gage will expect that we are all on our best behavior and appearance tomorrow.”
Quentin nods at her and faces the room. “This is a really big deal, especially considering our situation involving Mr. Gage’s trip to Mexico. We must look on top of it, unworried, and diligent.”
“I’m going to be assigning some of you interns on cleaning duty, since we need this office to look sharp,” finishes Rebekah. “As he is meeting with some important people today, Mr. Gage will not be coming in—”
“Mr. Gage will be coming in,” interrupts a voice.
The room shifts, all the bodies turning to the man who cuts through the crowd—Benjamin himself. His face is flushed slightly, looking as if he just ran the whole distance here, but he offers an apologetic smile to the room as he stands in the middle of the semicircle of employees and faces us.
My heart melts just seeing him. I didn’t realize until now how badly I’ve needed to lay my eyes on my beautiful man.
My beautiful man.
“I have a few things to say,” Benjamin starts out, lifting his eyebrows and appearing dashing as ever in his fitted blue blazer, sexy slacks, and shiny shoes. “Firstly, I’m sorry for the tizzy that my apparent extracurricular activities have caused. Rebekah has been keeping me informed, and you are all doing an incredible job doing exactly what we’re paid to do for all our clients: minimizing, spinning, and rewriting the narrative. You are superstars, all of you, and thanks to your work, this unfortunate bad angle shot of my ass will be buried by tomorrow.”
A tittering, favorable laugh ripples softly through the room.
I may be the only one whose funny bone isn’t tickled as I stare at Benjamin longingly, desperate to be alone with him and discuss what’s going on.
“Secondly, as you were just told, our Jersey punk-ass Hawk is dropping by the office. Be on your best, but more importantly, just be yourselves.”
It’s at this exact moment that Benjamin seems to find me in the crowd, and his eyes flicker with emotion. Just be yourselves. He says this, yet plays off our weekend and the photo that came from it as a thing to minimize, spin, and rewrite.
It’s like suddenly we never went to Mexico.
My birthday never happened.
I’m still that twenty-year-old heartsick idiot from the nightclub who went home with a perfect stranger that fateful Friday night.
I pull my eyes away and stare at the floor, unable to keep eye contact with him anymore. Heaviness sinks into me as suddenly as if I was just filled with all the water of the Caribbean Sea, except it’s cold and unwelcome.
Benjamin must finish saying whatever it is he’s come to say because the room starts applauding out of nowhere, and then Ben gives everyone an encouraging nod and dismisses us, turning to speak to Rebekah and the other department heads as they slowly make their way toward his office. The door opens, they go inside, and then the door closes. The lights flick on, and I watch as Ben goes to his desk, hits the hidden switch there, and then his blinds flip shut and not even silhouettes can be seen.
Five o’clock cannot come fast enough. I grab my things and head for the door, uncaring of whether Ben is still in his office or if Elijah is making plans with Ashlee or literally anything else.
When I pass the front desk, an unexpected voice stops me. “You got some sun.”
I spin around to find Brady sitting where Dana the front receptionist usually is. “What?”
“Sun,” repeats Brady flippantly, his arms folded on the desk in front of him. His bright blond hair is unexpectedly tame today, tightly parted and flat against his perfectly shaped head. “You got some sun this weekend. Lots of it, in fact.”
I don’t like the superior, leery look in his eyes. “I was outside all weekend at my parents’ for my birthday,” I state, inventing my alibi on the spur of the moment.
“Oh? Do they live on a particular beach in Cancún?” he asks, immediately followed with an arrogant chuckle and a calm, “Just kidding. I wouldn’t dare imply that.”
