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The next morning I’m right back here. I’m happy to get started, mentall
y rolling through a list of things that I need to do, first thing. Cutting diagonally across the foyer, I just head right for the elevator banks. No coffee. Or, I can get coffee on the thirty-fourth floor.
Eyes straight ahead, I raise a couple fingers to wave at the receptionist before walking to my old office. With a start, I realize Clarissa is already here. She stands with her back to me at the entrance of the cubicle just outside the Head Broker’s office.
Despite myself, I feel a smile breaking. She accepted the job offer. That’s good. We have a lot to do.
But when she turns around to face me, her eyes glint with suspicion. She crosses her arms immediately and tips her head to the side, cutting her eyes toward the conspicuous nameplate on the office door.
“Good morning, Clarissa,” I murmur, feeling the smile fade. “I’ll ask maintenance to fix that straightaway.”
She doesn’t say anything, just raises one light brown, fairly sarcastic eyebrow.
“Well, then, yes…” I continue, not sure what to do.
Do I tell her there’s a stack of files behind that door? Do I just figure that she will know that?
My name is still on that door. Am I supposed to just walk down the hall and go to Greg’s place?
By some extreme bit of fortune, I don’t have to answer the question. The maintenance man rolls his cart between us, depressing the brake with his work boot as he shoots us each a judgmental scowl as if to say, “Wasn’t I just here the other day?”
“I guess that’s it then,” I shrug.
She knuckles her hips, refusing to be impressed. “What would you like me to do next, Maxwell?”
Her stare is beyond icy. Positively frigid. This is a woman with a promotion? A raise?
“Go get yourself a cup of coffee,” I suggest. “I’ll have files for you in my office in twenty minutes. Will that work?”
“Fine.”
“Fine,” I answer automatically as I walk away, certain I screwed that up, but completely confused as to how.
Chapter 2
Clarissa
If anybody thought that just painting my name on the outside of this door was going to make everything all right, they have another thing coming.
I see the way they look at me. I catch the tail-end of conversations and sarcastic remarks they make when they pass by my office door. A bunch of frat bros and good old boys. I’ve invaded their club, they figure.
And that Maxwell is no better. Lou tried to tell me that Maxwell insisted I get this position, but I know a fairy tale when I hear one. The truth is, if my brother Kevin hadn’t filed a lawsuit for me, I would still be unemployed. I shouldn’t have to make threats to get the promotion that I was promised, should I? Everything shouldn’t be that hard.
I am a damn good broker, and they know it.
Keeping my office door open was a good move, I think. They have to lower their voices when they walk by, at least. Some are better at that than others. But it also means that nobody thinks they have to knock before entering. Before I know it, Maxwell is leaning on the doorframe, that hapless grin on his face again. An expression that pretends nothing has happened. That everything is fine.
“Lunch at eleven, right?” he starts.
Every day, just like this. A hopeful, clean-slate expression on his stupid, handsome face. Like one of these days it will all be water under the bridge.
Sort of enraging, really.
“That is what the calendar says,” I confirm through gritted teeth.
He steps into my office, and I keep my eyes cast down on the paperwork in front of me. What is it about men that makes them think they can just be anywhere they want? Just loom? To make a point or something?
Boy, oh boy, these papers are sooo interesting. Completely enthralling.
