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I tried to have a relationship with Lily, and I failed. It wouldn’t be right of me to try again—I wouldn’t wish the collateral damage on anyone, especially someone I loved.
Oliver asks his questions and we talk. I have to ask Elianna to take notes and she looks a little like a deer in the headlights before she scrambles to start typing.
I think she’s going to get the hang of this.
The question is, am I going to let her distract me from the task at hand?
Chapter 9
Elianna
It’s the end . . . or what I hope is the end . . . of a very long day. I learned from yesterday to wear flats, so I chose my black Mary Janes that look nice with my bold green button-down dress with the wide, white belt and white buttons. I love them, and they’re also comfortable. But I get that this outfit is probably not what Britta used to wear, or most executive assistants.
But if we’re talking about executive assistants in the early 1990s, then this is totally what they wore.
Sebastian keeps eyeing me with disdain and I can’t figure out if it’s my clothes or my hair (I had it up in a plastic banana clip until it was giving me a headache and I took it out) or my general lack of knowledge on all things Tate International that has him giving me that look.
I would have studied up by stalking the Tate family and their business online before I came, but I was too busy actually trying to move here.
I think I’m doing okay on the job, but it definitely feels like the “day two on the job” blues, and I know this because I’ve had a lot of different jobs. This one is definitely the one with the highest stakes, though, and I have to see this through. I’ve even added a photo of the Capistrano beach playhouse, in all its kitschy glory, as the wallpaper on my laptop to remind me why I’m doing this.
It’s late in the afternoon, and I just finished those dark-chocolate-covered acai fruit things that Drake brought us. We can pretend they’re healthy, right? Sebastian had exactly three small pieces, and I finished the rest of the bag.
It was a small bag, and I’m fine with it because I need a little chocolate courage. Sebastian stands and mutters in a surly manner—most of what he says is in a surly manner—"I’ll be back in eight minutes.”
Wow. That’s precise. He leaves the room through the hallway entrance, and I stand to stretch my legs. His office, while decorated exquisitely, isn’t very personable. Except for the half-built dollhouse, which is intriguing me to no end. Does he have a daughter? I don’t even know if he has a girlfriend or wife, but I’m suspecting not. Who could stand to be married to him when he’s already married to Tate International?
I gaze at a small trophy case on the far end of the room. This guy sure played a lot of sports in high school in Denver. He won the title of Colorado’s Mr. Basketball his senior year. I can’t stop myself from fanning my face. Basketball players are my weakness.
I return to my desk and pull up the document filing system on the computer to sort, compress, and rearrange like he taught me to. I see one that’s labeled “PFS.” It doesn’t fit any category that I can see, so I click on it.
The title reads: “Ways to hit the Deca Arete list.”
Whoa. That’s exciting. I close the document quickly, though, since I can tell now that it’s not something I need to sort.
I don’t know much about the Deca Arete list, but I do know it’s an elite honor to be on it. After Sebastian returns and sits back at his desk, I can’t help but ask. It’s been far too quiet for my taste the past couple of hours.
“So. What are your long-term goals for the company, Sebastian? What are we shooting for?” I drum my fingers on my desk.
“To create the world’s best chain of resorts. Did you read the mission statement I sent you?”
“Yes.” I swivel my chair to face him. “I guess I’m just wondering where you want to take this in a more specific way. You know, goals should be more specific to be attainable.”
He eyes me carefully. “I have specific financial goals, but we don’t need to get into those. When you sit in on budget meetings next week, you’ll learn all about that.”
Doubtful, since numbers don’t interest me, but I’ll take notes on everything like a pro.
“I guess what I’m referring to is, I saw your big goal— to hit the Deca Arete list— and let me tell you, knowing that’s what you’re shooting for is so cool because it helps me—”
He springs from his chair, his mouth ajar. “You opened that document?”
“Well, yeah. I was sorting things and—”
“That document wasn’t in a file that you were sorting. Why were you in that file?” His eyes are blazing.
“It wasn’t inanyfile. That was the problem. You asked me to sort the ones that were floating without a home, you know like the sorting hat from Harry Potter.”
His face is growing red. “Can I see your computer?” He shoots out a breath and holds out a hand. “Please?”
