The Singles (6 page)

Grabbing my phone, I blocked my number and dialed the office number listed beneath his personal letterhead. A few seconds later, I released a sharp curse when an automated voice informed me, “We're sorry; the party you have reached is not accepting private calls. If you want your call to go through, please hang up—”

An angry noise leapt from the back of my throat, and I mashed the end call button. Hopping off the stool, I refolded Oliver’s infuriating note and stuffed it back into the envelope along with the gift card. Since he’d been sneaky enough to send a message written on his company’s letterhead postmarked from Emerson & Taylor, I knew he was banking on me calling him out on it, and I had every intention of doing that.

It would just be on
my
terms.

I shoved my feet into the red, open-toed pumps waiting by the door. Before I left the bathroom, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Skimming my fingers through my loose curls, I thinned my red lips at the sight of my flushed skin. I touched my cheek and shivered. Something told me that Oliver, with his cocky grin and laughing eyes, would be pleased that his
compensation
had ignited so much fury within me.

That fact was all the more reason to give it back to him along with a piece of my mind.

Toting my phone and the envelope, I left the bathroom, my steps shallow thanks to the black seamed pencil dress I wore. I’d considered changing clothes because of that, but with my sudden desire to get ahold of Oliver without giving up my number, arriving at work a few minutes earlier seemed so much more essential. I grabbed my purse and keys from their spot on the foyer table and checked my reflection one last time, fixing a mascara smudge at the inside corner of one brown eye.

When I heard Pen walking out the kitchen, I quickly turned my body away from her so she wouldn’t see my face. “See you this afternoon,” I said, failing miserably at keeping the frustration from my voice.

“Wait!” She rushed over to me and I winced when I felt her hand in the back of my hair. Holding up a bright pink roller, she started, “You left a curler in your—
Whoa
, you’re red as the devil right now.” She stepped back and cocked her head to one side. “Please don’t tell me it was something bad.”

“It was Oliver,” I breathed. When she blinked, I gripped the handle of my purse a little tighter and shook my head. “No time to explain right now. Trust me, I’ll tell you everything when I get in tonight. Be good today.”

“Don’t worry, I planned on putting viruses on every computer in the building.” When I shot her a dark look over my shoulder, she lifted her gaze toward the ceiling and blew a strand of hair that had fallen free of her ponytail from her face. “Jesus, between you and Linc...ugh! Have a wonderful day, and don’t
you
get into any trouble,
Lizzie
.”

*

B
y the time I reached Emerson & Taylor forty minutes later and left my Mini Cooper in a prime parking spot, I had a little less than half hour to spare before Margaret was scheduled to arrive.
Plenty of time to put her D-bag son in his place
, I thought as I made my way to the lobby as fast as my constricting dress would allow.

“So excited you’re running to work,” Carl pondered aloud when I reached the security desk. There wasn’t a line in front of me today, and he was already drinking his coffee from a stainless steel travel mug. “You’re early.”

“It’s my first day, so I thought I’d start off on the right foot.”

Leaning his balding head close to mine, Carl dropped his voice to a whisper and said, “Mrs. Emerson’s never here on time, so you’re safe, sweetheart.”

Although I’d always hated being called sweetheart—maybe because it usually came from the lips of men who saw me as nothing but a pretty face and a potential piece of ass—I could tell he was being genuine. I offered him a poised smile that belied how irritated I was at Oliver uncovering my home address.

“Thanks for the heads up.” I took my employee badge from his outstretched hand and started around the corner. “Have a good day.”

“You too, Ms. Connelly.”

I’d been to the seventh floor numerous times when I was a child—when I was
Gemma
—but I’d stared at it with brand new eyes the day Dora took me on the grand tour a couple weeks ago. “This floor is pretty exclusive,” she’d informed me, a note of jealousy in her voice as she led me around.

“You’ve got Margaret and everyone on the executive committee, including Cate Morton, our CFO, and Philip Sanderson, the vice-president. This is also where all meetings for the board of directors are held, but you won’t really need to worry about those.” Dora had tossed her red hair over her shoulder and touched my forearm, wearing a little smile. “
You’re
here for Margaret.”   

I’d hated those words and the dismissive way she said them, but I beamed like an enthusiastic fool as I took in the atmosphere I’d be working in. When my father was alive, I vaguely remembered the whole floor having a warm, embracing vibe—rich earth tones and big, comfortable furniture my dad would let me jump all over—but that had all been replaced. Now, there was a moody mix of black and white—plush, pale leather seating, onyx floors, and abstract plywood sculptures gracing my stepmother’s massive office.

I loathed the changes.

Sadly, even my little corner of the executive floor reminded me of
Beetlejuice
. My office was located right across the hall from Margaret’s, and it was a ten by ten ode to light and dark, from the black leather chair to the iMac and even the checkerboard-patterned paperweight.

“You can replace any of the artwork and knickknacks,” Dora had flippantly told me two weeks ago, nodding at the paperweight. It looked like it was there more for décor than practicality. “It belonged to Margaret’s former PA.”

“What happened to her?” I’d asked.

“Fashion wasn’t right for her.”

As soon as I had the chance, I’d spruce this place up with color, but first—first I would take care of Oliver. And getting through the first day with his mother. Sitting down, I fired up my iMac, and logged into my employee profile with the information Dora had given me. Multiple mail alerts flashed across the upper left side of the screen, not really drawing me in until I saw a message from Stella that had been sent on Tuesday.

I clicked on it and read as I pulled Oliver’s envelope from my purse.

Still staying golden? –Stella Marchand

Once the letter was in front of me, the paperweight sitting on its right corner, I sent her a quick response.

Twenty-four carat. But ... this is my first day. I’ll let you know at the end.

Exiting my inbox, I took a deep breath and glanced over at the multiline phone a few inches from the left of my keyboard. Even though I still had twenty minutes to spare until work officially began, I needed to get Oliver out of the way.

When I lifted the receiver to my ear though, I hesitated. This was a mistake.
Anything
involving Oliver and myself was clearly a mistake, and yet here I was letting my pride lead me headfirst into a disaster. Instead of letting it go, I shook my head and started to dial his office number. “Screw it,” I muttered just seconds before the sound of an inviting male voice greeted me.

“Oliver Manning speaking.” A bolt of excitement quickened my pulse as I realized I’d reached him directly instead of a receptionist.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I demanded in lieu of a greeting.

“Lizzie?” He laughed. It was one of those deep, sexy chuckles, and I felt the tiny hairs on my arms stand on end. “This
is
Lizzie, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I snapped.

“Took longer than I thought.” When I snorted, he added in a low voice, “And what I was doing was being a gentleman. Why the hell are
you
giving me a hard time for it?”

Curling my toes, I slid down into my chair. “I thought you weren’t screwing HR.”

“I’m not,” he answered without missing a beat. “Is it just me or was there a little jealousy behind that question?”

“How’d you get my address?”

“So, is it?” he teased. “Jealousy, I mean. A simple yes or no will work.”

I’d been in Oliver’s presence only once in my adult life, and I could already say that, without a doubt, there was no such thing as simple when it came to that man. Squeezing my eyes shut, I gave him a few more seconds to respond before I repeated, “How did you get my address, Oliver?”

When he addressed me, his voice had lowered to a seductive whisper. “We’ve already gone over this, Lizzie. I’m not fucking Dora. She’s not my only connection.”

“Then who is?”

“I didn’t intend to piss you off.”

Frowning, I rested my elbows on my desk. His words would be so much more believable if I wasn’t one hundred percent certain he was grinning at the moment.    

“Avoiding my question isn’t exactly helping that.” I massaged tiny circles into my right temple. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?” When he responded with another chuckle, I questioned, “And what will happen if I go down to Dora’s office and ask her if she gave you my address?”

“Then I’d likely receive a very angry call from her. She’d ask me the same questions you’re asking, she’d threaten to tell my mother to which I’d tell her to go—”

“Since you’re obviously not going to enlighten me,” I enunciated each syllable for emphasis, “should I return the gift card to the address on the Manning Hotel Group envelope or do you want me to leave it at the security desk here?”

He was speechless for a few seconds, and then he said in the most serious tone I’d heard him use yet, “I’m
not
taking it back, Lizzie.”

“You will if I refuse to accept it.”

“You’re refusing a thousand-dollar gift card?”

I nearly dropped the receiver. “A thousand—” I took a deep breath. God, was he that far out of touch with reality? “Why the hell would you send me that much? It’s an iPhone, not a—”

“I know what it is, and I looked up the price. Since I didn’t know the model, I added some padding. You’re not going to return it to me.”

Padding my ass.
“I don’t want it.”

“Then give it to someone else. Because if you
do
return it to me, I’ll personally show up with it next time.”

“You wouldn’t make it past the doorman,” I said, which was a lie because though the presence of a doorman was one of the aspects that had helped me decide on my Marina del Rey apartment, I’d yet to see one on duty. Still, Oliver didn’t know that. I moved the checkerboard paperweight off his letter. Fuming, I jerked the first desk drawer open and swept it all—envelope and gift card included—inside. “Did you treat your mom’s last assistant like this?”

“Honestly, I don’t even recall the woman’s name. We maybe said a couple words to each other. I never asked
her
to dinner. And I never thought about what she’d look like with my sheets tangled beneath her after a five minute conversation.”

As I let his words tumble around my brain, my throat went dry. “I see.”

“Then you’re saying yes,” he said confidently, and when I closed my eyes, I could easily picture him, sitting in his office, leaned back with a satisfied smirk playing on his full lips. He thought he’d won, but he was wrong.

Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t go to dinner—or anywhere involving sheets—with Oliver.

He wasn’t a part of any of my plans.

I couldn’t want anything to do with him.

Suddenly desperate to put a close to the conversation, I sighed.  “Look, Oliver,” I started, but my eyes jerked open in surprise when the line went dead. Confused, I twisted toward the keypad. My gaze landed on a manicured finger pressed on the hook and my heart dropped.

Oh God.

I followed the finger to a delicately boned hand, an Omega watch, and up to a muscular yet feminine arm. My eyes wandered over the blue, white, and gray colorblock sheath dress that Margaret—at fifty-six years old—pulled off better than women half her age and the beige and champagne blond highlights hanging in shoulder length waves around her thin face.

Bracing myself, I forced my gaze up until she and I were staring at one another. Like Oliver, her eyes were a brilliant shade of blue, but they were currently narrowed into tight, disapproving slits.

“You must be Lizzie.”

“Yes,” I said hoarsely, “I’m so excited to—”

“Of course you are,” she cut me off sharply. Her thin lips parted to say something else, but my ringing office phone distracted her. Before I could stop her, she jerked the receiver from my hand and removed her finger from the hook. She held the handset to her ear, ready to answer—or perhaps humiliate me—but to my horror, Oliver spoke first. I could hear him from where I was sitting.

“I take it I can send a car to pick you up for dinner tomorrow night, Lizzie.”

She tapped her rounded fingernail on my desk and cast a frosty smile down on me. “This is your mother, Oliver. Ms. Connelly will be working late tomorrow evening, but you’re more than welcome to contact her when she’s not on
my
time.” Hanging up on him, she told me, “Now that you’re finished with my son, go to The Grindhouse. Have a small, skinny, double shot cinnamon latte on my desk in ten minutes.”

Then, without another word, she stomped from my office, slamming the door behind her.

––––––––

M
y father had married Margaret in a quiet civil ceremony just two months after his divorce from my mother was finalized. I hadn’t been present at the ceremony, but I could still remember hearing my mom’s harsh sobs coming from her bedroom in our small, Soho apartment. She had been broken, and at the time, that had meant I was broken too.

Over the last four months, I’d done more research on my former stepmother than ever before. The daughter of a an attorney and a businessman, she’d started at Emerson & Taylor as a lead designer in 1986—three years after her only child, Oliver, was born. By my parents’ divorce, she was on the seventh floor working alongside my dad as the vice president of creative design and before the new millennium rolled around, she was the CEO of the company.