The Singles (7 page)

As I grabbed my purse and left my office, the plaque on the door across the hall was a stinging reminder of her current role.

Margaret Manning-Emerson, CEO

Powerwalking through the lobby, I tried to remember if she’d been so intimidating the first, and only, time I met her—at my dad’s funeral. But then I shook my head. Other than giving me a stiff touch—I wasn’t sure I could call it a hug—and telling me she was sorry for my loss, she’d mostly stared blankly ahead.

Of course, grief could steal the words and thoughts from even the most unapproachable person, twisting them into a shell.

Pulling up The Grindhouse on my phone, I found it was a highly rated coffee shop two blocks away from the office. “Ten minutes, my ass,” I muttered as I swept out the revolving door and onto the sidewalk. Despite it being October, I was a sweaty mess by the time I reached the eatery and took my place at the back of the line. Blatantly, I tried to ignore the fact that my perspiration was a combination of getting worked up by Oliver and then getting called out by his mother, all in the course of an hour, and blamed it on my unexpected exercise instead.

When I reached the waifish barista, I checked my phone and realized there was no way in hell I’d make it back to the office within Margaret’s time limit. My first real day on the job, and I was failing horribly at my task.

“Can I get a small, skinny, extra-hot cinnamon latte?” I requested, and the barista grabbed a twelve-ounce cup and a metallic marker. She stared at me expectantly. “Oh, um, the last name is Connelly.”

She started to scribble on the cup, but then she paused and looked me up and down, taking in my outfit and flustered appearance before cocking an eyebrow. “Would this be for Mrs. Emerson?”

Fan-freaking-tastic. It’s never a good thing when even the coffee shop clerk knows your boss simply from the order and your look of sheer trepidation
, I thought.

“It is.” I nodded, and she tossed the cup in a wastebasket under the counter, grabbed another, and began rewriting the order.

“I swear, I’m not bossing you around, but she’ll send you back in a heartbeat if it’s not a double shot.”

Heat prickled the back of my neck. Dammit. I was so flustered that I was a coffee order away from fucking up even more with Margaret. “Thanks,” I breathed, and the barista smiled sympathetically.

“Mrs. E is a longtime customer. We like to see her happy. I’ll have this ready for you ASAP.”

With three minutes to spare, I raced back to work, walking as fast as I could in my unforgiving dress and coming dangerously close several times to drenching myself with Margaret’s molten-hot drink order. It wouldn’t be the first time coffee had burned me, and I shivered at the memory of accidentally pulling my father’s coffee on me when I was a little girl.

“You’re late,” Margaret told me flatly the second I stepped into her black and white office. She flicked her hand at the chair positioned in front of her half-moon shaped desk. An image of the giant mahogany desk that was there many years ago flashed in my mind, and I swallowed hard at yet another recollection of my father. Noticing my hesitation to move, Margaret leaned forward, her voice impatient as she snapped me out of the memory. “Sit, Ms. Connelly.”

My legs felt shaky as I moved forward, and I was almost thankful for the seat as I slid the coffee in front of her. “I’m sorry I was late. I’ve never been to The Grind—”

“I’ll forgive it this time.” She took a sip of the latte before setting it on a silver coaster a few inches from her laptop. “What I absolutely cannot forgive is personal calls at work. When you come through that door downstairs, you
are
at work. Do you understand that, Ms. Connelly?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“I typically handpick my assistants; however, my recent schedule made that impossible. I trusted Isadora to find me a qualified applicant, and she assured me you were highly recommended.”

My teeth sunk down on the inside of my cheek. I hated being talked to like this, and the few times I had a client who’d treated me like a child, I’d promptly collected my belongings and left. But this ... this was different. There was no gathering my things and leaving because then I’d never get my answers. The only way to get what I wanted—what I’d been desperate enough to break the law for—was to sit here and let the woman who had her lawyer turn me away years ago verbally pummel me.

I dragged in a painful breath. “Yes, I was highly—”

“I don’t want to hear your virtues, Ms. Connelly. I’ve already looked at your resume. What I want is for you to do your job. That starts with—not only leaving
your
personal life at home—but also not intermingling with mine.” Linking her fingers together and setting her hands on her desk, she speared me with a flash of her porcelain veneers. “My son is
off
-limits.”

Instantly, the need to defend myself kicked in, and I cleared my throat. “I was thanking him. We...bumped into each other the other day, and I broke my phone. Oliver insisted on replacing it.

“How
kind
of him,” Margaret said, and the deliberate sarcasm in her voice made me curl my fingernails into my palms. Inside, I was seething, but I beamed at her agreeably. Sweetly. As if the word
bitch
wasn’t rolling through my mind like movie credits. 

“And now that you’ve
expressed
your gratitude, you can get to work. I’m usually here by nine-thirty, so I’ll expect you in here with my coffee no later than then.”

“Same order as today?”

With a brisk nod, she pushed a sheet of paper across the desk to me. Turning it around, I saw that it was a handwritten To-Do list. “I’ve taken the time to write down what I expect from you before the end of the week, but in the future, it will be your responsibility to take notes. Has Isadora sent in your information for a company credit card?”

“Not that I’m aware of, she never mentioned it to me.”  Which I supposed was a good thing. No matter how talented she was, I wasn’t sure Pen could pull off getting my fake identity approved for a company card.

Margaret blew a lock of wavy, highlighted hair from her face. “Christ, that airheaded—” Exhaling through her turned-up nose, she unlocked her top desk drawer and reached inside. “You’ll need to speak to Isadora about getting a card. It should only take a week or so.”

Hopefully, I wouldn’t be here long enough to need it, but I nodded. “Yes, I’ll talk to her today.”

Margaret pulled her hand from her desk drawer, producing a credit card. Instead of handing it to me right away, she held it close to her chest—like a lecturing parent would when giving a child her first debit card. “
This
. Is.
Mine
,” she told me, her voice spoken in slow motion as she emphasized each word. “You will not use it for your personal expenses, is that understood?”

I managed a look that was a combination of outrage and surprise. “Of course. I would never do that.”

She simpered. Keeping her gaze locked on mine, she handed me the card. “You’re obligated to say that, Ms. Connelly.” Standing, she smoothed her elegant hands down the front of her colorblock dress. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a brunch meeting to attend. I’m personally a big fan of punctuality.”

From her hard look—a look I had trouble imagining in her son’s similar blue eyes—I took her words for what they clearly were. A stark warning.

“I’ll do my best to be on time in the future,” I said, feeling my chest hurt a little more with every word that fell from my lips. Gathering her credit card and the To-Do list, I headed to the French doors. Before l left the room, I turned slightly. “Is there anything else you need me to do?”

She grabbed her white Hermes bag from the corner of her desk and lowered her chin to the paper in my hand. “Your job,” she stated, and before I could offer some chipper promise about doing it to the best of my ability, she icily added, “And not my son.”

*

W
ith my head down, I returned to my office and dropped into my seat. Did that really just happen? Releasing a rasping groan, I buried my face in my hands. Yes, it had happened. The first meeting with the woman whose life I was trying to infiltrate had gone to crap because she thought I wanted to screw her son.

“Of course, Mrs. Emerson, I wouldn’t dream of it,” I muttered, mimicking what I’d said to her after she told me to keep away from Oliver. To her, the reaction had probably seemed contrite, but fury raged within me. “Damn you, Oliver.”

My computer dinged, and I pushed my loose curls back from my flaming face to check my email. Two messages waited—the first from Stella, telling me she was still holding me to that promise for drinks.

Monday is a holiday, but how does Tuesday sound?
I responded before returning to my inbox. The second message was from Oliver.

The worst emotion possible—anticipation—settled in my stomach.

For what felt like a small eternity, I stared at the unopened message. And I loathed myself for the tendrils of curiosity winding around me, making the desire to know what he had to say all the more tempting.

You dumbass fool,
I told myself as I clicked on his message.

Lizzie,

I was serious about dinner. Let me know what your schedule looks like. You’re welcome to return the gift card to me then.

-Oliver

Tapping my foot, I glanced down at the long list his mother had given me before my fingers flew across the keyboard in response.

Oliver,

Unfortunately, my schedule doesn’t allow for dinner dates with my boss’ son, but thank you for the offer.

Best wishes,

Lizzie

Hitting send, I picked up Margaret’s list and began studying it in earnest.

“
Verify final details with Natalie Roche for Halloween charity ball, schedule travel accommodations to Paris for November fourteenth meeting...
” The sound of a new message coming through drew my attention away from the paper, and I looked up at my screen to see a response from Oliver.

If my mother said anything to you, let me ease your mind by telling you this: I’ll be thirty in December. I haven’t let the wishes of others dictate whom I date—or fuck—in many, many years.

My mouth went dry as I read his message. Again. And then two more times. The words seemed to seep into my skin, waking parts of myself that had no business being in Los Angeles with me. Tugging at the scooped neck of my dress, I considered my next words carefully before I tentatively typed my reply.

Oliver,

I have no intention of dating or bedding you, so sorry to bruise your ego. Please stop harassing me at the office—I’d hate to have to report your behavior to HR. Don’t you have work to do?

Lizzie

His final reply came a few minutes later, and looking at the new message alert on the screen tightened every muscle in my body. Oliver wouldn’t have simply brushed that last email off with a simple
fuck you
. I closed my eyes, knowing that whatever he’d said would mess with me. I told myself that I didn’t have to read it, that I shouldn’t give Oliver another thought. But I shrugged off my own warning. Opening my eyes, I glued them to the screen, reading his words hungrily.

Lizzie,

There was nothing innocent about the way you stared at me earlier this week, and if there was, I wouldn’t be pursuing you. Innocence is an overrated headache that I don’t want.

And that threat about HR? I’d be happy to explain my plans for you to Isadora, but I’m not sure you want her hearing some of those details. Before you respond, I should also tell you that I still want—and plan—to take you to dinner.

You won’t regret it, but it’s your call.

-Oliver

I rapped my fingers on my desk to shake out the tingles bursting across my skin. I wanted to reply—God, did I want to—but I stopped myself and pulled my hands in my lap, wringing them together. It hadn’t taken him long to get into my head. Somewhere in L.A., he was probably sitting in his luxurious corporate office, waiting for me to continue this exchange with him, and the thought of that both thrilled and terrified me.

But here was the thing: Oliver’s job wasn’t on the line, so of course it wouldn’t matter to him that his mother had declared him off-limits.

It was my place to put an end to contacting him, no matter how much a part of myself reveled in his words.

I was here for Margaret, and the only way to get anything I needed from her was to give her what she wanted. Period.

Moving the Rolodex from the far side of my desk to sit right in front of me, I flipped through it until I found the business card for Natalie Roche Events. As I dialed the event planner’s number and got to work, I reminded myself again what I had to do—uncover, expose, and get the hell out.

Uncovering Mr. Sex-in-a-Business-Suit didn’t fit in those plans anywhere.

*

“H
ow’s life on the seventh floor?” Stella asked as she held the door open to the bar she’d picked—a hole-in-the-wall called Sunny’s—on Tuesday. Processing the skeptical look I wore as I took in our surroundings, she released a throaty laugh. She hooked her arm through mine and led me to two open seats. “It’s a little rough around the edges, but it’s quiet here,” she promised, setting her Burberry bag on the bar. “Now, spill it, girl. How’s working for Mrs. Emerson?” She emphasized Margaret’s name, causing me to scrunch my nose. To my relief, she hadn’t noticed because she was digging around in her satchel in search of her wallet.

“It’s...” I slid onto the stool beside her and shrugged. “It’s different.”

“Yes, ma’am, it is.” She pushed a thick black curl behind her ear, causing her gold triple drop earring to swing back and forth. “What did you say you did before?”

I hadn’t mentioned it, but I’d gone over my pseudo-history so many times with Pen that I could probably tell people more about Lizzie Connelly than Gemma Emerson. “I worked for the VP of a telecommunications company.” I twisted the corner of the drink napkin in front of me. “My job was mostly answering the phone, not—”

“Picking up Margaret’s laundry, trying to remember her coffee order, and harassing people she thinks owe her for their existence?”