Heating Up the Holidays 3-Story Bundle(8)

“I wouldn’t have hired you if there wasn’t.”

“Circumstances forced you into hiring me.”

“I don’t let circumstances force me into anything,” he counters, and it’s much more comforting coming from him than from Terrance. “If I hadn’t been impressed with you,” he continues, “I would have insisted Dana cover until I picked a replacement.”

“I impressed you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“That’s why,” he replies.

“What’s why?”

“You might fear being without a job, but it doesn’t stop you from being you or asking questions. And questions are good. They lead to answers. In fact, I’m interested in finding out what you think of the staff once you get done with the inquisitions I know are coming. We can compare notes when I get back.”

“To judge them or me?” I ask, the entire idea opening a barely sealed nerve ending. I’ve been judged, and I don’t like it.

“I simply want to know how our thoughts come together.”

“To assess my judgment.”

“To assess my judgment.”

His answer is unexpected. Everything about him is unexpected. “I’m not sure what to say to that.”

“Then don’t say anything. Just be you and I’ll be me and we will see if we like where that leads us.”

I swallow hard against the thickness in my throat. “Where that leads us?”

“Yes. Where that leads us.” And when I can easily imagine there is intimacy in those words, he shifts, leaving me dazed and confused. “Call me when you get to your desk tomorrow, Ms. Miller.”

“Wait,” I say, and I mean to ask about his prior assistant, but somehow I blurt, “What will your caller ID say when I call you?”

“I’m DW and you’re KM,” he replies.

I am surprised and pleased with this answer.

“Is that what you wanted to hear, Ms. Miller?”

“Yes,” I respond simply, hoping to discourage him from asking more questions, since I can’t answer what I don’t understand. I simply don’t want to be just a number or “the temp.”

“Well, then,” he says thoughtfully, drawing out the words and seeming to hesitate on something he wants to say, before he finishes with, “Good night, Ms. Miller.”

“Good night, Mr. Ward.”

Neither of us hangs up. Seconds tick by, and I think we both expect something to happen that never does. And then the line goes dead and the call is over, unfinished in some way that feels wrong where he feels right. Despite all that has happened today, I have this sense that I am where I’m supposed to be. And the last thought I have before the shadows of slumber overcome me is of when I fell backward in the elevator and he caught me.





Part Four


What just happened?


Morning comes, and I’m determined to make it a great first day at work. By seven forty-five, I am at the human-resources office. The receptionist, a rather standoffish twenty-something woman with light-brown hair, offers me coffee. I decline, and she points me to one of about ten burgundy lobby chairs. By eight-thirty, I reconsider the coffee. At nine, I am feeling antsy when a slender woman with spiky black hair and wearing a fitted navy dress walks down the hall. A curvy, very Bette Midler–ish redhead is on her heels.

“I really need to go to my desk and pick up my pictures,” the brunette insists, turning to the other woman. “They’re very personal and sentimental. Irreplaceable in every way.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” the redhead says, giving her simple black dress a sharp straightening that screams of irritation. “Have a seat and I’ll be with you.”

The brunette’s back is to me and I can’t see her reaction, but she says nothing, turning and walking to the coffee machine to get a cup for herself. It is an obvious act of rebellion, a statement that she will go with her chin held high, and I am not the only one who notices. The redhead glares at the other woman for several long beats before shifting her gaze to me. “Ms. Miller?”

“Yes.” I pop to my feet, reaching for my purse and briefcase. “That’s me.”

“Actually,” the woman replies, an irritated look reddening her pale complexion, “I need to take care of another matter before we meet.”

It is all I can do not to slump in defeat. There is no apology. No real explanation. Just basically sit and behave. “Can I start working and come back later?” I ask hopefully.

“No. You need clearance from me or someone in HR first. And I’m the only one available.”

Except that she isn’t available. But I nod my acceptance—not that she sees me. She is already rushing away by the time I sit down. My attention returns to the receptionist’s desk, where I find the brunette resting a hip on the desk and the two women’s heads dipped close. The rasp of whispers I can’t make out is fuzzing up the air, and the unease of a gut feeling that I am their topic is impossible to shake.

I glance at the hallway, where the redhead has disappeared, and grimace at being left to wallow in discomfort. She did not even introduce herself to me. Note to self for my analysis of the staff, I silently say. The redhead is not a woman who makes new employees feel warm and fuzzy. If Mr. Ward cares. After last night, I am going to give him the benefit of the doubt.