“I spoke with Leslie about those reports you needed, and she’ll have them for you this afternoon. The painting you bought at the Hope Gala last weekend is being delivered to your place later today, so I’ll run over there and sign for it. That means I’ll be out of the office for an hour or so.”
“I need dinner reservations for tomorrow,” he said, still not looking up. “For two. Tulio or Assiaggo are acceptable. Not Canlis. And book a room on Maui for ten days, beginning Saturday. One of the usual resorts. Doesn’t matter which one.”
I probably could have indulged in the smug smile I tried to hide. It wasn’t like he was looking at me. But I nibbled my lip to stop myself anyway. Dinner for two at Tulio or Assiaggo, but not Canlis, and a last-minute trip to Maui meant he was breaking up with his latest gold-digger, Svetlana.
“Should I clear your calendar?” I asked, knowing he was going to tell me he wasn’t going. He’d send Svetlana on the trip to appease her for breaking up. But I had to pretend I didn’t know that, and ask anyway.
“No, I’m not going.”
“Okay.” I indulged in the smug smile. I hated Svetlana. She was a ridiculously gorgeous Bulgarian model—tall, slender, big boobs. A woman that heartless should never have been granted such phenomenal beauty. But the fact that she was stunning wasn’t why I hated her. I loathed her because I knew she was only with Mr. Calloway for his money.
She didn’t even try to hide it. Strutted around here like she owned half the company—which you could tell she thought was a forgone conclusion. As if he’d marry her. Ugh. The very thought made my skin crawl.
Granted, she wasn’t the first gold-digger he’d dated. He attracted them like a super-powered electromagnet. Most of the women he dated were similar: insanely beautiful, of varying intelligence, and primarily interested in the extravagant lifestyle they assumed dating—and even marrying—Shepherd Calloway would give them.
They were in for a rude awakening when they found out Mr. Calloway was not the type of billionaire businessman who lavished his girlfriends with luxurious gifts. Nice dinners, perhaps. And they could attend exclusive events among Seattle’s elite perched on his arm. He was certainly a means to being seen.
But from what I could tell, he was just as cold and unemotional with his girlfriends as he was with his employees. And he never spent a lot of money on them. They undoubtedly went into it picturing limo rides to romantic dinners, beautiful jewelry, and fancy vacations. What they got was a man who ignored them almost as much as he ignored me, and who didn’t buy them presents—probably because it never occurred to him to bother.
Svetlana hadn’t lasted long, but that wasn’t a surprise. He’d been seeing her for a couple of months—not that I kept track, really—and it seemed she’d already chafed his nerves more times than he was willing to live with, regardless of what she looked like. And boy, was I glad.
I had no reason to care. Mr. Calloway and I weren’t friends. So it shouldn’t have mattered to me whether some woman was trying to latch onto him for his money. But it did. I did care about him, even though I knew better. I couldn’t help it. I figured I was just built that way and tried to ignore it.
Except for moments like this, when I could privately gloat.
“That’s it,” he said.
“Sounds good, Mr. Calloway. I’ll be at my desk if you need anything.”
I said that to him every day, too. And he never replied. But it had become part of our routine, so I said it anyway.
Back at my desk, Steve gave me a reassuring smile. “You sure are tougher than you look.”
I shrugged and grinned, feeling a little glow of satisfaction. I always felt that way when people commented on my job. I’d lasted longer than any other assistant Shepherd Calloway had ever had. And I wore that distinction with a great deal of pride.
Only two types of people lasted at this company: people who were close enough to being his peers that they weren’t intimidated by him, and people who didn’t have to interact with him.
Anyone else usually lasted six months—maybe a year if they were tougher than average.
I’d worked for him for three years—a company record. Before me, he’d gone through assistants like some women went through purses. In one season, out the next. But me? Miss Everly Dalton? I was the only assistant he’d ever had who could actually handle him.
Really, I kind of got off on it. I liked having access to the man everyone was afraid of. The man with the power in this place. I liked the respect my position earned me. Outside these walls, people took me for a sugary-sweet, plain as vanilla, boring blond girl with a big smile.
But my coworkers saw me as something else entirely. They looked at me in awe, wondering how I could possibly handle the big bad wolf. How I never got bit.
It wasn’t as hard as they all thought. Once I got to know him—as well as I could, considering he didn’t speak to me very much—it was easy to get along with him. Learn his routine. Make sure anything within my control was executed on time. Stay out of his way.
And it worked. I didn’t rock the boat. I didn’t expect anything I knew he wouldn’t give. He wasn’t going to be friendly. No asking about my day or thanking me for a job well done. Which was fine. I knew I did my job well, and my pay reflected that.
The situation worked for me, and whether or not he’d ever acknowledge it, I knew it worked for Mr. Calloway too.
I winked at Steve, and grabbed my phone. I had work to do.
2
Everly
My shoes hit the pavement in a steady rhythm, and I tried to concentrate on my breathing. Running wasn’t my favorite activity—I’d never been what you’d call an athlete—but something happens when you turn thirty. You just can’t recover the same way.
My girlfriends and I couldn’t, at least. Not from any of the things we used to do without batting an eyelash—or gaining a pound. Martini Mondays. Taco Tuesdays. Wine Wednesdays. Thirsty Thursdays. Fast-food Fridays (don’t judge). Not from binging on cheap pizza and chocolate ice cream because one of us had an epic breakup. And let’s be honest, best friends cannot shirk their gorge-on-crap-food-and-get-drunk duties just because said breakup occurred after the age of twenty-nine.
“Are we done yet?” Nora asked. She jogged beside me in full makeup, looking gorgeous as always. Her thick, dark hair was in a beautifully curled ponytail that swished and swayed as she moved.
Hazel looked at her high-tech watch. “Almost. We’re at two-point-seven miles. We’re doing three today.”
“Ugh,” Nora said. She was acting put out, but she didn’t even sound winded.
“Nora…” Breath. “You’re doing awesome.” Breath. “You’re not even breathing hard.”
“Her metabolic rate has improved,” Hazel said, pushing her glasses back up her nose.
I’d been best friends with Hazel and Nora since forever. The three of us lived in the same apartment building now, but we’d met in middle school and could have been voted girls least likely to be best friends. We were all so different. Nora had always been exceptionally beautiful—and popular. Men loved her, and women wanted to be her. Hazel was gorgeous in her own way, but she tended to minimize it. Plus, she was brilliant—an actual, bona fide genius. I think she even had a plaque somewhere.