I’m still asking myself that question. Of course, the work would probably be going faster if I could keep my mind off Eliza.
I sigh, pushing my chair back from the desk. Kissing her the other night outside the ice cream shop was a stupid impulse, that’s all. The kind I usually know better than to give into. Normally, I’m notorious for planning three steps ahead—calculating for every possible outcome, adjusting the sails to account for the slightest breeze. But there’s was something about her smile, and her ridiculous footwear—and, all right, her shirt slipping down over her stomach when she did those cartwheels—that had me throwing caution to the wind for once in my life.
And what did it get me? A potential HR crisis, that’s what.
Not that it’s going to be a problem. If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s how to keep things professional.
Which is more than I can say for my late father. The deeper I wade into this godforsaken office the more I’m starting to understand why the whole place is about to go under. Fresh flowers on every available surface. Designer coffee in the kitchen. Long “working” lunches dripping with booze. Who orders dessert at lunch, for Pete’s sake? Dilettantes with no self-control, that’s who.
Not to mention the office furnishings. Deep leather couches and green banker’s lamps, plush Persian rugs. A velvet divan, for crying out loud. There’s even a working fireplace. How, exactly, do any of these creature comforts encourage productivity? All they do is invite long afternoon wine naps. But then again, Harry was a man who enjoyed the pleasures of life—and felt entitled to them, whenever he wanted.
It’s the reason I exist, after all. Hell, I’m probably one of the only consequences he couldn’t sweep under the rug entirely, although he certainly tried, with those fat checks and polite birthday calls.
I look around the office again, feeling that uneasy mix of resentment and grief that’s been bubbling ever since the old man passed away. I’ve always felt like an interloper in his world, and now is no different. I thought I could keep a cool head about things, but being right here at Sterling is bring up some unintended feelings. I’m off my game, for sure. So is it any wonder I’m doing wild, impulsive things—like making out with one of my junior editors?
I scribble a note to Harry’s old assistant—my assistant, now—to see about getting some actual office furniture in here, then pack up some files to take home, and hail a cab back to my apartment. I had the real estate agent find me a furnished rental not too far from the office—it’s more than serviceable, with a 24-hour concierge and laundry pickup, plus a spacious gym. I’m told there’s a pool on the roof, though I’ve never actually been up there to see for myself.
Honestly, who has the time when there’s work to be done?
I pick up a salad at the deli across the street and nod at the night doorman before taking the elevator upstairs to my unit. There’s a gift basket from the realtor on the granite countertop, a selection of tropical fruits along with her telephone number. I glance at it for a moment before tossing the card into the trash. She was perfectly nice-looking, with full lips and a sleek blonde bob, and the way she took my arm as she led me around the apartment made it clear she wouldn’t have minded spending a few nights here herself. Still, I make it a policy not to mix the personal and the professional.
At least, not usually.
Eliza pushes her way into my thoughts again— the haughty lift of her chin as she was defending her clients today at the meeting, the warm pink flush of her cheeks. I can’t help but wonder what it would take to make her blush like that in other contexts.
And in other places.
I shake my head, stabbing half-heartedly at my salad. This is completely unacceptable. Unprofessional.
Uncontrollable?
I change into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and head down to the gym—if I’m too distracted to get work done, I may as well work out my frustrations in a productive way. I’m just hitting my stride when my phone rings with a call from my mentor, Aisling, back in LA. “How’s it going with Sterling?” she asks, not bothering with a greeting. One of Aisling’s inalienable principles for running a business is never to waste anything if she can help it—and that includes words.
“It’s a mess,” I tell her truthfully, ramping up the incline on the treadmill. Aisling was my boss in my first job out of college, and she taught me everything I know about running a business. “Ridiculous excess, all kinds of redundancy. And the expense accounts are… turgid.”
Aisling barks out a short, frills-free laugh. “Sounds like you’re getting comfortable with the romance novel lingo, at least.”
“Working on it,” I tell her. “Which reminds me—have you ever heard of Verity Lange?”
“Is that that new hedge fund out of Silicon Valley?” Aisling asks.
“Not quite.” I fill her in on the situation—the massive million-dollar advance, the missing manuscript. “So it’s just sitting there on the balance sheet,” I finish. “No delivery. No attempts even made to collect, from what I can understand. But this company needs a hit, and if I can push out a book by the summer, then maybe…” I trail off.
Maybe this whole ill advised trip won’t be for nothing.
“It’s not too late to call this whole thing off,” Aisling points out, as if reading my mind. “You went to assess the damage, and concluded it would be a waste of your time. Nobody would hold that against you. In fact, making a clear-headed assessment of the task is part of the job. And you know I could use you back here. I’ve got a tricky takeover coming up, and nobody’s better in finding those hidden assets.”
“Thanks,” I reply shortly. “But I’ve got a handle on things here. I’ll be fine.”
“Of course you will.” Aisling replies briskly. “Keep a cool head, watch the numbers, and you’ll be fine.”
And I will be. But what it is I’m trying to prove, I’m still not sure.
That Harry should have called me sooner? That the family who looked down on me and kept me at arm’s length all these years actually need me, after all?
I sigh, and turn back to the accounts. As long as I can keep my focus on the books, and away from Eliza, I’ll be fine.
But when I arrive in the office the next morning, I nearly run straight into her. She’s in the kitchen area, fixing herself a complicated-looking latte that’s probably costing the company at least five dollars..I can hardly manage to muster up annoyance about it, though, because I’m so distracted by the sight of her in a navy belted shirtdress, her blonde hair loose around her shoulders. For a moment I imagine reaching out and tucking it behind her ear, then trailing one finger down the elegant line of her jaw, before realizing that’s probably a great way to get a lawsuit filed against me.
I clear my throat. “So!” I ask, casting about for a conversational opening that has nothing to do with our… personal situation. “What’s the latest on Verity Lange?”
“Good, actually,” she says, giving me a measured look. “I finally got a hold of her late yesterday. We’re going to do an editorial call this morning, see where the book is at.”