We’re both wearing green.
Fuck.
Not wanting to hear her highly probable, over-the-top statement about my clothing, I take off toward my office, but she catches up quickly and elbows me in the side. “Thursday, am I right?” She opens my door for me and continues, “Got to make that money.” I loathe myself right now. “Let’s not let Thursday slow us down because tomorrow is Friday, and do you know what Friday means?”
“Two days away from you,” I mutter, even though it’s not true. We have to work this weekend.
“A joke, look at you lightening up.”
Not a joke.
“Friday means it’s the weekend and the possibilities are endless. So let’s plow through this day and make it great. What do you say?”
I sit at my desk where a green smoothie stares back at me. “What’s this?”
“Power drink. It’s Thursday, and we have to get our brain working. According to the dietary form you filled out for me”—yeah, that was fucking fun—“you’re not allergic to anything but you don’t like kale. So I put it in your smoothie.”
“If I don’t like it, why would you put it in my smoothie?”
“Because you can’t taste it and it’s such a good vegetable for you. Something a high-powered macho man like yourself needs.” She flexes her arms when she says that, and I feel like she’s mocking me.
“Did you finish typing up that proposal yesterday?”
“Yes, it’s in our shared file, which I organized for us, because having all those Word documents and Excel sheets floating around without a home was a nightmare. So I took it upon myself to divide them into appropriate files.”
Something I’ve been wanting to do for a while, but I don’t mention that.
“And what about this weekend, did you book hotel rooms in Miami?”
“Of course. You’re booked into the royal oceanfront suite at The St. Regis Bal Harbour Resort. I believe that’s where you’ve stayed on previous trips to Miami.”
“Singular? As in one room?” I ask.
“Do you plan on having company? A little lady friend?” She laughs.
I lean back in my chair and fold my arms over my chest. “What the hell do you think you’re doing this weekend?”
“Uh, having brunch with my grandma. It’s her birthday. Turning the young age of eighty.”
“Send her flowers. You’re coming to Miami.” I turn on my computer.
“Hmm. I don’t recall that being part of the job description or booked in our shared calendar.” She taps her green pen to her paper.
“Then you didn’t read the fine print. Not only are you contracted to me for two years unless I fire you, you’re also required to work extra hours as an executive salaried employee. You’re coming to Miami, and I’d appreciate appropriate work attire, nothing too”—I motion up and down her body—“flashy.”
She glances at her green dress and then back up at me. “How is this flashy? You’re wearing the same color as me.”
“In a subtle way.”
She folds her arms as well. “You know, this is harassment.”
“It really isn’t and once again, read your contract. As an executive employee you’re required to adhere to a certain standard. I suggest you read things before you sign them, Miss Cox.”
“Fine.” She lifts her chin in the air and a wave of nerves trickle up my spine. When women say “fine” it’s never good . . . in any context. The word “fine” should be eliminated from the English language because all it does is cause stress and trouble. “I’ll go with you this weekend, but I will require to be home by nine Sunday morning. I’m sure you can manage since you have a private jet and you’re to return Sunday anyway. That way my poor grandma doesn’t have a stroke from me not showing up.” She leans forward, hands on hips, her voice sharp with me. “Is that what you want? For my grandma to have a stroke?”
Casually, I unpack my suitcase and say, “You’ll be home by nine on Sunday.” I take the list I made last night, finding it harder and harder to stump this girl after only a few days on the job, and hand it to her. “You know the drill. By noon.”
“As if you even have to announce your demands.” She snatches the list and strides out of my office, slamming my door this time.
Maybe Thursdays might be my favorite days, after all.
I stare at the smoothie, glance at Sir Dragomir, who I swear reports back to Charlee, and then I take a cautious sip.
Fuck.
Why is it so good?
The oats were perfect, the rug—gunmetal gray, soft, and perfectly suited to my office—perfect, John—who can be a cranky ass—loves the sweet new assistant and thought her perfect . . . and her attention to detail? Perfect.
Damn Charlee and her ability to be perfect at everything.
“Gooooooooooood MORNING,” Charlee shouts at the top of her lungs the minute the elevator doors open, startling the fuck out of me.
Motherfucker. I was prepared for her onslaught but not for her to shout through a megaphone and scare the piss right out of me.
On cue, she presses a button on a remote in her hand and “Celebrate” by Kool & the Gang blasts through the speakers of our office floor.
Wearing a yellow skintight dress, leopard-print glasses, and matching shoes, she does some weird jig in front of me and then twirls.
“Come on, boss man. YAAAA-HOOO! It’s Friday.” She waves her arms in the air. “Oh yeah, it’s a celebration.”
Fucking . . . hell.
The music blares, she flings her body around, and . . . are those balloons?
I focus and confirm, yup, those are in fact, balloons. Balloons and streamers are strewn across her workspace.
My office has turned into a goddamn circus.
That’s exactly what this week has been, a fucking circus, not a place of business and yet, instead of taking a pen to the balloons and a Gianni shoe to the speakers, I walk past the dancing blonde with far too much energy for eight in the morning and head to my office, nervous to open the door.
So nervous, that I hesitate to open it, which of course she notices.
“You act like something is going to pop out.” She laughs and pushes the door open for me. I glance inside and see everything is “normal” for now.
That is until I walk in and Brute and Bulldog—as they will be referred to now—pop out from the corners with signs that say Happy Friday.
Together my barrel-chested security detail dance with Charlee, all gleefully excited about it being Friday. They hold signs, Charlee is holding . . . wait . . . what are those?
POP.
“Jesus Christ,” I yelp, startling backward as confetti shoots from the tubes.
Pulse on overdrive, I clutch my briefcase like a life raft as I take in the spectacle in front of me, confetti strands dripping down my forehead.
“Celebrate good times,” Charlee sings, bopping her head back and forth, looking like a Peanuts character with two giant men on either side.
What.
The.
Actual.
Fuck.
The music finally dies down and she hands out high fives to Brute and Bulldog who jog off, patting me on the back on their way out.