“Oh wait,” Charlee calls out. From her cleavage . . . yes, her fucking cleavage, she pulls out two fun-sized packs of Skittles and tosses one each to the boys like dog treats. “Thanks, fellas, your rhythm was on point.”
They bid her a goodbye and shut the door behind them, which finally gives me a second to catch my breath.
“Aren’t you energized? Told you we just had to get past Thursday, and we did it. We are Friday fans in this office.” She waves her arms in the air, snapping her fingers, and still sidestepping.
I . . .
Hell, what the fuck do I even do with her?
Clearly not in the mood, I steam past her, my heart pacing at an alarming rate from being startled and bombarded so much this morning, that I take my seat immediately and try to slow down my pulse with deep breaths.
No person should have to work under these uncertain conditions. Erratic behavior, unexpected surprises, awkward security men spontaneously jumping out at me . . . it’s a fucking whirlwind of terrifying events, one after another.
On a deep breath, I stare at the pancakes that are smiling back up at me.
Yup . . . a fucking circus.
“They’re protein pancake smilies.” Charlee steps up, a little out of breath from her performance. “Packed full of the protein you need in the morning with a bit of charm. I stuck blueberries in there for some antioxidants and then I made another kale smoothie for you since you seemed to suck yesterday’s down so fast. Only a half serving though, as we don’t want you bloated from breakfast. We need you fitting in those trousers.”
Finally gathering myself, I say, “Please tell me you’re not going to do that every Friday.”
“The balloons, no, because there’s a helium shortage, but we will be dancing every Friday. Next week, you get to pick the song. Can’t wait to hear what you pick and there will be no judgment, so if you get your boogie on to The Judds, then let’s do it. I’ll need your song choice by Wednesday to prepare.”
I snag the list from my suitcase and wave it at her. “Just take this and leave. Please, just leave.”
“Ah, okay. I get it, a little overwhelming. Totally reading the room. Don’t worry, boss man, I’ll tone it down.”
Thank God. Because my head is about to explode.
Knock. Knock.
“Mr. Westin.” Charlee pokes her head through my door. “You have a beautiful visitor here to see you.”
Beautiful?
Who on earth . . .
“Your sister,” she squeals and flings my door open. Together, Julia and Charlee walk arm in arm toward my desk. Oh God, that can’t be good. “Can I just say she’s one of the most delightful humans I’ve ever met? What a charming young lady.”
“I would say the same about you,” Julia says, patting Charlee on the hand.
Great, just what I need, my sister and my executive assistant becoming best friends. All I need now is for Bram to get involved and then I’m done.
“I’ll leave you two to it, but, Julia, I’ll send that spaghetti squash recipe your way.”
“Thank you.”
Charlee takes off but before she shuts the door, she says, “Ordered some high tea for you two, and it will be here shortly. A little snack for the afternoon.”
When she shuts the door, Julia takes a seat and beams at me. “I—”
“Please.” I press my hand to my forehead. “Don’t say it.”
“Love her,” Julia finishes, looking back at the door. “Oh my God, Rath, she is so much fun and so vibrant and sweet. Completely different than anyone you’ve worked with and look at your office, it’s so full of life. I bet you get a lot done.”
I don’t want to admit it, but I’ve been able to get more work done this past week than I ever have before. She is . . . fun . . . but I’m still not sure I can deal with the morning overtures. I mean, fuck, how does she manage to get here before me and have everything set up? Food, people, music . . . when does she sleep? Does she sleep? How the hell is she getting all the shit done on my lists? I’m being as evasive as possible to challenge her, stump her, and she keeps one-upping me like a goddamn A-plus champion by finishing the lists and adding some kind of decadent sweet to my lunch.
It’s infuriating. And she seems to know exactly what kind of afternoon sweet I need at the right time. It boosts my spirits, makes me think of sprinkles and cupcakes and itty-bitty kittens—hell, she’s making me say words in my head like itty-bitty.
Therefore, she’s fucking with my head in all sorts of ways. She has completely obliterated my plan to overwhelm her, having passed every challenge thrown at her. And I’m left on the backfoot more often than not. She shouldn’t be able to do that to me. The chaos I’ve worked with for so long has been traded in for something crazier . . . yet, I’m on top of my work. I shake my head. We are Friday fans in this office. Christ.
“She’s efficient,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “What’s up, sis? Everything okay?”
She nods. “Everything is great. I wanted to talk to you about the wedding.”
“What about it?”
“Well . . .” She twists her hands in her lap and I’m immediately on high alert.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s just, we moved the date and it’s your birthday weekend.”
“So?”
“The wedding would be on your actual birthday. It was the only day we could book and I feel awful, but we didn’t want to lose the venue.”
I smile and say, “Julia, you matter more to me than any birthday. I want you to have the best wedding—”
“Me . . . or Bram?” she asks with a raised brow, humor in her voice.
“Both of you.” I smile. “Having your wedding on my birthday will only make it that much more special. Seriously, don’t even bat an eyelash about it.”
“Bram said he wants to have three cakes at the wedding. A wedding cake, a cheesecake for good luck . . .”
I laugh out loud and say, “He once had cheesecake before an exam he never studied for and wound up acing it, so now he thinks cheesecake brings good luck. He only eats it before some of the most important events in his life.”
“Is it weird that you know more about him than I do?”
“It will soon change, which will burn my soul, but hey, that’s what happens when I hand my best friend over to my sister in marriage.”
She rolls her eyes and says, “Well, the third cake is a birthday cake for you.”
“Absolutely not.” I shake my head. “I will not take from your day. I can celebrate some other time, or not at all because I’m a grown-ass man and don’t need anything special.”
“Try telling that to Bram. He was distraught about it. It’s why he sent me to tell you, to soften the blow. He said he couldn’t even look you in the eye.”
“He’s such a drama queen.” The door to my office opens and Charlee rolls a cart inside. “It will be fine,” I whisper before Charlee sets a pot of tea in front of us along with teacups and a three-tier display of scones and treats.
Where the hell did this come from? And why haven’t I had this every day?