Please, Jesus. Don’t do that.
Ignoring her, I adjust my tie and head toward the entrance.
“Hold on,” she says, standing in front of me and pressing her hand to my chest. It’s the smallest of touches, but it’s like she pressed a button to release a wave of heat to flow through my veins, only to bubble in the pit of my stomach.
Jesus Christ, man.
Standing about a foot shorter than me, she reaches up and adjusts my tie only to pat it. “There. You can’t go in there with a crooked tie, as that would be ridiculous.”
Yeah, totally ridiculous, unlike the energy that seems to pump through my veins when Charlee gets this close to me.
What the hell is happening to me? It’s been a week. A fucking week of her dancing around the office, turning my bleak and dark space into the end of the rainbow. I should be annoyed, turned off, ready to send her packing, but instead, it’s like this light is starting to turn on in the dark of my chest whenever she’s around.
And that’s fucking terrifying because . . . she’s my EA.
Get it together, Westin.
On a deep breath, I turn back to business mode and say, “Stay at my side, and if you see me adjust my cufflink, know that’s my cue for help.”
“Oh wow, I like that. Covert communication. What should be my signal?” She taps her chin. “How about if I itch the side of my boob?”
Of course, that would be her choice.
“Not necessary.”
We walk into the event and something incredible happens. I watch as Charlee’s smile turns from bubbly to businesslike. It tilts at the corners rather than stretches across her face, and her demeanor switches from lighthearted to serious but approachable. It’s hard to describe, but it’s as if she slipped past the door and put on a different shield of armor, morphing into professional Charlee.
I’m not sure what to make of it, whether I’m impressed or sad.
“Let’s grab a drink. Always good to have something to hold on to when talking.”
“Total power move,” she whispers. “An executive without a drink doesn’t exude confidence. It means they’re unable to control themselves. Even if they pretend their vodka is water. Mr. Danvers always got a club soda but pretended it was a vodka and club. He liked to be on top of his game, but also look like he’s part of the crowd.”
“He’s a smart man,” I say, stepping up to the bar. “Two club sodas with lime, hold the straws.”
Charlee smiles. “Are you saving the turtles with the no straws?”
I look to the side and say, “Yes, and one should never suck on something while talking to their colleagues; it shows weakness.”
“Aah.” She nods and then whispers, “Represents that you’re willing to suck ass, totally get it. Well guess what, people? Rath Trevor Westin doesn’t suck ass.” She stabs the bar top but then leans back and puts that fake smile back on her face.
What the hell am I going to do with this girl?
Also . . . she’s right. I don’t suck ass, for anyone.
Also . . . my middle name is not Trevor.
“You know, watching you schmooze people, it’s a beautiful sight to behold.”
We’re sitting at a table to the side, taking down a few appetizers that Charlee collected for us while I was finishing up a conversation with a Chinese dignitary. And when I say a few appetizers, I mean a lot.
It’s like she ran down every server and created a mini tray for us. I’m grateful, because I’m starving after the many conversations I’ve held so far. The philanthropic side of my business is my bread and butter, my baby, what I care about the most: helping children. The sick, the poor, the misjudged. If a child needs help, I want to be the one to lend a helping hand. They’re why I go to these events, so I can score more money, more donations, more people to buy into my foundation. If it weren’t for the kids, I would be at home, one hand down my pants with a beer in the other—yup, frat boy.
“Are you lying?” I ask, shoving a tuna tartare in my mouth in one bite.
“No, I wouldn’t lie about that. You’re really good at it. Super smooth. You haven’t needed to use me once. I’m kind of sad I haven’t been able to scratch my boob.”
“Yeah, that’s devastating.”
She playfully nudges me with her foot under the table. “Look at you loosening up. Take your girdle off for the event?”
“Just wore it looser.”
Her eyes light up and for fuck’s sake, I feel myself wanting to light up right back at her. Seeing her happy, joyful from a reaction from me, pulls at my groin, makes me yearn to do more to see it again.
“I knew there was a lighter side to you under this impenetrable business appearance.”
“Don’t go looking for it. It’s few and far between.”
“Why?” she asks, a tilt to her head, her hair skimming over her bare shoulder. “Everyone in the office always says how nice you are, what a great man you are, but I feel like you’re hiding that part from me. Why?”
“Not hiding, just getting the job done. The people who work for me, but under other supervision, need to know there’s a heart upstairs, watching over them. Our relationship is different. You work directly for me, therefore, we work and don’t play.”
“Well . . . that makes sense. Depressingly. We can have fun every once in a while.”
“You can,” I say, taking a sip of my drink. “You are allotted your dance time and meditation time, but I will work. I will always work.”
“That makes me sad. You need to have fun too, Mr. Westin.”
“I have fun on my time off, but in my building, while working above my employees, I stick to the job because they’re depending on me. I can’t lose focus.” I did once. Won’t happen again.
Charlee quiets and picks up a coconut shrimp, dipping it in some Thai sweet chili sauce before plopping it in her mouth. She observes the room and sighs. Once she swallows, she says, “I wonder if all these people have the same mentality as you. Work. Work. Work. If so, it’s a rather depressing sight, taking in all these beautifully decked-out individuals with the knowledge that if you peel back their designer gowns and bespoke tuxes, they’re really black inside.”
I look at the room too, seeing the people in a different light, and I can’t help thinking how right Charlee really is. There’s no doubt in my mind if these people were shed down to their skin, in place of a beating red organ would be a shriveled black heart.
At least mine is only shielded, not soulless. But that’s something she doesn’t need to know.
“If you’re all work, what do you do for fun?”
I sip my drink and think about ignoring her, but she almost seems sad right now—like I’ve let her down—and I hate the slump in her shoulders, the sadness in her eyes. “My best friends. They’re my fun.”
“Mr. Scott and Mr. McCool?”
I nod. “Yeah, we went to Yale together. Roark was an exchange student and Bram, well, he was the popular guy on campus.”
“And you were . . .”
I wipe my face with a napkin and crumple it up on the empty tray. “The smart one.”