Count to three. Do not kill your boss.
And do not fall in love with him.
That's a good start, especially when you work for New York's most eligible bachelor with millions in one pocket and half of Manhattan's panties in the other. Not to mention tho...
"They won't learn to be kind until we force them to."
Caesar, Conquest of the Planet of the Apes (1972)
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I take another bite of the vanilla roll that has been accompanying my journey through this wild jungle of file revisions, swaying my leg under the table to the rhythm of Big Girls Don't Cry. It has been playing on a loop in my head since the morning and doesn't stop even as the phone on my desk rings.
I swallow the bite in my mouth and pick it up. "Office of Miracles and Entertainment, how can I help you?"
I'm met with Claire's quiet chuckle. She's working the front desk, which I saw was the one calling. The lack of any further response on her part tells me she's not there alone, just as her professional tone when she starts speaking. "Camryn, I have Mrs. Marlow here. She would like to speak to Mr. Knox."
I furrow my brows. Mrs. Marlow doesn't ring any bell. And I'm quite positive there's no meeting till the afternoon.
"Mrs. Marlow? Let's see..." I wait for my boss's calendar to open to confirm what I though. "Uh, she doesn't have an appointment. I'm afraid she'll have to call and arrange a meeting another day. Did she say anything about what she's her for?"
I guess not, since I can hear Claire asking. There's a muffled voice in the background, followed by Claire's in the receiver. "She's saying it's a personal matter."
Oh no. Don't let it be one of his sulking ex-fucks. My mood has been too good for this today.
I let out a sigh. "Give me a minute. I'm coming over there."
I dust off my hands from my very late sugar-boosting breakfast and get to my feet, heading down the long hallway of grey-white walls all the way to the front desk on our floor. Claire immediately points a discreet finger at a woman studying a rollup banner stand in the corner picturing photos of stunning New York penthouses. Until my approaching makes her turn around.
I smile politely and hold up my hand. "Hello. Mrs. Marlow, I presume?"
She promptly meets my hand with a friendly expression. "That's me, hello."
I'm instantly surprised by her warmth behavior. Most of Knox's girls – as Daniel Cushman quite aptly called them this week, the insult towards me aside – are usually not all heartfelt smiles and candid pleasure when meeting me. More like icicles throwing stares and guarded eyeing. It's ridiculous, really. And shows just how much they don't know the man they're sleeping with. I don't doubt that he must possess some mind-blowing bed skills – or at least a fat bank account to cover the poor ones – but try to work with him for a day. I bet all the magic would be poof, gone.
But Mrs. Marlow doesn't look like the usual trophy from Knox's bedroom exhibition of former "girlfriends". She can be about his age, given the faint wrinkles around her dark eyes, and although she is very pretty, she seems too sweet and put together. It's hard to imagine her going down that path. The one that leads to Brandon Knox's sheets.
