C8 8

“Is that all Mr. Carrero?” I finish my notes and push the pen into the top of the notebook with a sigh, clammier than ever.

“I’d like a copy of the letter sent to my father’s email, and I would like it if you would call me Jake … like I asked.” He lifts his feet onto his desk, swiveling his chair back to face it, and regards me with a relaxed, smug look.

“If that’s what you prefer.” I’m not used to employers showing so little concern for titles or behaving so casually. I’m more than a little disappointed in the laxness I’ve seen from both Margo and Jake so far, in the way they behave with each other, and it has me a little uneasy. Here he is, sitting with his feet on his thousand-dollar desk like a lounging teenager, and it kills the image I once had of him.

“I’m not Mr. Carrero … that’s my father.” His eyes flicker to the photo on his desk, and I catch a dark shadow in them. He slides his feet back down as though not so relaxed with that one tiny word, ‘father’. The feeling’s gone before I can decide if I saw it or not, and I shiver inwardly. Men and their dark looks don’t sit well with me; it’s one of the few things which unnerve me deeply enough to bring me out in a cold sweat.

“Okay, Jake!” It’s almost painful to use his name, even if he insists. And it’s forced. He returns to smiling, looking pleased, and I stand indicating my departure.

“Do you like working here, Emma?” He catches me off guard as he leans forward onto his desk, resting his arms in front of him, halting my escape for a moment. I pause, stunned by his question.

“So far,” I answer without thought, wondering why he even cares.

“Five years is a long time to work for this company.” His voice is soothing to listen to despite my reservations about him, and I note how his tone alters when he’s not talking business. He has this way of capturing you with just a subtle change, drawing you in. His relaxed, natural voice is almost sensual, but overall comforting, genuine. He seems to have the art of relaxing people down to a finely-honed skill, the art of making women want to chat to him effortlessly.

Very good, very clever. Win over women with feigned interest. Smooth player.

“I guess I’m someone who likes to stick to something and work at it. See where it takes me.” I tap my notebook against my hip in distraction, trying not to react to that voice.

“You don’t care that you’re spending your twenties missing out on life?” He’s appraising me again, something he does a lot whenever I’m faced with him, and I still haven’t gotten used to it. His eyes eat me up as though I’m a puzzle to be worked out. I guess I interest him on some level.

“Perspective, Mr. Carrero; this job offers me opportunities most twenty-six-year-old women never get the chance to experience,” I say shrugging, trying to will those sharp eyes to look elsewhere and to stop tearing into me.

“You never aspired to be anything different?” He watches me thoughtfully, if not a little intensely.

“Such as?” I shift on my shoes. The rising awkwardness from his attention is getting a little extreme, my uneasiness growing.

“Managerial role?” He grins; he is amused with his remark, but I fail to see the joke, so I smile frostily.

“I don’t have the qualifications to be in a managerial position, Mr. Carrero. I worked hard to climb from admin assistant to here; this is where I want to be,” I retort, easily irked by him again.

“I guess that’s lucky for me then.” He throws me his I-can-charm-anyone smile, and I internally bristle. I want to get out of here. He obviously knows he’s hot and he uses it to his advantage a little too well. I’ve seen how he turns it up on women, and seems to like the reaction, but turns more ‘dude’ with men.

“Perhaps.”

“Time will tell, Miss Anderson. You can go now; see if Margo is back to relieve you. That letter is not urgent so take lunch first.” He smiles me away with what I assume is his ‘charming’ look, obviously bored with my lack of female swooning, and I turn to leave exhaling with relief.

“Very good, Mr … Jake.” I throw him a tight smile and catch the flicker of amusement in his eye, aware now that he knows how much I dislike the informality.

Very good, Carrero; I’m here for your fucking amusement.

I walk toward the heavy door, mood ruined by his smug face, a hot bubbling inside my stomach.

“Wait. Can you book a table for two tonight at Manhattan Penthouse at nine in my name?” he adds quickly, and I turn back to nod that I have heard him, face blank with no reaction.

Wonder which playmate is being wined and dined tonight?

I’ve got used to the special date entries on his schedule and the list of current playmates gracing his bed. I’m sure he ran out of headboard space long ago to keep a tally of notches for his conquests, and it’s just another reason I will never warm to him. He’s a slut.

“Yes, sir.” I pull the door closed behind me and scowl through the closed dense wood. The urge to stick my fingers up with venom surprises me. I guess I’ll have to get used to the reactions he pulls out of me and work harder to remain impassive. He has an ability, it seems, to piss me off without effort or without real reason, and I don’t even want to analyze it.

Twenty minutes later, Margo returns, and I am free just as the AC finally breathes a fresh coolness over us from the ceiling, a wave of relief. I’m sticky, hot, and flushed, and I need a change of clothes.

I head to the bathroom for a quick freshen up and gaze at the badly lit mirror on the wall to see I’m glowing red. My cheeks are flushed, there’s high color across the nape of my neck, and I have a dewy complexion where my make-up has sweated. My hair is no longer slick and smooth in its bun but is weaving its way loose despite the products I use to keep it sleek. I have natural waves which I straighten to get my hair this smooth and manicured. I’m in disarray.

Dammit. I can’t continue with my day looking like this.

I look like I’ve done a workout in my work clothes and I’m melting away. I look like a panda with the way my eyeliner has collected under my lower lashes and my normally precision lipstick is smudged and damp. I blot my face and release my hair in an effort to minimize the damage. The humidity and heat have caused it to pull back into waves, and it’s covered in bumps and creases made by the hair ties. Without my straighteners, it will never look right unless I wash it. There are showers on the fourth floor within the company gym; maybe I should sacrifice lunch and get a quick shower to cool off after sweating like I’ve been in the tropics.

I check my watch and work out how much time I have and decide to go for it. I have a forty-five-minute lunch break and I can shower in less than half that time. Luckily, I keep a change of clothes in the office, a suggestion from Margo, in case I’m ever asked on an overnight trip at short notice. I know I have toiletries in the bag too.

With my hair held in a loose ponytail, I go back and retrieve the bag, glad that Margo is focused on her laptop while taking a call and doesn’t see me. Mona, the outer receptionist, throws me a funny look but says nothing.

With my bag, I head down in the elevator to the floor that has the employee gym. I work for a company that’s invested in hotels, fitness centers and spas, and these facilities are standard in Carrero buildings free for all employees, another perk of this job among many.

When I emerge, I look brighter and neater, make-up residue gone, fresh clothes, and hair falling into long, natural waves in its blow-dried state. Unfortunately, there are no hair straighteners in the women’s locker room, but I’m cooler. Having my hair down bothers me. My hairstyle is part of my uniform, part of my defense; having it up and neat helps me feel more in control, and it’s part of the image I present.

Having my hair down like this makes me nervous. I know how often I tug at my hair and twist it when I’m home on weekends, another nervous old Emma habit that I’ve found no control over, anxiety related and childish. There’s nothing for it; tying it up without my products and straighteners will look messy. I’ve got to cope with it down for half a day. Even I can get through that, I assure myself as I head to the cafeteria for lunch, ignoring people looking at me as if they don’t recognize me, which makes me uneasy.