One Kiss: An Office Romance Read online

  Kind of has a nice ring to it.

  As my cell phone vibrates again, I realize I still have not looked at that text message yet. Dare I do it? I sort of want to give myself an extra-special treat. This morning is just going so good.

  But as I set my bag on my desk, I notice a note on my chair. I pick up the pink paper slip, a throwback to the 1980s phone messages, proof that this company is so cheap and old-fashioned it wouldn’t throw away those pads of pink paper that say “while you were away” even though no one needs anyone to take phone messages for them anymore.

  Please come see me, it reads. Corner office, end of the hall.

  I pat the outside of my pocket, promising myself to leave the text message as a treat for later. If everything goes well, that will be the perfect dessert.

  Straightening my jacket and loosening my hair from behind my ears, I stride down the hall, focusing on the door at the far end. The lettering already reads “Greg Holloway, Vice President.”

  Tapping lightly with my knuckle, I open the door and see him standing behind his desk, admiring the view from his spectacular new set of windows. I wonder how long he’s been standing there. It really is a great view, and from up here we can see all the way out to Lake Michigan, with sailboats and a few yachts dotting the water. The sun is halfway up the sky, and the fluffy white clouds look so perfect they are practically painted on.

  “Good morning, Greg,” I announce, remembering to smile as I walk in, because people can always hear the smile in your voice.

  He turns around, keeping his arms crossed over his chest. His sleeves are tight across his biceps. Normally he would have already rolled up the cuffs, but today he still has his tie on and cuffs buttoned at the wrist. He’s really doing this VP thing dramatically.

  “Oh, Clarissa, I didn’t hear you come in,” he smiles, though I am sure he heard me.

  Smiling tightly, I lean against the leather guest chair, careful not to roll my eyes at his bit of theater. Let him play the important new vice president. Why should I mind?

  “Great view, isn’t it?” he prods.

  “Certainly is,” I agree, trying not to mentally compare the view from the Head Broker’s office, which is still pretty darn good.

  “So, I guess we need to make some changes around here, don’t you think?” he smiles.

  I nod carefully, controlling my expression so I don’t seem too eager.

  “What did you have in mind?” I ask cautiously.

  Head Broker, chimes a stubborn little voice inside me. Head Broker! Say it!

  He massages his jaw with the palm of his hand. Somehow he always seems to have a bit of stubble.

  “Well, I hate to put you out,” he begins. “But if you wouldn’t mind changing cubicles?”

  “Cubicles?” I repeat, not understanding.

  He gestures through the door, toward the row of partitions in front of his office.

  “I think there’s an empty one,” he suggests. “You don’t have to be right there. Not like right outside the door. But anywhere in this group would be fine.”

  I swallow, hard. Another cubicle. Cubicles are for assistants and the occasional intern or programmer. Associate brokers who are being subtly punished for underperforming. Being in a cubicle means you’re still firmly planted on one of the bottom rungs of the ladder.

  “A cubicle?” I ask, forcing myself to say the words out loud. “So… I’m just moving desks then?”

  His eyes wander over some folders on his desk, and I can tell I am already losing his attention.

  “Sure, whichever one you want,” he shrugs vaguely.

  “Greg?”

  He glances up at me, as if somewhat surprised I am still here. My chest tightens around my heart, which is beating frantically at this moment. I know that I have to ask. I just have to ask.

  “So… the Head Broker’s office?”

  He squints at me shrewdly. “What about it?”

  “Who’s that going to?”

  He shrugs and looks down again, shifting papers pointlessly from their places.

  “New guy,” he answers.

  “New guy?” I repeat. “What new guy?”

  “Friend of mine from college I am bringing in. Great guy. Scads of experience.”

  “Scads of experience?” I say in disbelief. “I have that experience. I have the scads. In fact I have every deal that you’ve taken credit for over the last two years. Those are scads, Greg.”

  He stops shifting papers and looks up at me, raising his eyebrows and curling his upper lip on one side in a bit of a snarl. I have seen this version of him before. It’s always there, right below the surface. This competitive jackass.

  “You’re my assistant, Clarissa,” he scoffs. “You assist. That’s your job.”

  “The Turner building? The Niche Properties deal?” I begin, listing off the most high-profile contracts which I put together, which I knew inside and out. “The new Remora project? The Wright Hotel?”

  His nostrils flare, his jaw knotting as he clenches his teeth. I see the dangerous flash in his eyes.

  “What about them?”

  “Those are my deals, Greg. Not just an assist. Front to back, the whole deal. You may be the guy who signed the final paperwork, but you know you didn’t do anything for those.”

  “What is this, blackmail?” he growls, his arms floating out from his sides. I see him resisting the urge to ball his huge hands into fists.

  But I won’t be intimidated. I force myself to stand my ground.

  “This isn’t blackmail. This is just a reminder of all the work I’ve done. I deserve that promotion, Greg. You know it.”

  “You deserve it? Are you kidding me with this?” he scoffs. “With that kind of attitude, you’re lucky you even have a job, Clarissa. You’re too green, obviously.”

  “Green?” I repeat incredulously. “Greg, I started here before you, remember that? If anybody is green, it’s you!”

  His lips narrow into a thin line. We stare each other down for at least thirty seconds before he finally shakes his head dismissively.

  “You’re my assistant, and I told you what I need you to do,” he says in a low growl. “Please relocate your cubicle to one of the available spaces right outside the door, so that you can assist me. Got it?”

  The blood is rushing in my ears so loud that I can barely hear anything else. I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe he’s acting like this.

  “Now get out of my office.”

  I leave his office on shaky legs, boiling on the inside. Instead of heading back to my cubicle, I find myself going around the corner to Lou Tolliver’s office. To my surprise, his door is open and I see him hunched over his desk in his oversized leather chair, glasses perched on top of his completely bald head, knuckling his cheekbone with a gnarled fist.

  “Excuse me, Lou?” I call from the doorway. “Do you have a moment?”

  He looks up and pauses to recognize me, then raises a hand and waves me in. I close the door behind me and approach his desk, as nervous as if I were in high school all over again.

  “Something wrong, Clarissa?” he starts.

  His tone is kind, but guarded. As I sit down, I already know this is a bad idea. Lou is kind, but also very old-school. Women are secretaries, in his mind. In fact, I’ve noticed him give me surprised looks on more than one occasion just for wearing pants instead of skirts and heels.

  But, I have to give it a shot. Carefully I explain the situation. I lay out the details of all the deals I’ve closed. I express my value to the company and he listens sympathetically, nodding every few seconds. When I’m done, he leans back in his chair, steepling his old fingers together against his chest.

  “You really have done excellent work, Clarissa. Fine work. Fine work indeed.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Tolliver,” I whisper hoarsely, my voice weakened from a morning of emotion.

  He nods toward his hands for a few moments.

  “Fine work, indeed,”
he announces, as though we are done.

  “I believe I deserve to be promoted to Head Broker,” I finally say.

  To my surprise, he breaks into a smile.

  “Do you now?” he answers indulgently. “From executive assistant to Head Broker?”

  “Well, yes,” I answer confidently.

  He squints, frowning as though this causes him some discomfort. I suppose women asking him for things is an annoyance.

  “I’m sure when you’re ready, your manager will promote you. Is there anything else?”

  I take a deep breath, trying to fill my lungs with enough air that I might just float away.

  “All right,” I force myself to say. “Thank you for your time.”

  “Mmmmfph,” he grunts, returning to the work in front of him with relief as I leave his office.

  Snatching a box from the copy room, I return to my cubicle and begin placing the things I’ve accumulated inside it. There isn’t too much here. A philodendron. Pictures of my parents and all five siblings litter the cork board. A ceramic vase that I’ve been using as a pencil holder.

  But you know what, I’m not moving to that other cubicle. Screw it. I’m quitting.

  “Clarissa?” comes a voice, and I turn around to see Hillary from HR.

  I don’t say anything. Her eyes flicker toward my box of belongings uncomfortably.

  “Can we sit down for a moment?” Hillary says in her trained, professional way.

  Shit.

  I follow her down the hallway, ignoring the stares. Following the head of HR to her office is a pretty well-known sight. Everyone who sees this pretty much knows what is going down.

  I’m not surprised at all to see Greg already seated in her office. He has a manila folder on the table in front of him. He leans back in the office chair, one ankle crossed over his other leg, a sneer on his face. I notice he’s got his sleeves rolled up again.

  Hillary closes the door confidentially and takes a seat on the other side of the conference table from Greg.

  “Can I get you anything? A bottle of water?” she asks.

  A cigarette? A last meal? Repeats a voice in my head wryly.

  “No, no, I’m fine,” I answer, happy to hear that there is not a quaver in my voice.

  Hillary glances at Greg, then reaches across the table to touch the manila folder and slide it toward me.

  “It seems that we have a problem,” she begins. “At this time, we do not feel we have a solution.”

  I shake my head, not understanding the words.

  “A solution to what?”

  I look at both of them, settling on Greg’s triumphant sneer.

  “Wait, are you firing me?”

  “We feel that separation from employment is definitely our only option at this time,” Hillary says in her practiced HR language.

  Even though I was planning on quitting, this is still outrageous. I’m being fired? Fired?

  “For what?” I blurt out.

  “Insubordination,” Greg smiles broadly.

  Hillary shoots him a dirty look, warning him to be careful. There are lots of laws around that sort of thing. I don’t know of any that can really punish you for having that smug, slappable expression on your face that Greg is currently using, but there probably should be.

  “Insubordination? Are you serious?”

  “We don’t need to have a reason, legally,” Hillary explains cautiously, as though she is being recorded. “By the terms of your contract…”

  “See, you can’t just talk to me like that!” Greg interrupts, talking over her immediately. “You are my assistant, remember that? You can’t just say anything you want!”

  My mouth opens and I force myself to close it. I stand up from the table.

  “I need you to sign the—”

  I know enough to not sign anything. No way. My brother Kevin is an attorney, and he barely wanted me to sign the paperwork they gave me when I started working here, but I had to sign if I wanted the job. But if they’re firing me, is there anything they can do that can really make me pick up that pen? I’m not entirely sure what I’m supposed to do in this situation, so I just leave HR and head back toward my cubicle.

  I don’t see security coming for me or anything, so I pick up my box and tuck it against my hip. Just as I turn around, the maintenance man finishes his work on the Head Broker’s office door. I read the name with surprise, letting the realization rock through me like a tidal wave.

  Maxwell Kent, Head Broker.

  The guy at the coffee kiosk.

  Ungoddamnbelievable.

  With my eyes averted, I pull my cell phone out of my pocket and swipe the face. I navigate to the notifications and find the text message that jerk sent me, then delete it without reading it.

  I don’t need this. I don’t need it at all.

  Chapter 1

  Three weeks later

  Maxwell

  Greg appears in my open doorway, pulling his sleeves down and buttoning the cuffs with a giant grin on his face.

  “You ready?” he asks.

  I finish checking the closing figures for a new shopping mall project and close the manila folder, adding it to the towering stack on my desk.

  “Ready for what?”

  Greg saunters into my office, which used to be his office. His eyes slide over the bookshelves and focus briefly on the north-facing view. From his expression, I can see he is much happier in his new, upgraded space down the hall and around the corner. He’s just checking out this view to see if it really is as inadequate as he remembers.

  “Rudy’s, remember?” he continues, jerking his chin and flexing his eyebrows in an expression that is simultaneously leering and triumphant. “Happy hour in twenty minutes. I hear the Merc crashed today. We can watch the traders cry into their craft beers.”

  The next open folder in front of me blurs briefly and then snaps back into focus. It is a condominium conversion of one of the stately old hotels on Michigan Avenue. One by one, that way of life is going away. People used to live in these hotels in a fairly luxurious situation. Like an apartment plus concierge and doorman. As the people got older, they gradually turned into something almost like assisted-living facilities. And now they will be reborn again as pricey condominiums with outrageous association fees to cover the concierge and the doorman.

  Everything old is new again, after all.

  “Why don’t you take Fred?” I suggest vaguely. “I still have got a lot to do here.”

  Greg sighs in frustration. I pretend not to hear him.

  “Come on, man,” he shrugs. “You blew me off yesterday, remember? You owe me.”

  I look up at him in surprise, quickly realizing he believes what he is saying.

  “Blew you off?” I repeat incredulously. “Look, Greg, these are your deals I’m doing here. Why don’t you take a few of these back, and maybe I can get out of here a little bit faster?”

  Greg pulls a sour face. “Fine, whatever. I’ll just check in with you tomorrow.”

  “No, seriously,” I insist, picking up a couple of thick folders and holding them out so he could take them if he wanted to, though I know he won’t. “I might get out of here before ten o’clock tonight if you finish these up. Should be easy for you, right?”

  Greg puffs up, looking like he’s going to try to front me off, then forces himself to relax a little bit.

  “I really need an executive assistant,” he shrugs, rolling his eyes. “Don’t want to fall behind.”

  “How’s that going? Are you interviewing?”

  Greg walks to the windows, scowling. “It just takes time,” he explains. “I’ll find somebody competent. Somebody with experience. Gotta look for the right chemistry.”

  “Chemistry,” I nod sourly. “So you’re sure you don’t want to take any of these back?”

  Greg turns back to face me, obviously frustrated with this line of questioning. He’s one of those big, thick guys who probably doesn’t get a lot of pushback. Basically he
’s a linebacker, more accustomed to just barreling through opposition than actually having to stand there and negotiate with it.

  “Just handle it, okay?” he sniffs. “Honestly, Clarissa used to take care of all this boring stuff.”

  My eyes wander over my desk which is uncomfortably messy, stacked with about two dozen deals in various stages of completion. The boring stuff? This work represents probably two million dollars. It is literally the lifeblood of this company. If he thinks this is the boring stuff, what exactly does he think his job is?

  But he’s barely even here. I can sense that his mind is elsewhere, and he’s eager to leave. His attention is already on the happy hour specials at the bar around the corner. A bad day for stock traders is a gloomy day in the bar, to be honest. I don’t understand why Greg takes such entertainment out of their discomfort.

  “All right,” he finally sighs, “have it your way. I’ll catch you tomorrow.”

  He leaves my office, and I realize this might be a really good time for another cup of coffee. I have at least three hours’ work left to do here, maybe four if I want to feel like I’ve really caught up.

  People are starting to pack up and leave for the day as I make my way to the breakroom. Most everyone has been here at least a couple of years, and they already know each other pretty well. They head out in pairs and trios, friendly and chatty.

  “Maxwell,” comes a voice as I pass by the open door of the corner office.

  Surprised that he is calling my name, I backtrack a couple of steps and walk into Lou Tolliver’s office. He’s pulling on his suit coat as he stands behind his desk. His glasses are so firmly attached to the top of his head, I can see the two divots where the nose guard has permanently made an impression.

  “Hello, Mr. Tolliver,” I smile.

  “Not heading home yet?” he asks shrewdly, eyeing the coffee mug in my hands. “Going for reinforcements?”

  I nod to acknowledge his cleverness. “Just needed that extra push over the finish line,” I explain.

  “Understood,” Lou Tolliver nods. “You settling in? Getting everything you need?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Well, we’re really happy to have you,” he smiles. “You are just the kind of lifeblood infusion we needed. I don’t know what you’re doing, but Greg has really seen a surge of productivity since you got here. Maybe a bit of competition, eh?”