reached out his hand. “I’ll call you if we need anything. Good seeing you again, Chad.”
Marissa’s brow rose ever so slightly. Can we say dismissed?
“Marissa,” Donovan said to her retreating back as she started to follow Chad out.
She stopped in the doorway, and the way the sun from the window framed her face it was as though she wore a halo.
Angel or devil, Ms. Hayes, Donovan thought. Which are you? “I appreciated your input just now. It was obvious that we hit upon your niche.”
“At one time I thought about getting my degree in computer programming,” she admitted. “But at the end of my sophomore year Ste—uh, a friend convinced me that a degree in business administration would be more versatile.”
“I see. So armed with your degree and obvious intelligence, why are you a secretary?”
Marissa wasn’t offended by the question, although, on the part of working assistants everywhere, she could have been. But she more than understood. It was one her parents had repeatedly asked when she left—translated, fled—the job where she’d held a junior management position. “Timing. Jackson needed an assistant. I needed a job. I’m very happy working with Boss.”
The astute brain that made Donovan an excellent businessman immediately sensed more to the story. “He’s a good man. But that still doesn’t explain why you’re in a position that some would consider beneath your education and skill set.”
Marissa looked beyond Donovan’s shoulder and took in the picture-perfect day as she pondered his question. “It’s a long story,” she finally said.
“Well, I’d like to hear it if you don’t mind,” Donovan easily countered. “Over dinner, tonight, seven o’clock.”
“It’s not something that I feel comfortable sharing,” Marissa said. “So thanks for the dinner invite, but I think I’ll just do room service.”
“I’m sorry if that sounded like a question,” Donovan said, his mannerism all business as he walked to his desk, sat and began shuffling papers. “What you choose to share with me is your option. Dinner is not. I’ll meet you at Grapevine at seven.” Ignoring her frown, he continued, “Right now, I need help with some handouts for an important meeting tomorrow. I have a lot of information to cover, but I’d like to have it organized succinctly in no more than a one- to two-page handout. Do you think you can handle something like that?”
Marissa crossed her arms and hid a smirk. “I believe I can.”
“Good.” He went through the papers on his desk, pulled out various facts and figures and told her the results he hoped to achieve. “Any questions?”
“No, it sounds pretty straightforward. I’ll draft a couple different layouts and have you approve the one that suits your needs before proceeding.”
“Perfect. That’s it for now. Remember dinner, tonight, Grapevine, seven sharp.” He looked up from the papers in an authoritative manner that Marissa found quite annoying. “Don’t be late.”
Donovan hit a computer key and began scrolling through his calendar for the rest of the day’s activities, a clear (if rude) indicator that their meeting and conversation was over. Marissa stood there for several long seconds, debating on what if anything she should say in parting. Finally, because she couldn’t resist saying something, she pulled up her utmost Southern drawl and replied, “Yessah, massa.” Then, still in a huff, she turned on her heel and walked out.
Donovan continued scrolling through his calendar, but a wisp of a smile turned his lips up a little bit.
* * *
That evening, Marissa arrived at the vineyard’s premiere restaurant shortly before seven. In characteristically passive-aggressive fashion, she’d ignored Donovan’s suggestion for casualness in the workplace and donned the one suit she’d packed. It was her favorite: a very professional yet form-enhancing St. John number. The one-button jacket accented her plentiful
Marissa’s brow rose ever so slightly. Can we say dismissed?
“Marissa,” Donovan said to her retreating back as she started to follow Chad out.
She stopped in the doorway, and the way the sun from the window framed her face it was as though she wore a halo.
Angel or devil, Ms. Hayes, Donovan thought. Which are you? “I appreciated your input just now. It was obvious that we hit upon your niche.”
“At one time I thought about getting my degree in computer programming,” she admitted. “But at the end of my sophomore year Ste—uh, a friend convinced me that a degree in business administration would be more versatile.”
“I see. So armed with your degree and obvious intelligence, why are you a secretary?”
Marissa wasn’t offended by the question, although, on the part of working assistants everywhere, she could have been. But she more than understood. It was one her parents had repeatedly asked when she left—translated, fled—the job where she’d held a junior management position. “Timing. Jackson needed an assistant. I needed a job. I’m very happy working with Boss.”
The astute brain that made Donovan an excellent businessman immediately sensed more to the story. “He’s a good man. But that still doesn’t explain why you’re in a position that some would consider beneath your education and skill set.”
Marissa looked beyond Donovan’s shoulder and took in the picture-perfect day as she pondered his question. “It’s a long story,” she finally said.
“Well, I’d like to hear it if you don’t mind,” Donovan easily countered. “Over dinner, tonight, seven o’clock.”
“It’s not something that I feel comfortable sharing,” Marissa said. “So thanks for the dinner invite, but I think I’ll just do room service.”
“I’m sorry if that sounded like a question,” Donovan said, his mannerism all business as he walked to his desk, sat and began shuffling papers. “What you choose to share with me is your option. Dinner is not. I’ll meet you at Grapevine at seven.” Ignoring her frown, he continued, “Right now, I need help with some handouts for an important meeting tomorrow. I have a lot of information to cover, but I’d like to have it organized succinctly in no more than a one- to two-page handout. Do you think you can handle something like that?”
Marissa crossed her arms and hid a smirk. “I believe I can.”
“Good.” He went through the papers on his desk, pulled out various facts and figures and told her the results he hoped to achieve. “Any questions?”
“No, it sounds pretty straightforward. I’ll draft a couple different layouts and have you approve the one that suits your needs before proceeding.”
“Perfect. That’s it for now. Remember dinner, tonight, Grapevine, seven sharp.” He looked up from the papers in an authoritative manner that Marissa found quite annoying. “Don’t be late.”
Donovan hit a computer key and began scrolling through his calendar for the rest of the day’s activities, a clear (if rude) indicator that their meeting and conversation was over. Marissa stood there for several long seconds, debating on what if anything she should say in parting. Finally, because she couldn’t resist saying something, she pulled up her utmost Southern drawl and replied, “Yessah, massa.” Then, still in a huff, she turned on her heel and walked out.
Donovan continued scrolling through his calendar, but a wisp of a smile turned his lips up a little bit.
* * *
That evening, Marissa arrived at the vineyard’s premiere restaurant shortly before seven. In characteristically passive-aggressive fashion, she’d ignored Donovan’s suggestion for casualness in the workplace and donned the one suit she’d packed. It was her favorite: a very professional yet form-enhancing St. John number. The one-button jacket accented her plentiful
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