son, but thank you for the offer.
Best wishes,
Lizzie
Hitting send, I picked up Margaret’s list and began studying it in earnest.
“ Verify final details with Natalie Roche for Halloween charity ball, schedule travel accommodations to Paris for November fourteenth meeting... ” The sound of a new message coming through drew my attention away from the paper, and I looked up at my screen to see a response from Oliver.
If my mother said anything to you, let me ease your mind by telling you this: I’ll be thirty in December. I haven’t let the wishes of others dictate whom I date—or fuck—in many, many years.
My mouth went dry as I read his message. Again. And then two more times. The words seemed to seep into my skin, waking parts of myself that had no business being in Los Angeles with me. Tugging at the scooped neck of my dress, I considered my next words carefully before I tentatively typed my reply.
Oliver,
I have no intention of dating or bedding you, so sorry to bruise your ego. Please stop harassing me at the office—I’d hate to have to report your behavior to HR. Don’t you have work to do?
Lizzie
His final reply came a few minutes later, and looking at the new message alert on the screen tightened every muscle in my body. Oliver wouldn’t have simply brushed that last email off with a simple fuck you . I closed my eyes, knowing that whatever he’d said would mess with me. I told myself that I didn’t have to read it, that I shouldn’t give Oliver another thought. But I shrugged off my own warning. Opening my eyes, I glued them to the screen, reading his words hungrily.
Lizzie,
There was nothing innocent about the way you stared at me earlier this week, and if there was, I wouldn’t be pursuing you. Innocence is an overrated headache that I don’t want.
And that threat about HR? I’d be happy to explain my plans for you to Isadora, but I’m not sure you want her hearing some of those details. Before you respond, I should also tell you that I still want—and plan—to take you to dinner.
You won’t regret it, but it’s your call.
-Oliver
I rapped my fingers on my desk to shake out the tingles bursting across my skin. I wanted to reply—God, did I want to—but I stopped myself and pulled my hands in my lap, wringing them together. It hadn’t taken him long to get into my head. Somewhere in L.A., he was probably sitting in his luxurious corporate office, waiting for me to continue this exchange with him, and the thought of that both thrilled and terrified me.
But here was the thing: Oliver’s job wasn’t on the line, so of course it wouldn’t matter to him that his mother had declared him off-limits.
It was my place to put an end to contacting him, no matter how much a part of myself reveled in his words.
I was here for Margaret, and the only way to get anything I needed from her was to give her what she wanted. Period.
Moving the Rolodex from the far side of my desk to sit right in front of me, I flipped through it until I found the business card for Natalie Roche Events. As I dialed the event planner’s number and got to work, I reminded myself again what I had to do—uncover, expose, and get the hell out.
Uncovering Mr. Sex-in-a-Business-Suit didn’t fit in those plans anywhere.
*
“H ow’s life on the seventh floor?” Stella asked as she held the door open to the bar she’d picked—a hole-in-the-wall called Sunny’s—on Tuesday. Processing the skeptical look I wore as I took in our surroundings, she released a throaty laugh. She hooked her arm through mine and led me to two open seats. “It’s a little rough around the edges, but it’s quiet here,” she promised, setting her Burberry bag on the bar. “Now, spill it, girl. How’s working for Mrs. Emerson?” She emphasized Margaret’s name, causing me to scrunch my nose. To my relief, she hadn’t noticed because she was digging around in her satchel in search of her wallet.
“It’s...” I slid onto
Best wishes,
Lizzie
Hitting send, I picked up Margaret’s list and began studying it in earnest.
“ Verify final details with Natalie Roche for Halloween charity ball, schedule travel accommodations to Paris for November fourteenth meeting... ” The sound of a new message coming through drew my attention away from the paper, and I looked up at my screen to see a response from Oliver.
If my mother said anything to you, let me ease your mind by telling you this: I’ll be thirty in December. I haven’t let the wishes of others dictate whom I date—or fuck—in many, many years.
My mouth went dry as I read his message. Again. And then two more times. The words seemed to seep into my skin, waking parts of myself that had no business being in Los Angeles with me. Tugging at the scooped neck of my dress, I considered my next words carefully before I tentatively typed my reply.
Oliver,
I have no intention of dating or bedding you, so sorry to bruise your ego. Please stop harassing me at the office—I’d hate to have to report your behavior to HR. Don’t you have work to do?
Lizzie
His final reply came a few minutes later, and looking at the new message alert on the screen tightened every muscle in my body. Oliver wouldn’t have simply brushed that last email off with a simple fuck you . I closed my eyes, knowing that whatever he’d said would mess with me. I told myself that I didn’t have to read it, that I shouldn’t give Oliver another thought. But I shrugged off my own warning. Opening my eyes, I glued them to the screen, reading his words hungrily.
Lizzie,
There was nothing innocent about the way you stared at me earlier this week, and if there was, I wouldn’t be pursuing you. Innocence is an overrated headache that I don’t want.
And that threat about HR? I’d be happy to explain my plans for you to Isadora, but I’m not sure you want her hearing some of those details. Before you respond, I should also tell you that I still want—and plan—to take you to dinner.
You won’t regret it, but it’s your call.
-Oliver
I rapped my fingers on my desk to shake out the tingles bursting across my skin. I wanted to reply—God, did I want to—but I stopped myself and pulled my hands in my lap, wringing them together. It hadn’t taken him long to get into my head. Somewhere in L.A., he was probably sitting in his luxurious corporate office, waiting for me to continue this exchange with him, and the thought of that both thrilled and terrified me.
But here was the thing: Oliver’s job wasn’t on the line, so of course it wouldn’t matter to him that his mother had declared him off-limits.
It was my place to put an end to contacting him, no matter how much a part of myself reveled in his words.
I was here for Margaret, and the only way to get anything I needed from her was to give her what she wanted. Period.
Moving the Rolodex from the far side of my desk to sit right in front of me, I flipped through it until I found the business card for Natalie Roche Events. As I dialed the event planner’s number and got to work, I reminded myself again what I had to do—uncover, expose, and get the hell out.
Uncovering Mr. Sex-in-a-Business-Suit didn’t fit in those plans anywhere.
*
“H ow’s life on the seventh floor?” Stella asked as she held the door open to the bar she’d picked—a hole-in-the-wall called Sunny’s—on Tuesday. Processing the skeptical look I wore as I took in our surroundings, she released a throaty laugh. She hooked her arm through mine and led me to two open seats. “It’s a little rough around the edges, but it’s quiet here,” she promised, setting her Burberry bag on the bar. “Now, spill it, girl. How’s working for Mrs. Emerson?” She emphasized Margaret’s name, causing me to scrunch my nose. To my relief, she hadn’t noticed because she was digging around in her satchel in search of her wallet.
“It’s...” I slid onto
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