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.
*
“How’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
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.
*
“How’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
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