First Day, Wrong Instincts

I arrived at seven fifty-eight.

The floor that housed the CEO’s office was different from the lobby and quieter, and it definitely looked more expensive; the stillness of the place shows that serious things happen in this place at a serious pace. The PA assigned to orient me, Bryce, efficient and pleasant, walked me through the layout with brisk thoroughness, showing she had done this before and understood the value of getting it done correctly the first time.

My desk was outside his office. Of course it was. That was what an executive assistant was:  the person positioned between the executive and the rest of the world, the last line of consideration before something became his problem or didn’t.

I sat down and pulled up the access I’d been granted. I read everything I could find; I definitely did not want to miss anything. every information is important in this crucial moment.

At eight fifteen, his office door was still closed.

At eight thirty-two, it opened.

He came out with his jacket on with his phone to his ear and did not look my way as he passed; he was in the middle of something, then he stopped, reversed, and looked at me directly like he just remembered I existed.

“You reorganized the filing system,” he said; he wasn’t asking, he looked impressed but was trying his damnedest best to not show it.

I had spent twenty minutes tidying the shared digital folders that his previous assistant, who had obviously given up on organizing half way through had organized. “I can put it back,” I said.

“No.” He looked at the screen over my shoulder. Something in his expression shifted, assessed, and recalculated. “The Regent meeting got moved to ten. Pull the acquisition file and the Q3 projections before then.”

“They’re already on your desktop. I pulled them when I saw the calendar change come through at eight-oh-five."

He looked at me strangely, something like ‘I might like this one’ in his expression.

I looked back at him with the ‘perfectly neutral’ expression I had been practicing since approximately the moment I submitted that application.

He said nothing. He went back into his office. The door didn’t quite close.

I took that as a good sign and got back to work.

The morning moved fast the way first days don’t usually move; usually first days are slow and careful and full of people you are trying to know and make judgments of being patient with you. This one wasn’t. There were twelve emails that needed sorting before nine, three calls that needed routing, and a catering order for a lunch meeting that had been incorrectly placed and needed correcting without anyone realizing it had been incorrect.

I handled all of it.

At eleven forty-five, I finally sat back for the first time all morning and noticed that I had been running on adrenaline and had not eaten anything since morning.

“You survived the morning,” came an unrecognized voice.

I turned. 

Leaning against the wall near the elevator bank was a man I didn’t recognize, late twenties, easy smile, the kind of face that looked like it found most things faintly amusing. He was holding two cups of coffee and extended one towards me with casual confidence.

 He definitely assumed his gesture would be welcome.

The confidence must come from his handsomeness.

“I’m Nate,” he said. “Damien’s best friend, unofficial building nuisance.” He nodded toward the coffee. “Take it. You look like you need it more than I do.”

I took it. “Serena.”

“I know who you are.” He said it without weight, just as information. “The Holloway name got around fast. This building runs on information, just so you know.” He glanced toward the closed office door. “How’s he been this morning?”

“Professional,” I said carefully.

Nate smiled like my answer was funny. “Right.” He pushed off the wall. “Piece of advice, first day and all, he's not actually difficult. He’s just precise. There’s a difference.” He started toward the elevator. “Oh, and the coffee machine on this floor makes terrible coffee. Third floor is the one worth using. You’re welcome.”

He was gone before I could respond.

He looks like a likable person, I thought as I turned back to my desk, sipping the actually excellent coffee, and pulled up the afternoon schedule.

Twelve thirty: lunch meeting, Regent Group.

Two PM: call with the Chicago property GM.

Three fifteen: 

I paused.

Three fifteen: Zara Montgomery. Personal.

I stared at that for a second longer than I should have. Then I moved on to the next item, professionally, with focused efficiency; after all, I am a professional who does not care about unprofessional matters.

The office door opened at twelve twenty.

He came out in his coat, barely glancing at me in his magnificent appearance. “Lunch meeting. Back by two.”

“The Regent file is in your bag,” I said. “I added the Q4 projections too. I noticed their last email referenced figures from that period.”

He stopped and then turned and looked at me with that same measuring expression; I was beginning to recognize the one that meant he was reevaluating something.

“Good,” he said.

Just that, I thought, looking at him like I was expecting something, maybe a thank you.

He Just left.

I exhaled. Rolled my shoulders, looked at the empty office and the quiet floor and told myself firmly that I was here for one reason and one reason only.

I believed myself so I kept busy.

Right up until three fifteen, when the elevator opened and a woman walked out who was so effortlessly, devastatingly beautiful that I felt the air in the room rearrange itself.

Tall and blonde, with the kind of polish that came from generations of knowing how to be polished. A smile that landed on me like an assessment dressed up as warmth.

“You must be the new assistant,” she said. Her voice was silk over something harder. “I’m Zara.” A pause, perfectly timed. “Damien’s fiancée.”

I smiled back with every professional muscle in my face. "Hello," I paused while accessing her face; she had a fake nose; it would take a lot of care to notice because the doctor did a perfect job, “of course. He’s expecting you. You can go right in.” I stated it as professionally as I could be.

Zara’s eyes held mine for just a moment, one beat too long, like she was deciding whether she should take me seriously or if I was a threat.

Then she smiled again, turned, and walked through his office door.

The smile was as fake as her nose.

The door closed behind her with a soft, definitive click.

I turned back to my screen. My expression was perfectly composed. My jaw was perfectly relaxed; I was absolutely, completely fine.

I was also not going to examine, even briefly, why I suddenly felt like I’d swallowed something cold.

I had a job to do, a hotel to save. I was here for a reason, and that reason had nothing to do with dark blue eyes that stayed with you, or the way he’d said good like it meant more than the word, or the particular silence of a door closing on a business I had no business in.

None at all.

I pulled up the four o’clock files and got back to work.

Which was exactly what I came here to do.

And I was so focused, so deliberately and professionally focused, that I almost didn’t notice the door open forty minutes later; almost didn’t notice Zara leave with her smile slightly less perfect than it had been; and almost didn’t catch the way Damien appeared in the doorway a moment later and stood there, not looking at Zara’s retreating figure but at me.

Me.

Like I was the thing in the room his eyes had gone to first.

I looked down at my screen like I wasn't noticing him.

My heart was doing something I was going to pretend it wasn’t doing.

‘This is a problem,’ said a voice in the back of my mind, quiet and certain.

‘I know,’ I answered it.

So what are you going to do about it?

I kept typing like I wasn’t asking myself a question.

I had absolutely no idea but twenty-three seconds later, I was already looking up Zara on the internet.

For research purposes, obviously.

Not like I was an FBI agent investigating a national security threat.

Call it proactive. I was simply gathering information relevant to my boss's personal and professional ecosystem.