I saw that it was a handwritten To-Do list. “I’ve taken the time to write down what I expect from you before the end of the week, but in the future, it will be your responsibility to take notes. Has Isadora sent in your information for a company credit card?”
“Not that I’m aware of, she never mentioned it to me.” Which I supposed was a good thing. No matter how talented she was, I wasn’t sure Pen could pull off getting my fake identity approved for a company card.
Margaret blew a lock of wavy, highlighted hair from her face. “Christ, that airheaded—” Exhaling through her turned-up nose, she unlocked her top desk drawer and reached inside. “You’ll need to speak to Isadora about getting a card. It should only take a week or so.”
Hopefully, I wouldn’t be here long enough to need it, but I nodded. “Yes, I’ll talk to her today.”
Margaret pulled her hand from her desk drawer, producing a credit card. Instead of handing it to me right away, she held it close to her chest—like a lecturing parent would when giving a child her first debit card. “ This . Is. Mine ,” she told me, her voice spoken in slow motion as she emphasized each word. “You will not use it for your personal expenses, is that understood?”
I managed a look that was a combination of outrage and surprise. “Of course. I would never do that.”
She simpered. Keeping her gaze locked on mine, she handed me the card. “You’re obligated to say that, Ms. Connelly.” Standing, she smoothed her elegant hands down the front of her colorblock dress. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a brunch meeting to attend. I’m personally a big fan of punctuality.”
From her hard look—a look I had trouble imagining in her son’s similar blue eyes—I took her words for what they clearly were. A stark warning.
“I’ll do my best to be on time in the future,” I said, feeling my chest hurt a little more with every word that fell from my lips. Gathering her credit card and the To-Do list, I headed to the French doors. Before l left the room, I turned slightly. “Is there anything else you need me to do?”
She grabbed her white Hermes bag from the corner of her desk and lowered her chin to the paper in my hand. “Your job,” she stated, and before I could offer some chipper promise about doing it to the best of my ability, she icily added, “And not my son.”
*
W ith my head down, I returned to my office and dropped into my seat. Did that really just happen? Releasing a rasping groan, I buried my face in my hands. Yes, it had happened. The first meeting with the woman whose life I was trying to infiltrate had gone to crap because she thought I wanted to screw her son.
“Of course, Mrs. Emerson, I wouldn’t dream of it,” I muttered, mimicking what I’d said to her after she told me to keep away from Oliver. To her, the reaction had probably seemed contrite, but fury raged within me. “Damn you, Oliver.”
My computer dinged, and I pushed my loose curls back from my flaming face to check my email. Two messages waited—the first from Stella, telling me she was still holding me to that promise for drinks.
Monday is a holiday, but how does Tuesday sound? I responded before returning to my inbox. The second message was from Oliver.
The worst emotion possible—anticipation—settled in my stomach.
For what felt like a small eternity, I stared at the unopened message. And I loathed myself for the tendrils of curiosity winding around me, making the desire to know what he had to say all the more tempting.
You dumbass fool, I told myself as I clicked on his message.
Lizzie,
I was serious about dinner. Let me know what your schedule looks like. You’re welcome to return the gift card to me then.
-Oliver
Tapping my foot, I glanced down at the long list his mother had given me before my fingers flew across the keyboard in response.
Oliver,
Unfortunately, my schedule doesn’t allow for dinner dates with my boss’
“Not that I’m aware of, she never mentioned it to me.” Which I supposed was a good thing. No matter how talented she was, I wasn’t sure Pen could pull off getting my fake identity approved for a company card.
Margaret blew a lock of wavy, highlighted hair from her face. “Christ, that airheaded—” Exhaling through her turned-up nose, she unlocked her top desk drawer and reached inside. “You’ll need to speak to Isadora about getting a card. It should only take a week or so.”
Hopefully, I wouldn’t be here long enough to need it, but I nodded. “Yes, I’ll talk to her today.”
Margaret pulled her hand from her desk drawer, producing a credit card. Instead of handing it to me right away, she held it close to her chest—like a lecturing parent would when giving a child her first debit card. “ This . Is. Mine ,” she told me, her voice spoken in slow motion as she emphasized each word. “You will not use it for your personal expenses, is that understood?”
I managed a look that was a combination of outrage and surprise. “Of course. I would never do that.”
She simpered. Keeping her gaze locked on mine, she handed me the card. “You’re obligated to say that, Ms. Connelly.” Standing, she smoothed her elegant hands down the front of her colorblock dress. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a brunch meeting to attend. I’m personally a big fan of punctuality.”
From her hard look—a look I had trouble imagining in her son’s similar blue eyes—I took her words for what they clearly were. A stark warning.
“I’ll do my best to be on time in the future,” I said, feeling my chest hurt a little more with every word that fell from my lips. Gathering her credit card and the To-Do list, I headed to the French doors. Before l left the room, I turned slightly. “Is there anything else you need me to do?”
She grabbed her white Hermes bag from the corner of her desk and lowered her chin to the paper in my hand. “Your job,” she stated, and before I could offer some chipper promise about doing it to the best of my ability, she icily added, “And not my son.”
*
W ith my head down, I returned to my office and dropped into my seat. Did that really just happen? Releasing a rasping groan, I buried my face in my hands. Yes, it had happened. The first meeting with the woman whose life I was trying to infiltrate had gone to crap because she thought I wanted to screw her son.
“Of course, Mrs. Emerson, I wouldn’t dream of it,” I muttered, mimicking what I’d said to her after she told me to keep away from Oliver. To her, the reaction had probably seemed contrite, but fury raged within me. “Damn you, Oliver.”
My computer dinged, and I pushed my loose curls back from my flaming face to check my email. Two messages waited—the first from Stella, telling me she was still holding me to that promise for drinks.
Monday is a holiday, but how does Tuesday sound? I responded before returning to my inbox. The second message was from Oliver.
The worst emotion possible—anticipation—settled in my stomach.
For what felt like a small eternity, I stared at the unopened message. And I loathed myself for the tendrils of curiosity winding around me, making the desire to know what he had to say all the more tempting.
You dumbass fool, I told myself as I clicked on his message.
Lizzie,
I was serious about dinner. Let me know what your schedule looks like. You’re welcome to return the gift card to me then.
-Oliver
Tapping my foot, I glanced down at the long list his mother had given me before my fingers flew across the keyboard in response.
Oliver,
Unfortunately, my schedule doesn’t allow for dinner dates with my boss’
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