Dubois. Like the building. Like the logo on my paycheck. I didn’t know much about Xavier, but I’d heard things about him. Scary, nightmare boss, mean, uncooperative, amongst some other choice words which I decided not to repeat.
"Is there a problem?" Jennifer Holloway was watching me with that professional non-expression, the one that gave nothing away.
"No. No problem." I straightened in my chair. "I accept. Thank you."
She smiled and slid a folder across the table. "Excellent. Here's the information you'll need. Twenty-seventh floor. Your desk is outside Mr. Dubois's office."
I took the folder. My hands weren't shaking, but it was a near thing. I took the elevator, my heart in my throat.
The executive floor was different.
I felt it the moment the elevator doors opened. The air itself seemed different up here—cooler, cleaner, scented with something subtle and expensive.
The carpet was thick enough to muffle footsteps. The art on the walls looked like actual art, not the mass-produced prints that decorated the lower floors.
And the silence. That was the strangest part. The mid-level offices were a constant buzz of activity. Phones ringing, keyboards clacking, people talking over cubicle walls. Up here, everyone moved with a kind of hushed efficiency, speaking in low voices, walking softly, like they were afraid to disturb something.
I found my desk outside a corner office with floor-to-ceiling windows. I set down my bag and tried not to feel like an imposter.
The office itself was empty. The door stood open, revealing a large desk, a leather chair, and more windows. No personal items. No photographs, books, or any sign that someone actually worked here.
I settled into my chair and tried to figure out the phone system, which was approximately four hundred times more complicated than anything I'd used before. The manual was thick enough to be used as a weapon. I was halfway through the section on transferring calls when I heard voices approaching.
Two women from the cluster of desks nearby. Assistants, probably, for other executives. They were walking toward the break room, not bothering to lower their voices.
"I heard he only got the job because of his grandmother." The first one, a brunette in a silk blouse. "Nepotism at its finest."
The second one snorted. She was shorter, rounder, with an expensive-looking haircut. "He's not even really family, though. Not legitimate. You know how that whole situation is."
"Oh, I know. My friend in HR said…" The brunette lowered her voice, but I could still hear her. "...he's a complete mess. A playboy. This is going to be a disaster. Give it two weeks before he screws something up and gets shuffled somewhere else."
"Like the last three assistants?" The shorter one laughed. "I almost feel sorry for whoever got assigned to him. They said he's impossible to work for."
"Maybe. But have you seen him?" The brunette fanned herself dramatically. "I mean, if I had to deal with a nightmare boss, at least let him be pretty."
"Jane!"
"What? I'm just saying. The man has a nice face… among other things."
They moved on, their voices fading around the corner. I kept my eyes on the phone manual. My expression stayed neutral.
The moment they left, I heard another set of footsteps on the thick carpet. I looked up from my computer, ready to introduce myself, and the words died in my throat.
What was the guy from the bar doing here?
I recognized him immediately, even though he looked different in the daylight. His hair was the same, dark and disheveled. His jaw was shadowed with stubble, like he hadn't bothered to shave this morning, or maybe like he'd calculated exactly how much stubble looked attractively careless.
He was wearing a suit today. Charcoal gray, well-cut, expensive. His tie was slightly loosened, his top button undone.
He walked past my desk without a glance and toward the office.
Wait…hewas Xavier Dubois?
I clenched my hands in my lap. How was that even possible? I mean, it was. He was certainly rich enough to be the VP of a company. Butthiscompany? The one I happened to work at? Why was this happening to me?
I watched him push open his office door, toss his coat over a chair, and drop into the seat behind his desk like he was exhausted already. I couldn’t imagine why. The day had just begun.
He didn't recognize me. Of course, he didn't. Why would he? I was just a bartender. I was used to being forgettable. Sometimes it was an advantage.