the job.
To shake off the jitters, Leila slipped out of her North Miami apartment at dawn for a quick run. Keys and pepper spray in hand, she sprinted along upper Biscayne Boulevard. She was hounded by a feeling that her tightly sealed world was about to crack open. It didn’t make sense—a job was a job was a job, after all. If it didn’t work out, she could always go back to retail.
She made it home, out of breath and still very anxious. The small apartment was quiet, her roommate asleep. After a quick shower, she studied her reflection in the steamy mirror a long while. She hadn’t slept well and it showed. She swept on concealer then bronzer to liven her matte brown complexion. Much better. Her pageant days were behind her, but the tricks of the trade were hers for life.
Then, on impulse, she did the thing she rarely ever did except under exceptional circumstances. She pulled a wooden box out from under her bed. Inside, among several keepsake items, was a sparkly but flimsy tiara. She placed it on her head and studied her reflection again. She was ten, a little girl playing dress-up. A skinny, awkward child, she’d longed for grace, poise and a smile that could bankroll her dreams of escape. All she’d ever wanted was to escape her sleepy hometown in the outskirts of Naples, Florida, and create a new life, a big life, somewhere exciting. Over a decade later, she still wanted those same things.
You can do this.
She placed the tiara in the box and the box under the bed.
In the kitchen, Leila filled a travel mug with coffee and skipped breakfast. She was as antsy as a child on the first day of school and, in her pleated skirt and Mary Jane pumps, very much dressed like one. She’d never had an office job and her wardrobe proved it. I’m out of my element. No! I’m finding my way. She glanced at the oven clock. And I’m wasting time.
* * *
From the outside, the Brickell Avenue high-rise was sleek and modern. Inside it was sterile with marble floors, leather seating and paintings of palm trees bending to hurricane-force winds. Or was this true of all office buildings? Up until a week ago, she’d worked at Bal Harbour Shops. When she thought of the designer boutiques, koi ponds and actual palms trees, this place fell short. But if she wanted a fresh start, this was where she needed to be.
Leila followed the manager past a row of offices, hiding her disappointment with a careful smile. Jo-Ann Wallace wasn’t fooled by her performance. The sharply dressed woman pointed to an open cubicle fitted with a steel desk and ergonomic chair. A window offered a view of a parking lot spread wide like an asphalt lake. “This is yours.”
“Oh, nice! A window.”
“The better views are for the top associates. Speaking of which, we hired you to work with one of our best. He comes to us from headquarters in New York and travels there often. Part of your job will be to keep him up to speed when he’s away. Come. I’ll introduce you.”
Jo-Ann took the lead, head high, so proud of her position of gatekeeper to the throne. Leila fell one step behind. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe she was wrong for this job. Was it too soon to quit? Was it quitting if you hadn’t worked a day? Oh, enough! She willed herself to snap out of it, whatever “it” was. At an age when most girls stayed home battling acne, she’d stared down panels of judges wearing nothing but a bikini and a pair of heels. To now be intimidated by these office drones? Ridiculous.
The nameplate on the door adjacent to her workspace read Nicolas Adrian, Associate. Determined to make a good first impression, she smoothed her hair and squared her shoulders.
Jo-Ann raised her hand to knock, but stopped at the sound of laughter on the other side of the closed door. Mr. Adrian was apparently having a good old time, engaged in a lively telephone conversation that might or might not be work-related. He followed statements like “I had a great time last night” with “Is that really your best offer? Can’t you come higher?” Leila focused on the voice. Low in tone, smooth and without the hard snobbish edge she’d grown accustomed to with the patrons of Bal Harbour Shops. It immediately roped her in.
“He sounds nice,” she said.
Jo-Ann frowned. “The associates are sharks. There’s nothing ‘nice’ about them. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
There was nothing “nice” about Jo-Ann, either.
The door swung open. Both she and Jo-Ann jumped back, confronted by a pair of inquisitive inky-blue eyes. Nicolas Adrian filled the doorway. He wore a beautifully tailored navy suit with a starched white shirt open at the collar. His golden complexion betrayed a devotion to the sun. If he was a shark, Leila thought, he was a Great White.
“Good morning. How can I help?”
Jo-Ann stretched her neck to confront him. “Nick, meet your new assistant, Leila Amis.”
Ignoring Leila, he asked, “What happened to Monica?”
“You know what happened to Monica.”
“I really don’t.”
Jo-Ann maintained a firm silence during which Leila tried to connect the dots. Had Jo-Ann switched out his assistant without him knowing? Did she think he wouldn’t notice? His frustration with the woman was clear. Leila wanted to grab him by the shoulders and force him to acknowledge her. But when he did turn his gaze to her, she wasn’t prepared, and very nearly stumbled backward.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to be rude.”
Maybe this was her way out. “If there’s a problem, I can go.”
“No!” the two cried in unison, finally agreeing on something.
“There’s no problem. It’s all sorted out,” Jo-Ann said. “You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t.”
“Leila, it’s nothing personal,” he said. “I’m sure we’ll get along.”
He said her name as if he’d always known her. And she knew his type. Nicolas Adrian was a flirt—a gorgeous, blue-eyed flirt.
“Go ahead and get settled,” Jo-Ann said. “You’ll be in training most of the day.”
Leila scurried off to her desk, adjusted the seat and found a cubby for her purse. The top drawer was stocked with office supplies. She grabbed a pen and a pad with the agency’s uninspiring logo: a Welcome Home mat.
Note to self, she wrote. That man is trouble.
* * *
After that initial five-minute meeting, she didn’t see much of her new boss. Jo-Ann had her shadow a few other assistants for quick one-on-one training sessions. That whirlwind desk tour gave her insights into the office dynamics. Jo-Ann was treacherous. Emilia, the receptionist, was a gossip... Nick, Tony and Greg were the youngest and coolest associates—the Big Three... A female associate? She quit... Greg gave the best holiday gifts... Tony was cheap, but worked hard.
“What about Mr. Adrian?” Leila worked up the courage to ask during the two o’clock coffee break. While one woman stirred a small amount of espresso into a whole lot of sugar, they all responded. The opinion was mixed, ranging from high praise to the down and dirty.
“You mean Nick? He can do no wrong in my book. He’s a saint. Saint Nicolas!”
“He’s
