kept him all to herself.”
Late in the afternoon, she was at the reception desk learning the complexities of the telephone system—“...and to transfer calls press 7”—when her earlier fears returned. Would her plan work? Was she staring down a future based on how aptly she could transfer a call?
Then he showed up. For all his lauded virtues, he looked like the devil in a bespoke suit. Saint Nicolas, my ass! There was something about him that magically erased her emotional browser history. Ex-boyfriends, old crushes, broken hearts: delete. There was just him standing there, looking squarely at her.
Emilia, true to her reputation, was hanging on his every word. Not that he said much.
“Leila?”
“Yes.”
“I’m heading out. See you in the morning.”
“Good night, Mr. Adrian.”
A pause. “Okay. Don’t call me that.”
And then he was gone, out the double-glass doors heading toward the elevators. Emilia tugged on Leila’s sleeve. “Girl, you lucked out.”
* * *
On the drive home, Leila didn’t feel so lucky. Had she won the lottery of bosses or inherited a colossal clusterfuck? What was the deal with Monica, anyway? No one would say. Nicolas Adrian couldn’t be any more attractive. Just thinking about him made her hot. So much so, she switched off the struggling AC and rolled down the windows of her Mazda roadster for much needed fresh air.
As she pulled into her building’s parking lot, Leila caught sight of her roommate, Alicia. A few months ago, Leila had confidently responded to her Craigslist ad, figuring a female college student was a safe bet. She hadn’t been wrong. Working on a graduate degree in social work at Barry University, Alicia spent most of her time there. Leila knew she was heading to class now and wouldn’t be back until late.
“Hey,” Alicia said. “How was your first day on the job? Learn anything?”
Leila stepped out of the car. “I learned how to transfer calls. I’m an ace at it.”
Alicia snickered.
A firm believer that women in general, and women of color in particular, should stay in school and earn every degree possible, she’d practically begged Leila to go back to college. “You’re too smart,” she’d said. “There are dumber people than you working on PhDs.” But Leila had been convinced that she’d strayed off the conventional path and was too far along to find her way back. Besides, she owed it to herself to follow her instincts.
“And how’s the boss? The typical jerk?”
“Oh, no,” she said without thinking. “He’s butter on toast.”
Alicia shifted under the weight of her backpack. “High in carbs and trans fat?”
They shared a laugh before Leila said, “Warm and delicious.”
“Yeah,” Alicia said. “But really, really bad for you at the end of the day.”
We’ll see, Leila thought, skipping up the stairs leading to their third-floor apartment.
* * *
A half hour later she woke from a dream where Don’t Call Me Mr. Adrian had her naked on his desk and she was purring, “All I need is ten minutes.”
Heart racing and covered in sweat, she sat up on the couch where she’d dozed off fully dressed. She brushed her hair out of her face and absently unbuttoned her blouse, tossing it on the carpet floor. Am I going to be able to work with this man?
The answer came swiftly. You can and you will.
Really, what choice did she have? If she quit one more thing, she’d officially be crowned Ms. Quitsville USA.
That evening Nick met with Monica for dinner. Losing her had been a blow—a blow from which he’d fully recovered once Leila had shown up. Had he gained something better? That question left stones of guilt in his gut and kept him from relaxing in Monica’s company.
They’d chosen a sushi restaurant close to the office. Monica had put some care in her appearance. Her red hair was styled in crafty spiral curls. She was proud and wouldn’t want him to feel sorry for her.
“Listen,” he said, cutting through the small talk. “I made a few calls. I might’ve found you something.”
He placed a business card on the empty square plate before her. She snatched it up. “A nonprofit?”
“I know, it’s not—”
“No. It’s great.”
“Lower pay.”
“Better hours, typically.”
“Okay, then.” Since having her twins, time was more valuable than currency. “Give them a call. They’re expecting you.”
“Thanks, Nick,” she said. “I’m going to miss you.”
Her green eyes were glassy with tears. Feeling unsettled, he asked, “Sake or beer?”
“You know me. Beer.”
When their waiter came around, Nick placed their orders, happy for the distraction. Then she asked, “Are you going to miss me?”
“How can you ask me that?”
For all intents and purposes, Monica had been his partner in crime. And it bothered him that, consciously or not, he’d shelved her in the past.
The waiter returned with their beers and a wooden bowl of edamame. Monica reached for a pod and sucked on it, murmuring something about sea salt. He sipped from the bottle as a new silence settled between them.
“I heard the new girl started today.”
He nodded. “I gave Jo-Ann hell.”
“I heard she’s pretty enough.”
“Who are you talking to?”
“Just answer the question.”
“You didn’t ask one.”
The waiter returned with Miso soup as Monica glared at Nick from across the table. “I’ll admit it. I don’t like to be replaced. And to hear that you’re gushing—”
“Come on, Money...”
The pet name worked like magic. She relaxed and dropped the subject.
“I’ve got to get back to work.” She picked up the large soup spoon. “Daytime TV is the worst. One court show after another. I didn’t pull the kids out of day care, you know. I
