Page 3 of His for Christmas
“Oh, thank God,” a dark-haired woman said when she saw me. “I thought you weren’t going to show up.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, too quickly. At least that much I was used to, being slow and late and wrong.
You’ve always been a few cards short of a deck, my daddy had said, shaking his head. But at least you’re pretty.
The woman blew out a breath. “It’s okay. Security can be a little overzealous, but that’s what they’re there for, right?”
“Um. Right.”
Not overzealous enough, though. Because I’d passed their checks. But I wasn’t going to do anything bad here. Wasn’t going to steal or whatever they thought ex-convicts would do. And I definitely wasn’t going to store a few boxes for my boyfriend without knowing there were drugs inside. Even if I had a boyfriend, which I didn’t. Billy and I had officially broken up when his lawyer tried to argue I’d been the dealer. The judge hadn’t believed that, thank God, but he’d still given me eighteen months.
The woman smiled, looking frazzled. “I’m all over the place today. I was just so worried, because today’s my last day before I leave. We’ve only got a couple hours to get you up to speed. I’m not sure when you’ll have time unless… Can you stay late?”
“Oh.” I looked around, feeling a little disoriented. Everything was so shiny and reflective. It felt more like a swanky fun-house mirror ride than a place of business. I’d been so worried about getting found out that I hadn’t thought much about actually working here.
“Maybe you won’t have to. If you just explain to Mr. Thompson what happened, with security taking up all that time and—”
“I can stay late,” I assured her. I didn’t want to bother Mr. Thompson. And I definitely didn’t want him asking security about me. Besides, the temp job was hourly. Staying late meant more money, and I was grateful for the chance.
“You’re a doll,” the secretary said, clearly relieved. “What’s your name again?”
“Angel. Angel Cole.”
“Angel, the thing you have to know about working here is that Mr. Thompson is harsh but fair. Some people say he’s cold but…he’s also generous. You know what I’m saying?”
Not really. “Sure.” I tried for a smile. “Fair is good.”
Especially when people had done the right thing. But if they’d lied…then the fair thing to do was to turn me in to the authorities.
My stomach turned over.
Christy gave me an apologetic look. “Just do what he says and you’ll be fine. Now let me show you how the phones work.”
Chapter Three
After hours at the desk, my neck ached and my shoulders were tense. I stretched, the cracking sound of my joints loud in the wide-open space.
Mr. Thompson had the only office on the floor, which had startled me when I first realized that. His office was spacious, as was the waiting area where I worked, and the hallway from the elevator. But still not as large as the entire building. Apparently the rest of the floor was blocked off for some other department, but you had to take the regular elevators to get there.
This elevator was reserved for the CEO. And for the two weeks that I worked here, for me too.
The Big Bad Billionaire. I hadn’t met him yet, and I wasn’t really looking forward to it. What if he could see right through me? With his reputation for razor-sharp intuition, he could take one look at me and know what I was hiding.
Maybe he was traveling so much he wouldn’t be in the office—for two entire weeks.
Yeah, not likely. And it was also unlikely he’d be able to tell I’d been in prison just by looking at me. But sometimes I felt like my time behind bars was written on my skin, grit and grime and shame embedded into me like glass. It was always a surprise when people treated me normal, even pleasant, like the Santa outside. I stood to leave, wincing at the soreness in my legs. It hadn’t even been that long, only… I glanced at the clock and frowned. Wow, it had gotten late.
And it was pitch-black through the tall windows.
I still wasn’t used to keeping my own schedule. A loud bell would tell me it was time for lunch, or a guard would come round us up for shower time. But here on this floor I was alone, and so I’d kept working. As if I were some kind of windup doll that ran into a wall, unable to think for herself. A few eggs short of a dozen, my daddy said.
I gathered the stack of files I’d completed and carried them into Mr. Thompson’s office like the secretary had told me to. But I didn’t leave right away after setting them down.
Curiosity held me at the edge of his desk, let me take in every detail, every clue to the man who normally sat in that empty wide-backed chair. A plump glass paperweight shaped like a teardrop, with bubbles inside like snowflakes. A legal pad was half torn out with scribbled writing—unreadable. And a sleek black pen, its thick cylinder shell shining as if it wasn’t used much, even though I was sure it had been.
