Morning peeked over the downtown skyline and shined bright through the glass wall of the penthouse floor. The sunlight matched my outlook—eager and optimistic—and I fired up the computer to start my first Monday in the world of corporate finance.
The computer booted with a low whine, and I reached into my new Louis Vuitton tote to retrieve my water bottle and the external hard drive I needed to make this ruse work.
What a gorgeous bag, I thought for the millionth time since I’d bought it. I’d never purchased anything so indulgent. Frankly, I really couldn’t afford it, especially given I was making only a fraction of my salary while on sabbatical. But if I was going to do this whole midlife awakening thing, I was going to do it right, and that bag was a hell of a lot cheaper than Michael’s Porsche.
First thing first—how bad was the computer situation? I navigated to the system settings, relieved the desktop wasn’t a cluttered mess. The window opened and so did the office door behind me, giving me a start. I swiveled my chair.
Mr. DeVita leaned against the door jamb, one ankle crossed over the other, dominating the space between us with easy authority and smoldering good looks. He folded his thick arms across his black waistcoat, and his biceps strained against his white dress shirt.
He tilted his head and examined me from my hair, carefully arranged in a bun at the nape of my neck, to the Band-Aids covering the blisters on the backs of my heels.
I shifted, nervous under his scrutiny. Is he judging my clothes? Did I get “executive admin” right? My palms started to sweat.
“I like your hair better down.”
The fresh curveball silenced my racing thoughts. Heat moved like a tidal wave up my chest, the telltale sign my cheeks were about to turn an obnoxious shade of tomato. I touched the neat bun I’d painstakingly pinned at the nape of my neck and tried to make sense of a statement that sounded more like a command than an observation.
Should I be offended or flattered he’d noticed my hair enough to have a preference? We were at work. He was my boss. My hairstyle was immaterial to my performance, and he shouldn’t be commenting on my appearance anyway. Wasn’t that in some HR manual somewhere?
“What do you need to get started?” he asked.
My brain short-circuited with Marco DeVita induced whiplash. I gaped at him, unable to form coherent thoughts, much less words. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d clammed up so badly.
I swiveled my chair to face the computer, desperate for a reprieve from the severity of those dark eyes. My hand shook as I reached for my water bottle. At least the long, soothing drink bought me time to gather my thoughts.
“I—I’m not sure,” I said, finally, my eyes safely fixed on the screen. “I brought an external hard drive with my software, tools, and notes, but I need to understand this computer’s performance capabilities first. If it’s powerful enough, I won’t need additional equipment, just information to construct the model.” I clicked through menus until the processor speed and memory appeared.
“And what goes into building the model?”
Surprised by the nearness of his voice, I glanced over my shoulder. His big body towered above me, right behind my chair, close enough to feel his body heat and smell a hint of cigar smoke and leather.
I shifted my focus back to the monitor and pretended to study the numbers. Instead, I closed my eyes and regulated my breathing.
Just answer his question, Anna. Talk about your work. You can do that in your sleep.
“The business strategies used by your European office as well as EU sector performance,” I said. Robotic, but true.
His eyes never left me. They bored into the back of my head.
“I’ll use that information to construct parameterized model elements. I’ll piece those together to represent the entire financial system.” My shoulders started to relax. “Then, I’ll run the model through scenarios to determine if the expected behavior deviates from the actual, observed performance.”
Recentered, I opened my eyes and glanced back over my shoulder.
He gave me a terse nod. “Let me know when you need something specific.”
“Will do.”
He moved for his office, and I exhaled, relieved to be left alone with my work.
“Before you get started…”
I swiveled my chair to meet the interruption.
“I’ll need my breakfast.”
The statement came out so matter-of-fact, I nodded in agreement. Of course, he needed his breakfast.
And then it hit me. I shook my head and blinked. “Excuse me?”
“My breakfast. Coffee and a pastry. Pick it up from Caffè del Vecchio Mondo.”
This time it wasn’t self-consciousness that threatened to turn my face bright red. He’d just pushed the only button that sent my temper straight to DEFCON 1.
“You want me… to get you coffee.” The words came out slow and searing, vitriol equal to his demeaning request.
He released his grip on the door handle and shifted his weight to face me in full. “Yes. I take my caffè americano with a splash of cream. And today I want a cornetto.”
My jaw clamped shut, teeth clenched so tightly they hurt. He had to have heard the tone in my voice and seen the redness that burned my cheeks, yet he mocked me with an air of indifference. My neck and face heated like a volcano ready to erupt.
“What type of filling?” I asked with enough deathly sarcasm to murder his ears.
Neither his body nor his face displayed any hint of remorse. “Vuoto,” he said after a moment. As if he’d truly considered what he wanted. As if my insincere question deserved a sincere answer. His response ripped through my remaining decorum like an armor-piercing bullet.
“I’m trying to figure out if this desktop can meet the computing demands of running stochastic simulations of complex financial models, and you want me to walk three blocks in these heels to get you coffee?” My voice gained volume with each outraged word.
He folded his arms across his chest. “Yes.”
Indignation forced me to my feet. Every instance of being mistaken for someone’s admin, every assumption I’d be the one to take notes in a meeting, every casual request to bring in coffee and donuts roared into my head, and lava spewed out the mouth of the volcano. “There’s a Dunkin’ Donuts around the block!” I pointed at the elevator. “Get your own coffee!”
The muscle in his jaw twitched, the first and only sign my words had any impact. He dropped his arms and stepped forward until only inches separated us, the heat of his body stoking the heat of my anger.
“That coffee is American trash. And you are my administrative assistant.” He over-enunciated the ts in his last two words and canted his head. “Remember?”
My chest heaved with furious breath.
“My admin gets my coffee and breakfast every morning, and it comes from Caffè del Vecchio Mondo.” He leaned in, forcing me to look up to maintain eye contact. “And if we want everyone to believe you are her replacement, you’ll do the same.”
I ground my teeth on my nonexistent retort and the bitter taste of the truth and concentrated my disdain into a single venomous look. I grabbed my new handbag and marched to the coat rack, fuming.
“Make sure it’s extra hot,” he called after me. “I hate cold coffee.”
My head snapped back to slay him with a fresh wave of daggers, but he’d already walked into his office, and I impaled the closed office door instead.
* * *
“I was going to wait until the next time we had lunch”—I brushed past Jeff into his Back Bay townhouse—“but after today…”
I wobbled a few more steps so I could set my new bag on the entry table instead of the floor even though hard leather rubbed mercilessly against my little toes and cut into the backs of my heels. I stumbled for what must have been the hundredth time that day and yelped in frustration. I kicked off the obnoxious shoes and sent them flying to bank off the wall.
“I fucking hate those things!”
Jeff’s dog Lady trotted over to where they landed next to the door and sniffed the offensive torture devices.
“Tough day at the office, love?” Michael called from the kitchen.
I didn’t respond. I was too busy glaring at Jeff. My best friend eyed me warily.
“You could have warned me, you know,” I said.
He pretended to watch the pug-boxer nose my shoes, but she lost interest and wagged her tail into the kitchen.
“Given you’ve obviously met Marco and likely signed one of his NDAs, you know I couldn’t.”
“Bullshit.” I narrowed my eyes, concentrating my irritation into a tight beam of hostility. “You’re not getting off that easily. You could have said something. I had no idea what I was walking into. None. Can you guess how that went, Jeff? Hm?”
He winced.
“Exactly. It went about as well as you’d imagine. I clammed up worse than I have in over a decade. He probably thinks I have a speech problem.”
“I’m sorry, Anna, I—”
“And then, to add insult to injury, you know what he had me do today?”
Jeff showed his teeth in an exaggerated grimace.
I craned my neck as I enunciated each humiliating word. “Get. His. Coffee.”
“No!” Michael exclaimed from the kitchen.
I spun around and pointed at Michael. He hovered near the stove with a wooden spoon and looked over his shoulder, face twisted in horror.
“Yes!” I exclaimed and turned back to Jeff while still waving my finger at Michael. “That is the appropriate response, for the record.”
“All right.” He held up his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry. Let’s… Why don’t you take off your coat and snuggle Lady on the couch. Okay? I’ll get you some wine.”
“I guess,” I snapped.
Lady jumped onto the couch as soon as I sat down and rested her head on my leg. Jeff handed me a glass, sat next to me, and squeezed my shoulder.
The luscious Sangiovese started to melt my tension and took the shrill edge out of my voice. “Seriously, Jeff, how do you even know this guy? He said you have a standing, two-way NDA.” I shook my head. “It was like having a conversation with an Italian gangster out of a movie. What’s his deal?”
Jeff stiffened and shifted his focus to Lady. “He gives CMG a lot of business. Values his privacy. I handle his contracts myself to protect that privacy. You’re the first exception to the rule because I trust you, and Marco trusts me.”
He hadn’t answered the question, not in any meaningful way. But then again, he was under an NDA. NDAs didn’t care about your best friend’s feelings or personality quirks. They didn’t include the clause, “Don’t say anything, unless your best friend needs a heads-up, so she doesn’t turn into a mute.”
“Would’ve been nice to have some idea what I was getting into. I was completely caught off guard.”
“Come on, Anna. You know I couldn’t give you any details until you signed the NDA.”
“I’m talking about Mr. DeVita.”
“Oh.” He snorted and gave me a wry smile. “Yeah, Marco can be a bit… extra.” He ran his hand across the top of his buzzed head, sprang off the couch, and made his way into the kitchen. He peered at the stove over Michael’s shoulder and wrapped his arms around Michael’s waist.
“Stop it!” Michael wiggled out of Jeff’s hold. “You’re distracting me from stirring. Stirring is key, or it won’t be creamy.”
“Risotto?” I asked.
“Yes. With truffles.” He glanced over his shoulder and winked.
“It smells amazing.”
“I know.”
I chuckled. Michael was one of the most self-assured people I knew, and I loved that about him. I’d give anything to channel a fraction of his unshakable confidence.
“I mean…” Jeff leaned against the counter and folded his arms, his face smug. “The work is right up your alley, isn’t it?”
Excitement crept up my spine. My shoulders tingled with it. “It is,” I admitted. “It really is.” Corporate larceny and paranoia aside…
“See, there you go.”
“I have to pose as his assistant, though.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Hence the coffee.”
He moved his hand in front of his face to adjust his glasses, but I knew better; his shoulders were shaking, and he snorted.
“God, you are such an ass,” I said.
He stopped trying to hide his face and doubled over laughing.
“Isn’t he?” Michael called out.
“Sorry,” Jeff managed while he stopped to breathe. “Sorry. It’s just…” He stood up straight and wiped the tears from behind his glasses. “You? A secretary?” He shook his head and snickered. “I’m just imagining you bringing Marco DeVita coffee in those heels.” He threw his head back and resumed cackling.
“Laugh it up, jerk. But when I ruin one of his expensive suits, I’ll have him send the dry-cleaning bill to CMG.”
Which, of course, made him laugh even harder.
“Whatever.” I crawled out from beneath Lady’s head and walked into the kitchen. “If this is the price I have to pay not to be holed up at MIT all semester, I’ll make the damn coffee myself.” I poured another glass of the smoky Sangiovese and drank in its fragrant earthiness. “Oh, this is good.”
“Right?” Michael said. “It’s going to pair perfectly with the wild mushrooms and truffle.”
“You’re an artist, Michael.”
“I am. Remember that, Jeff. You’re a lucky man.”
Jeff regained his composure enough to lean across the distance and kiss Michael on the cheek. “The luckiest.”
I left the two lovebirds and reclaimed my seat on the couch. Lady joined me.
Jeff and I had been best friends since grad school, and I’d happily inherited Michael along the way. They were so in love, had been for years. I sighed and ran my hand over Lady’s wrinkled head. I’d be lucky to find even a sliver of the happiness they shared.
I had another date with David Lancaster that upcoming weekend, but I wasn’t looking forward to it. Everything about the relationship, including my nonexistent feelings for him, was unremarkable. And, unfortunately, that single word summed up my love life for the past two decades. Unremarkable.
My eyes wandered back to the kitchen. Jeff resumed his quest to wrap his arms around Michael’s waist, and Michael continued to swat at him like a fly. Michael finally relented and tilted his head to allow Jeff to nuzzle his neck. He looked up from his risotto to his husband, and my chest ached at the depth of love in Michael’s eyes. He smiled, kissed Jeff on the lips, and returned to his stirring with Jeff’s chin resting on his shoulder.
“I love how much you two love each other,” I said wistfully, my eyes misty with tears.
I wanted to look at someone the way Michael looked at Jeff. I’d had my share of partners and relationships, but they’d always fallen flat. No one had ever stirred my emotions or touched my heart.
Jeff lifted his gaze to meet mine, and his mouth turned down in a sympathetic frown. I’d laid a lot on my best friend last week at Scholar’s, but unlike my career, he didn’t have a solution to my unremarkable love life.
“It’s not all sunshine and roses, love,” Michael said. “Remember that. Do you know how hard it is to stay wrinkle free when your beauty sleep is interrupted by a human chainsaw?”
“Hey!” Jeff slugged Michael in the arm.
“You love it,” Michael quipped.
I huffed and shook my head. One step at a time. Career first. Love life… Well, some things you just couldn’t work at fixing.
I sipped my wine, and the slight burn from the alcohol heated my chest and cheeks. The last time I’d felt flushed like that was Friday when I’d caught Mr. DeVita staring at my ass. He’d known I’d caught him, but that didn’t stop him from finishing what he’d started. He’d practically undressed me with his eyes, and I swear the intensity of his gaze made it feel as though he’d used his hands.
And God, he’d looked so good in his white shirt and black waistcoat. I bit the rim of my wineglass. I could almost smell the cigar smoke and leather, and a rush of desire zipped up my spine and made me shiver.
The way he’d spoken to me, the way he’d commanded me to serve him, had put me into a rage of righteous feminism. But two glasses of Sangiovese later, I was horrified to admit that as much as it still pissed me off, it turned me on. I had zero desire to examine the reasons why; I wasn’t sure I’d like the answer.
Marco DeVita was domineering and inappropriate and devastatingly handsome. But he was my boss, and I wasn’t about to harbor any fantasies about a man who was my gateway to a fresh start at my career. No way. Everything between me and Mr. DeVita would remain strictly professional. Simple as that.