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“Blake Jones and Martin Shepherd,” Edith responded with an impassive face.
When I gave her a look of confusion, she explained, “Those are Dave’s current assistants.”
“What about?—”
“She’s got two assistants already,” Edith interrupted.
I frowned and leaned forward, my hands on her desk. “You don’t know who I was going to ask about.”
“Was it, by any chance, Kelly Townsend, our COO?”
“No—” I began in swift rebuttal even though Edith was right. Damn it, was I really so predictable? “Okay, yes, I meant her.”
Edith eyed me carefully. “You’re the one with only one executive assistant. I’ve been trying to get you to accept an administrative assistant forever.”
“Nope. I already have an assistant, thank you.” I knew Edith’s plan.
The admin assistant would double up as my personal assistant, and I hated letting anyone into the details of my personal life.
I shoved my hands in the pockets of my pants in frustration. I cursed myself silently. Why did I have to let this inconsequential, jilted bride change my mind?
“Surely, there has to be someone else who needs an assistant.”
Edith cleared her throat. “Amelia spoke to me earlier today and told me that she’s been advised bed rest.”
I raised my eyebrows at her. “Amelia didn’t mention anything to me,” I said, thinking back to our interaction.
Amelia had definitely been hasty with me today.
“She’s expecting a baby, as you know, and she needs to spend the rest of the three months of her pregnancy in bed. She’s reluctant to do so, because she’s worried about her job. I told Amelia that her job is safe?—”
“Damn right it is. She’s good,” I growled.
“And that she can work from home, if needed, as long as she’s comfortable. But we’ll need to hire a temporary assistant to handle things in the office.”
“A temporary assistant?” I asked, hands off the table as I considered this.
“Until Amelia is back,” Edith added with a hopeful look on her face.
My hands balled into fists as I considered that infuriating option. Chloe would work for me for the next three months and perhaps another three months while Amelia began her maternity leave.
Could I handle seeing Chloe at work?
I’d have to forget about that image of Chloe in her wedding dress for six months if we were to have any sort of professional relationship.
I’d have to stash that image away, only to be retrieved half a year later.
God, I couldn’t handle that. I liked that image, like a child fixated on a toy that held no sad memories. I wanted that image to remind me of my one good day. Most people always held their true selves from me, oftentimes being fake—less often being overly eager to say the appropriate thing and coming off as trying too hard. But Chloe had been raw, honest, and open, confiding in me.
Back at the café, she’d looked breathtaking, and I had the selfish thought that she shouldn’t be marrying any man. She ought to be single. Ten minutes later, voilà. Only, I didn’t have the heart to ask her for her number, given what her fucked-up fiancé had done to her. I would find her later, I decided. Haunt that café perhaps. Well, I’d haunted it a few times with no luck.
And now, she was here, exactly where I didn’t want her to be. Employee number 2560.
I wanted her working some job in our basement perhaps. To not have her out of a job and possibly on the streets, but, God, I sure as hell didn’t want her working for me.
I ran my hand through my hair, feeling frustrated that my moment of kindness had backfired on me. This was why I didn’t do nice.
This is what you get for being nice, Sean.