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Coralie

When Mr. Wincott returns to the office, Coralie is taking a call from the caterer.

“He can have the goat-cheese cups,” the caterer says. “But not the prosciutto and melon. There are no decent cantaloupes this time of year.”

“Understood,” she says, scribbling this down on a pink telephone message pad.

“No other changes to the hors d’oeuvres.”

“Wonderful,” she says, wondering how you spell hors d’oeuvres . She writes appetizers , because otherwise he’ll mock her for her ignorance.

Unfortunately, she misses the next thing the caterer says, because she’s watching Mr. Wincott stomp over to the coffeepot, which is empty.

Oh no.

“Everything else looks good. See you Tuesday,” the caterer says.

“Yes. Thank you. Goodbye, now.” She hangs up, her head pounding. This job is easier when she’s not hungover.

Probably.

“No coffee?” he says in lieu of a greeting.

“I’ll make some now,” she says, hating the quaver in her voice. “You didn’t say if you were coming back.”

He slaps the empty carafe onto the counter with enough force that she winces. “Make it quick. I have a call in ten. Is the memo on my desk?”

“Yes, sir.” She’s just praying there aren’t many errors in it. Not like last time. That’s sloppy work, Coralie . You’re lucky I forgive you . She hears that a lot.

This is her fifth month on the job, and she can tell that his frustration is building.

She grabs a fresh coffee filter and fits it into the basket in a pantomime of “hardworking girl making coffee.”

“That skirt is too tight. You look like a sausage.”

She opens the packet of coffee grounds and dumps them in without comment.

The skirt is too tight, and growing tighter, which is terrifying. She wishes he hadn’t noticed.

“Great blouse, though,” he says, his gaze dipping pointedly into her cleavage.

“Thank you, Mr. Wincott.” It comes out sounding a little breathless. He’ll like that, though, the same way he likes that she always addresses him formally.

She has to play to her strengths.

“Bring the coffee in when it’s ready,” he says.

Her eyes flick toward the private office. “Yessir. Of course.”

He has a call in ten , she reminds herself. If the call is with his brother, he’ll be snarly afterward.

She waits until he’s on the phone, then she places a white cup and saucer on a tray, along with a matching creamer of milk and the sugar bowl. This is the best part of her job, really. Not serving the coffee—but handling the Wedgwood china it’s served in. All the Wincott furnishings are so beautiful. She can pretend they’re her own.

To the saucer, she adds a silver spoon from the collection in the drawer. The spoons have the luster of age, each one with an elaborate W engraved in the handle.

There are exactly sixteen of them. She’d slip one into her handbag if she thought she could get away with it.

She carries the tray through the open door to the inner office. He’s behind his desk, the phone cord stretched out to where he leans back in his chair. “Mmm-hmm,” he says, but his piercing gaze tracks her movement across the thick rug.

The darkest part of her heart enjoys the attention. The way his eyes linger as her hips sway. His expression is feral.

She knows it’s wrong, but she slows down her journey instead of speeding it up, so the weight of his hungry eyes will last just a little longer.

She’s a terrible assistant. They both know it. She’s too slow. Too dumb.

He tells her so. Frequently.

But he wants her, and there’s power in it. His gaze is hungry, his hands assertive. She encourages him, even though she knows she’s playing with fire.

Today, though, she carries the tray to the opposite side of the desk, her body out of reach. His expression turns sulky as she backs away, a Mona Lisa smile on her lips.

Bad girl , he mouths.

They both know it’s true.