Page 7 of Reluctantly Yours

While preparation is key, I’m confident I won’t see Barrett. He’s rarely spotted in the wild, he prefers to hole up in board rooms day after day. And, I already placed a call to his assistant, Bea. She’s aware I will be stopping by.

I step out on the thirteenth floor, the large SCM logo greeting me upon my exit. The main receptionist, Maggie, directs me down the hall toward Bea’s desk.

There’s a buzz of productivity as I pass by people’s offices; phones ringing, keys clicking on keyboards.

Bea is on the phone when I arrive, but she motions to one of the guest chairs sitting across from her desk. They’re against the wall of the enclave that is her office outside of Barrett’s door. It very nearly feels like I’m waiting for the principal to see me and Bea is the kind secretary here to offer words of encouragement. Again, I’ve done nothing wrong and won’t be intimidated.

My eyes move around the space, trying to decide if anything looks different. I’ve been here a few times before. Accompanying JoAnna to an SCM board meeting, or dropping off contracts that needed to be reviewed by SCM lawyers. The fact is I try to come here as little as possible. That’s what couriers are for.

My attention falls on the far wall where the SCM logo is surrounded by a large number of smaller logos. St. Clair Press is among them.

With SCM being the parent company to St. Clair Press, I should be familiar with their business, but I honestly don’t know much about the media giant. JoAnna’s late husband started the company back in the 80s and Barrett is now the CEO. Under his direction SCM has been buying up smaller companies in advertising, broadcasting, print publication, digital media and motion pictures. As evidenced by the wall of logos.

“Chloe,” Bea says when she hangs up the phone. “It’s good to see you.”

I stand and offer her the box of chocolate chip cookies I picked up from Levain Bakery on the way.

“These are my favorite,” she says.

“I know.” I smile, relishing in one of my favorite feelings in the world—giving someone something you know they will enjoy.

“You are so sweet.”

“Not as sweet as the cookies, though.” I laugh.

She snaps her fingers as if just remembering something. “The Books 4 Kids donation check. Sorry. It slipped my mind. It’s been a hectic day here.”

“I can only imagine.” Having a raging asshole for a boss would be hectic. I keep that to myself. Working with Barrett, I imagine Bea’s job is stressful every day. I smile sympathetically.

“I apologize. I haven’t had a chance to get the check filled out yet.” She shuffles a few papers around.

In contrast to the way I feel inside, I plaster on an easy breezy smile.

“No problem,” I say, though my plan to quickly get in and get out is crumbling like the cookie I ate on the way here.

“Thank you.” Bea sits down to type at her computer while I sit down again.

My eyes are pulled in the direction of the open door leading into Barrett’s office. I can see a black leather sofa—the color of Barrett’s soul—and a glass-topped desk with a high-back chair. But more than the cold furniture, it’s void of any personal effects. My gaze moves back to Bea’s desk. A warm mahogany piece that barely has enough space for her computer, it’s covered in framed photos and knick knacks, tiny potted succulents sit along her file cabinet with a handful of scribbled crayon drawings tacked to a bulletin board. At least Barrett doesn’t impart his robotic tendencies onto his employees.

“How’s everything going over there?” I ask when another minute ticks by.

“It’ll be just another minute.”

“Promise?” My laugh comes out awkward.

Bea smiles, completely oblivious to my desire to move this process along. I’m Tom Cruise suspended from the ceiling trying to go undetected in a room full of sensors.

True to her word, a minute later she stands to grab something from her printer. “We’ll just wait for Mr. St. Clair to finish with his meeting so he can sign it and you’ll be good to go.”

My hopes of picking up the check undetected are dashed.

“Oh, is that necessary?” I ask, checking my watch to indicate a time constraint. I’ve been here for five minutes; it feels like a lifetime.

“Mr. St. Clair is the only one who can sign the check.” She shows me the blank signature line with Barrett St. Clair, President and CEO underneath.

“I’m sure you’ve had to sign his name a time or two, yeah?” I wink. Because what’s a little forgery for a good cause? The money is for the kids, but the good cause is me not having to see Barrett. I could probably sign it myself. Just draw two horns and a pitchfork.

Bea leans into me, conspiratorially. “I did have to sign his name for the company holiday card once when he was out of town and the cards had to make it to the printers that afternoon.”