One Kiss: An Office Romance

“Okay, you’re being ridiculous,” I mutter under my breath.

The woman in front of me on the elevator turns around, twisting her neck curiously and edging away from me. I realize I said that out loud and force a not-insane-looking smile onto my face until she scowls and turns back toward the door.

See? I can handle it.

The elevator doors slide open and the lightly vanilla-scented air of the reception area floods in. The receptionist, Rosemary, gives me a friendly nod of greeting as I stride across the textured carpet toward my cubicle.

A maintenance man is busy working on my boss’s door, and as I near him I realize he is scraping Greg’s name off the glass. My mouth pops open a little bit. This is the Head Broker’s office, and since his promotion a couple weeks ago, that position has remained unfilled.

I don’t even want to think it. But the thought keeps creeping around the edges of my mind even though I am stubbornly trying to ignore it.

Maybe? Could today be the day I finally get that promotion?

I’m sure that people have noticed my work, even though Greg has this annoying habit of taking credit for all the deals I put together for him. But that’s my job, right? As his assistant, my job is to make him look good.

And I’ve made him look really good. I mean, really good.

As I step into my cubicle, I allow myself a moment to watch the maintenance man and wonder whose name he’s going to put on the glass. In my imagination, I can see it vividly. Clarissa Goring, Head Broker.

Kind of has a nice ring to it.

As my cell phone vibrates again, I realize I still have not looked at that text message yet. Dare I do it? I sort of want to give myself an extra-special treat. This morning is just going so good.

But as I set my bag on my desk, I notice a note on my chair. I pick up the pink paper slip, a throwback to the 1980s phone messages, proof that this company is so cheap and old-fashioned it wouldn’t throw away those pads of pink paper that say “while you were away” even though no one needs anyone to take phone messages for them anymore.

Please come see me, it reads. Corner office, end of the hall.

I pat the outside of my pocket, promising myself to leave the text message as a treat for later. If everything goes well, that will be the perfect dessert.

Straightening my jacket and loosening my hair from behind my ears, I stride down the hall, focusing on the door at the far end. The lettering already reads “Greg Holloway, Vice President.”

Tapping lightly with my knuckle, I open the door and see him standing behind his desk, admiring the view from his spectacular new set of windows. I wonder how long he’s been standing there. It really is a great view, and from up here we can see all the way out to Lake Michigan, with sailboats and a few yachts dotting the water. The sun is halfway up the sky, and the fluffy white clouds look so perfect they are practically painted on.

“Good morning, Greg,” I announce, remembering to smile as I walk in, because people can always hear the smile in your voice.

He turns around, keeping his arms crossed over his chest. His sleeves are tight across his biceps. Normally he would have already rolled up the cuffs, but today he still has his tie on and cuffs buttoned at the wrist. He’s really doing this VP thing dramatically.

“Oh, Clarissa, I didn’t hear you come in,” he smiles, though I am sure he heard me.

Smiling tightly, I lean against the leather guest chair, careful not to roll my eyes at his bit of theater. Let him play the important new vice president. Why should I mind?

“Great view, isn’t it?” he prods.

“Certainly is,” I agree, trying not to mentally compare the view from the Head Broker’s office, which is still pretty darn good.

“So, I guess we need to make some changes around here, don’t you think?” he smiles.

I nod carefully, controlling my expression so I don’t seem too eager.

“What did you have in mind?” I ask cautiously.

Head Broker, chimes a stubborn little voice inside me. Head Broker! Say it!

He massages his jaw with the palm of his hand. Somehow he always seems to have a bit of stubble.

“Well, I hate to put you out,” he begins. “But if you wouldn’t mind changing cubicles?”

“Cubicles?” I repeat, not understanding.