The Dirty Truth

“Leah,” I echo. Waving toward the door, I add, “Thank you. You’re free to leave.”

She turns to go, nearly tripping over her schoolgirl Mary Janes.

“Wait,” I call out.

Leah spins on her heel, hands clasped at her hips. “Yes, Mr. Maxwell?”

“How well did you know Ms. Napier?”

Her face contorts, as if it’s a complex mathematical equation I’m asking her to solve and not a simple question.

“Um,” she says. “I’ve been her admin for the last eight months.”

“Were you aware of her plans to quit the company?”

Her eyes grow round. “Not at all, sir. I’m just as blindsided by this as you.” Taking a step closer, she adds, “And if I may say, I really respected and admired her. She was probably the nicest boss I’ve ever had. Always available around the clock. Took me out for lunch every week, her treat. Cared about my personal life—was always giving me dating advice. Offered me feedback on this novel I’ve been working on for the last two years . . . I sent her a text this morning to see if she’s okay, but she hasn’t responded yet. I’m not really sure what to make of any of this.”

I check my watch as she rambles on. I wasn’t expecting an essay-length answer to my question.

“Thank you, Leah,” I say. “That’ll be all.”

Rising, I examine the contents of the open-lidded box as the sad girl with the braid departs my office.

A small potted plant. A tin of spearmint Altoids. A tube of lavender hand cream. A framed photo of Elle with three women who look like ice-blonde versions of herself. A book of poetry. A half-empty bag of white chocolates. Cherry blossom lip balm. And an antique gold compact with someone else’s monogram carved into the top.

I’ve never made a habit of getting to know my employees. Besides the fact that there are far too many to get to know, I’m here to run the ship, not rub elbows and make friends.

Pulling out the framed picture, I study the striking face of the woman who rattled my cage with 399 measly words.

I saw her a handful of times over the years, always in passing. She caught my eye every time—though I never made a show of it. A Made Man doesn’t grovel, drool, or conduct himself like a shameless horndog in the office.

With her long cocoa-colored hair and striking Pacific-blue gaze and those full, pouty lips the color of ripe raspberries, it was impossible not to notice her, even from across the room. She was quiet, dutiful, and confident, always keeping a safe distance. And she had a smile that always lit the room and drew people in, as if her calming sunlit atmosphere was the antidote to our gray city days.

Little did anyone know, I’d always looked forward to her column every month. Even after I’d approved her work, hers was always the first thing I flipped to when I cracked the spine on a fresh copy of Made Man.

And while I’m not the kind to crush on someone (I’m a thirty-seven-year-old grown man, for fuck’s sake), I thought about Elle Napier more than I should have. She’d creep into my mind during those quiet, late nights in the office, and I’d let myself conjure up ridiculous fantasy after ridiculous fantasy of all the things I’d do to her if she were mine.

Only I had no intentions of making her mine.

Illusions, in my experience, are always better than realities. I preferred Elle Napier in my dreams, where she could be exactly what I wanted and precisely what I needed and there was no room for bullshit relationship drama or complicated feelings.

I text my driver, grab Elle’s things, and head downstairs.

Fifteen minutes later, my driver drops me off in front of a brown-brick apartment complex with a small green awning.

I buzz her apartment number—4C—and wait.

CHAPTER NINE

ELLE

“So, uh, there’s a man downstairs buzzing up here.” Indie leans against my doorjamb, worrying her lip. “Asking for you.”

A few minutes ago, I’d just woken from the deepest afternoon nap I’ve taken in my entire adult life and was appreciating the fact that the most stressful item on my agenda tonight was whether I was going to eat leftovers or make Indie go with me to that new Thai place down the street.

Sitting up, I brush the mess of hair off my face. “What? Who is it?”

“He says he’s your boss.” Indie picks at a flake of milk-white nail polish on her index finger.

“Hm. As of eight o’clock this morning, I didn’t have one of those anymore.” I fling the covers off my legs and grab a duster cardigan off the back of my closet door to cover my strappy silk camisole and pajama bottoms. “Maybe he has the wrong place?”

“He asked for you by name. Said he had some of your things from the office.”