I do the same with the other two messages I plucked out of the pile.
Even though Mr. Calvetti has told me repeatedly not to take messages from the women he knows “outside of the office” (code for has sex with), I always do. Tossing them in the trash feels cruel. If a woman is putting herself out there, I can’t ignore that, even if Mr. Calvetti always does.
I’m not okay with being the bearer of bad news, and I refuse to be responsible for a stranger’s broken heart.
Since two of the three messages I just put in the envelope are from women in Virginia, I’d say that my boss did more than handle business on his trip there last week.
I wish he’d jet off again. The offices of Modica Wealth Management are peaceful when he’s not here.
When he spent months in Italy courting new clients, it was almost perfect.
He did wake me often in the middle of the night to do menial tasks for him, but whenever I sat behind this desk, I didn’t have to glance into his office and see the stern expression on his gorgeous face.
Speaking of which...
I bolt to my feet when I hear the telltale whispered warnings from my co-workers that Mr. Calvetti is back from his meeting.
Pushing my eyeglasses up the bridge of my nose, I suck in a deep and uneven breath. I’ve got this. I can do this.
Mr. Calvetti promoted me because he knows I’m capable of great things.
I convinced myself of that as I was signing my employment contract. I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but the best things in life come with a challenge and a commitment to overcome anything standing in your way.
My gaze hones in on him when he steps around the corner and turns in my direction.
Perfection in a three-piece charcoal gray suit is headed my way.
Did he get even better looking since he left the office this morning?
His dark brown hair is a touch longer than when he hired me, and his brown eyes look even more soulful.
I shake my head because I’m being blinded by how handsome he is. Dominick Calvetti doesn’t have a soul. Greed sits in the place where his soul should be.
He breezes past me, leaving a trail of expensive cologne in his wake.
“My office now,” he says in a clipped tone. “Follow me, Miss Voss.”
I grab the messages and my tablet from my desk and fall in step behind him, hoping that the rest of the day flies by.
Chapter 2
Dominick
Arietta Voss looks as though she stepped out of a finger painting done by a four-year-old. Every color of the rainbow is represented in the patterned blouse she’s wearing.
Her sense of style has never been on point.
That’s one of the reasons she was promoted a few months after being hired as a junior analyst.
My last two executive assistants were women as well. They dressed to impress. They both caught the eye of my single male clients. Many of the married ones were just as enamored. It was a distraction my business doesn’t need, so when it came time to find a new executive assistant, I perused the company employee files while paying close attention to the attached photos.
Arietta stood out in the simplest way.
She puts minimal effort into her appearance. Today is a perfect example of that. Her blonde hair is wound up in an uneven chignon. The bottom hem of the oversized skirt she’s wearing skims the top of her sensible black shoes, and the blouse she has on is not only a mishmash of colors; it’s at least two sizes too large for her.
I’ve heard people in the office comment behind Arietta’s back about how she’s the youngest grandma they’ve ever met.
My grandmother, Martina Calvetti, would have a word with them about how a woman’s age shouldn’t dictate her wardrobe choices.
I agree, but I don’t have the time or inclination to defend Miss Voss’s attire.
I care about her intelligence and competence. The clothes she puts on her back keep my clients focused on their portfolios and not on her.
I consider that a bonus.
“How has your day been so far, Mr. Calvetti?” she asks as she follows me into my office.
“Fine,” I answer brusquely.
“And the meeting? How was that?”
“Fine,” I repeat, leaving it at that.
She doesn’t expect me to ask her anything. I know what I need to know. She’s twenty-two. She has a degree in business. She skipped the fifth and tenth grades. Her IQ is higher than mine, although that’s a fact neither she nor anyone but me is aware of.
I take the seat behind my desk. “I want a coffee in my hand in...”
“Ten minutes,” she finishes my sentence. “I’ve emailed you a proposed schedule for the remainder of the day. I contacted Mr. Morano, and he was happy to reschedule his appointment to tomorrow afternoon at four. That gives you the time you requested so you could leave the office an hour early.”