Best of 2017

The office is masculine and overlooks the city. Grayson Maxwell sits in his desk chair with his back turned to the door. I can see the top of his messy espresso-colored hair but every other part of him is hidden by his chair.

“Mr. Maxwell,” I say, a nervous wobble to my voice. I’m not sure why I get tongue-tied around this man. After six years, you’d think I’d be immune to how handsome he is and not act like a teenage girl every time. “I brought you some coffee.”

I’m just approaching his desk when he says in a warm tone, “Thank you.”

My surprise catches me off guard, and I struggle with what to say. However, a genuine smile graces my lips, and I feel my cheeks heat. “You’re welcome, sir. I mean out of all the years I’ve worked here, I don’t think you’ve ever thanked me.” I let out a small, nervous laugh.

“You’re an asset,” he says, his voice firm.

This time, it’s my neck that’s on fire. I fidget with my pearls as I set the coffee down on his desk.

“That’s so nice of you to say, sir. While I have your attention,” I start, my voice wobbling slightly. “Mr. Collins—”

“Mr. Collins,” he says with a chuckle. “You have nothing to worry about.”

I begin to speak when he swivels around in his chair, his phone pressed to his ear. Mr. Maxwell exudes power and strength. The solid muscles in his shoulders and upper arms stretch the suit fabric to its limit. He’s hot as hell—all chiseled jaw, scarred eyebrow, icy blue eyes, just-fucked hair, and scruffy five o’clock shadow. His full lips keep moving as he speaks—lips I’ve often fantasized about. An air of arrogance surrounds him. And, my God, does he smell good. He continues talking to who I now realize is Mr. Collins, and not me. I stumble back, horrified. I thought he was actually speaking to me.

But then I remember that Grayson Maxwell doesn’t speak to me. Hell, he doesn’t even look at me. Just waves me away, as if me bringing him his obligatory ten o’clock coffee is a nuisance.

Well, fuck him and fuck his stupid scheduled coffee.

I storm away from his desk and can’t help but slam the door shut. The sound has several other employees jerking their shocked gazes to me. I give them a scathing glare before smoothing out my hair.

I’ve had enough.

Nobody here appreciates a damn thing I do. And I do everything. Hell, Mr. Maxwell wouldn’t be closing on one of his most annoying clients yet if it weren’t for my interfering. All it took was a little reverse psychology to have Mr. Collins begging to sell his resort.

I did that.

Not Grayson Maxwell.

Me.

Seven years ago, I could barely look at myself in the mirror. Much less waltz around a corporate office with my chin held high and confident in what I was doing. During the first year after Vaughn, I struggled to find myself. The job I landed at Maxwell was the beginning of that change. I evolved from the broken woman I was into someone strong and capable. I’ve put in my time. I have experience. This entire office runs like a well-oiled machine because I see to it that it does.

Absolutely nobody recognizes any of this.

I should have been the newest associate. Not weasel-eyed Truman. The kid looks fresh out of college—this is probably his first job. Yet, they’re probably paying him double what I make simply because he has a pair of balls between his muscular thighs.

Fuck balls.

Fuck the Boys’ Club.

Fuck them all.

“Where are you going?” Darlene, a woman old enough to be my mother calls out to me. She’s Jeff Barker’s assistant, who’s the CFO.

“I’m going home,” I hiss over my shoulder. “I’m sick.” The lie feels easy on my tongue. I’ve never taken a sick day. Six years and not once have I called in sick.

“But Mr. Maxwell has the board meeting at three. Who will serve refreshments?” she questions, her voice quivering because, heaven forbid, she have to prance around in that room full of monsters and wait on them hand and foot.

I swallow down the rage threatening to consume me. I could run circles around Truman, and yet he’s the one with the cushy office. With the attention of the board. All I get is to ask them how they like their coffee. I’ve been here six years too long.

“Violet,” Darlene whines, using my full name, probably in a half-assed attempt to soften me. “Please. You know I can’t do what you do. They’ll eat me alive.”

Slowly, I turn around and pin her approaching frame with a fiery glare. “Why do I have to be thrown to the wolves every first Friday of the month?”

Tears well in her eyes at my harsh tone. I’ve always been nice to her. We’ve even gone out to lunch on the rare occasion when both of our bosses have been out. I like Darlene. Her grandkids are cute, and I like watching her eyes light up when she talks about them. My misplaced anger at her simmers to a slow boil. I heave out a heavy breath and place my hands on my hips.

“Fine,” I concede. “But I am taking an early lunch. I’ll be gone for a while too. Make sure you get Mr. Maxwell his one o’clock coffee.”

Her head is nodding emphatically like a bobble head. “Of course. Enjoy your lunch, sweetie.”

I give her a clipped nod before clacking my heels on the marbled floors toward the elevator. I’m going to finally give in and call back Slante Mortgages. Sean Slante has been trying to recruit me for months now. A part of me suspects it’s because he has a thing for long legs and brunettes. But a bigger part of me hopes it’s because my résumé is solid.

His reason for wanting me there doesn’t matter. The pay is better and at least I’d have the ability to move up in the company. It isn’t antiquated. There is no glass ceiling I’d have to beat my fists on.

I’m no longer Violet Simmons, a victim under Vaughn’s thumb.

And soon I’ll no longer be just another pretty face who makes coffee at Maxwell Subsidiaries.

I’ll be a valued employee.

That’s all I’ve ever wanted.

To be cherished and noticed.

“LETTY,” Ralph Darden, one of the board members, calls out to me. “A refill, please. Not so much sugar this time,” he chides. He licks his lips as he shamelessly gawks at my breasts when I bend forward to grab his mug.

When I jerk my gaze along the twelve faces in the room, each and every one of them is buried in their paperwork. Nobody notices Ralph’s sexual advances. I wonder if they’d notice if I smacked him upside his balding head.

Just once I wish Mr. Maxwell would look up and notice. I’ve had countless fantasies of him rolling up his shirtsleeves and revealing his veiny forearms before landing a punch in Ralph’s face. It’s stupid. Laughable really. Nobody can save me but me. I proved that seven years ago with Vaughn.

“Mad Max won’t rescue you, honey,” Ralph murmurs with a chuckle when he catches me staring blatantly at Mr. Maxwell. As much as the nickname for my boss irritates me, I know he’s right. That’s one of the eccentricities about Grayson Maxwell. He’s hyper-focused to a fault. When he’s working on a deal, he puts every ounce of his attention into it until it is solid and indestructible. It’s what makes him one of Forbes magazine’s most successful men in America.

Ignoring Ralph, I make his coffee and set it down in front of him with a clonk. He gripes when it splashes over, but I start making my way over to Mr. Maxwell to check on his coffee. We’ve been in here for nearly two hours as they’ve been hashing out the Collins resort acquisition. As soon as this meeting is over, I’m going to force Grayson Maxwell to look me in the eyes as I slap my two weeks’ notice on his desk.

A phone call to Sean Slante this morning turned into lunch where I finally accepted his offer. Sean is a fairly good-looking man, and in another life, I’d probably have gone after him. He’s the type of guy who’d make a good husband and father one day. Successful and handsome. Friendly and polite. His interest in me is obvious, but I want this job to be about my skills, not about anything else. I want to prove to myself that I have what it takes. That I am more th

an a nice rack and a pair of smooth legs. Thankfully, Sean seemed to have sensed my strictly professional demeanor because he quickly slipped into business mode. By the end of our lunch, I’d accepted a position as a sales associate at Slante Mortgages. It entailed a lot more pavement pounding than I was used to, but I was looking forward to the new challenge.

“Excuse me,” a man murmurs as he grips my wrist.

I’m jolted to the present as I glare down at none other than New Guy Truman. His weasel eyes rake over my chest, and he winks. Jesus, he’ll fit right the hell in around here. When I start to pull my arm from his grip, he tightens it, forcing me to let out a gasp. I wonder if I’ll have a bruise later.

“Let go of me,” I seethe, under my breath.

Mr. Barker clears his throat and pushes his black-framed glasses down his nose to look over them at us. “Is there a problem?”

Truman releases me and shrugs. “I take Splenda in my coffee, sugar.”

My eyes flit over to Mr. Barker’s. He wears a frown on his face and darts his gaze between Truman and I, but when Mr. Maxwell begins speaking to him, he turns his attention back to our boss.

Boss.

Not for long.

I almost laugh knowing today will be the last board meeting I’ll ever have to serve at. Next month, it will be Darlene, or some newbie, who’ll have to endure the sexist remarks and unwanted advances. It will be someone else who has to feel like they’ve been blasted back to the fifties when women were nothing more than an ornament on a successful man’s arm.

Two weeks and I’m gone.