Whatever good mood the senior staff had managed to strike up at the party, it had completely evaporated by the time we all got to work the next day. After I fled the cellar, with a very confused and very angry-looking and embarrassed Robert Cross in tow, I went out for a drive to calm down.
I came home at five in the morning and went to sleep. In the morning, I told Madison everything.
“It wasn’t him?”
“No. He didn’t have the tattoo.”
“Well, at least you know.”
“I would’ve never ever chased my boss the way I did. I only did it because I thought it was...”
“Him.”
“Yes. I would never date someone from work, especially my boss.”
“You got your closure, honey.”
“Now I’ll never know who my mystery man was.”
“I take it, he looks like Robert.”
“Exactly.”
“He’s out
there somewhere. And maybe one day, you’ll run into him in London.”
***
I was tired but I managed to get myself up for work.
“Miss Jones,” said David Camper, our ancient supervisor, as he knocked lightly on the door, then poked his head inside, “I need you to handle the Parisians today. Our account with Givenchy is still pending, and I believe you are the primary on the deal.”
He was right about me being on the account, but he couldn’t have been more wrong about who the primary was.
Robert. Damn.
I was about to inform him of that when he waved a woman inside, someone I’d worked with in the past. She was a linguistic genius who spoke and translated about seventeen languages.
“Chloe will be happy to assist. Then, send the final phone call upstairs.”
My shoulders wilted, but I somehow managed to plaster a smile on my face. “Yes, sir,” I said politely.
For the rest of the morning, the two of us worked through the slow-moving process. I didn’t speak a word of French, and for all her genius with the languages of the world, my Parisian counterpart spoke only broken English at best. For that reason, we dealmakers and breakers spent most of the day listening to our translators discuss matters with each other, while we pointed at numbers and scribbled down notes for them to read and recite.
By the time we were finished, I was absolutely exhausted. “Okay, that was great. Thank you,” I said as I pushed away from my chair and rubbed wearily at my eyes, still fighting a slight hangover from the night before. “I will just transfer the call up to Mr. Cross for final approval, and we should be good to go.”
Chloe stood and nodded. “Would you like me to join him?”
I shook my head automatically, thinking of Marcel, dessert, and a little French bistro the two of us had sneaked inside. “No, he speaks French, but thanks, Chloe.”
She disappeared without another word, leaving me to gather my things. I was supposed to meet Madison for lunch at a sushi bar down the street, and she tended to set things on fire when anyone was a moment late for any appointment, casual or otherwise. Quickly, I stuffed the forms and documents in their respective files, set the computer to hibernate, and began to rise from my chair.
Suddenly, without any warning whatsoever or even the cursory knock, the door burst open, and a furious Robert thundered inside. “What the hell was that about last night?” he demanded, not even bothering to lower his voice. “Did you find it funny? Was it your idea of some kind of sick joke, Miss Jones?”
My lips parted in surprise, and I stared back with wide eyes, wondering what the hell he was ranting about. “Excuse me? Robert, what did I—”
“Why the hell did you transfer that call up to me without a translator?” he growled, kicking a chair over in a fit of rage. “You made me look like an idiot!”