The F-Word

And she’s perfect for it. She’s organized. Smart. Dedicated. Even better, she doesn’t find me intimidating—some people do. She doesn’t, you know, drool over me either. She doesn’t see me as a guy. And I don’t see her as a woman.

I’m getting sidetracked here.

Why was Bailey exactly what I needed? Because she’s a levelheaded, work-oriented person. We have an excellent relationship. She’s a nice girl, she’s bright and quick, and—let me get this out of the way even if it’s gonna tick off some of you—she’s not any kind of distraction for me. How could she be? She’s not tall and stacked; she’s petite and, well, let’s just say she’s not at all sexy—and I mean that in the best possible way.

She’s definitely not my type of woman, but she’s definitely my type of PA.

She has a degree in business from Columbia; she’s a model of efficiency; she’s always the center of calm in what can often be a frazzled world, and she’s completely dedicated to O’Malley Design and Construction.

She is, well, she’s Bailey. What more could a man want? And—a quick side-note here—I can now pay her what she’s worth to me, which is about f

our times what she earned on Wall Street.

Bottom line: we’re both happy.

We reach the door to my office. I open it and step inside.

Bailey’s right on my heels.

“The Schecter problem,” she says.

I sigh. “What is it?”

“Bob Emanuel ate some bad clams.”

I look at her. Bob Emanuel is the chief carpenter on a job we’re doing. Four acres. Low slung house. Eight bedrooms. Nine baths. A Zen garden. A pool with a waterfall. A pool house with an attached yoga room. The place is a blend of Asian and contemporary. It’s gonna be spectacular.

“And?”

“And, he spent the night puking up his guts.”

I take off my suit jacket. Bailey takes it from me the way she always does, opens the closet door, whisks the jacket onto a hanger, gives the jacket a quick workover with a brush—did I mention I have a dog? A one hundred and fifty pound mastiff that sheds almost that much fur every day. And then Bailey hangs the jacket in the closet.

Efficient. Always.

I sit down at my desk. My mug of coffee, black, two sugars, is positioned just where it always is.

I take a sip.

“And I need to know this happy detail because…?”

“Because he’s the teak guy.”

“The what?”

“The teak…”

Bing bing bing.

Bailey looks shocked. Actually, I’m shocked, too. It’s her smartphone. The only other time her phone rang while she was with me was two years back, when her mother called to say her dad was in the hospital.

I look at her.

No. She doesn’t look shocked. Or worried. Just…I’m not sure. Annoyed? Upset? Something.

I wave my hand. “Take the call.”

“It’s a text. And it can wait.”