The F-Word

“One more thing,” I say.

Bailey swings towards me just as I’m peeling off my shirt. There’s barely a pause before she turns away again, but not before I see a faint wash of pink spread over her cheeks. Is she blushing? I’m baffled. Then I realize that no shirt isn’t the same as an open shirt.

Uh oh. I’ve embarrassed her.

“Sorry,” I say quickly.

“No problem, sir.”

Maybe I misunderstood. She certainly doesn’t sound embarrassed. And when she turns towards me again, her expression is as professional as always.

“Mr. O’Malley?”

“Yes?”

“You were saying…?”

What was I saying? I’m still puzzled by that blush.

“I was saying…Oh. Yeah. Call Burt.” Burt’s my foreman. “Tell him we’re on our way and if the truck delivering the doors arrives before we do, he should just stall them. Then you meet me in the lobby. Five minutes.”

Bailey nods. ”Five minutes.”

“Fine,” I say, but I don’t reach for my belt or anything else until the door shuts firmly behind her.

Okay, I think as I change out of my pants. Okay. Today I get to be a construction guy.

The truth is, even the thought makes me happy.

3

My office—actually, a sprawling glass-and-cedar building we designed and built on a couple of acres of woods and meadows—is located just outside New York City in a town called Bedford. I designed the building and the grounds it stands on and, of course, my company built it. It’s a great-looking property and I’m lucky to have a great staff, starting with my PA, Bailey Abrams.

Bailey snags me as I step through the door.

“There’s a problem at the Schecter site,” she says.

I roll my eyes. “And a happy good morning to you, too.”

Bailey doesn’t even blink and she doesn’t slow her pace as she trots

alongside me to my office. I have long legs and a long stride, and generally I have to slow down so a woman can keep up with me, even the tallest ones, because they wear those short, tight little dresses and those ridiculous nosebleed heels.

Trust me. In a national election, I’d vote for both.

But this is my office, where practicality counts. And Bailey is practical. She’s down-to-earth. She’s not into how she looks. She wears suits and sneakers. The sneakers make it easy for her to cover enough ground to match my pace, and the skirts of those suits are what women call A-shaped. A-line. Whatever. You know what I mean. They’re full enough so she can move fast and they’re dark in color, probably because that’s also practical when she’s always rushing around bringing me my coffee—not that I ask her to do that. I mean, I’m an equal op kind of dude. No sexism here, but Bailey thinks keeping me caffeinated is in her job description. Plus she’s always handling chalk, scratching my schedule on a chalkboard because I like to be able to look up and see it, cross out stuff, add stuff…

The point is, Bailey is just what I need.

She’s been with me from my Wall Street days. Did I mention Wall Street? I guess I should have. I started there with a degree in finance straight out of New York University. Yeah, NYU, where I studied finance on a full scholarship.

Fooled you, right? You thought you had me all figured out. First you pegged me as some rich guy from a wealthy family, and I bet you pictured me spending my college years partying, skiing, living life in the fast lane. Then you decided I was a jock and I’d gone to some big Midwestern university on an athletic scholarship.

Wrong.

I’m rich, but I made all my money myself.

I did my share of partying when I was in college—doesn’t everybody? But not anymore.