His Executive Sweetheart
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“Celia Louise, you are the classic middle child, you know that you are.”
“Is this a lecture coming on?”
“You are a middle child and you know how to be…ignored. Passed over. You don’t get out and make things happen like a first child. You don’t expect all good to come to you, as the baby in the family always does. You…accept being in the middle. You can easily become stuck.”
“And I’m stuck right now, is that what you’re saying?”
“Yes. You’re stuck in the middle, sitting at the trestle table, clutching your sad little bowl of gruel, knowing when you finish it, you’ll still be very, very hungry—and yet unwilling to get up and ask the headmaster for more.”
“My bowl of gruel?”
“Come on. You remember. Dickens. Oliver Twist. In the orphanage. We read it in Mrs. Oakley’s freshman English class.”
She remembered. “Shall we go into what happened when Oliver actually got up and asked for more?”
Jane was silent for a count of two. “Okay,” she conceded. “Bad analogy.”
“No kidding.”
“But in the end, Oliver succeeded in life. Because he was someone who could get up when he had to and ask for more.”
“Hooray for Oliver.”
Jane made a small sound in her throat—one that spoke of fading patience. “I’m merely saying, if you don’t want to tell him, fine. Maybe you should quit working for him. It wouldn’t be the end of the world for you to have to get another job. And at least that would be taking action, which I sincerely think it’s time for you to do.”
There was no getting around it. Jane had it right. “I’ll tell him. I will.”
“Good. When, exactly?”
“Tomorrow…”
Tomorrow came.
Celia went to the office tower a determined woman.
And when she got there, she learned her boss had taken off for New Jersey on a site-scouting trip with Tony Jarvis. He wasn’t due back until Sunday. He’d left her an e-mail.
TO: Celia Tuttle, clerical/PA
FROM: Aaron Bravo, CEO
SUBJECT: Trip to New Jersey
Back Sunday. Take a three-day weekend. Aaron.
And that meant, unless something came up and he really needed her, she wouldn’t see him face-to-face until Monday.
Reprieved, she thought. And felt mingled relief and despair—tinged faintly with worry. As his assistant, it was part of her job to be at his side when he traveled. Why hadn’t he wanted her presence on this trip?
She told herself not to make something of nothing. Now and then, he traveled without her. This was probably just one of those times.
She considered going home for another weekend. But she didn’t think she could bear facing Jane again until she had done what she’d sworn to do. And there were plenty of projects for her to dig into. She worked all day Friday and half a day on Saturday.
Every time she returned to her rooms, she expected to see the message light blinking on her phone—a call from Jane or Jillian to find out if she’d finally done what she’d vowed to do.
But her friends didn’t call. Maybe they’d given up on her. She could hardly blame them if they had.
Sunday, she woke early, thinking, He’s due back today….
But she didn’t know what time.
And what did it matter what time? She wasn’t going to ask him for a private meeting until tomorrow, anyway.
She lasted until noon and then she called his rooms. His machine picked up. Quietly, stealthily—without leaving a message—she returned the phone to its cradle. Then she went to her computer, logged onto the company system, and used her employee code to look up his itinerary. It was unethical, really. Celia Tuttle, secretary/personal assistant didn’t need to know exactly when her boss would arrive back in town. But Celia Tuttle, woman hopelessly in love, did.
He was due in at eight that night. Which meant he wouldn’t get to his own rooms till nine or ten at the earliest.
It helped to know that. Made it marginally easier not to keep dialing his number and hanging up when his machine answered.
The day dragged by on lead feet. She read the Sunday paper, watched a movie on cable, her mind hardly registering what her eyes were seeing. In the afternoon, she called down to Touch of Gold, High Sierra’s full-service luxury spa, and booked the works—mud bath, massage and two-hour facial. Maybe it would help her relax.
It did, while she was down there. And it took up four hours she would have spent stewing. She didn’t return to her own rooms until after six.
The rest of the evening was downright unbearable. As eight and nine came and went, she wondered.
Where was he now?
Had he reached the hotel yet?
Was he already in his tower suite—or was he down in the casino somewhere, or in one of High Sierra’s luxurious bars or fine restaurants, maybe having a last drink with Tony Jarvis, or possibly courting some recently arrived high rollers?
There was no way to know.
And it didn’t even matter. Wherever he was, whatever he was doing, she had no intention of tracking him down tonight, anyway.
She put on her pajamas and she got into bed.
But sleeping fell under the heading, as if.
She reached for the phone more than once. But she never picked it up. She knew that if he answered, the sound of his voice would send her into a mindless state of pure panic. She’d hang up without identifying herself—and he would know who it was, anyway. After all, there was such a thing as caller ID.
Which she should have considered earlier, before she’d made that first call.
Jane was so right, she thought, as the night wore on and sleep never came. Here I am, at the bare trestle table, clutching my sad, half-empty bowl of gruel, afraid to stand up and ask for more….
Not sleeping and worrying all night long did nothing for her appearance the next day. She troweled on the concealer to cover the dark pouches beneath her eyes and she put on her nicest suit, which was pale blue, of a particularly fine-gauge gabardine and usually looked very nice on her.