I’m sitting behind my desk poring over the company’s most recent financial statement when someone knocks tentatively on my closed office door. I speak without looking up.
“Go away.”
Through the door comes the voice of the receptionist whose name I can never remember.
“Mr. McCord? Your new assistant is here.”
Now I do look up, and I frown.
It’s five minutes past the hour. This new assistant of mine is late.
“Shall I send her in, sir?”
So the person is a she. I never know the gender of the candidates Sally sends over because she replaces their names on their resumes with a number to avoid discrimination in hiring practices.
But I’d never discriminate based on something as arbitrary as gender. Or race, religion, age, appearance, sexual orientation, or disability for that matter. Or anything else.
The only thing that matters to me is competency.
Coming in a close second is punctuality. If you’re supposed to be somewhere at a certain time but you’re not, you can’t be trusted.
Period. End of story.
I make a mental note to call Sally later this afternoon and voice my displeasure that she’d send me such an untrustworthy candidate. Right after that, I’ll tell Sally she’s fired.
And so is the new hire.
I call out to the door, “I’m in the middle of something,” then turn my attention back to my work.
That lasts for all of ten seconds, until I hear a sound that sizzles through me like a jolt of electricity.
A laugh.
A female laugh.
Her laugh.
But it can’t be. No, I’m imagining it. There’s no way the unforgettable green-eyed woman is in this building. She’s not standing outside my door. She’s a memory I’ve clung to for reasons I don’t want to examine, and my imagination is playing tricks on me.
Just to be sure, I push back my chair, stride over to the door, and yank it open.
There beside the meek receptionist stands Shay.
That Shay. My Shay. The ghost who’s been haunting me for weeks now stands there in the flesh.
She turns her head and meets my gaze, instantly electrocuting me.
And because my heart is pounding and the blood in my veins has turned to fire and my chest is being crushed by an invisible weight, I do the only thing I’m capable of doing other than pulling her into my arms.
I scowl at her and thunder, “What the hell are you doing here?”
The receptionist nearly faints in terror. Pale, shaking, and wide-eyed, she presses a hand over her mouth and shrinks back.
But if Shay is as surprised to see me as I am to see her, she doesn’t show it. If she’s taken aback by my question or the volume at which I asked it, she doesn’t react. She merely looks me up and down and sends me a faint, derisive smile.
“I’m reporting for work…boss.”
Never in the history of mankind has a sentence been spoken with such disdain.
It couldn’t be more obvious that I’m the only one with fond memories of the night we shared together. Judging by her expression and tone of voice, Shay regards me in the same way she might regard a cockroach who wandered across her dinner plate.
With utter disgust.
Fuck.
The last time I felt this bad, I had a bullet lodged in my gut.
