This place made my old office look like a dump.
I knew from the clothes that she wore, not to mention the fancy cream business card with gold-leaf lettering, that Iris Locklear ran a successful business. I just had no idea she was this big of a deal.
I looked around the reception area in awe. A giant, sparkling chandelier, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Park Avenue, and space—so much wide-open space. The lobby was bigger than my entire damn apartment. An attractive brunette called my name as I gawked out the window. I tried to hide the shake of my hands as I walked toward her.
“Hi, Charlotte. I’m Liz Talbot. I’m in charge of Human Resources. Mrs. Locklear said I should expect you this morning. She’s at a meeting but should be here in about an hour. Why don’t I take you back and show you around, and you can fill out all your employment paperwork in the meantime.”
“That sounds great. Thank you.”
Locklear Properties occupied the entire floor and employed more than a hundred people, including forty property managers, thirty real estate agents, a marketing department of ten, and dozens of other support staff. Iris hadn’t been kidding when she said she’d worked her way up. After the grand tour, we went by Liz’s office, and she gave me a stack of paperwork in a folder that had my name typed on it.
“I’ll take you to your office, and then you can get started on this stuff. Your employment agreement is in there, along with information on your choice of health-insurance plans, information on our 401(k) options, direct-deposit forms, and your W-4 and I-9, which we’ll need filled out and returned by Wednesday. Paydays are the first and fifteenth of the month.” She tapped her finger to her lips. “I feel like I’m forgetting something. But it’s Monday, and I’ve only had one cup of coffee so far, so I probably am.”
Liz opened a drawer to her desk and took out a large ring of keys before leading me to where I’d be working. She unlocked an office door and flipped on the lights. “Here we go. I’ll order a nameplate for the door and get an extra set of keys made up this afternoon.”
“Umm. I think maybe you’re confusing me with someone else.”
She furrowed her brow. “You are Charlotte Darling, right?”
“Yes. But shouldn’t I be in a cubicle somewhere? This looks like an executive office. It has a couch?”
A look of understanding crossed her face. “Oh.” She chuckled. “I’ve been working here so long that I forget how unusual some things at this place can seem. The assistant takes care of all of the personal needs of the Locklear family. You’re going to have access to a lot of confidential and personal information, and the family is very private. They wouldn’t want that information left out in a cubicle where everyone could see.”
“Oh. Okay. That makes sense.” Although it still seemed a rather large space for an assistant. But who was I to complain about a private, posh office on Park Avenue? Everything almost seemed too good to be true—a job where I could learn from a woman like Iris, a steady paycheck with benefits, and no Roth family to deal with. Even though I’d enjoyed my job working for Todd’s family, I’d always felt that some people looked at me like I’d gotten my job because of the man who slept in my bed. Iris had given me so much more than a job when we met, and I was determined to show her she hadn’t made a mistake.
“I’ll let you get started. You know where my office is if you need anything at all. I’m extension 109 if you want to call with questions.”
“One-oh-nine. Got it. Thanks.”
Liz smiled and walked toward the door. She stopped when she reached the couch and tapped her hand along the back of it. “By the way, just a heads-up—woman to woman—Max can be a bit of a flirt. He’ll be lying in here on this couch trying to chat you up before the day ends. But he’s harmless. Don’t let it freak you out.”
“Max?”
“Mrs. Locklear’s grandson. He’s not around often. Only comes in on Mondays, most weeks. I think his weekend runs Tuesday through Sunday. He and his brother run the property-sales side of the business. Well, mostly his brother runs it. Mrs. Locklear runs the property-management side of the business. They’re separate corporations with separate names, but a lot of the staff, like you and me, work for both companies.”
“Oh. Okay. And thanks for the tip on Max.”
My head was spinning after Liz left me alone. I gave myself a minute to take a few deep breaths and then started on my pile of paperwork. Iris and I had never even discussed a salary. So admittedly, I was curious about what my new position paid. It was a good thing I was sitting when I found out. Seventy-five thousand dollars! That was more than I’d made at Roth’s. This entire thing seemed like a dream.
Almost exactly an hour later, the woman who’d started me down a new path in life knocked on my new office door.
I stood. “Iris. Uh . . . Mrs. Locklear.” I’d noticed that Liz had called her the latter.
“Call me Iris, dear. How are you this morning?”
I thought maybe she was nervous I was emotionally unstable. “I’m good. I won’t have a breakdown in here. I promise. I’m normally pretty levelheaded.”
Her smile hinted at amusement. “I’m glad to hear that. Did Liz give you a tour?”
“She did. The office is beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“She also gave me this paperwork. I’m not finished yet, but I can finish it tonight.”
“Why don’t you take your time and come down to my office when you’re done. I need to make a few phone calls anyway. We can go through some of your responsibilities. Did you get to meet my grandsons?”
“Not yet. Their office doors were closed when we passed by. Liz said they weren’t in but should be shortly.”
“Okay, then. We’ll introduce you when we get started. I’ll see you in a little bit.”
She was at the door when I remembered something. “Iris!”
“Yes?” She turned around.
I opened the desk drawer where I’d stashed my large Michael Kors tote bag and reached inside to the bundle of newspaper. “I made this for you this weekend. Remember, you told me to make you a piece of pottery?”
Iris walked back to my desk as I unwrapped the vase I’d made. Since I was rusty at the wheel, it had taken me a dozen tries to get the shape right. But in the end, it had come out even better than I’d expected. I’d spent all weekend at the Painted Pot, where I’d bisque-fired and painted the vase, but it still needed to be glazed and go back into the kiln. “It’s not done. It needs more finishing and more baking, but I wanted you to see it and know that I made it for you.”
Iris took the vase from my hand. I’d painted it with vibrant purple irises. I was happy with the way it looked but suddenly nervous about giving it to her. Even more so since I’d gotten a look at the fancy art pieces around the office.
“This is magnificent. You really made this yourself?” She turned the vase to get a look at the full piece.
“Yes. It’s not my best work. I’m sort of rusty.”
She looked up at me. “Then I’m dying to see your best work, Charlotte. This is stunning. Look at the detail and shading on the flowers, and the delicate shape of the piece. You don’t make pottery—you make art.”
“Thank you. Like I said, it’s not done yet. But I wanted you to know I’d kept my word and made it.”
She handed it back to me. “This means a lot to me. I go with my instincts, and I wasn’t wrong about you. I have a feeling today is the first day of great things for you.”
After she left my office, I felt like I was on cloud nine. I finished filling out all the forms Liz had given me and then decided to go get some tissues to wrap the vase in before covering it with the newspaper. Since the vase wasn’t glazed yet, the bottom of it had a little ink smear that must’ve rubbed off from the paper. I didn’t want it to get any other ink stains. So I took the vase with me to see if I could clean it before packing it again.
Stepping out of my office, I turned left to head to the kitchen before realizing that I’d gone the wrong way. I stopped and started to walk in the other direction. Only, I hadn’t looked where I was going first. On the second step, I crashed right into someone.
I fumbled the vase in my hands as I rebounded off a hard chest. I’d almost made it, almost steadied myself back upright and avoided dropping the product of my entire weekend. But then I made the mistake of looking up at the person I’d collided with. The vase slipped from my hands, right before I went down on my ass.
What the . . .
The man sank down in front of me. “Are you alright?”
I could only blink in response, stunned into silence amid shattered ceramic pieces.
He looked so different without the scowl on his face that it made me wonder if perhaps I was mistaken—perhaps it was just a man who looked eerily similar. Until he got a good look at me. A slow and wicked smile crossed his handsome face.
There was no mistake. The man that sucked the breath from my body a second time . . . was definitely Reed Eastwood.
