Suite on the Boss: Chapter 4

All the walls in my apartment are beige. It’s the off-white that’s too off to be called white, and the brown that’s too light to be called brown.

It’s also a color too plain to be called a color.

I lean back against my couch and look at the absence of art on my living room wall. Six months of living here, and I haven’t made any of the changes I’d planned to.

There’d been a frenzied week of attempts. Hanging my favorite paintings in my bedroom—check. Asking the landlord if I could repaint the kitchen—check. Receiving no for an answer—check.

The place is too new to have any character yet. I’d loved that when I desperately needed out of the apartment I’d shared for years with Percy.

That place had enough character to choke me. Two generations of Brownes had lived in it before us. And I’d loved it. The windows overlooking the park, the wainscoting on the walls, the wallpaper in the guest bathroom. Mine. Expect it hadn’t been.

My name might have been added on the door for a few years, but it was sure as hell not on the deed.

But this beige place is mine, plain as it might be. Milo jumps up on the couch beside me. He walks carefully around my tray, paw over paw, ignoring the leftovers of my pasta.

“Hey,” I murmur and stretch out a hand. He rubs his head against it, soft and insistent. “How many mice did you catch today?”

Milo starts to purr.

“Not a single one today either, huh. I’m sorry.” I scratch under his chin. “My sister says your mom is an excellent mouser. You should be living with them, you know, and not here in this apartment with me. You must think you’re the unluckiest cat in the world.”

He presses his front paws against my thigh and stretches big and long, his gray-striped body going fluid, the picture of feline contentment.

“I’ll bring you with me when I go back upstate next time,” I tell him. “Our little experiment will be over by then.”

But I lift him onto my lap regardless. He’s a soft, warm weight, the damn cat, and not for the first time, I thank my sister’s stubbornness in giving him to me.

I’d told Rose I was barely looking after myself, and she’d looked at me as if to say yes, exactly. That’s why. She had added triumphantly, as if it would win the argument, that “you always loved cats as a little girl!”

Yes, I’d told her. But I also loved pink ribbons and lollipops and ponies.

“Just take him,” she’d said, in the tone my little sister used when she didn’t want you to argue.

And that had been that.

Milo burrows his head against my fluffy sweater and his purring vibrates from his body into mine. At least there’s someone who wants to spend their evenings with me.

My friends from college are nonexistent. With all my focus on my career, and then my marriage, we’ve grown apart. And the friends I made through my marriage? Gone.

I try to focus on the TV. I’ve put on an old romantic comedy, a classic, but it’s not holding my attention. It’s like beautifully, occasionally outdated, background music to my overthinking.

I lean my head back against the couch. The Winter pitch has occupied more of my time this week than any of my other projects. There’s something about it that demands excellence.

Perhaps it’s the bonus I’ll receive if I pull it off, I think, but that’s not it. Not completely. Being a part of an expanding business is thrilling.

And so is the owner himself. Involved, expectant, and available. He’ll want perfection. Hell, he’ll expect it, and he won’t hold back from giving us critique if it’s not.

My fingers itch to dive back into the brainstorming document I share with Jenna and Toby.

I grab my laptop and prop it up beside me on a pillow. Milo burrows harder into my lap, like he’s reminding me that he’s here, and he won’t be moved for anything. I stroke his soft ears and open my emails.

Toby sent over a few links to hotel chains of a similar scale to what our budget allows. Jenna replied, commenting on ones that might work as comps.

And there’s an email waiting for me, from an unexpected source. It’s not from [email protected], and it’s not from [email protected].

It’s from [email protected]

I dive into the files he’s sent, my eyes widening at the images. It’s like a time machine. The eighties, the sixties, the forties. And monograms. There are monograms everywhere. I can never escape them, I think, smiling.

It’s a treasure trove, and there are definitely things to work with here. I forward it to Jenna and Toby with the note to keep it strictly within the team, before I pen a thank-you to Isaac.

I send it off before I can second-guess my words. He’s intense, and his demeanor is carefully controlled, but I always feel like there’s a lot he’s thinking that he’s not saying.

I don’t expect a reply. Trying to focus on the couple arguing on my TV screen, I almost forget to check my email. Almost. Because when I check half-an-hour later, he’s replied.

I look at the screen. He really is giving us an incredible breadth of access, and not just to the New York hotel.

My fingers type in measured strokes across the keyboard of my laptop. I picture the columns of the lobby, strong and straight, housing one of the most prestigious adresses in the country.

I regret the final line as soon as I’ve hit send. It wasn’t pithy. It wasn’t clever, and it wasn’t professional, either. But here I am, the email sent, never to be undone.

I focus on the heroine in the movie. She’s standing, sad and beautiful, in line to board an airplane. Then the movie cuts to the hero racing across the terminal building to get to her.

She’s sad because they can’t be together for some banal reason that barely made sense to me the first time I saw this movie.

I want to shake her.

You have a man who’s good and true and you’re not willing to put in a little work?

I want to shake him, too. It had taken him long enough to realize his feelings, and now he’s running through a damn airport, cutting it too close.

It’s almost like the filmmakers timed his great realization for maximum dramatic effect. I sigh. They’re probably going to get married and then divorced a few years later when one or both of them cheat. Or when they realize they actually have nothing in common and wake up as strangers one day.

I look down at my laptop. There’s a new email. Mr. Winter has responded to my stupid message.

A shaky breath escapes me. So I hadn’t messed this up. The words special friend of the CEO ring out in my head. And then I see him, ordering food from one of the most exclusive restaurants in New York with a quick phone call. He’d written “Emperor” facetiously, picking up on the lame joke I put down in my own email, but it’s not untrue. He rules the Winter Corporation.

I send it off, and then wait with bated breath for another email from him. A response of any kind. But I hadn’t asked a question, and what would he even respond to? What movie are you watching?

I shut the laptop and shove it under the pillows in the corner of my couch, refusing to look at it again. Instead I bury my hands in Milo’s soft fur and try to enjoy watching the couple make up on the screen, confessing feelings that have been obvious to anyone with eyes for the last hour of the film.

It isn’t until the next morning that I read his response. Because he had responded.