I’m hip-deep in first-quarter financial data, ignoring my ringing phones—yes, phones—and pulling my hair out over the post-it notes decorating the surface of my desk to remind me about who wants to meet with me when and about what for the next infinity. The lunch Begonia insisted Nikolay bring me tasted like sawdust, though I blame work rather than the food. I’d rather be working on the data with the discrepancy in the real estate books, and I’m about to surrender to the urge when someone knocks on my door. I’m agitated that I’m supposed to send this data to someone three levels below me for error resolution. I’m agitated that my father’s agitated with me for rescheduling a meeting with him. I’m agitated that the vice president of corporate development has called six times to reiterate the same thing, as if I didn’t hear his request the first time, and that six other vice presidents have called with mundane greetings, congratulations and condolences, and small talk, and I’m agitated that there are so damn many vice presidents and chairpeople in this damn company.
In short, I’m agitated, I feel ill-prepared to execute this job, which means I feel as though I’m letting my family down despite the fact that I’ve increased all of our fortunes tenfold with my instincts about the stock market and bitcoin and global currencies, and I’m in no mood for one more person to demand my attention.
“Go away,” I call to the knocker.
The door swings open, and a very frazzled Begonia gives me the kind of look my mother sometimes gives my father when he’s being a total twat. “Your executive assistants, my lord.” She bends at the waist, sweeping her arm as if we’re on a Broadway stage after performing a historical musical, and a warm glow spreads through my chest.
But two women appear behind her, and there goes that glow.
“Assistant,” I say. “Singular.”
“Assistants. Plural. Two. Because it’s utterly ridiculous to think that one woman can do everything from fixing your coffee to booking your travel to handling your dry cleaning to managing your complete calendar when managing your calendar alone is a full-time job, and do not get me started on the last time Therese took a vacation since there’s no one to cover for her and she still has to go do work for her other VP when you leave for the day, and yes, I did go to the pub around the corner and tell them to charge you for her lunch, dinner, and all snacks for the next week. If you don’t start valuing the work of the people who make your life run, we are done, Hayes Rutherford. Done.”
She turns her back to me and points at the two people, one tall Black woman and one average-height white woman. “And do not put up with any insistence that either of you work more than forty hours a week. If he has to drop off his dry cleaning on his own, or hire a personal assistant outside of your working hours to tend to his coffee and make his dental appointments, then that’s what he’ll have to do.”
“Begonia—”
She swings back to me. “Happy employees are productive employees. Fight me.”
She’s so very ruffled and tired yet still sparking with an undeniable Begonia energy that I find I can’t stop an unexpected smile.
And honestly?
I can’t find fault with her logic.
Razzle Dazzle’s corporate offices do have room for improvement.
I saw the surveys myself last week. Most executive assistants are doing far more than calendar and coffee management.
“We can fight later, my love.” I rise and study the two women.
Neither of them drops their gazes from my face, neither of them smiles, and neither of them winks or makes pouty lips at me.
Dear god, I hate the pouty lips the worst. “Ladies. Pleasure to meet you both. I’m sure you’ll find me cranky and difficult and say horrible things about me behind my back, and I honestly don’t care, so long as my office runs smoothly.”
Begonia puts her fists on her hips and glares at me.
“I’m being honest, bluebell.”
“Names, Hayes. You haven’t even asked their names.”
My lips part, and an all-too-familiar sensation settles in my gut.
Unfortunately, this time I know I’ve earned it.
“Apologies, ladies. This is quite the awkward start, isn’t it?” I’ll have to fire them both and start this whole process over again. They undoubtedly think I’m easily pushed around, and I can’t do my job if I’m having my assistants issuing me the orders.
But I asked for Begonia’s involvement.
I should’ve known this is what I’d get.
She sighs. “Stop making that face. No one’s questioning your authority, and you don’t have to fire anyone. Technically, you haven’t even hired them yet, but I might break up with you if you don’t.” She nods to the white woman in a crisp blue suit. “Merriweather has six older brothers and can handle your attitude and won’t blink at strange requests, because she’s already seen them all.” And now she gestures to the Black woman who’s wearing nearly the same ensemble as Merriweather, but in ivory. “Winnie color-coded and reorganized your calendar faster than Therese could on the twenty-fourth time I made her race a candidate, and Therese does not like to lose, so she wasn’t just playing to get out of helping me. Be yourself, Hayes. That’s why I picked them. So you could be yourself.”
“That lets us be ourselves too, Mr. Rutherford,” Merriweather says.
“I quit my last job because my boss couldn’t handle me pointing out errors in his spreadsheets,” Winnie adds. “Begonia assures me your ego can handle it. If she’s wrong, Merriweather will have to handle you solo, and I like her. I don’t want to have to leave her and make her deal with you all on her own.”
“You’re competent with finding errors?” I ask. “Databases, spreadsheets, balance sheets?”
“The day artificial intelligence takes over and I can date a computer, my life will be complete. I live for logic.”
I tell myself the relief I feel is knowing that at least one of these two is machine-sexual and not at all attracted to me, but it’s probably more that Begonia has potentially found competence among the personalities that she interviewed.
Begonia beams. “Therese scheduled you all for a getting-to-know-you breakfast at eight tomorrow morning at that adorable brunch café behind City Hall so you can verify for yourself that I’m right and they’re perfect and make everything official. But it’s past my dinnertime, and past my dog’s dinnertime, and I get ugly when I’m hangry, and Marshmallow—well, you know what Marshmallow does even when he’s not overdue for dinner. Also, please ignore anything anyone tells you about an incident with an umbrella and a coffee mug, and yes, it’s worse than it sounds.”
Once again, I’m smiling at Begonia. “Ever seeing you angry in any manner would be quite the sight. Merriweather, Winnie, I look forward to working with you.”
“Good job. Now, take me home. I’m famished.” She turns, hugs both of the women as if we’re not in an office. I’d correct her, but it’s Begonia.
This is how she operates.
I saw her do the same thing nearly every time we left a restaurant in Sprightly and after our impromptu picnic on the beach.
Corporate life doesn’t match up with Begonia, and I wouldn’t want it to.
“Good luck tomorrow,” she calls to both women as they head for the doors, neither of them looking near as frazzled and tired as Begonia.
But for the first time in my life, I find myself wondering if my potential employees are wearing masks, or if they truly have that much more stamina.
It’s difficult to out-stamina Begonia.
As soon as they’re out of my doorway, she pushes it closed, collapses on the sofa behind the door, and drapes her arm over her face. “That was like doing an entire week of first days of the school year at once. And don’t you dare consider not hiring both of them. You will love them. I have a feeling.”
There’s a perfunctory knock, and Therese sticks her head in. “Winnie’s former employer says she’s difficult and he wouldn’t hire her back if she was the only person who could save him from being drowned in a burning barrel of oil.”
How many times have I sighed today?
I’ve lost track.
“He’s the dickhead from the Brouchard Corporation that all of my friends have warned me about,” Therese continues. “If you don’t hire her, I’ll quit, and if I quit, this entire company will fall apart. I was humoring you when you threatened to fire me this morning because I thought it might be worth the divorce settlement to stay on your good side in the event that you broke up with Begonia, but honestly, I hope she breaks up with you for herself. You’re difficult. She deserves better, and I don’t want you anymore.”
Begonia’s lips curve up in a smile. “Be that tiger, Therese. You tell ’im.”
“Also, it turns out the real reason there were fifty women in your office is that there was a glitch, and all of the candidates that HR had rejected received emails telling them to show up at the same time. There are four more qualified candidates if you’d like to speak with them.”
“Not just yet,” Begonia answers for me.
My phone rings, undoubtedly my mother calling to demand what in the hell I’ve done with the company during my first day in the office.
I ignore it and rise. “Thank you for your assistance, both of you. Begonia. Time to go home.”
“I have no idea if your helicopter is ready,” Therese says. “I told Nikolay that was his job.”
“Rawr,” Begonia says. But she’s barely gotten the sound out of her mouth before she bolts upright, miscalculates, and tumbles off the couch. “Helicopter? Please tell me that’s a billionaire joke.”
“Sagewood House is over an hour by car. We’re taking the helicopter.”
She gapes at me while I pull her to her feet.
Therese pats her shoulder. “Only the best pilots for the Rutherfords, Begonia. You’re in good hands.”
“It’s on my bucket list.” Begonia’s voice has suddenly turned into the squeak of the mascot of Razzle Dazzle’s largest competitor. “But over a glacier in Alaska or into the heart of a dormant volcano in Hawaii. You know, so I can die in paradise and not over upstate New York.”
I put a hand to the small of her back, oddly grateful to have her back within arms’ length. “You keep saying you want adventure, bluebell, and then you keep being afraid of it.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to take a helicopter ride. I do. But I need mental preparation time to be in a small metal whirlybird of potential death, and my dog.”
I open my mouth, and no words come out.
Therese eyes me, then Begonia, and then quietly steps out of the office as Nikolay peeks in. “Bird’s ready, sir.”
“Marshmallow cannot get in a helicopter. You—you go on ahead without me. I’ll take the limo. Or I’ll stay in that adorable little inn around the corner and I’ll see you in the morning.”
“The inn is for show. It’s office space behind the façade. Your dog will be fine.”
“He’ll open the door and leap to his death!”
Once more, my mouth is open, my lips are moving, and no sound comes out.
Not because I doubt her.
More because as I give it more thought, I’m afraid she might be right.
Opening an airplane door was beyond the dog’s strength.
A helicopter door might not be the same.
Right now, the damn dog’s trying to bite the trunk of a small tree in the corner as if either the tree is a chew toy, or he’s decided his next career move will be interior decorator and the tree is in the wrong place.
It could honestly be either option with that dog.
Begonia’s eyes go shiny.
And that’s how I find myself holding a hundred-pound beast in my lap, getting dog hair all over my suit and up my nose, making me wish Benadryl came in ironman strength as we make the flight from Razzle Dazzle headquarters to my estate farther south in the Hudson Valley. Nikolay guards one door. Robert is shielding my pilot should the dog attempt to climb out of my lap and help fly the damned chopper. Begonia’s plastered to the other door.
And Marshmallow keeps staring at me as though I’m the bloody King of England, and he’s my loyal court jester.
This dog is going nowhere.
He thinks I’m his god.
“I had fun today,” Begonia says, one wary eye still trained on her beast. “I’m exhausted, and I’ll probably sleep like the dead for about two days to recover, but it was fun. Not the part where I had to tell like fifty women that they probably weren’t right for the job, but the part where I got to meet so many fascinating people.”
“Human resources will be a headache when I tell them I want two executive assistants.”
“I haven’t had enough food or playtime today to offer to do that for you. Besides, you’re the boss. You could order everyone to have at least two executive assistants, and they’d have to do what you told them. You should too.”
My nose itches almost as bad as my throat, and my sinuses are beginning to clog, even with the daily allergy medicine regimen I started in Maine. But it’s oddly tolerable.
This might be gratitude. “You’ll have to mention that to my father. He’s the boss.”
“Do you think he’ll like me as much as your mom does?”
This eyeball twitch has nothing to do with my allergies. “Most likely.”
“Thank you for your honesty.”
I nod to her. “You should look out the window.”
She’s sporting bags under her eyes, her bright hair is mussed in a way that makes me think she just crawled out of bed, and it’s a good thing there’s a very large dog blocking the view of my lap. And she still finds a smile for me.
I rarely find a smile for anyone when I’m hangry and exhausted.
I rarely find a smile for anyone when I’m not.
Yet here she is, supposedly both, smiling as she turns to peer out the window.
And, just as expected, she gasps.
“Oh, Hayes, this is beautiful,” she whispers. “Do you get to see this every day?”
To this point in my life, I’ve avoided the corporate offices as much as possible, but I’ve still made this journey often enough that I know what she’s asking. “No. I’m generally working during my commute.”
“No wonder you’re grumpy all the time.”
Nikolay’s lips twitch.
I try to glare at him, and instead, I sneeze all over the dog.
Begonia turns away from the view, cringing. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. Marshmallow’s sorry too. For his fur making you sneeze, I mean.”
Marshmallow doesn’t look sorry.
He looks like it’s an honor to wear my snot. The damned dog’s tongue is lolling out as he pants, looking for all the world like he’s flirting with me the same as half the women and at least three men in the snack bar today.
If they’re not kissing my ass because they want to date me—and honestly, why anyone would want to date me is beyond me—then they’re kissing my ass because I have power and money and connections.
Not for the first time in the past few days, I wish I’d been born into a family like Begonia’s.
My nose twists again, and Nikolay silently hands me a handkerchief.
“Oh, wow, look at that fancy house.” Begonia’s staring out the window again. “It’s massive. It’s not a house. It’s—is that a hotel? And the lawn! It’s so green. I know, I know, grass is green, but it’s like—it’s like it glows. It’s preening because it knows it’s the proverbial red carpet for whatever celebrities and CEOs and royals can afford to stay there. And the fountain! When I was little, Hyacinth and I would sometimes check this book out at the library all about the world’s greatest fountains, and we used to tell each other we’d live in gorgeous mansions with fountains in our driveways, but naturally, we didn’t. I don’t think I’d want to. Can you imagine the upkeep on a fountain? And it’s not like a fountain like that would’ve fit at summer camp, and I wanted to live at summer camp more.”
She spins, beaming at me, and her smile drops away.
I have no idea what my face looks like, but I do know one thing.
Begonia’s just realized that the hotel she’s gaping at isn’t a hotel.
It’s Sagewood House.
And where every last one of my former girlfriends would’ve fussed over its beauty, none would’ve quite like Begonia.
And none would be having second thoughts.
It doesn’t matter that I’ve known her a little more than a week. I can see the second thoughts.
“I’m gonna need a minute,” she squeaks.
“It’s a house, Begonia.”
“Chad’s company had a holiday party at the fanciest hotel in Richmond one year, and there were passing servers with cocktail weenies on trays, and he got so mad at me when I called them cocktail weenies, and said he didn’t want to take me places when the hired help outclassed me.”
My first assignment for my new assistants will be to find Chad’s address so that I can personally go beat the shit out of him.
I’m a damn Rutherford. We don’t beat the shit out of anyone. We watch a fucking Razzle Dazzle film and hug.
But I will beat the ever-loving shit out of Chad Douchecanoe Dixon for making Begonia feel inferior for merely being who she is.
“Begonia.”
She doesn’t look at me.
“Begonia.”
I get a squinty-eyed cringe. “Yes?”
“It would be the highlight of my life if you were to ask my mother to serve you cocktail weenies while we’re at Sagewood House.”
She flaps a hand about. “Sorry. I’m being ridiculous. It’s because I’m tired. If I wasn’t—”
“I would rather be back in Maine too.”
Her eyes finally connect with mine, and it’s like watching a puzzle click into place. She nods, and she probably has no idea just how regal that simple action is on her. “Okay. One more adventure.”
“Sagewood House is a home. Feel free to treat it as such, regardless of how it looks.”
I’ve said many, many things to Begonia that I never would’ve said to another girlfriend. And I don’t think it’s the non-disclosure agreement and the fraudulent nature of our relationship insulating me from having to mean it, though I do mean it.
I think it’s that she’s Begonia.
