One
Not Exactly According to Plan
Sabrina Hill’s gray-green eyes anxiously stared at the clock on the bottom right-hand side of her computer screen. Her fingers drummed against the glass top of her desk. As the second hand inched closer and closer to the twelve,she counted backward in her head.
Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
With catlike reflexes, she refreshed her internet browser. The ticket sales page for the Jane Austen Festival was officially live and accepting orders. Cracking her knuckles, she fiendishly began adding events to her shopping cart. Shuffling through the sheets of lined paper scattered about her work top, Sabrina cross-referenced the times and dates against her carefully crafted schedule.
Okay, for theSaturday lineup, I have “A Very Public Private Breakfast” at nine, followed by the “Regency Costume Promenade” at eleven. After I break for lunch and do some shopping, there is the “Rummaging Through the Reticule” talk at two. At four thirty, the last event I wanted for the day is the pre-ball dancing workshop.Now for Sunday—
“Sabrina Hill!” a strong male voice bellowed from the office behind her.
Sabrina ducked her head down and repositioned the sheets of paper. She added Sunday’s offerings to her cart. Paralegals and other assistants sat in their cubicles working in hushed tones, click-clacking the keys of their computer keyboards. A ceiling fan whirled overhead.
A few seconds later, her boss firmly repeated her last name. “HILL!”
Three employees rolled their squeaky chairs backward and poked their heads out their cubicles to see which poor, unfortunate soul had become the latest victim of Mr. Graves’s furry.
Normal people use an intercom, but not Mr. Graves. He enjoys the power trip.
Her hands grew clammy. She willed herself to move quicker. “Just a moment, Mr. Graves. I’m finishing up a call.”
That sounds plausible enough. But is it convincing? Oh, I’d also better stop forwarding my phone.
She double clicked her mouse and entered her credit card information into the payment screen from memory. Her phone rang. Unconsciously, she clicked the side button on her headset as she completed the transaction.
“Thank you for calling the office of Graves and Associates. This is Sabrina Hill speaking—”
“Miss Hill”—she flinched the moment she realized her mistake—“seeing as you are definitelynoton a call, my office. Now.”
She gulped. “Yes, sir.” The line clicked and the buzz of the empty dial tone rang in her ear. She removed the headset, placed it in on its charger, and locked her computer screen.
Straightening her navy-blue pencil skirt, she let out a deep breath and stood up on unsteady legs. The ten feet to her boss’s office had never seemed so far. The heels of her sensible black leather pumps click-clacked against the reclaimed wood floors.
More heads emerged over the tops of the partitioned cubicles to watch her step up to Mr. Graves’s glass door and tentatively knock.
“Enter.” She turned the stainless-steel door handle. “Close the door behind you, Miss Hill.”
Mr. Graves, the CEO of Graves and Associates and Sabrina’s boss, stood with his back to her, hands in his pockets, studying the Dallas skyline. She closed the glass door as directed and awaited further instructions, tucking her hands in front of her. Sheets of rain pelted against the windowpane, filling the awkward silence with a gentle pitter-patter, the sky a dull, colorless gray.
Her eyes swept around the room. With its white walls, chrome computer, and a single piece of abstract art mounted on the wall to the right of Mr. Graves, the office was devoid of any personal touches. It evoked a modern industrial vibe—the complete opposite of everything Sabrina favored.
She chewed on her lip. The air was thick with tension.
How long is he going to stand there?
He turned to face her, his jaw clenched and neck red. “Miss Hill, can you advise me as to why your phone has been forwardingallof your incoming phone calls to me for the lasthour?” His nostrils flared. “Isn’t ityourjob to answer the phones and email me with a summary of each call as they come in?”
My calls went to Mr. Graves? I thought they were supposed to be redirected to the other administrative assistants.
She took a step backward and gulped. “I’m sorry, Mr. Graves. I can assure you that it won’t ever happen again.”
He was not an individual who accepted excuses. A man in his mid forties, Mr. Graves stood about five foot nine, with jet-black hair and charcoal eyes. Rarely did her boss reveal an emotion other than anger or arrogance.
“Were you aware the Larson Corporation was kept waiting on hold for over twenty minutes while I took your calls? It took me almost as long to assure Tony Larson that we valued his business and that the fault lay with my incompetent assistant.”
Sabrina shivered. The Larson Corporation was the largest account in the Graves and Associates client portfolio. This was much more serious than she’d wagered.
