His question rankles me. "I am." I glare at his back. Part of me wants to strangle him for putting me down, but another bigger part of me wants to feel his arms around me. I have got to get over my hero-worshipping crush.
“Then prove it. I’m doing my job. You do yours.”
I’m not sure staring at a blank screen counts as ‘doing his job’, but I’m not going to say as much. I’ve been warned Hamish will be difficult to work with. I can handle him, although I’d rather he was handling me.Manhandlingme.
My face heats up, so I turn back to my computer and type a very simple email to the first name on the list:
Dear Calvin Wright,
Hamish Cameron is inviting you to a party on Friday at 9 p.m.
RSVP at your earliest convenience,
Archie Morris,
PA
I add Hamish’s address on the off-chance that it’s needed, copy the body of the email, and send it. By the time I get to the bottom of the list, I’ve had a couple of replies. The first is from Calvin Wright:
Tell Hamish I’ll be there.
Cheers,
Cal
The next is from a man called Gabriel Webb:
I’ll bring the rope.
Gabe.
The rope? What the fuck? Now I really am curious about what kind of parties Hamish holds. I make a list of the RSVPs on a notepad. It's also my job to arrange catering for the party, isn't it? I search the contact list on the computer and find three different numbers for caterers. The problem with not knowing anything about the party is that I don't know what type of food or drink to order. There were some things I can't do without seeking guidance.
“Hamish?”
“What now?”
"If I'm going to order food and drink, I need to know if you want a three-course meal, a buffet, or a barbeque."
“Buffet. Soft drinks only.”
I frown. What kind of party for adults doesn't involve alcohol but does involve rope? My eyes bug. Does Hamish hold kink parties? I whimper as my thoughts run riot.
“What’s the matter with you?” Hamish demands.
“Nothing, sir.” I don’t mean for my voice to come out as a whisper, but it does all the same.
He turns around to look at me, his gaze piercing me as though he’s trying to read my mind. My insides quiver, and I attempt to build up the courage to ask him if my wild suspicions are right, but my mouth has stopped working. I’m trapped by his stare, incapable of moving, let alone thinking straight. I’m too busy imagining what his parties are like.
The phone on my desk rings, which is probably for the best. I turn around and answer it.
“Hello, Hamish Cameron’s PA?”
I swear I can still feel Hamish’s glare boring into my shoulders.
"Putting you through to Kevin Mitchell now," the woman I spoke to earlier says.
There’s a click, and then a man answers.
