Theo
“There’sa call for you on line two,” Whitney’s smooth voice echoes through the intercom. This has been the only way we’ve been communicating today. I’ve been working with my door closed all day, which I hate to do, but it’s a necessity right now.
I have work to do, and I simply can’t do it knowing she’s sitting outside my office at her desk, her perky little tits pressed so perfectly together in that tight, blue, low-cut blouse she’s wearing today. My fascination with her has only worsened the longer I’ve been here, which is problematic at the very least.
I seem absolutely obsessed with how her cheeks turn a bright, rosy color when I call herWhit. Honestly, it was an accident the first time it happened, but the second time, and all the times I’ve done it after the fact, assuredly were not.
I feel compelled to sneak the nickname in as often as I possibly can so that I can see her slate blue eyes glitter and her cheeks flush in the sexiest way possible.
If I weren’t drowning in reports and responsibilities, it would probably be fine.
Or if she weren’t an employee under my payroll.
It may say a lot about me that the second detail was less important than the former. After all, if I didn’t finish the tasks assigned to me by my deadline, she wouldn’t be my employee anymore anyway, because I would no longer hold the position as her boss.
I dig my fingers in my hair and groan, giving the strands a slight tug and releasing some of the pent-up tension throughout my head. These financial reports are getting increasingly worse the longer I look at them. More and more evidence is piling up that there were some back door deals made somewhere and that Vance Peterson knew about them all along.
But I can’t find the missing piece to tie it all together.
Numbers aren’t my strong suit, and I think he was banking on that. Whatever he did, he wove it all together with a stealthy hand and hid it so effortlessly that you’d only catch it if you were looking at it.
But even though I’ve been looking at it for weeks now, I still can’t put it all together.
And underneath all that frustration is a sense of guilt toward the fact that Whitney still knows none of this. I know I’ll have to tell her at some point, but I’m going to wait for as long as I possibly can, and ensure that I am absolutely certain before ruining her opinion of the prior CEO.
Happy to have some kind of distraction, I pick up the phone and click the line two button, giving a quick greeting.
“Theo?”
I lean back in my chair as soon as my mother’s familiar voice rings through the receiver. I lean back in my chair and fight off the affectionate smile that only my mother seems capable of bringing out of me. “Hi, Mom.”
“I was just calling to check up on you, I haven’t heard from you in weeks,” she says. I can hear the sound of papers rustling on the other line, meaning my mother is probably at her owndesk, sorting through her own piles of work. I wonder if her eyes are going as cross-eyed as mine have been.
“I’ve been busy,” I tell her as I rub the back of my neck and turn my head to peer out the windows. It’s full-blown autumn here in Chicago, though with every day, it seems to be leaning more and more toward winter. The skies have been a dreary, midwestern gray for most of the week. Having spent the last few years in London, I’ve grown accustomed to it, but I do miss the bright skies from the East Coast, where my family is from.
“How has everything been going?” Mom asks.
I exhale. “It could be better, could be worse.”
She chuckles. “One of those situations, hm?”
I make a noise deep in my throat, acknowledging that it isindeedone ofthosesituations.
“Listen, Honey, I was also calling to confirm that you’ll still be in attendance for the gala at the end of the month.”
I close my eyes slowly. I hadcompletelyforgotten about that, actually, with the amount of stress and work I’ve been doing. I don’t say as such to my mother, though, putting on a cheerful tone and saying, “Of course. Wouldn’t miss it!”
It just so happened that my mother was just as passionate about affordable housing and combating poverty as I was. She and my father held a charity gala every year for that specific purpose: to raise money for their foundation and many others who are dedicated to homing people who need it.
I’ve never missed a year.
Picking up a pen, I scribble the date of the gala on a sticky note and stick it right on the top of my computer so I don’t forget it. As I stare at the date, I can only think about the mountains and mountains of reports and write-ups that I still need to get through.
“Chase has already told me he won’t be able to make it, but I know I can always count on you. I have you down with a plusone,” my mother continues, oblivious to the inner chaos I’m experiencing at the moment. “Do you know who you’ll bring with you this year?”
“I haven’t a clue,” I tell her. Then my eyes fall on my closed office door, where I know Whitney is sitting right outside. “I’ll work on it.”
My mother makes a pleased sound. “Oh, wonderful. Alright, well, I’ve got to run. I’m having lunch today with Tippy Farthington, and I imagine Lauren will be there as well. Do you want me to give your regards to her? I’m sure she’d love to hear how you’re doing.”
