In short, it was incredibly nice, having a personal assistant. He hadn’t realized she’d be quite so personal, digging into his family photos and rearranging things, but oddly enough, he didn’t mind. The flowers. The bread. The rearranged and artfully ordered bookcases.
His phone dinged—the doorman letting him know that a Ms. Smith was here to see him. Send her up, thanks, he wrote back. A moment later, Winnie walked into his apartment, dressed in boring clothes—beige pants, navy sweater, small hoop earrings, and sensible brown shoes.
“You look like a nun,” he said.
“Nice to see you, too, Dr. Satan.” She seemed unperturbed. “Actually, since I’ve been working for you for a month now, can I just call you Satan?”
He ignored the request, still frowning at her frumpy clothes. “As my assistant, I’d like you to dress more professionally. Especially as you’ll be coming with me to San Francisco.”
Her eyes widened. “Excuse me?”
“Is that a problem?” he asked. “I believe you said attending conferences would not be a problem, and I asked if this time frame was free. We leave at seven in the morning.” She had said she was free, and he’d be irked if she begged off. This conference was the most prestigious of the year—he’d be giving a presentation on potential complications when using techniques for abdominal surgery. He’d also agreed to sit on a panel or two, though he liked that less. “Winnie? Will that be a problem?”
“I just wish you’d mentioned it before now.”
“I did.”
“No, you didn’t.” She fished out her phone and read, “‘Is your calendar free Monday through Thursday?’ Me: ‘Yes.’ End of conversation.”
“Oh.” Guess he hadn’t mentioned it specifically. “Well, you’re free, so I’d like to take you to the conference.”
“No, that’s fine. I just didn’t realize I’d be away for a few days. I’ll have to drive back and pack, then make it to Logan by seven a.m. I guess I also have to book myself a ticket.”
“I had my travel agent do it. I’m firing him, by the way, so expect that to become one of your duties. So you have no clothes or toiletries?”
“Not with me, no.”
“In the future, you should keep some things here. For now—" He paused. She didn’t exactly dress to impress. He glanced at his Apple watch. He had allocated two hours for their meeting, but he was a surgeon, and multitasking came easily. “Let’s go. I can fill you in on what I’ll be doing at the conference and what I need from you while we get you some appropriate clothing.”
“We’re going shopping?”
“You just said you have nothing with you. Bring your iPad.”
One hundred and seventeen minutes and several thousand dollars later, Winnie had a work wardrobe appropriate for the PA of a renowned surgeon. A breathless clerk from one of the posh stores on Newbury Street had helped select something she called a “capsule wardrobe,” and Winnie had tried things on without complaint. A white suit, a black suit, a black dress, a white shirt, gray pants, black pants, black sweater, white sweater. Two pairs of shoes, a pair of boots. The clerk was folding the clothing now, and Winnie was back in her sad, nun-like outfit. She took out her hair elastic, smoothed her slightly disheveled hair back, and refastened her ponytail.
“Does all this work for you?” he asked, indicating the array of bags on the counter.
“Sure. I could’ve gone to Marshall’s and gotten essentially the same thing for about two hundred dollars. But if dressing women is your kink, well, I work for you, Satan.”
He narrowed his eyes, an unfamiliar sense of…something…uncurling in his stomach. Something not unpleasant. He liked that she sparred with him, wasn’t intimidated by him, took things in stride. He liked it a lot. “I want you to look like the successful woman you are.”
She raised her eyebrows in surprise, then her cheeks flushed an attractive pink. “Well. Thank you.”
“A perk of the job. I should have thought of it before. I’ll give you a wardrobe allowance.”
“This is plenty,” she said. “Please.”
“I bought your sister some dresses when she worked for me,” he said.
“Oh, I know. We heard all about that. You have great taste.”
Lorenzo glanced at her, but there didn’t seem to be a subtext there. “Thank you.”
Once again, Winnie looked plain yet tidy. He could see her resemblance to Lark, though Winnie’s face was less…dewy and sentimental somehow. Lark wore her heart on her sleeve; Winnie had hers firmly tucked away, a quality he appreciated.
Lorenzo paid and took the bags. He glanced at his watch. 5:04. It was early, but they hadn’t really discussed the conference. “Would you like to have dinner?” he surprised himself by asking.
“Sure,” she said easily. “I’m starving.”
