"You didn't have anything else to wear?" Tara asked, thinly veiled distain on her face.
"I'm showing team spirit! You know—being a wonderful member of the PharmaTech family," I replied.
Tara blinked at me. She was wearing high-designer clothes with these yellow suede ankle boots that I coveted.
"It was raining, and my shirt was wet and white and see-through," I explained. "I think it made Mace a little too excited."
"Don't talk about him like that," Tara snapped at me. "Mr. Svensson is a great man, and you can learn a lot from him. This company is innovative and groundbreaking. It's a wonderful place to work."
I made a noncommittal noise and nodded. Tara made Svensson PharmaTech sound like a cult. I guess she and I weren't going to be friends after all.
"You need to take this job seriously," Tara continued, flipping her straight, glossy hair over her shoulder.
"I thought all I was doing was making coffee and sending emails!" I joked.
"Which is an integral part of our operations," she said. "There's a lunch order coming in for the Platinum Provisions meeting. You can set that out. It should be here soon."
I saluted.
"That office adjacent to Mace's is the assistant's office," Tara said, pointing. "Mace is a very private person, so stay out of the way."
I sat down at the desk and spun around in the chair to look out of the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. The view was pretty nice. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.
"So, what should I do until lunchtime?" I asked Tara. She looked down at me, her nose twitching slightly.
"Check your email inbox. I'm not your supervisor. I'm the director of marketing. I only helped you because Mace asked me to, and I like to make things easier for him." She turned on her heel and left the room. I watched her pause by the coatrack and stroke Mace's coat. Weird.
I logged on to the computer. Sure enough, the inbox was filled with unread messages. "I don't even know how to do half, okay basically all, of what is here," I mumbled and rested my head on my hand as I scrolled through the email inbox.
There were hundreds of requests wanting me to file expense reports, send some documents through a courier service, and help with booking hotels for a conference. Was there a company credit card for that sort of thing?
I leafed through the folder Mace's brother Greg had given me, hoping to find answers. But it only contained a floor plan of the office along with a horribly designed brochure about the company with terrible copy that I itched to fix. I wondered if it was Tara's work. If so, they needed a new director of marketing.
Another email came in demanding that I replenish the supply of VitaMeal drinks. I slammed the laptop shut and tried to resist the urge to walk out of the building back to my tiny house.
"I need this job. I need this job," I chanted to myself as I opened up the laptop and began responding to emails. I'd only been here a few hours. Why were all these people complaining to me?
On a hunch, I scrolled down, down through the emails. Then I saw it—an email from Tara to the entire office with my name and an unattractive picture of me looking like a half-drowned rat. The email told everyone that I would be happy to assist with any task, no matter how small. Great.
My phone rang, and I almost dropped it, banging my arm on the corner of the desk in the process.
"I hate this office," I hissed, rubbing the spot. It was a little softer and fleshier than I would have liked.
"The sandwich order is here!" said Tara through the phone. I hustled down to the lobby, picked up the bags of wraps, went back upstairs to put together a tray of drinks, and then hauled it all to the conference room.
I waited until the presenter finished and slipped inside. The tray of tea and coffee rattled in my hands as I pushed through the door. Mace walked up to the podium and opened a presentation. I could feel his eyes on me as I set out the lunch items.
There was a table in the back of the room, and I tried to keep from shaking as I laid out the food. If I was being honest, I was too nervous, frazzled, and messy to be an assistant. I was a creative writer and a graphic designer. Put me in charge of a big marketing project, and I was in my element.
I was disorganized on a good day. Now I was being paid to organize Mace's schedule. The billionaire was standing up at the front of the room, droning on about medical devices. Tuning him out, I mentally fantasized about taking the tiny house out into the middle of nowhere and defaulting on all of my debt. But I didn't think the truck could make it that far, and I didn't know if the tiny house could survive a Midwest winter.
One of the glasses toppled over, and Mace paused. My face flamed as I righted the cups and finished arranging the food. I just wanted to go home and eat some mac 'n' cheese and cookie dough. Maybe I would go to the little general store on Main Street.
As I wheeled the cart to the door, I looked up at Mace's PowerPoint, and before I could stop it, a laugh popped out.
Everyone turned to look at me.
"Sorry," I said.
