1
CHARLIE
OK, we all know Mondays can feel like a marathon, but today feels more like a full-out sprint. Limping through the unrelenting Florida heat with my arms full of sandwiches is not how I imagined my first day as the executive assistant to Oliver Hawkins, CEO of FIRE – the world’s biggest organizer of extreme endurance sporting events.
My first challenge as Oliver’s assistant: lunch.
A meeting got rescheduled that would prevent the entire C-Suite from having lunch and it’s my job to make sure the plates keep spinning. I should excel at this. I’ve been an elite athlete my whole life. Blood, sweat, and tears are part of the equation. Required. But that’s not who I am anymore.
My days of actual races are gone. Getting back to the office in time is the closest I’ll get to race pace nowadays.
Trying to jog back toward FIRE’s headquarters in these low heels and a pencil skirt, I promise myself I’m focusing on my new dream. FIRE groupies from around the world would jump at the chance to have this job, this access to Oliver. I’ve seen the FIRE logo on bumper stickers, next to 26.2 and 140.6 ovals. I’ve seen it on calf tattoos and finisher shirts at run meets. And now I’ll get to help make these epic events happen. It’s enough. More than enough. It has to be.
The blazing sun reflects off the shiny glass skyscraper on the edge of Tampa Bay.Don’t sweat on the sandwiches, Charlie!I scold myself. The box in my arms is in the direct splatter zone; at least the bag on my elbow is safe. Although it keeps smacking against my thighs as I bobble, which is annoying.
The first day at a new job feels like the first day of school. New outfit. New supplies. Where do the cool kids sit for lunch?
I hustle as best as I can from the parking garage, juggling kale Caeser salad wraps and quinoa burritos. Rushing toward the door, I grab the long metal handle and pull.Ouch, hot!I yank it again. Nothing.
Oh crap. My badge! In all the chaos of collecting orders, I must have forgotten my ID badge on my desk. Sweat pools under my arms, drips down my lower back. Every place I do not want it. It’s bad enough these sandwiches are wilting as I melt into a puddle. I could reach into my purse for my phone to call Shauna from HR, but I need both hands to manage this load. I would have to put the box of sandwiches on the ground and, while they are wrapped, I don’t think that’s for the best.
Being locked out on my first day, with famished executives waiting for me to feed them, is a nightmare. Hungry CEOs are not happy ones.
I reach for the handle with my index finger one more time. The door doesn’t budge.
Come on, universe.Let someone –anyone– walk toward the front door right now. I let out a grunt of frustration and throw my head back, looking to the cloudless sky for some kind of assistance. Imploring the universe for help is surely the first sign of heatstroke.
And then, like a mirage, I spot someone walking toward me.
I adjust the glasses that slide down my nose by brushing them against my shoulder.
Help!I will him to come closer.
The man is tall and lean. He strides toward me like a hero in the midday sun. The broad shoulders, the dark hair, those forearms. Is he about to save the day and then sweep me off my feet?
The embroidered ballcap reading navy and his Annapolis T-shirt suggest he’s an officer, so not a real-life knight but close enough. My shoulders relax, the tightness in my throat eases.
I flash him my most earnest smile, hoping I don’t appear too sweaty or gross. Then again, I’d take this very attractive stranger’s pity if it got me inside.
“Would you mind giving me a little help?”
He stops a few feet away and his eyes scan my face. I fidget under the scrutiny of his gaze.
A strange expression crosses his face before he responds. His thick eyebrows pinch together, a thought he is keeping to himself.
He does not return my friendly tone or smile. His face is stone: his chiseled jaw, his unwavering scowl. The only movement he makes is to purse his lips slightly as his gaze narrows on me.
“I forgot my badge,” I explain with a nervous laugh. His expression remains inscrutable.
His gaze turns into a sneer, his words clipped and direct: “I don’t think so.”
The debonair but disagreeable stranger, now directly in front of me, takes a deep inhale. Is he smelling me? No, wait. It’s the sandwiches!Why is he smelling the friggin’ sandwiches?
He shakes his head. “We have a strict no-guest policy.” Again, the man assesses me with his deep brown eyes. I’d think he was checking me out if he wasn’t so confrontational. He’s sizing me up as if I’m here to attack the office with turkey on rye.
“I work here, I just need help opening the door,” I tell him as politely as I can, but my patience is thinning. “If you couldpl—”
He cuts me off. “No, you don’t.Iwork here and I know everyone in this office.” The man reaches into his bag and grabs his key card. Key card! The ticket to air-conditioning!
