Grabbing the bakery box from the counter, I hook my purse over my arm and walk out into the hallway. A dull green eye peeks out from a crack in the door across the way.
“Good morning, Ms. Dingle,” I say.
She immediately slams the door closed, and I shake my head. Her constant spying freaked me the hell out at first, but I figured out if I spoke to her, she scurried away like a frightened mouse.
I make my way down the stairs, avoiding Jerry, who’s sleeping off last night’s boozefest on the landing. The man has an apartment in this building, but for some reason, he insists on drinking on the stairs whenever he manages to buy a bottle.
My landlord, Apollo, is changing a lightbulb over the door when I exit the building. “Jerry’s on the second floor landing again,” I tell him as I walk down the crumbling stairs.
“Goddammit, who keeps giving him booze?” he asks.
“It’s sure as hell not me,” I reply, turning left to the parking lot. This is the only good thing about this place. Every resident has an assigned parking place, and it’s included in the price of rent.
I arrive at the Hale office building at a quarter till eight, saying hello to everyone I pass on the way up to the top floor. I certainly don’t want to be late on the first day my new boss is scheduled for work, so I decide to check in with payroll during lunch.
“Hey, Ambrosia,” I say, handing over the bakery box to the barista on the executive level. I’m still fascinated—and tickled to death—that we have our own coffee shop.
“Ah, it’s peach day. These are my favorites,” she squeals, pulling a glass-domed pastry stand from beneath the counter and arranging the peach pie cookies on it. “That bakery does a fantastic job on these. Look at the perfect crisscrossing over the top.”
I simply smile. No one knows I actually make these myself. I guess maybe I’m a little embarrassed to admit I’m having to work a second job. Sure, I do it to make a little extra money, but baking is also my passion. Specifically cookie baking.
Since I finished culinary school, I can make practically any kind of sweet imaginable. My cakes are delicious, my soufflés are fluffy, and my brownies are divine. But my cake decorating skills are…meh. I can do a decent enough job, but I’m nowhere as good as Clarissa. She’s a master, and that’s why I was so excited about working for her. Sometimes I’ll go in on the weekends to watch her decorating wedding cakes or specialty birthday cakes, and I’m always in awe of her talent.
“I’m going to get to my desk. Have a good day, Ambrosia,” I say on my way out.
“You too, girl,” she calls back.
I’m relieved when I get to my desk and see that the crack under the CEO’s door is dark. That means he’s not here yet. I sit down to mentally prepare myself for Remington Hale’s arrival. I hope he’s not one of those bosses who shows up whenever the hell he feels like it, because he’s got a busy day today.
And that’s when Dave walks in with a goofy grin on his face. Dave works in accounting, and he’s a pest of the highest order. His blond hair swoops across his forehead, and he wears these huge metal-framed glasses with the double bar across the top. It makes him look disturbingly like Jeffrey Dahmer.
Great. Just what I needed today. A serial killer look-alike who loves to chat.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Back to Plan A
Remington
I enterthe Hale building through the back entrance on Monday morning. I’m not in a good mood, and I don’t want to have to put on a fake smile for everyone. This entrance is only for executive-level employees, so it’s not nearly as busy as traipsing through the lobby.
I made a decision over the weekend. I’ve decided to send Mindy to work in the accounting department like my brothers suggested, which means I need to get started on interviews for a new executive assistant ASAP. I’ll run down to HR later and get the names of everyone my father interviewed. I’m sure he made copious notes, so that will help me to narrow it down and streamline the process.
Though I know it’s the correct decision, somehow it doesn’t sit right with me, hence my foul mood. Armed with the NDA Phoenix prepared in my briefcase, I head up the private elevator, which opens across from the coffee shop on the top floor.
The scent of java and something fruity and sweet wafts from the space, drawing me in and lifting my mood slightly. “Morning, Ambrosia. What smells so good in here?”
She pastes on a too bright smile. I know it will take time foreveryone to be as comfortable with me as they were my dad, but I wish everyone would just chill the fuck out.
“Mr. Hale, hello. We have all our usual coffees, as well as scones and croissants. But you’re probably smelling these.” She lifts the glass cover on a cookie stand, andmother of god, that scent is absolutely delectable. Butter, sugar, and…
“Are those peaches?” I ask, peering at the treats, and she beams at me.
“Yes, peach pie cookies.”
“Do they taste as good as they look?” There’s some kind of cookie crust beneath a dollop of fruity filling, and they’re topped with pie crust strips in an intricate crisscross pattern.
“Even better,” she says, lifting a conspiratorial eyebrow. “Mindy brings in cookies every day from the bakery a few blocks away.”
