I take a picture of them as they stand there, my camera shutter set to silent. I’m sort of a stalker around here. I have a special private Pinterest board where I collect gossip about my co-workers. I don’t send that to anyone, not even Perfect Heath.
The elevator opens and they all make their way in. I hoof it up the stairs to the second floor, my eyes glued on Mr. Fancy Jet as he gets in the elevator. Instinctively I hold my phone up and snap a picture just as he turns and looks at me.
Oh my God, he smiled. I think he saw me. I look away real fast and then start climbing up to the third floor, checking the picture on my phone.
Nah, he wasn’t looking at me. Something in my direction, but not me.
But holy hell, he is damn hot. I stare at the image all the way up to the seventh floor, by which time I’m sweating more than when I was carting Brutus around in the golf cart.
Mr. Sowards is waiting outside the executive conference room and as soon as he sees me leave the stairs, he starts walking in my direction.
What can this be about? Please, please, please don’t be about Brutus.
“Miss Hatcher, just exactly what were you thinking this morning?”
“I’m so sorry. I forgot I had a peanut butter sandwich in my purse.”
“What?”
“What?”
He scowls at me. “I don’t know what that means”—he holds up a hand—“and I don’t care. I’m talking about that whole ‘Excuse me, excuse me’ thing you were doing out on the tarmac!”
“Oh, well, I didn’t know who he was. I saw the jet and it wasn’t on my schedule—”
“Miss Hatcher, the CEO of Stonewall Entertainment doesn’t have to clear his schedule with you.”
“No, of course not. I mistook him for a guest and I didn’t want him—”
“Well, don’t do it again.” Sowards stares at me until I nod.
“No, sir, I won’t.” I smile and wait. “Is… is that all you needed? Can I go now?”
“Go?” he asks. “No, Miss Hatcher. We’re having an executive meeting. Which is why I called you up to the executive conference room.”
“Executive meeting? Then why do I have to be there? You guys never invite me to the meetings up here on seven.”
“Go sit down, Miss Hatcher.”
Sowards walks off and disappears into the conference room. My eyes follow him and then rest on Mr. Fancy Jet as he appears from my left. He stops and smiles at me. “Did you at least get me in focus?” he asks.
Oh, my God, he did see me take that picture.
“Shall we?” he asks, waving a hand towards the open conference room door. I nod and walk briskly into the room. It’s glass on all four sides and the doors aren’t regular doors because that is way too mundane for a fun company like Stonewall. They are sliders that fold open, the kind you see at beach houses where a wall of windows suddenly slides back and the wall disappears, opening to the outside.
Once the folding doors are closed I am a nervous mess. Why am I here? I’m not really an executive. I can count on one hand the number of executive meetings I’ve been to, and those were all major restructuring changes. I’m my own department here. I run the whole thing. I have Ming as my assistant, but when they gave her those duties, they just added to her current IT salary. So really, I have no oversight over anyone but myself and the guests I escort from studio to studio.
The conference table seats ten. McAllister Stonewall is at the head, just in front of the digital whiteboard, and all eight chairs along the long length of the table are also taken up by other department heads.
The only chair left is the end. I slink into the soft leather and lean back—too far—and then have to scramble to regain my balance as I try to look like I meant to do that. “Wow,” I say, smiling at all the gawking looks. “Are these new? They’re very comfortable.”
“OK,” McAllister says. “Ready?”
Everyone nods and affirms with a chorus of yeses just as the shades come down and the room goes dark. A video starts playing on the digital whiteboard and everyone settles in, tablets in hand to take notes.
Should I take notes?
I get my tablet out and set my phone on the table beside it.
The video is about… hell if I know. Ethics? Mission statement? A reorganization? I don’t know. I have nothing to do with any of this. I’m the celebrity concierge.
I do my best to pay attention, but the chair is so comfy, and the room is dark. I start to drift off.
Jesus, Ellie. Get it together. You are in an executive meeting, for Pete’s sake. The CEO is sitting right in front of you.
Hey, the relaxed voice in my head says. His back is to me. He will never know if I just close my eyes—