Mr. Perfect (Mister #1)(2)

But it’s Wednesday, so that means an interesting blouse with an A-line skirt, mid-heel shoes, and a clutch. Thinking about what to wear each morning isn’t something I have much time for so I came up with a schedule for it. Mondays are pencil skirt with button-down oversized shirt and a thin belt at my waist. Tuesdays are business chic. Fitted trousers, light in the summer, dark in the winter, with a cami shell and a matching blazer. Thursdays are sex-it-up-for-happy-hour dresses. Ming and I both wear the office-safe version of a short cocktail dress, discreetly covered up with a blazer, and stash the stilettos in our desks until after work.

Fridays are business casual. But for me that usually means wide-legged trousers with super-high heels to make my legs look long enough to pull that look off. I love the look, I just need a little help making it work. My legs look long in comparison with my small body, but they are not long. Stonewall has a great tailor on campus. They know me well.

I’m sure Brutus will give today’s flirty outfit the stink-eye. I do my best with the clothes. I mean, really, I do damn good, if I do say so myself. It’s not easy dressing like a celebrity on a celebrity assistant’s salary. And I have to look this way, it’s part of my contract.

“God,” I tell Ming. “I really won’t miss the clothes when I quit. I’m going to wear yoga pants to work every day.”

“Where do you think you’ll be working that will let you wear yoga pants?” Ming asks.

I shrug, my heart beating fast as they lower the airstairs. “The gym maybe. I might start teaching Zumba classes.”

Ming laughs. “Honey, please. The last time you took Zumba with me you sprained your middle finger.” She shakes her head with a chuckle. “Who sprains a finger in Zumba?”

“I fell on it wrong.” As I was flipping the instructor off for telling us to shake our money-makers like we mean it.

Brutus appears in the doorway.

“Shit,” I say. “Here he comes. See you later.”

“Later,” Ming says.

I take a deep breath, tuck my fancy pink clutch under my arm, and push through the glass doors of my office heading towards the jet. The airplane hangar is loud, busy, and dirty. I practically tiptoe across the bay, desperate to keep my second-hand hot pink Jimmy Choos from picking up any oil. I huff out a sigh of disgust. Why don’t we have a depot or something? A tiny concourse? This campus has a dry cleaner, a medical building, seventeen restaurants—not including the cafeteria in the main Atrium, which is free for everyone—three gyms, a tailor, an organic grocery store, and a wellness center that has a full-time staff of nail techs, hairdressers, and massage therapists.

Why don’t we have a concourse where guests can walk down a jetway into a nice climate-controlled building?

Breathe, Ellie. Focus on your job. Just get through today, put in your two weeks’ notice, and think about the future. I won’t be teaching Zumba, I was kidding and Ming knows it. I’m terrible at Zumba. No. I have big plans.

“Mr. Brutus.” I beam as the summer heat washes over me. Yup, I have a pool of sweat in my bra. When I quit I’m not going to wear a push-up bra ever again. “Mr. Brutus,” I say again as I get closer. “I’m thrilled to finally meet you!” He’s almost down the stairs when he sees me. My smile is so big. So big. And it should be. I’ve been practicing this smile for seven years.

“You’re late,” he says.

“I am?” Wait. He’s baiting you, Ellie. Ignore, ignore, ignore. “I’ve got the golf cart right over there for you. The covered one, so the sun won’t freckle your skin.” I keep a straight face for that remark because that’s the kind of professional I am.

He shoots me a disgusted look anyway.

Right. I walk over to the waiting cart, pull back the plastic cover that surrounds the little vehicle like a hospital oxygen tent and resign myself to sweaty tits.

No one uses the golf carts because we actually have a train that goes to the main building. Like, our own subway system. The campus here at Stonewall is so damn big—one hundred and fifty acres, to be accurate—we need a train to get around.

But Brutus refuses to use the train. I roll my eyes just thinking about it. Germs, he said. It’s not New York City, for Pete’s sake. It’s a private train on a private billion-dollar corporate campus.

Ming thinks he’s obsessive-compulsive and the germs are part of it. She read that online.

Whatever his excuse, it’s not enough to make me happy about being inside a rolling plastic tent in the middle of summer. I sigh loudly.

“Well,” Brutus says. “You’re cuter than I expected.”