“Anyway, I’m working on the plans for that retreat,” Brenda said. “Do you know what your role will be?”
“Wear jeans, act like a blue-collar worker, and get some business guy to like Hunter. Hunter apparently doesn’t care that I’m mostly antisocial. Of all the people he chose to put his faith in…”
“I don’t think he knows anyone else who wears jeans.” She smirked. “It’ll be fine. Mr. Carlisle hates to smile. He hates small talk. Compared to him, you’re charming enough to be a politician.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
Brenda’s fingers flew across her keyboard. “Could be.”
I scowled at her. That didn’t sound promising.
“Anyway,” she said, “I hope you can pull this guy out of the older Mr. Carlisle’s back pocket—that guy gives me the creeps.”
“Tell me about it. He all but asked me to be his mistress at that charity dinner.”
Brenda’s look was scathing. “Disgusting. He’s old enough to be your father.”
“And rich, which is all some women see. The girl with him was about my age.”
“He wasn’t with his wife?”
“He said they were getting a divorce.”
Brenda tsked. “Typical. She probably grew too old for him. That’s his third—no, wait.” Brenda glanced at the ceiling, thinking. “The first was Mr. Carlisle’s mother, then the maid, then…was there another one before this one?” She drummed the desk. “Yes, this must be his third. He was married to the maid for a while—just to put it in Mr. Carlisle’s face, I’d wager. And he calls himself a father.”
“To put it in Hunter’s face?”
Brenda glanced at me. Wariness crossed her features. She glanced toward Hunter’s opened door. Her voice lowered to a whisper. “I don’t know much about it. Everything I heard comes from gossip, and that came from Mr. Carlisle senior, I think. Hunter has never said a word.”
Brenda got up and moved closer, her coffee cup in hand. She glanced at the door to Hunter’s office again. “Apparently—and again, this is hearsay—Hunter was in love with the maid. This was when he was young, maybe ten years ago. A little clichéd, I know.” She rolled her eyes. “The word is that Hunter loved the maid, his dad found out, and then started having an affair with her himself. Well, she tried to leverage that connection somehow. It got ugly, from what I heard. Hunter’s mother found out and threw a fit. She told all of their friends, all of Mr. Carlisle senior’s work associates—you name it. I think Hunter was pretty sheltered as a kid—not many friends, not around many girls—so she was kind of it. And then she goes and betrays him… With his dad, of all people…”
She quirked her eyebrow and straightened up a little. Her lips pursed. “Damaging to a young guy. To his ego…”
“Yikes.” I grimaced, but mostly for show. While that would definitely suck, and certainly be an ego crusher, it didn’t smack me as reason enough for a life of cold business and solitude. It was a little weak on the “life trauma” Richter scale. There had to be more.
“You’re telling me!” Brenda said, giving me a look before wandering back to her desk. “He’s a good guy when you look past the rich-guy mentality. He just needs a hardheaded girl to break him out of his shell.”
I snorted. “Good luck. He holds on to his rude I know everything act with both hands.”
“That’s a man for you.” Brenda sat back down at her desk. “Do you need to go shopping at lunch, or are you going to take care of that tomorrow?”
“Shopping? Jeans and hoodies was my daily uniform before this job. I miss those days. Now I have to look around for a napkin when my hands are dirty.”
“What does a napkin have to do with wearing jeans and a hoodie?”
“My jeans were my napkin. That’s why they are so awesome—very versatile.”
“Gross.” I heard Brenda chuckling before the chorus of ticking announced her typing. “I’m ordering in lunch, then. Mr. Carlisle needs to give us a treat for working so hard.”
“I’m all for free things.”
“Aren’t we all.”
The day passed in a blur of facts, figures, and strange habits about a man I had never met. I felt like a private eye hired for a con. When Brenda shrugged into her jacket, I leaned back and rubbed my eyes. It was half past seven—late for her to be heading home.
“I thought you didn’t do overtime?” I asked as she grabbed her purse.