Vanilla On Top(26)

The pretty red shoes with the shiny metallic heel call to me from their box. I choose my outfit carefully, a floral print skirt with a red top. I’m no stranger to wearing heels this high at the office, but have worn nothing this blatantly sexy before. Are they appropriate for the CFO’s assistant? I snort, for once not caring, and slip the red leather onto my feet.

If I want to be the part then I guess I should start living it a little more. I take extra time with my hair, styling it the way I did on Sunday that turned so many heads. This time, using the rollers only results in burning my index finger once. A good sign in my book.

My phone beeps with an incoming text as I leave for the elevator. It’s from Tony. Care to have a late dinner with me tonight?

My heart beats faster as the doors whoosh shut and the elevator descends. What do I type back? Should I call him? Crap, I really need a guide on how to text like a sexy diva. Will agreeing to his request make me seem too eager? How late is he talking about anyway? That might be the best thing to find out first.

What time?

His response bings as I step onto the sidewalk. Is he in the office already or texting me from home? The thought of him sipping coffee in a terry-cloth robe brings a surge of salvia to my mouth. Yum.

9:00?

I wrinkle my nose. Who the hell eats that late on a work night? Maybe not agreeing will put me back in the driver’s seat. Geez, I really wish I knew what the eff I was doing. I hustle the rest of the way to work, conscious of the looks I’m getting along the way.

Damn, these shoes really do look hot. I catch sight of my reflection in a passing shop window and smile.

The more I think about it, the more I think accepting a dinner that late makes me look too available and willing, both of which I desperately am. I arrive at my building and ride the elevator to Parkerson’s floor, hoping a plausible reason for declining will come to me.

The office is barely inhabited when I step through the doors at quarter to eight. Only the higher-ups and ambitious ones like me report this early. And I’ve found my mother’s advice regarding clothes applies to most things in life: if you want to get ahead you need to act like it.

I settle at my desk and check my phone again. A small, secret smile graces my face as I open up the message. Is that too late?

My grin broadens when I think of the doubt whirling around in his mind. Good, it means he wants me.

My elbow jostles my mouse, causing my calendar to open. A reminder for tomorrow pops up. I’ve got to attend a meeting with my boss, Harvey, with Apollo Enterprises a few floors up. That one will take some prep work, I bet. Perfect excuse!

I text Tony back, Work obligations on Tuesday. Don’t want to be out too late.

I refrain from staring at my phone, willing it to beep with a text back from him. If I keep this up I’ll never get anything done, and then Harvey would be in a major bind. He’s got a lunch meeting later with Paul and some bigwigs from Apollo. I cringe inside, knowing this will probably be a liquid lunch for Harvey and he’ll be in no shape to talk business when he returns—if he returns to the office at all.

I grab some files on my desk from last Friday and hurry down the hall to see if he’s in, snagging my phone impulsively before I leave. I’d like to get him briefed on what I’ve been doing so he’s able to speak coherently on the company’s financial position.

The older man hasn’t arrived yet and I debate whether to leave the materials for him or try again in thirty minutes. From experience, I know he doesn’t often read what I leave on his desk. He’s only six months from retirement. Truth be told, I’ve been running his job, and mine, for the past several years.

Harvey knows it and pays me well for my expertise, which effectively buys my silence and loyalty. The all-boys club at Parkerson wouldn’t welcome a female CFO, of that I have no doubt. But with any luck, Harvey’s recommendations when he leaves will be enough to overcome their reservations.

Antsy to get started on my day, I leave the files, deciding to call him and remind the forgetful man to read them before he goes to lunch. I sigh, hoping the knowledge will sink in and he won’t look like a fool to the Apollo people.

My phone beeps again, another text, and I hold back a girly squeal of delight. I feel like a teenager again, waiting to see what he says.

How about tomorrow after work?

A big grin stretches across my face, garnering attention from two salesmen as they walk by. “Looking good, Heather,” one says with a saucy wink. Bob, the winking salesman, is happily married with kids, so I don’t take his flirting too seriously. I wait to reply to the text ‘til after I return to my office, desiring some privacy.