Chapter Four
Amity
“How did it go?” Hallie’s voice catches me as soon as I enter my office.
I stride past my best friend and assistant and towards the large mahogany desk that’s mine until the Board makes their selection. She watches me, a day planner on her lap, waiting on my answer.
Manhattan sits at my feet. The hustle and bustle of what’s basically the center of the world is hanging just a few dozen floors below.
I’ve loved this view since I was a baby. I remember curling up on the mustard-yellow settee in the corner while my father worked on Saturday mornings. I could sit for hours, watching the people moving along about their day. It’s a sight I’ve missed, but not any more than I miss the view from my office in Los Angeles.
After graduating high school, I took a scholarship at USC. I needed a fresh start, a place to reinvent myself. The kids I grew up with—Carver, Noah, and Olivia—all saw me as a girl with her nose in a book. I wasn’t beautiful like them or exceptionally talented. I had my father’s nose—not exactly flattering on a seventeen-year-old. That has since been fixed, but I was still a nerd to them, and still am deep down. And after the closet debacle with Carver, a laughingstock.
“So it went well, I take it?” Hallie chortles.
Considering her question, a ghost of a smile graces my lips as I recall how often he seemed off his game. “It went better than I expected.”
“Just so we’re clear, I did happen to see him in the elevator on my way up.”
I look at her over my shoulder. “Don’t go there.”
“Do you mean that figuratively or literally?”
“Hallie . . .” I groan.
“Point of interest, would it be like sleeping with the boss or sleeping with the enemy?”
“It would be like sleeping with the son of Satan.”
“That would explain the heat level,” she says, fanning her face. “Good God, Amity. I was a bit unprepared for . . . that.”
Rolling my eyes, I collapse into my chair. Carver has always gotten this kind of reaction from females. He’s always had a certain look—a high society label with a bad boy cut. A “I’ll take you to visit your grandmother for brunch and then screw you in the sunroom while she waits” kind of thing.
I never had a thing for Carver Jones. Everyone else did, but not me. I was a late bloomer, not really interested in boys until I was sixteen or seventeen. They irritated me with their childish games and gross humor. So when I was sitting on the window seat reading a book and found out the bottle they were spinning somehow landed on me, I thought it was a joke. When I realized it wasn’t, I was too self-conscious to say no. I mean, it was Carver. He would just take me in there and tell me a stupid story until the seven minutes were up.
Except he didn’t. Except he kissed me. He wrapped his arms around my waist and gave me my very first kiss under the glow of the hall light that slipped around the doorsill.
I’d never given much thought to first kisses. They were great in the books I read, but I wasn’t prepared for one in real life, much less from Carver.
I stood in the middle of the closet, winter coats dangling around us, trying to catch my breath from what must’ve been a five-second kiss. I didn’t know what that meant. Did he like me? Was this normal closet behavior? Where were the jokes, the gossip I expected to hear when we walked in there?
Only later, as I exited the bathroom, did I hear him laughing with the other boys that he followed through with the dare. He’d kissed me. Then took Dara Pincher in the closet and made out like he wanted to. There was a joke in the closet. Me. I was the joke.
“What did you want me to say?” I ask. “I haven’t seen him in years. Besides, to see the real Carver, you have to get past his exterior.”
She laughs. “Well, I, for one, would love to be the judge of that. I’ll admit I’ve imagined him out of that suit already.”
The sound of my elbows hitting the desktop takes us both by surprise.
“I’m sorry.” She tries to cover her smile and fails miserably. “What can I do to help?”
“Focus, for one—and not on Carver fucking Jones.” My eyes snap to hers and I catch her right before she says it. “Do not go there with the innuendo,” I chuckle.
“Fine.”
Falling back again, the chair swamps me. “I hate this chair. It makes me feel so vulnerable.”
“Is it the chair making you feel that way or the man in the office down the hall?”
“Really, Hal?” I groan.
“Face it,” she says, standing up. “You have your hands full with Mr. Jones.”
“I graduated from USC at the top of my class. I’ve already been on the board of a Fortune 500 company and Brower’s nearly cried when I told them I was leaving. Carver Jones doesn’t have a fighting chance against me.”
“I said you had your hands full with him, but he definitely has his work cut out for him too. You have a work ethic stronger than any person I’ve ever met and you have ways of looking at things that most people can’t conceive. But those things are not what I was talking about.”
I flash her a look.
“You’re brilliant, Amity. You’re also a hot-blooded woman.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, swiveling side-to-side.
“It means that regardless of how much you say you hate Carver Jones . . .” She fans her face again. “You’re going to need my grandma to light some candles for you.”
“I will not,” I huff, getting to my feet. “He’s a conceited, deceitful, self-indulgent prick. My father worked with Carver for the last few years, and Carver almost killed the man with his cavalier approach to a business both our families poured themselves into for decades. He has no respect for anyone but himself.” Taking a second to catch my breath, I feel my cheeks heating as I think back to the look he gave me when I walked in the door. “While he may be, you know, kind of good looking . . .”
“Kind of good looking?” she grins. “Yeah. He’s kind of good looking like you’re kind of a floozy when you drink four margaritas.”
“Floozy? I can’t with you, Hallie.”
I pick up a piece of paper and pretend to be engrossed in the words, even though it’s a flier for office supplies.
“I can see this conversation is over,” she says. She stands and starts towards the door. “I’m going to get my temporary office set up. Anything else?”
Shaking my head, I don’t look at her. There’s no need for her to see the emotions flickering across my face. Hallie knows me better than anyone and can read me like a book. In this situation, that won’t help anything.
“Fine.” She pulls the door open but stops. “Have you signed on to the calendar portal?”
“Not yet.”
“Well . . .”
The way she says it makes me look at her. Her lips are twisted in amusement.
“Mr. Jones has scheduled a three o’clock meeting with you in his office.”
“What?” Dropping the flier, I grab my phone. In a few quick moments, the calendar is pulled up.
Meeting: Mr. Jones, President, and Ms. Gallum
Time: 3:00 PM EST
Location: Corner Office 1
Re:
“What could we possibly have left to discuss?” I ask, tossing my phone on my desk. “He’s trying to catch me when he thinks I’m a little frazzled.”
“Well, you are. Kind of.”
I flash her a pointed look. “I’m not. I have everything under control.”
“So, should I cancel this?”
“No,” I say, smiling. “You shouldn’t. It’s time some battle lines were drawn.”