One
Sandra
Sometimes company meetings are dull. I try not to feel that way, because I take my job at Clemens Corporation seriously, and I’m grateful to be employed. I tend to take most things seriously, but especially work.
I’m the executive assistant to the CEO. It’s very rewarding. I’m trusted. I’m needed. Mr. Camden relies on me and I never let him down. That’s what he says. “Sandra, you never let me down.” I anticipate what he needs before he needs it. I’m entrusted with confidential information that some senior-level managers don’t even get to see. I deliver on time. I’m part of a team.
So I try to pay attention during meetings. Even the really boring ones. I try to keep my eyes where they belong, on the presenter.
Gabe Laurent is not presenting today. So I should stop sneaking glances at him every thirty seconds. I should stop. Luckily, he’s sitting next to my boss, Sawyer Camden. I can fake like I’m making sure Mr. Camden doesn’t need me for anything if they catch me looking their way. Which they haven’t, because I am very, very good at sneaking glances at Gabe Laurent.
At least I’m not falling asleep. That would be worse than being caught staring at my secret crush. My coworker Preston isn’t faring as well. I nudge him under the table and his eyes pop open. He blinks and blows out a breath, then sits up straight in the seat next to mine, shuffling some papers around in front of him and jotting a note down on one of them.
He’s faking it. I don’t need to look over to know that the note is gibberish. We’ve been working together for about a year and friends almost as long. I can guarantee he’s either drawing pictures or making a shopping list.
We were given a survey to fill out on today’s meetings. It’s anonymous—they’re looking for honest feedback on the presentation and what we found useful or what can be improved on. I’ve filled it out completely, with examples. I’ve also outlined the entire meeting for my personal notes. Not that it needs to be done and not that anyone is going to ask for my notes, but still. It’s important to be thorough.
Preston has rated each presenter with a star system. For some, he’s noted, Please shut up, next to the rating. I eyeball his paper now. It appears he’s ditched the assigned survey and is crafting his own, his pen flying across the paper for the first time in over an hour.
I take another peek at Gabe. He looks a little bored himself, truthfully. We’re in the Langdon auditorium. This meeting room has stadium seating, which is ideal for presentations. There’s a state-of-the-art screen stretching across the front of the room. Seating for two hundred, in tiered rows so everyone has a great view of the screen and the presenter. The acoustics are ideal, and there’s work space in front of each chair complete with charging stations and an ergonomic chair. But the best part of this meeting space is the view of Gabe. He always sits in the front row next to Sawyer. I always pick the spot two rows behind him and over one, perfect for covert glancing. And my covert assessment is that Gabe is bored.
I ascertain this by the casual glances at his watch, the way he rests his head on his fingertips, elbow bent on the table in front of him. He looks interested in the presentation. He looks engaged. But I’ve been studying Gabe for a long time. And I know he’s bored. He leans over and says something to my boss, who nods and grins in response.
Gabe Laurent is ideal. My ideal, anyway. Way outta my league. And totally off limits. I mean, it’s not like he’s my boss, but he’s a boss. He’s the CFO at Clemens Corporation; he’s also my boss’ right-hand man, and his best friend. They graduated from Harvard together and then Gabe got a master’s degree in finance at Princeton while Sawyer started this company. A year later Gabe joined him and became part-owner of the company. They’ve been hugely successful, both millionaires by twenty-five. Over the next decade their success only continued to grow while they easily became the most eligible bachelors in Philadelphia, maybe the entire eastern seaboard, seemingly content to play the field and avoid settling down. I suspect my boss is ready to chuck his little black book though. A twenty-two-year-old college senior by the name of Everly Jensen has become the sole focus of his attention as of recently.
Smart turns me on. Sometimes Gabe wears these thick-rimmed glasses, kinda nerdish. Very Clark Kent. They drive me to the brink of distraction. And I do not like to be distracted. Focus is the name of my game. Focused, reliable Sandra.
He’s got them on today. Or he did. Currently they’re dangling from his hand, the bent earpiece of one side resting against his lip. His lips are perfect. Full. Smooth. Soft. I don’t know for certain that they’re soft, but I’m positive if I was given the opportunity to verify, I’d be correct.
I’m pulled from my thoughts as Preston slaps the paper he’s been working on in front of me. I glance down, centering the paper on top of my own pile of papers. Then I pick them up and tap them against the desk top, ensuring they’re all even before placing the stack back down and centering it again on the workspace before me. Then I pick up my pen so I’m ready to make notes on whatever he’s passed over.
I get two sentences in and stop, shaking my head no as I move to slide the paper back to him. He slaps his hand down, pinning the paper in front of me in a silent decree that he’s not taking the survey back. Except that his hand slap is enough to catch Gabe’s attention and Gabe’s half turned in his chair two rows ahead, his eyes landing on mine. I freeze. He smiles. I look away, dropping my eyes to the desk space before me, as if my life depends on it.
Preston nudges the survey back over to me with a fingertip, content that he’s won this battle. I hate making a scene. It’s mortifying. And unprofessional. And I am very, very professional. Which is why I want nothing to do with Preston’s survey. He’s copied and edited the actual survey we’re taking into this:
Thank you for attending this boring fucking meeting. Please entertain me by taking this sex quiz. I appreciate your candid responses.
1) On a scale from 1 to 5, is there anyone in this room you’d like to have the sex with?
2) Who is it? (This is anonymous so answer honestly!)
3) Please share your thoughts on what positions you’re interested in.
4) If you answered “all”, are you including anal?
Sandra
Sometimes company meetings are dull. I try not to feel that way, because I take my job at Clemens Corporation seriously, and I’m grateful to be employed. I tend to take most things seriously, but especially work.
I’m the executive assistant to the CEO. It’s very rewarding. I’m trusted. I’m needed. Mr. Camden relies on me and I never let him down. That’s what he says. “Sandra, you never let me down.” I anticipate what he needs before he needs it. I’m entrusted with confidential information that some senior-level managers don’t even get to see. I deliver on time. I’m part of a team.
So I try to pay attention during meetings. Even the really boring ones. I try to keep my eyes where they belong, on the presenter.
Gabe Laurent is not presenting today. So I should stop sneaking glances at him every thirty seconds. I should stop. Luckily, he’s sitting next to my boss, Sawyer Camden. I can fake like I’m making sure Mr. Camden doesn’t need me for anything if they catch me looking their way. Which they haven’t, because I am very, very good at sneaking glances at Gabe Laurent.
At least I’m not falling asleep. That would be worse than being caught staring at my secret crush. My coworker Preston isn’t faring as well. I nudge him under the table and his eyes pop open. He blinks and blows out a breath, then sits up straight in the seat next to mine, shuffling some papers around in front of him and jotting a note down on one of them.
He’s faking it. I don’t need to look over to know that the note is gibberish. We’ve been working together for about a year and friends almost as long. I can guarantee he’s either drawing pictures or making a shopping list.
We were given a survey to fill out on today’s meetings. It’s anonymous—they’re looking for honest feedback on the presentation and what we found useful or what can be improved on. I’ve filled it out completely, with examples. I’ve also outlined the entire meeting for my personal notes. Not that it needs to be done and not that anyone is going to ask for my notes, but still. It’s important to be thorough.
Preston has rated each presenter with a star system. For some, he’s noted, Please shut up, next to the rating. I eyeball his paper now. It appears he’s ditched the assigned survey and is crafting his own, his pen flying across the paper for the first time in over an hour.
I take another peek at Gabe. He looks a little bored himself, truthfully. We’re in the Langdon auditorium. This meeting room has stadium seating, which is ideal for presentations. There’s a state-of-the-art screen stretching across the front of the room. Seating for two hundred, in tiered rows so everyone has a great view of the screen and the presenter. The acoustics are ideal, and there’s work space in front of each chair complete with charging stations and an ergonomic chair. But the best part of this meeting space is the view of Gabe. He always sits in the front row next to Sawyer. I always pick the spot two rows behind him and over one, perfect for covert glancing. And my covert assessment is that Gabe is bored.
I ascertain this by the casual glances at his watch, the way he rests his head on his fingertips, elbow bent on the table in front of him. He looks interested in the presentation. He looks engaged. But I’ve been studying Gabe for a long time. And I know he’s bored. He leans over and says something to my boss, who nods and grins in response.
Gabe Laurent is ideal. My ideal, anyway. Way outta my league. And totally off limits. I mean, it’s not like he’s my boss, but he’s a boss. He’s the CFO at Clemens Corporation; he’s also my boss’ right-hand man, and his best friend. They graduated from Harvard together and then Gabe got a master’s degree in finance at Princeton while Sawyer started this company. A year later Gabe joined him and became part-owner of the company. They’ve been hugely successful, both millionaires by twenty-five. Over the next decade their success only continued to grow while they easily became the most eligible bachelors in Philadelphia, maybe the entire eastern seaboard, seemingly content to play the field and avoid settling down. I suspect my boss is ready to chuck his little black book though. A twenty-two-year-old college senior by the name of Everly Jensen has become the sole focus of his attention as of recently.
Smart turns me on. Sometimes Gabe wears these thick-rimmed glasses, kinda nerdish. Very Clark Kent. They drive me to the brink of distraction. And I do not like to be distracted. Focus is the name of my game. Focused, reliable Sandra.
He’s got them on today. Or he did. Currently they’re dangling from his hand, the bent earpiece of one side resting against his lip. His lips are perfect. Full. Smooth. Soft. I don’t know for certain that they’re soft, but I’m positive if I was given the opportunity to verify, I’d be correct.
I’m pulled from my thoughts as Preston slaps the paper he’s been working on in front of me. I glance down, centering the paper on top of my own pile of papers. Then I pick them up and tap them against the desk top, ensuring they’re all even before placing the stack back down and centering it again on the workspace before me. Then I pick up my pen so I’m ready to make notes on whatever he’s passed over.
I get two sentences in and stop, shaking my head no as I move to slide the paper back to him. He slaps his hand down, pinning the paper in front of me in a silent decree that he’s not taking the survey back. Except that his hand slap is enough to catch Gabe’s attention and Gabe’s half turned in his chair two rows ahead, his eyes landing on mine. I freeze. He smiles. I look away, dropping my eyes to the desk space before me, as if my life depends on it.
Preston nudges the survey back over to me with a fingertip, content that he’s won this battle. I hate making a scene. It’s mortifying. And unprofessional. And I am very, very professional. Which is why I want nothing to do with Preston’s survey. He’s copied and edited the actual survey we’re taking into this:
Thank you for attending this boring fucking meeting. Please entertain me by taking this sex quiz. I appreciate your candid responses.
1) On a scale from 1 to 5, is there anyone in this room you’d like to have the sex with?
2) Who is it? (This is anonymous so answer honestly!)
3) Please share your thoughts on what positions you’re interested in.
4) If you answered “all”, are you including anal?
