Walk of Shame
Page 21

My kind of girl.
“So, I don’t totally get why you’re here,” Shelley says, sipping one of the pumpkin spice lattes I went out to get us. “Is it like an intern program or something?”
I spin in the spare chair she borrowed from a vacationing coworker. “Heck, no. More of a . . . dare, of sorts.”
She bites her lip, and I can tell she’s torn between professionalism and curiosity. The latter wins, and she leans forward after sneaking a peak at the door.
“He’s never brought a woman here before. Not friend, girlfriend, sister . . .”
“So he does have a sister?”
“Actually, I don’t know,” she admits. “If he has, he’s never mentioned her. I know he has an older brother, and only because he asks me to send him a birthday gift every year. Pappy Van Winkle bourbon.”
“Generous,” I murmur, taking a sip of my own drink. “How long have you been working for him?”
“Four years,” she says, rubbing her thumb along the base of her engagement ring, as I’ve noticed is a habit. Shelley’s pretty in an understated kind of way. I mean, I sort of want to loosen her bun, and I think she’d be better suited to black mascara than the too-blah brown she’s wearing, but I suppose she couldn’t be more perfect as Andrew’s assistant. There’s a quietness about her that I’m sure he lovvvvves.
If he even notices.
“So what’s the plan for the rest of your day?” she asks.
“Great question,” I say, spinning on the chair again. “We didn’t really talk it through when we came up with this little arrangement.”
“How did it come about?”
I shrug. “Basically, we’ve been engaged in a cold war for a few months. Things came to a head a couple of days ago when he said I could never survive in his world of suits and structure. So I’m here to prove it. Except I can’t prove much of anything now that he’s kicked me out.”
“Well, for privacy reasons, he really can’t have you around for his phone calls,” she says kindly.
I sigh. “I know. Is it always this . . . boring?”
“It’s actually usually pretty nuts around here. But Fridays are our slowest day. In fact, the call he’s on now is his last scheduled call of the day.”
“Really,” I say, putting my toe on the floor to stop my spinning. “So he has the afternoon free?”
Shelley surprises me by laughing. “I don’t think Mr. Mulroney even knows what a free afternoon is.”
“Does he ask you to call him that? Mr. Mulroney? After four years?”
“Well, no,” she says. “But he’s never exactly said ‘Call me Andrew’ either.”
“No, he wouldn’t,” I agree, my mind spinning with options. “So, if he doesn’t have any meetings, what does that mean you have to do the rest of the afternoon?”
She lifts her shoulders. “Surprisingly, I’m pretty caught up on everything. Mostly I answer the phone, make sure paperwork’s in order for next week.”
“Watch the clock?” I guess.
She smiles guiltily. “Fridays are worse than others. And John’s taking me champagne tasting tonight.”
“Oooh, date night! What are you wearing?”
Shelley blinks at me, then looks down. “This?”
“Oh!” Whoops.
Shelley laughs. “I know. Fashion’s not really my thing, but I know enough to know that your dress is fabulous.”
I glance down at the royal blue sweater dress. “Honestly, this is the most demure thing I own. Didn’t want to give him one more reason to dislike me.”
“If he dislikes you, why would he bring you here?”
I smile. “He didn’t. I sort of forced his hand. And note the closed door. Probably locked.”
I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s playing solitaire, waiting for me to leave.
“Nah, that light means he’s still on the phone,” she says, pointing at her own phone. “Oh! He just hung up.”
Perfect. I slip my bare feet back into my suede high-heeled boots and stand. “Thanks for the chat!” I tell her with a smile. “I’ll see if I can’t get him to let you go early.”
I think I hear her snort, and she has a point. I doubt Andrew’s ever heard of such a thing as a lunch break, much less calling it an early day.
Lucky for both of them, they have me.
I give a quick knock with my knuckles before opening the door to his office.
His hand is already reaching for the phone again, but he drops it to the desk when he sees me, his expression a mixture of irritation and disbelief.
“Hey, Andy!”
He sighs. “I don’t go by that.”
“Well, I don’t go by Georgiana, but it doesn’t seem to stop you from calling me that.”
“What do you need?”
“I’m starving,” I say, sidling up to the wall and looking at the boring canvas that’s a generic blend of whites and muted greens. “This is ugly—why’d you pick it out?”
“I didn’t.”
I turn. “You don’t like art?”
“I don’t have an opinion either way.”
“Can I pick something for you?”
He’s leaning back in his chair, watching me as I go from picture to picture, ugly fake plant to ugly fake plant.
“You like art?” he asks.
I shrug, coming to a stop in front of a framed diploma. “I know it. Keeps us socialite types busy. Those of us with a brain anyway.”
“Georgiana—”
“How old are you?” I interrupt, squinting my eyes at the Harvard diploma.
“Thirty.”
I point at the diploma and turn to face him. “I thought you were about that, but according to this, you would have had to graduate from law school when you were—”
“Twenty-two.”
I stare at him. “That’s young. Really young.”
He lifts his shoulders and becomes suddenly fascinated with a file on his desk.
“You poor thing,” I murmur. “How many grades did you skip? How quickly did you blow through undergrad?”
“Fast enough,” he says in a clipped tone. “I was efficient.”
My chest squeezes a little at the defensive look on his face, and I realize that I’m getting a rare glimpse inside. It wouldn’t have been easy to be so smart so young. He must have been at least a couple of years younger than all of his peers. He would have stood out, probably struggling to make friends. He would have been alone.