Faking Ms. Right (Dirty Martini Running Club #1)(3)

But from what I could tell, he was just as cold and unemotional with his girlfriends as he was with his employees. And he never spent a lot of money on them. They undoubtedly went into it picturing limo rides to romantic dinners, beautiful jewelry, and fancy vacations. What they got was a man who ignored them almost as much as he ignored me, and who didn’t buy them presents—probably because it never occurred to him to bother.

Svetlana hadn’t lasted long, but that wasn’t a surprise. He’d been seeing her for a couple of months—not that I kept track, really—and it seemed she’d already chafed his nerves more times than he was willing to live with, regardless of what she looked like. And boy, was I glad.

I had no reason to care. Mr. Calloway and I weren’t friends. So it shouldn’t have mattered to me whether some woman was trying to latch onto him for his money. But it did. I did care about him, even though I knew better. I couldn’t help it. I figured I was just built that way and tried to ignore it.

Except for moments like this, when I could privately gloat.

“That’s it,” he said.

“Sounds good, Mr. Calloway. I’ll be at my desk if you need anything.”

I said that to him every day, too. And he never replied. But it had become part of our routine, so I said it anyway.

Back at my desk, Steve gave me a reassuring smile. “You sure are tougher than you look.”

I shrugged and grinned, feeling a little glow of satisfaction. I always felt that way when people commented on my job. I’d lasted longer than any other assistant Shepherd Calloway had ever had. And I wore that distinction with a great deal of pride.

Only two types of people lasted at this company: people who were close enough to being his peers that they weren’t intimidated by him, and people who didn’t have to interact with him.

Anyone else usually lasted six months—maybe a year if they were tougher than average.

I’d worked for him for three years—a company record. Before me, he’d gone through assistants like some women went through purses. In one season, out the next. But me? Miss Everly Dalton? I was the only assistant he’d ever had who could actually handle him.

Really, I kind of got off on it. I liked having access to the man everyone was afraid of. The man with the power in this place. I liked the respect my position earned me. Outside these walls, people took me for a sugary-sweet, plain as vanilla, boring blond girl with a big smile.

But my coworkers saw me as something else entirely. They looked at me in awe, wondering how I could possibly handle the big bad wolf. How I never got bit.

It wasn’t as hard as they all thought. Once I got to know him—as well as I could, considering he didn’t speak to me very much—it was easy to get along with him. Learn his routine. Make sure anything within my control was executed on time. Stay out of his way.

And it worked. I didn’t rock the boat. I didn’t expect anything I knew he wouldn’t give. He wasn’t going to be friendly. No asking about my day or thanking me for a job well done. Which was fine. I knew I did my job well, and my pay reflected that.

The situation worked for me, and whether or not he’d ever acknowledge it, I knew it worked for Mr. Calloway too.

I winked at Steve, and grabbed my phone. I had work to do.





2





Everly





My shoes hit the pavement in a steady rhythm, and I tried to concentrate on my breathing. Running wasn’t my favorite activity—I’d never been what you’d call an athlete—but something happens when you turn thirty. You just can’t recover the same way.

My girlfriends and I couldn’t, at least. Not from any of the things we used to do without batting an eyelash—or gaining a pound. Martini Mondays. Taco Tuesdays. Wine Wednesdays. Thirsty Thursdays. Fast-food Fridays (don’t judge). Not from binging on cheap pizza and chocolate ice cream because one of us had an epic breakup. And let’s be honest, best friends cannot shirk their gorge-on-crap-food-and-get-drunk duties just because said breakup occurred after the age of twenty-nine.

“Are we done yet?” Nora asked. She jogged beside me in full makeup, looking gorgeous as always. Her thick, dark hair was in a beautifully curled ponytail that swished and swayed as she moved.

Hazel looked at her high-tech watch. “Almost. We’re at two-point-seven miles. We’re doing three today.”

“Ugh,” Nora said. She was acting put out, but she didn’t even sound winded.

“Nora…” Breath. “You’re doing awesome.” Breath. “You’re not even breathing hard.”

“Her metabolic rate has improved,” Hazel said, pushing her glasses back up her nose.

I’d been best friends with Hazel and Nora since forever. The three of us lived in the same apartment building now, but we’d met in middle school and could have been voted girls least likely to be best friends. We were all so different. Nora had always been exceptionally beautiful—and popular. Men loved her, and women wanted to be her. Hazel was gorgeous in her own way, but she tended to minimize it. Plus, she was brilliant—an actual, bona fide genius. I think she even had a plaque somewhere.

And then there was me. People usually called me cute, rather than beautiful. Being blond and admittedly a little bit bubbly added to the cute factor. I had a reputation for being an optimist, and it was true. I tended to see the good in everything, and everyone—which occasionally got me into trouble.