Faking Ms. Right (Dirty Martini Running Club, #1)(2)
I was pretty sure he knew my name, although he never called me Everly. He never called me anything, really. Just said what he needed to say, without addressing me first. No greetings. No goodbyes. Just, what’s on my calendar today? Or, send me the files before my meeting.
The ripple strengthened and I heard his footsteps over the sudden hushed silence on our floor. I stood, grabbed a stack of paperwork and his coffee—black, just like his heart—and waited.
He didn’t look at anyone as he walked down the hall toward his office. No side glances or nods at his employees. Just his steady gait—a man in a perfectly-tailored suit striding toward his office. His dark hair perfectly styled, his stubble perfectly trimmed.
Without so much as a glance in my direction, he walked past my desk. I fell in step behind him as the clock ticked over to eight twenty-eight.
I followed him into his office and set his coffee on his desk, six inches from the edge and slightly off-center, where he wouldn’t knock it over when he took off his jacket or bump it when he set down his laptop. I picked up a remote and opened the blinds, stopping them before they let in too much light. He took off his suit jacket, and I was there to take it and hang it on the coat tree near the door.
“Good morning, Mr. Calloway,” I said, my voice bright.
He didn’t answer. He never did. Not once had he said good morning in return. But I still did it. Every single day. It was part of our routine, so it would have felt weird not to say it.
He sat and opened his laptop. Grabbed his coffee without looking for it and took a sip.
“Did the lawyer from Duggan and Nolan send over what I asked for?” His voice was smooth and even, without a hint of emotion. Everything he said was delivered in that same tone. People were terrified of Shepherd Calloway, but it wasn’t because he yelled. He didn’t get loud and berate people when they made mistakes. He froze them. His ice-blue eyes and low voice were more chilling than any tirade could have been. He was a man who could make your heart stop with a glare.
“Yep, no issues there.” I placed a thick manila envelope on the side of his desk.
He touched it with two fingers and shifted it up about an inch.
“I also have something for you from Mark in Accounting.” I set a file folder directly on top of the envelope, making sure the edges lined up nicely.
“Why didn’t he give it to me himself?” he asked.
Because everyone is afraid of you, so they come to my desk early and pretend they didn’t realize you wouldn’t be in your office yet. “I suppose because you weren’t in.”
He didn’t respond.
“You have meetings at ten, noon, and three.” I quickly flipped through his calendar—synced with mine—on my phone. “The noon is at McCormick and Schmick’s, and I already ordered for you. I moved your dentist appointment to next week because it was going to be too close to your three o’clock. I didn’t want you to have to rush. But check with me first before you schedule anything for next Tuesday afternoon, because we shouldn’t put that off again. Oral health is important.”
I paused, although I knew he wouldn’t reply. And he didn’t.
“I spoke with Leslie about those reports you needed, and she’ll have them for you this afternoon. The painting you bought at the Hope Gala last weekend is being delivered to your place later today, so I’ll run over there and sign for it. That means I’ll be out of the office for an hour or so.”
“I need dinner reservations for tomorrow,” he said, still not looking up. “For two. Tulio or Assiaggo are acceptable. Not Canlis. And book a room on Maui for ten days, beginning Saturday. One of the usual resorts. Doesn’t matter which one.”
I probably could have indulged in the smug smile I tried to hide. It wasn’t like he was looking at me. But I nibbled my lip to stop myself anyway. Dinner for two at Tulio or Assiaggo, but not Canlis, and a last-minute trip to Maui meant he was breaking up with his latest gold-digger, Svetlana.
“Should I clear your calendar?” I asked, knowing he was going to tell me he wasn’t going. He’d send Svetlana on the trip to appease her for breaking up. But I had to pretend I didn’t know that, and ask anyway.
“No, I’m not going.”
“Okay.” I indulged in the smug smile. I hated Svetlana. She was a ridiculously gorgeous Bulgarian model—tall, slender, big boobs. A woman that heartless should never have been granted such phenomenal beauty. But the fact that she was stunning wasn’t why I hated her. I loathed her because I knew she was only with Mr. Calloway for his money.
She didn’t even try to hide it. Strutted around here like she owned half the company—which you could tell she thought was a forgone conclusion. As if he’d marry her. Ugh. The very thought made my skin crawl.
Granted, she wasn’t the first gold-digger he’d dated. He attracted them like a super-powered electromagnet. Most of the women he dated were similar: insanely beautiful, of varying intelligence, and primarily interested in the extravagant lifestyle they assumed dating—and even marrying—Shepherd Calloway would give them.
They were in for a rude awakening when they found out Mr. Calloway was not the type of billionaire businessman who lavished his girlfriends with luxurious gifts. Nice dinners, perhaps. And they could attend exclusive events among Seattle’s elite perched on his arm. He was certainly a means to being seen.