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“Hey!” she half shouts as I pull her down the hallway and back into my office again. Stupid, I know.
“You know you can schedule a meeting with me, right? You don’t have to keep accosting me in the hallway and dragging me in here.” She rubs her arm where my hand was.
“Did I hurt you?” I ask sincerely, reaching out for her, but she pulls away.
“No, just startled me. What did you want to see me about? Oh, did you get my email last night?”
“You and Forrest were rather chatty today.”
She looks at me questioningly, like she expects me to elaborate or as if I should know why she was talking to him.
“Yeah, he’s one of the editors of the Chicago Booth Review. I emailed you about it last night, how I reached out to them regarding running a profile on you. They want to run it next month.”
Okay, she’s right; I should have known. Now I feel stupid, but I double down on my jealous bullshit.
“You were laughing a lot.”
“Is that against the rules?” That snarky attitude is back, but I don’t respond. “Actually, I’m meeting with him tonight to discuss the interview. Are there any topics or questions that are off-limits? Anything you want to focus on?” She reaches into her bag and pulls out her phone, opening the notes app before staring back at me.
“You are meeting with Forrest?”
“Yes.”
“As in—a date?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “It’s professional, as in it’s my job as your publicist to get you opportunities like this. I was thinking we could focus on what it means for you to be back teaching at your alma mater and maybe how that ties into you mentoring Chicago youth?”
I sit back on the desk, leaning my elbow on my knee. “And does he know that? That it’s not a date?”
“What? Of course he does. I’m the one who told him we should meet tonight and I did not say anything about it being a date.”
“He thinks it’s a date.”
“And what if he does? I don’t and that’s what matters. I’m there for work and that’s it.”
“Why not just email each other whatever you plan to discuss?” I realize I’m on thin ice here, really making this into something when she’s made it clear it’s nothing. I hate the way I’m feeling—territorial.
“What are you really asking here, Mr. Gates?” She leans forward, narrowing her gaze.
“Think I said exactly what I’m asking. As my publicist, I want to make sure you’re not crossing lines you shouldn’t be with your resources. I don’t think Lisa would like you dating someone to get me an interview.”
“Seriously! I wouldn’t ever date or sleep with a source or anyone to get you an interview and I resent the implication.” She lets out an annoyed sigh and reaches down for her bag that she let fall to the floor. “You know what? I think we’re done here. My personal life really isn’t any of your business.” She turns and reaches for the door.
“I’m sorry. You’re right.” Her hand drops and she looks back over her shoulder at me. “I crossed the line but… I’m not running that damn 5k,” I say matter-of-factly.
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to.” Now I grab my coat, ready to walk out of the office. I hate this feeling of jealousy, of wanting to know more about her, wanting to spend time with her, but knowing it won’t work; it can’t work. I know she would never compromise herself for a job. I’m just angry that she can casually hang out with Forrest and date him if she damn well wants to, but I don’t have that option because no matter how many ways I try to justify it or make it work, she’s off-fucking-limits. “And because I said so.”
“Lisa said you would say that. She also said that if you object to anything that I schedule for you, to take it up with her and she’ll make you do it. So, you can either make my life easier and just trust me on these things, or you can go cry to Lisa and I’m sure she’d be more than happy to boss you around again.”
This. This right here. I see her eye twitch and I know she loves waving the Lisa card right now. It’s the only form of power she has. I like this side of her, but at the same time my palm itches with the desire to spank the ever-loving shit out of her ass right now and remind her that I’m the boss. That she takes orders from me.
“So that’s how it’s going to be?” I toss my coat back onto the desk.
“Doesn’t have to be”—she shrugs casually—“but if you insist on making things difficult, I’m more than happy to oblige.” She flashes a petty smile and pulls the door open.
“Shut the door,” I command.
