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Finnegan Marsh—AKA the bane of my existence, my boss, and a man whose only true merit is…just about everything about him—beams at me when I enter his office for our usual morning meeting. The only issue is: he prefaced today’s meeting with a text that said he had something important he wanted to discuss. I’m growing all too familiar with how he operates, so I can confirm this morning’s text is bad news. It’s the Never mind! Everything you’ve expected today is in the toilet. Flush. Now, we’re going to Europe! text, which could so easily be translated into a Better to drive off a bridge than come into work text.
It’s a shame I’ve never been one to trust translations.
Blue eyes sparkling like fancy smancy champagne flutes, Mr. Marsh stands and presents the creaking leather chair in front of his obnoxiously large desk. The action strikes me as odd. Normally I just linger near enough to the door to judge the fact he has a koi pond in his floor and far enough from the door to bolt out of the way without winding up in the koi pond when he charges on by so we can pack.
I do not want to sit in the plasticky loud chair, but I do. I also do not want to smile, but I didn’t spend many hours in my formative years practicing how to exude perfect calm and peace in the mirror for nothing, so tralala. I love being up at five every day in order to be at this frivolous man’s beck and call.
It’s my favorite.
Sure, being at his beck and call is—quite literally—the job I signed up for, and Marsh Industries pays me eighty grand a year to do it, but it’s a human right to complain about one’s employment, and I do enjoy pretending to be human.
Smile flawless, I say, “You wanted to speak with me about something important that has the potential to derail today’s plans, Mr. Marsh?”
“How many times have I told you it’s okay to call me Finn, Marcella?”
I hum and tilt my soulmate—the LeoPad tablet from Leopard Co. that I use to track literally everything Mr. Marsh does—away from my body. “Not sure, sir.” My voice is light, airy, sweet and musical. I take immense inspiration from my beautiful friend Penny, who was a siren in another life. “Happy to find out for you, though. Would you like me to start keeping a tally now then draw up an estimate in a month that takes the past two months into consideration based on the statistics I learn?”
The corner of his mouth tugs into an effortlessly handsome smile as he scoots into his desk, plants his chin in his palm, and…scans me.
Mr. Marsh is a lot of things. Flippant. Boisterous. Impulsive. Much too…smiley. Way too nice. But he’s absolutely not a creep. Or, at least, he hasn’t been a creep for the past two months.
Perhaps I haven’t been working here long enough to tell for sure.
Prior to this position, I have several years of assistant experience that inform me the cliché about secretaries and their bosses…is rooted in the truth.
My perfectly practiced smile falters. “Mr. Marsh, why are you looking at me like that?”
Eyes widening, Mr. Marsh laughs, runs his fingers through the gleaming auburn strands of his hair, and says, “Sorry. You’re beautiful, Marcella. I don’t think I’ve ever noticed before.”
I blink.
His words repeat in my skull.
My trained smile vanishes, one tiny tilt at a time.
Suddenly, I’m wearing my normal face in front of my boss, which is something I only do when I’m positive nobody important is watching. And when you’re the personal assistant to the billionaire CEO of Marsh Industries, somebody important is always watching.
Swears hiss into my head, and I remind myself that overreacting is for wusses who don’t like to pay their overwhelming debts. Channeling unease that bridges on disgust, I shift in the uncomfortable, crisp leather seat. “I’m very uninterested in anything my physical appeal might assist you with, Mr. Marsh. If this sort of topic comes up again, I will have to resign.”
Without severance. As in, I will be suing for several million.
And probably losing since I can’t afford a several-million dollar lawyer…
But, you know, delusion is a grand pastime of mine.
Mr. Marsh’s brows rise.
I regain my peachy smile. “I don’t mean to be harsh. I’m only here to do my job. I’m sure you understand. I didn’t sign up for…anything else.”
“I don’t mean…” He cups a hand to his mouth, laughs into it. “Well, let me see if I can explain in a better way…” Before I get the chance to panic, he turns his attention toward his computer. “Ah. Here we go.” The fine lines around his eyes crinkle when his smile returns in full.
Whenever I see wrinkles on his face, I remember he’s thirty-two, not seven.
Even though he has the attention span of a rodent and I’m little more than his glorified nanny, he is a full-grown adult.
Even though I usher questions his way to keep him on task, put away all the emails he leaves out, make sure he eats, do all his planning, and dress him, sitting right in front of me is an entire adult man.
Coordinating someone’s outfits to match the weather is not exactly what I thought would wind up on my schedule after I graduated from four years of business school.
