Page 4 of Devil In A Suit, Vol. 1

“Of course,” I reply. I wish my voice didn’t sound quite so eager.

“I need you to make a reservation for two at Renew. 8pm.”

I nod, a feeling of relief sweeping over my trembling body. This I can do. No problem.

“For tonight,” he says, that touch of amusement back in his voice, like a panther playing with a baby deer before he devours it.

My heart sinks. This is going to be no easy task. Renew just opened last month, and thanks to rave reviews in both the Globe and The Times, it’s been the hot reservation in town. I’ve heard the waiting list is weeks long, if not months. And he wants a reservation for tonight? Would he also like a golden chariot and a seat in the dugout for the next Red Sox game?

But of course I can’t betray a hint of nervousness. I told him I was valuable. Capable. I can’t show him that I’m already going back on my declaration within ten seconds of uttering it.

And from the way he’s staring me down from behind that desk, I know he’ll be watching every move I make for even the slightest hint of a misstep. Well he’s going to have to look hard.

“Of course,” I say. And then I turn on my heel, glad I’m wearing new, scuff-free patent leather heels that I found for 75% off at the outlet mall instead of the more-comfortable black clogs that I usually wear. Not that I should care what I’m wearing around Mr. King. Or that he cares. Or notices.

Dammit, Quinn, get your head in the game. You have a Herculean task to complete

As soon as I’m back at my desk, I pull up the phone number and dial.

This is my chance to put the awful last few minutes in the rearview mirror and convince Jared King not to have me fired, for he surely has every right to do so.

“Renew,” the clipped voice of the restaurant’s hostess says. Her accent is something Russian or otherwise Cold War-era, and it gives me a shiver just listening to it.

“Yes, I’m calling to make a reservation for two. 8pm,” I say, then swallow to make sure my voice is appropriately authoritative. “For tonight.”

There’s a beat of silence, during which I half expect her to start laughing. Instead, she says simply, “We are completely booked.”

“Is there anything —“ I try, but she cuts me off with a simple, unsympathetic no. I sit back in my chair wondering how much of the paltry sum of cash in my bank account that I would have to offer this woman and still make my rent when my eyes land on a framed article hanging on the opposite wall. It’s the cover of Boston Magazine, featuring none other than my boss, Jared King, in a black pea coat, the collar popped, his gaze a picture of smoldering sex. Alongside his chiseled features are the words “Boston’s Most Eligible Billionaire.”

I can feel myself smiling as I lean my elbows onto the desk, preparing to lay my trump card. “The reservation is for Jared King,” I say, and that’s all it takes. Suddenly the hostess’s tone isn’t so clipped. I wouldn’t call it warm, because warm is just not done in Boston’s trendiest restaurant, but it’s definitely accommodating.

By the time I hang up I not only have a reservation, but the promise of one of the best tables and a personal welcome from the chef. It sounds like it’s going to be an incredible night.

I don’t let myself wonder who else is going to be eating with him tonight, sharing this incredible night with him. That’s not my job. I work for Jared King, and whatever beautiful model or actress he is courting at the moment, I needn’t give it a second thought.

What do I care? I don’t. I got the reservation. That’s all that matters.

And yet I do find myself picturing them together, and feeling a surge of inexplicable jealousy at the thought that I can’t be her—whomever her is.

I don’t qualify.

But maybe if I were just a few inches taller, and thinner, and able to afford the best clothes and the best trainers to get my body tight and toned…maybe I would qualify. Maybe I would be worthy of his time and attentions.

But I don’t qualify and that’s why he doesn’t even see me.

As much as I want to march back into his office and declare mission accomplished, I don’t want to risk another crash and burn like I had earlier.

Instead I fire off an email confirming his reservation, closing with yet another apology.

His response is swift, and surprising.

My officeis all the email says. No please. Not even a complete sentence. Just a fragment of an order.

And as much as I want to be angry, there’s a flutter inside me that has me standing from my chair, pulling my shoulders back, and striding into his inner sanctum once again. This time he’s waiting for me, his elbows resting on his glass-topped desk, his hands clasped beneath the subtle cleft in his chin.

My mind immediately goes to Caitlyn’s assertion that Jared King could bend her over the copy machine, and I think about sinking beneath that glass-topped desk of his. Thank god he can’t read my mind right now, or I’d be both fired and facing a sexual harassment lawsuit.

“I assume you’re still feeling the need to prove yourself?” Jared asks.