Page 475 of Manhattan Bossholes

“He’s busy,” I said stiffly. “He doesn’t have the bandwidth to get sucked back into Branson.”

“Okay,” Natalie managed.

“I’m going to head back to my office.” I turned to go, but then I caught sight of the way her head was bowed like I’d reprimanded her.

“Don’t forget to call security if you need an escort out to your car,” I added, my voice a little softer. “It’s late.”

“Yup, got it.” She flipped her book open and went back to sketching without another word.

I wrestled with myself as I walked back to my office. On the one hand, I was admittedly disappointed that I’d gone ahead and ruined what had been a fine conversation. We were actually getting along for a change, like we were literally on the same page.

But maybe the shock back to reality was exactly what I’d needed. It was a reminder that we weren’t partners, weren’t friends. I was her boss, and she was my employee. There was nothing more to it than that. Between looking after my family and working to keep the company afloat—while doing two jobs and trying to squeeze more hours out of every day—I didn’t have time for anything more, no matter how much I wanted it.

And oh, how I wanted it…

9

NATALIE

The reply email popped up in my inbox and I squealed. I glanced around the design floor to make sure no one noticed, because what I was doing had to remain top secret. I’d gone against my better judgment, and now it was time to find out if it was going to pay off. I held my breath and opened the message.

Hi Natalie,

What a nice surprise to get your note. I still think about the creative team all the time, and it sounds like it’s grown quite a bit since I was last there. Welcome to Branson—if my brother hired you, then you’ve got to be a superstar.

I blushed.

I love the idea of a color-based retrospective and I wish I could help, but the early years of designs only exist on paper. I meant to have them digitized but never got around to it. That said, since many of them are my work, I still have them in my possession. Unfortunately, I’m not comfortable sending them via mail or messenger since they’re fragile archival documents. I can send you photos of them, but you won’t get all of the nuance. Sorry I can’t be of more help. Please let me know if that works for you.

Sincerely,

Christopher Branson

Okay, it was a start! I bit my lip as I weighed my options. Do I accept photos, or…go big? I started typing before I could second guess myself.

Hi Christopher,

Thanks for getting back to me so quickly! I’m super interested in getting my hands on those drawings so I can really examine them and then do your work justice in the retrospective. Would it be possible to maybe swing by your place to see them? And then if you trust me, maybe I could transport them to the office to be digitized? No pressure, and thanks in advance!

Best,

Natalie

My heart pounded as I pushed send because I knew I was going behind my boss’s back, and if he found out, he wasn’t going to be pleased. The way James had shut me down last night made it clear he didn’t want me interacting with his brother at all, but Christopher was a grown man. If he didn’t want to work with me, he could say as much. He didn’t need his brother making the call.

And if all went according to plan, James would never even know.

The rest of the day flew by despite the fact that I kept refreshing my email, waiting for a reply from Christopher. I was about to admit defeat as I packed up to get ready to go to class, only to check one last time and get rewarded by a response from him.

Sure, you can come to my place to see them. Tonight works for me any time after eight. I’m in Hoyt Towers. Just call my cell when you get here.

His number was listed by his signature. Success!

I rushed off to class on a high that lasted until I was getting ready to walk out of the classroom, when MG cornered me. My hackles went up, but I tried to hide my discomfort with him. I wasn’t about to jeopardize my grade by offending my mega-famous instructor. Tonight, he looked a little like a bridge troll, his longish brown hair more disheveled than normal and his vintage Gordon Lightfoot T-shirt obscured by a variety of scarves around his neck. His fans tried to claim his messy look was his unique style, but to me he always looked like he’d just woken up and thrown on whatever was on his bedroom floor.

“Nat, girl, you outdid yourself with those swim sketches,” he said as he reached out to clasp my elbow. “I’m really impressed with you.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. This was fine, I guess. The touching I could do without, but at least it was my arm and not my shoulders.