One Last First Date Read online

  Well, not for him, obviously. But for me. Definitely for me.

  “It looks as though you’re on track to a strong end to the quarter.” Will looked up from my account status report and smiled at me. “Great work, Dunny.”

  I ignored the degrading nickname. “Thanks.” I gave him my least sincere smile—the one that didn’t reach my eyes. I glanced at my watch. “Is that all? Only, I have a couple of things to get done before we go to Nettco.” It still grated I had to take Will to my meeting. Especially now that he was my boss, temporary or not.

  “Sure, of course. Do you need anything else from me for that meeting?”

  “I’ve got it in hand.”

  There was a knock at the door. I spied Paige through the glass. I stood up and opened the door. Paige smiled at me, her color already rising at the prospect of being enclosed within these four walls with the object of her desire.

  Some people have no taste.

  “Hi, I hope I’m on time?” she said breathlessly to Will.

  I could warm my chilly hands on her face, she was blushing so profusely. I placed my hand on the doorknob. “He’s all yours, Paige.”

  “Come on in, Millsey,” Will said.

  I shot him a look. Why did she get “Millsey” when I got named after a latrine?

  “And thanks, Dunny. I’ll see you at one thirty.”

  I winced as I closed the door behind me, glad to be away from my new boss. Ha! As if that could ever happen. Not if I had anything to do with it, anyway.

  I dropped my files on my desk, picked up a box with a pretty ribbon and an envelope entitled “Private and Confidential,” and headed to the stairwell. I bounded up the stairs, two at a time, in my strappy heels—no easy feat, if you would pardon the pun.

  I reached the door to the executive floor. I smoothed my hair, smacked my lips, and took a deep breath. I pushed the door open and stepped onto the plush dark gray carpet. I looked around at the sleek interior: the tasteful art on the walls, the soft, inviting leather chairs, the large glass windows with their view of Auckland’s sparkling blue harbor. As far as the corporate world was concerned, this place was so luxurious I could almost hear the chorus of angels sing.

  I sighed. Oh, yes, this was where it was at. This is where I was destined to be. Now, to work on making that happen.

  Holding the box and envelope, I approached Brian, Laura’s executive assistant and trained Rottweiler. Seriously, all he needed was the studded collar and a bit more drool and he wouldn’t look out of place at the pound. I stifled a giggle at the thought as I stood, waiting for him to finish what he was working on. I waited. And waited.

  Eventually, he looked up from his computer at me. “Cassie. How nice.” His voice oozed sarcasm. “How can I help?”

  “Hi, Brian! How are you?” I said with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. “You look fantastic in that . . .” I glanced over his outfit. He was wearing a white collared shirt, a gray waistcoat, and a blue and white striped bowtie. He looked like he was about to jump up onto his desk and sing barbershop with a group of similarly dressed men. “. . . ah, snazzy ensemble.”

  Snazzy?

  He gave me the least genuine smile I’d seen in weeks, narrowing his eyes. “Thank you.”

  “I brought you something.” Pushing the envelope under my arm, I opened the box and presented him with an apple turnover, stuffed to the brim with stewed apples, cinnamon, whipped cream, and, quite possibly, a thousand calories.

  Brian’s eyes bulged in his chubby face. “Are you trying to bribe me, Cassie Dunhill?”

  “Not at all!” I protested, my eyes wide. I placed the open box in front of him and picked up a pen on his desk. I began to play with it. “Is Laura in, Brian?”

  He held out his open hand. I placed the pen into it like a chastised child.

  “Do you have an appointment?” he asked, knowing full well I didn’t.

  “No, I was just hoping to catch her for a little chat. You know, while you eat that delicious apple treat you’ve got there.”

  He pursed his lips, still looking at me through narrowed eyes.

  It was time. I needed to go big or go home. I took a couple of steps toward Laura’s closed office door. “Shall I just go on in?”

  Quicker than you could say “juicy bone,” Brian the Rottweiler bounced out of his chair faster than I would ever have expected a man of his impressive girth could and beat me to the door. “I’ll check. You . . . shoo.”

  Shoo? What am I, a stray cat?

  I took a step back and waited as Brian and Laura spoke in hushed tones, the door ajar.

  A moment later, Brian swung it open. “Laura can see you now.”

  “Thanks, Brian. You’re a real sweetie.”

  He did his best to suppress a smile as I walked past him. Who knew? Brian the Rottie was really a soft, fluffy Spoodle at heart.

  Laura looked up from her desk momentarily. “Cassie. Come on in, have a seat.” She continued to work.

  I did as instructed, enjoying the feel of the soft leather chair as I sat, waiting for her to finish.

  Closing her laptop, she looked at me. “What have you done? You look . . . different.”

  I was getting tired of this. “I banged my nose. It’s fine.”

  “Good, good. Now, I think I know why you’re here. We needed to act fast last night, and Will was ready and able.”

  I shrugged, hoping I look relaxed, despite my raging internal anger. “It’s fine, Laura,” I lied. “I understand you did what you had to do, what was best for the business. I apologize for not having been available last night when you called.”

  She brushed my apology away with her hand. “Don’t mention it. We have a solution, and I’m hoping it will be business as usual down there.”

  I nodded. “Of course. Business as usual,” I said through gritted teeth, thinking of “Poop Boy” strutting around, the power totally gone to his head.

  “I do very much hope you’ll apply for the permanent role, however. We plan on advertising it shortly.”

  Hope rose in me like a hot air balloon. “Oh, I plan on it.”

  She smiled. “Good.”

  “In fact . . .” I reached across her desk and handed her the envelope. “Here’s my CV.”

  She took it, raising her eyebrows at me. “You’re organized, I see.”

  “I really want this job, Laura.”

  Her phone rang, interrupting us. She picked it up and looked at the screen. “I have to take this. Talk soon?”

  “Sure,” I replied. I got up to leave. “And Laura? Thanks.”

  * * *

  At one thirty on the dot, I knocked on Richard’s door, resenting the fact it was now Will “Poop Boy” Jordan’s door and not mine, no matter how nice Laura had been about it. I had barely removed my knuckles when the door swung open.

  Will stood in front of me, suit jacket and tie on, laptop bag in hand. “Ready to go?”

  I shot him an irritated look. “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Great.” He patted his right thigh, then his left. I shot him a confused look. Is this some sort of superstitious dance he performs before a big meeting?

  “Keys,” he explained.

  “You won’t need those. I’ll drive.” I dangled the keys to my car in front of him.

  “No, really. You relax while I drive.”

  “I’m happy to, honestly.”

  “No. I insist.”

  I sighed, giving in. This was becoming ridiculous. “Sure.”

  It was going to be a long afternoon.

  Once in his car—a late model European that made mine look like the overlooked bridesmaid at a wedding—he talked continuously about the Nettco deal. He was full of advice and examples of successes he’d had with his accounts. Eventually, I’d had enough.

  “Yes, yes. We all know you’re our rock star. You don’t need to keep banging on about it so much.”

  He looked at me sideways. “Is that why you think I’m telling you about my acco
unts? To brag?”

  “Why else?” It seemed pretty freaking obvious to me.

  He looked at me for such a long moment, I was forced to yell, “Watch the road, Will!”

  He seemed to snap out of it, returning his eyes to the road—where they needed to be. We both fell silent. It wasn’t one of those easy silences you can have with friends. No. This silence was more akin to nails being dragged down a blackboard.

  I think we were both relieved when we finally pulled up outside the Nettco Electricity head office.

  Will parked the car—still silent—and we walked the short distance to the building entrance. As I was about to walk through the automatic doors, he placed his hand on my arm. I stopped and looked at him, expecting a last-minute pep talk about how amazing he was. Or something equally nauseating.

  Instead, he paused and said, “I’m actually a pretty good guy, you know.”

  I shifted my weight. Why did he care what I thought of him? “Sure. Of course. No one said you weren’t.”

  “Well, actually, you did. Back there, in the car. You accused me of bragging.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I didn’t accuse you of anything.”

  “You did. I was only trying to give you some examples of my solutions. I wasn’t trying to boast.”

  I put my hands up in the air in surrender. “Okay. You weren’t bragging, and you’re a great guy.”

  He looked at me for a moment before his face broke into a cheeky grin. “I’m glad we cleared that up, Dunny.”

  I smiled back at him despite myself. “Do not call me that in this meeting.”

  “Is Cassandra better? Oh, I forgot, that’s only when you’re really, really naughty.” He did that irritating Mexican wave thing with his eyebrows again.

  My lips formed a thin line. “‘Cassie’ will do just fine, thank you. Now, shall we go in and close this deal?”

  Forty-five minutes later, we’d shown John, Michelle, and Ferdinand how well “The Sheldon” would fit their business model with a presentation to be proud of. Knowing them as I did, I could tell they were impressed. I hoped it was enough to get them across the metaphorical line and sign the all-important deal.

  To my unutterable surprise, Will didn’t dominate the meeting and didn’t even claim “The Sheldon” as his own design. He did, however, ensure no one forgot he was my boss, mentioning it needlessly throughout the discussion: “Your user interface would look like this, and I’m Cassie’s boss,” and “As Cassie’s boss, you’ll see how competitively priced this nodule is,” and, my personal favorite, “Can you tell Cassie’s boss where the bathroom is?”

  Okay, I exaggerate, but you get the idea. It was so unnecessary.

  John, Nettco’s Head of Information Technology, was especially exuberant in his handshaking at the end of the meeting. “This is exactly what we need, Cassie. Thank you.”

  I smiled at him. I could almost see that deal being signed on the dotted line. “I’m so pleased, John.”

  “You should have brought The Old Willster here months ago! Saved us all this to-ing and fro-ing.”

  The Old Willster? What was this, a boy’s club?

  “Ah, yes,” I replied through gritted teeth. I took a furtive glance at Will, aka The Old Willster, aka “Poop Boy”. Of course, he was beaming from ear to ear, thinking he’d just closed the deal and that my months of work meant zip.

  Will shook John’s hand. “I’m just glad we have a solution to fit your needs, John . . . or should I say ‘Chicken’?”

  John looked sharply at Will. My eyes darted between Will’s smiling face and John’s, like I was watching a tennis match. What on this sweet earth possessed Will to call my important customer “Chicken,” just as it looked like we’d finally reached a deal? Was he certifiably insane?

  To my eternal relief, John burst into laughter, slapping Will on the back. “You know Spongey and Toad, do you?”

  “Shoot pool with them every Wednesday night. They’re a great group of guys. Hey, you should join us some time. Word on the street is Chicken’s got a pretty good game.”

  I glanced at Michelle. I bet she didn’t have a stupid, immature nickname like “Spongey” or “Chicken” and play pool with “Toad” on a Wednesday. She rolled her eyes at me in an act of female solidarity, and I smiled back at her, shaking my head. No, she was a grown-up, known as “Michelle.” As she should be.

  After the pool conversation finally dried up, I agreed to present John a formal offer by the end of the week and we left—after more male bonding, back-slapping, name-calling, and general grunting and chest beating. I tell you, all we needed was a fire and we’d have a bona fide caveman convention on our hands.

  Will was still smiling to himself as we drove back to the office.

  “Why don’t you draft the contract with Legal and I’ll have a look over it?” Will suggested as he drove out of Nettco’s parking lot.

  I bristled. “I’m quite capable of putting the contract together myself. I’ve been doing this for much longer than you, you know.”

  “I know. And you’re great at it.”

  I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. Will was complimenting me now? What was he playing at? “Err, thanks.”

  After a beat, he added, “I need to approve it, you know, as your boss.”

  Suddenly uncomfortable, I shifted in my seat. The boss thing again. “Oh. Right.”

  “How’s Friday morning for you? Does that give you enough time?”

  I tried to sound relaxed, unfazed. “Sure. No problem.”

  In the interest of driving harmony, I decided to change the subject. “So, what actually is your nickname? The one Chicken and Toad and other assorted animals use?”

  He grinned. “Guess.”

  I crossed my arms. “I’m not going to do that. It could be anything.”

  “What if I give you a hint?”

  I shook my head. “You know what? I don’t really care. You’re ‘Poop Boy’ as far as I’m concerned.”

  He chuckled. “You’re not very good at nicknames, are you?”

  “No. And I don’t care to be either.”

  Chapter 6

  “CASSIE, YOU LOOK WONDERFUL. I like your hair like that,” Parker said, standing at my front door. He was dressed in a pair of khakis and a polo shirt, down to the very last detail like the kind of guy you want to take home to your parents.

  “You, too,” I replied wistfully. Suddenly shy, I smoothed down my pale green, slim-fitting dress and clenched my toes in my silver heels. Since my favorite date dress got itself snagged on a barstool with disastrous consequences on its last outing, this dress has moved up the ranks to officially become Number One Date Dress.

  Parker leaned in and kissed me on the cheek.

  “Thanks.” I beamed at him—my future husband.

  He smiled back at me, arching an eyebrow. “Thanks for kissing you?”

  “Err, yes?”

  He laughed. “Well, you’re welcome then. How’s the nose? It looks better I see.” He took my face in his hand and moved my head from one side to the other, like he was a doctor. Which, of course, he was.

  It did not feel romantic.

  “It’s a lot better, thanks,” I replied, my face still a little squished by his hold.

  “That’s great.” He let go. “Shall we?”

  I shrugged my jacket on and collected my purse from the table by the door. “Absolutely. I’m looking forward to this.”

  He took my arm in his like we were in an old-time musical and were about to sing a happy number together as we sashayed down the street.

  “We’re going to walk, if that’s okay with you. It’s nice out tonight, and the club is only about ten minutes away.”

  I glanced down at my shoes. I was wearing the ones Marissa called my “killer” shoes, not because they looked good—although they most certainly did—but because they hurt my feet more than any other shoe known to humanity. They were high, adding a much-needed handful of inches to my diminutive height
, strappy, and sparkly. In short, total shoe nirvana. Or at least in the looks stakes. In the comfort stakes? Not so much.

  “Sure!” I replied brightly. “That sounds great. Just great.”

  As we walked through the city streets—one of us in ever-increasing pain—we chatted about our respective days. I told him about my success with Nettco and about how I’d applied for the Regional Manager’s job. I left out the bit about Will “Poop Boy” Jordan acting as Interim Manager. I didn’t want to think about him while I was on my second date with my future husband.

  With every step, my poor, battered feet screamed at me. And with every step I repeated in my head, Nearly there, Band-Aids in purse.

  We stopped outside a boutique with pretty summer dresses in the window. My feet screamed at me some more.

  I forced a smile.

  “Here we are,” Parker said.

  I looked up and down the street. “Where, exactly?”

  “At the club. It’s down here.” He led me to a dark door next to the boutique. The sign above the door read “Sammy’s,” lit up by a spotlight. I hobbled along beside him, hoping Parker wouldn’t notice.

  He opened the door and a cacophony of sound, which I had to assume was jazz, blasted out, up the stairs, and onto the street.

  I swallowed.

  Parker shot me a concerned look. “Are you all right, Cassie?”

  “Yes. Absolutely. I’m just so . . . excited.”

  “I bet you are. I remember the first time I went to a jazz club. It. Blew. My. Mind.”

  Listening to the discordant noise from down the stairs, I could well imagine that.

  We walked down the stairs into the boutique’s basement. I surveyed the room. The whole place was dark, and other than the bar and where the band was playing, the only light came from the small lamps on the tables covered with red and white checked tablecloths.

  The band stopped murdering their instruments, and the crowd erupted into applause. I darted a look at Parker. He was also applauding, so I joined in.