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"Lucy, you're working too hard again."
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A voice from behind startled me. I jerked in my seat, my chin slipping from my palm where my elbow and hand held my head straight as I napped.
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"Elliot," I grumbled, rubbing my puffy eyes as my panic-induced heart hammered fearfully in my chest. "Don't sneak up on me like that!" I whined, shooting one disgruntled glare before turning back to the stack of paperwork on the desk before me.
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"If I'm not mistaken," Elliot grinned wickedly as he pulled a chair up beside mine. "Sleeping on the job is a major no-no."
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"If I'm not mistaken, you're a major butt-head." I snapped, my eyes scanning the paperwork that sifted through my fingers.
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"How long have you been here?" He sobered, his tone taking that parental edge I hated so much.
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"I don't know." I muttered petulantly, my eyes freezing on an underlined date on one of the contracts.
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Lifting a highlighter from my pencil-cup, I uncapped the yellow marker and highlighted the incorrect date with a stern squeak across the paper.
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"Lucy—"
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"Elliot, I don't have a choice!" I argued, desperate to cut him off before the lecture began.
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"You could ask me for help." He reasoned.
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"You're not in my department.” I hissed. “President fart-breath would never allow it." My eyes darted up to the office with the glass walls where my boss stalked back and forth while arguing with someone on the Bluetooth in his ear.
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"You're right. I'll go talk to him about cutting your hours." Elliot stood, his eyes dancing with mirth. In three long strides he was nearly out of arm's reach.
Overcome by adrenaline, encouraged by my panic, I launched myself from my seat and tackled the back of his legs.
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It wasn't my intention to bring the attention of the whole office down on our noisy clash of bodies, and floor, and Stupid Susan's trash-bin whose neighboring desk stood too closely to mine. But that's exactly what we did.
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"Shit." I hissed, scrambling to my feet beside a frantic Elliot who rose just as quickly— if not quicker— muttering obscenities under his breath while swearing to shave my head after work for drawing the attention of fart-breath boss-man on our unprofessional ruckus.
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"Lucy, you've really done it this time. Look he's glaring daggers at us, and— no, don't you dare sit down like you didn't do anything wrong! I'm going to pummel you after— shit, he's coming! Hide, hide, hi—"
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"Elliot, a moment please."
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I heard that deep voice, bearing its constant tone of disapproval that he attacked everyone with, and a shiver raked uncomfortably down my spine. I peeked over my computer just in time to see a fidgety Elliot following behind a ridged fart-breath boss-man.
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Ugh, that man, I thought to myself, pressing my fingers into my eyes as I groaned inwardly.
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Dearest Reader, I've painted a gruesome picture of our antagonist, haven't I? Are you imagining a short, stout, overweight, balding middle-aged man with low jowls that vibrate every time he speaks? And whose jelly eyes pop out of their sockets every time he shakes his head vehemently at someone he thoroughly dislikes/disapproves of (which is everybody, by the way)?
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Well done, Reader! I suggest you keep that portrait in mind, because the real view is much worse.
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Raising my head ever so slightly, I can watch the scolding Elliot receives from behind the glass walls of that frigid office. It's like watching a silent movie; lips moving, but not a voice heard.
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Those eyes like black coal scorched into my friend’s bowed head, and my knees quaked, and my heart thundered.
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Because the truth is, my ever-faithful reader, this grotesque monster you've imagined is wildly, unequivocally beautiful.
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Mr. Tom Banner, my terrible cross-to-bear Monday through Friday, eight AM to five PM, with his charcoal eyes, his nearly-black hair, his looming height of hey-how's-the-weather-up-there, and that stern set of his jaw that always bristled just a little five O' clock shadow.
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From his head to his hands that thumped long agitated fingers when dealing with incompetent employees, to his long, muscular legs, and then down to his massive feet, always dressed in shiny, black or worn brown dress-shoes—
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What was that, Reader? I'm drooling a little from the corner of my mouth?
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Yep, the Greek God I just described was my boss. And I hated him. Why, you ask? Well, obviously, because he's such an up-tight, stiff, impossible to please, rolling in dough, look-but-don't-touch, beautiful specimen of pure muscle and man!
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Oh, woe is me, I grouched, shaking such unwanted thoughts from my head as I watched like a deer caught in the headlights when my beautiful Greek God of a boss flicked those burning eyes to mine.
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I ducked.
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Elliot ratted me out! No way! That slimy, two-faced, son of a—
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"Lucia, could you join us, please?"
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"Yes, sir." Frowning miserably, I rose to my feet, smooth my wrinkled skirt with trembling hands, and on unsteady feet, I passed my sympathetic desk-mates (except for stupid Susan who just smirked cruely from behind her stupid glasses.)
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Entering the frigid office with its squeaky-clean glass walls, I clasped my hands nervously in front of me, awaiting further instruction as Mr. Tom Banner closed the door behind me.
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"Please sit."
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I do as I'm told, silently sitting in the empty chair beside Elliot, glaring at his absolute betrayal.
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"Traitor." I hissed. I folded my hands professionally in my lap before giving Mr. Boss Man my undivided attention.
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"Ms. Lucia," Mr. Tom Banner, God of all things good-looking and delicious, took a seat behind the large oak desk standing proudly opposite Elliot and I. Intertwining his fingers, he rest his hands on the desk, leaning forward, his stern stare penetrating mine until I shivered beneath the intensity of his gaze.
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"Mr. Lawerence," He waved a hand at Elliot. "Has informed me that your hours are taking a rather fatiguing toll on you."
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Gasping, my hair whipped around my face at the absolute velocity at which I turned my head to gape incredulously at Elliot.
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"It's not!" I turned my attention back to Mr. Boss Man. "It's not." I repeated myself, controlling my temper until I had a private opportunity to slug the traitor who dared rat me out!
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"I'm fine." I continued firmly. "I like the hours. I get paid more for overtime."
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"I'm aware. I sign your paychecks." He answered with a quirk of one black eyebrow, and I blushed feverishly while maintaining my confident, unblinking stare.
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"Please, take no offense, Ms. Lucia..."
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Argh, I hate the way he speaks to me, the way he says my name, like I'm an endearing child who must be addressed gently. My ancestors were descendants of Vikings! Vikings, I say!
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"...but if you're falling asleep at your desk, falling from your chair, and tripping your passing co-workers..."
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My head whipped back towards Elliot, and I couldn’t contain the hissing expletives that spilled from my mouth. "You lying, traitorous sack of—"
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"Ms. Lucia!" Mr. Tom Banner's voice rose as he disapprovingly snapped my name. I jumped in my seat, my guilty eyes sweeping from Elliot's to the stern, daring eyes of my wicked boss. "I'd advise you to keep a professional tone about yourself while you're in this office."
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I fumed.
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"Yes, sir." I growled, lowering my smoldering glower to the white knuckles that clenched fiercely in my lap.
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"Good." He nodded once, firmly, before continuing. "Now, I will not adjust your hours." Surprised, my head snapped up. "I will, instead, allow you to open interviews for an assistant. You can narrow your candidates down to three, and then I will interview, and we can discuss and decide together who will be your number two. I expect," he continued firmly, "your hours to drop with the help of another in your department. There will be no excuse for overtime, is that clear?"
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"Yes, sir." I answered softly, nodding ever-so-slightly to show my understanding. I sounded so... So... Little.
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Argh. Damn this man.
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"Elliot," He turned his attention to my former-friend. "I appreciate your attention towards our youngest team-member. You may go back to your desk."
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"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Elliot rose, buttoned his work-blazer, and left the cold office, closing the door behind him.
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"Lucy?" My eyes found Mr. Tom Banner's, and I couldn't hide the gentle surprise that marred my features at the sound of my less-formal first name on his lips.
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It sounded quite... Nice.
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Jerk.
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"Please take no offense when I remind you that you are very young." His voice gentled. It lost the stern edge of bossy professionalism now that Elliot had left the room, and I felt my stiff shoulders relax ever-so-slightly. "I think most youngsters assume that being young is a blessing— allowing you the opportunity to "bounce back."" He shook his head with a kind smile. "On the contrary, Lucy— being young means you still need your rest. You need to eat well, sleep well, and take care of yourself. And from the looks of it, that doesn't sound like what you're doing. Does it?" He quirked that damn eyebrow again and I felt my control slipping.
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"No, sir." My little reply, barely audible to my own ears, sounded breathy and… Young.
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How did he do that?
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"How old are you, Lucy?" He asked as if he could read my thoughts.
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"Twenty-four."
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"Straight out of college?"
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"Yes, sir."
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"Right." He nodded. "Take care of yourself. Start interviewing tomorrow." He nodded again, a final gesture that silently ordered me out of the office. I stood, and moved to the door. When he spoke again, my hand froze on the handle.
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"And, Lucy?"
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I turned.
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"Please come to me if you're in need of anything." He smiled, and I nodded numbly before removing myself from the glass fortress that looked less intimidating now, closing the door softly behind me.
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Dear Reader, what the hell just happened?
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There's only one possible explanation. I obviously hit my head when I crashed to the floor with Elliot, and was suffering from a post-pass-out hallucination.
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I would wake at any moment with Mr. Banner hovering over me while strong hands and coal-black eyes gazed into mine, concerned, sweetly asking me if I was okay...
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Gah!
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I gripped my head once I found my desk, and dropped my forehead into the cold, brown wood.
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This man is going to be the bane of my existence.
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Well, at least two weeks passed since my meeting with Mr. Banner, and managing my hours was a dream. And by "dream" I mean that Mr. Boss Man's plan to alleviate some of my overtime, didn't work.
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I didn't receive that many applicants for the position of number two in the sales department of my exhausting job, and the ones I did receive were under qualified, too young, too old (uh oh, here comes an ageist law-suit) or too...blech.
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Don't be so quick to judge, my Ever-Patient Reader. I was perfectly allowed to be picky in my hiring process. You see, I was technically a wedding coordinator, while also maintaining the position of Sales Director. My job was to sign new clients, before passing them to the wedding coordinator (which was me.)
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Whoever I hired would take the load of long wedding days, bitchy brides, and flower disasters, etc. and there needs to be a reasonable amount of experience in that. Whether they studied Hospitality and Tourism in college, or worked in sales, or perhaps they're tech-savvy, which means they would pick up on our software quicker than someone who isn’t...
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"Ms. Lucia, a moment." Mr. Tom Banner's voice snapped my head from the stack of resumes that cluttered my desk. His mouth was set in a firm line, and my stomach did a little flip as I stood and followed him back to his glass-fortress of doom.
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Did I do something wrong? He certainly looked more displeased than usual. There was the little something about my hiring an assistant by now, but surely...
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"Ms. Lucia," I cringed. So we were back to formalities. "I'm growing impatient. You've had two weeks to interview and narrow your candidates down for me, and while I understand your busy work-load, I cannot shake the incessant feeling that you're being stubborn in your decision making."
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I sucked my lower lip into my mouth and chewed on it nervously. When his coal-black eyes flashed to my mouth, his expression darkened, and I slowly, clumsily released the hold my teeth held on my bottom lip.
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Surely my delay in hiring an assistant wasn't the reason behind his foul mood. That seemed like such a minor thing in the whole messy empire he had to run daily.
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"Well," my voice escaped in a nervous squeak— damn this man for making me feel so small— and I watched his eyes gentle as he patiently waited for my explanation. "I just don't think I've found the right one yet, sir. I'm not receiving the right kind of applicants. If I were to hire any of the applicants on my desk today, I would be training them for several weeks, if not more before they could possibly work on their own, and I know that I won't have time to do that." I finished in a desperate plea, trying my hardest to convey my genuine effort in getting this done, but being without the proper tools to do so.
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Mr. Tom Banner stared at me for one achingly long moment, his eyes scanning over my profile. I blushed beneath his scrutiny, knowing he was taking in my wrinkled blouse, frazzled hair, and dark circles beneath my eyes.
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"And are you taking better care of yourself, Lucy?"
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My heart did an excited little flip at the sound of my desired-name on his lips.
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Traitorous heart.
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"Well, I—I—" I fidgeted in my seat, my hands nervously clutched in my lap. "I thought that wouldn't be entirely obtainable until I had the opportunity to find someone—"
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"Lucy, that was never the agreement." He interrupted, shaking his head disapprovingly as that damned mouth set back into its firm line. "I know for certain that you do not spend every waking moment of your time here. So, when you are home, I imagine you have time to properly eat? And rest? And..." his gaze drifted to my hair. "...bathe?"
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"Well, I am here a lot, but to an extent, yes—"
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"And, if I'm not mistaken, you don't bring lunch with you, hmm?" He quirked an eyebrow.
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"Uhm," Little Lucy's voice made another unwanted appearance.
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"And when your coworkers leave for lunch at mid-day, you do not accompany them."
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"Well, I—"
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"Lucy, I want you to listen carefully to me." Mr. Tom Banner leaned forward in his seat, and clasped his hands on the massive desk that stood between us. "While I cannot monitor your well-being at home, I can when you're here, under my surveillance from 8AM to 5PM, and I insist you take better care of yourself. Starting tomorrow, you will bring lunch to work, and you will take an hour to yourself in the middle of the day, is that understood?"
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I nodded, stunned, before immediately shifting my nod to a nervous shake of my head. His eyebrows raised so I hastily explained: "I have a wedding tomorrow— I'll be at Harcourt Square all day."
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"Then you'll find a quiet moment to stop, and see to your own needs."
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Dearest Reader, how do I tell my stubborn boss that THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS A QUIET MOMENT ON A WEDDING DAY.
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I nodded my head, and murmured a contrite: "yes sir."
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"Thank you." His voice gentled and the corners of his mouth quirked in a slight smile. I stilled in my seat and forgot how to breathe.
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At that moment, I looked into the future to find an opportunity to stop and feed myself tomorrow. I wanted to give him what he wanted, which was that I take care of myself. I wanted to say yes again, and again, and again, just to receive that rare smile he bestowed upon me.
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"Now, for the time being, I would like you to snag somebody from another department— preferably accounting or HR, as we have an abundance of those employees— to help you until you've decided on an applicant."
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A wicked glint shimmered in my eyes as I smiled appreciatively. "Thank you, sir. I know just who to ask."
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