I’ve been in a shit mood all day and no matter what I do, I can’t seem to shake it. The day started off well enough. I slept well; I got my morning workout in, and I was excited to come to work. I wanted to see Wren and see how she slept, talk to her after we spent so much time together last night. But seeing him speaking to her, touching her… It was like someone pissed in my Cheerios.
“Sir?” she says, almost appearing like an apparition before me.
“Where are the contracts I asked for? I told you to have them on my desk first thing this morning.” I don’t even bother looking at her.
“Contracts, sir?”
“Yes. The Whitlock contracts.” She doesn’t say a word, merely takes two more steps toward my desk and pulls a stack of files out from beneath my own arm.
“Oh… thanks.” I know I should apologize for my rudeness today, but she’s completely unfazed and simply turns on her black suede pumps and walks back out of my office.
I grab the bottle of water from my desk and chug it before leaning back in my chair. I hate that this worthless piece of shit can get to me so much. I pull out my phone and type in Penn Bradley into the internet search bar. His LinkedIn profile is the first result and I click on it. He has the classic frat boy, do-you-know-who-my-daddy-is smug-ass look on his face. A look that says I’m untouchable and privileged and haven’t worked for shit a day in my life.
The funny thing is, I do know who his daddy is. He’s a wealthy hedge fund broker who made his money in the eighties. Built an empire and crushed a lot of helpless people on his climb to the top.
I feel my blood start to boil again when the image of him reaching out and grabbing her hands flashes across my brain. I’ve watched him treat her like shit for too long already. I’m no relationship expert, and I know it takes time, but I wish I could do something to help her move on from him. She has to know that a real man would treat her like a queen, like she deserves the world because she does.
I let myself imagine what it would be like to have her as my own. I’d be proud to stand with her, to be known as her man. I would spoil her. I could take her places, show her things. I wouldn’t guilt her into always doing what I wanted. I wouldn’t make her feel guilty for taking care of herself instead of giving me attention. The guy made her feel guilty for working for God’s sake. The thoughts exit my brain as quickly as they enter; I don’t need to let myself get lost in fantasyland or I’ll just end up even more pissed off when I have to remind myself of my place in her life.
I spend my morning buried in work. I sign off on a few projects and read over some paperwork for proposed employee contracts. Most of it is legal mumbo jumbo so I forward it all over to my lawyer to break down for me. I waste way too much trying to avoid thinking about Wren and finally it’s lunchtime. I’m not in the mood to eat at my desk; I need some fresh air to clear my head and maybe an afternoon drink to take the edge off. I grab my keys, tell Cheryl I’m heading out, then drive out to the suburbs to my country club.
I arrive and hand the keys off for the valet before entering. When I do, someone is quick to take my coat. I’m greeted by name and shown to a quiet little table in the back by a window that overlooks the golf course.
“Mr. Carmichael, here is your usual,” Miles, my usual waiter, says as he places a scotch on the rocks down in front of me. One of the perks of being this kind of wealthy, you don’t even have to ask for things; it’s just done for you.
“Thank you,” I reply, picking it up and taking a sip, savoring the bitterness against my lips. “While I decide on what to order, can I get a glass of water?”
“Right away, sir,” he replies, turning to retrieve it.
He’s back within moments.
“I think I’d like to try the duck with the cherry sauce and whatever sides that come with it.” I close the menu and hand it over.
“I’ll put that in for you, sir.” He turns and rushes off, leaving me alone.
I look out over the golf course as I wait, trying to clear my head. It’s a warm, sunny day and the golf course’s lush fairway is sprawling further than I can see. I haven’t played golf in ages and I consider calling off the rest of the day just to get a few swings in. It would be nice to feel the warmth of the sun on my face, to feel the light breeze against my skin, to not have to worry about turning around and finding the woman I’ve been in love with for years talking to the asshole who treated her like shit. On second thought, I would like to go back to work and call her into my office and get to the bottom of all of this. But that really isn’t my place as her boss. As her friend, maybe. But boss, no way. Pretty sure she could file a complaint against me for it if she wanted and I don’t want to make her uncomfortable in the workplace; she loves her job and she’s killer at it.
“Here you are, sir.” Miles arrives and places the food down in front of me. “Would you like me to freshen your scotch?”
“Thanks, Miles, I’m good for now.” He nods and walks away as I inhale the food. Pierre, the chef here, is out of this world. I’ve jokingly offered him a job as my private chef, which he always laughs and declines, but if he wanted to do it, I’d hire him in a heartbeat.
I savor every bite of the tender buttery duck, taking my time to avoid heading back to the office. I really should eat here more often. One of the best things about this place isn’t the Michelin grade food or rubbing elbows with Chicago’s most elite. It’s the fact that everyone here is held to a pretty high standard, meaning that if someone is eating, you don’t try engaging them in conversation. You save the shop talk for the golf course or when you’re having a cigar in the smoking lounge.
Memories of last night in Wren’s apartment permeate my thoughts. I think about her comment asking if I remembered when she made us Ramen noodles one of the first nights we worked late together. I casually brushed it off but what I wanted to say to her was, Oh, I remember that night, alright. It was the first time we ever worked late together. You had removed your heels and were leaning over a table in the conference room when I walked in and saw the view. You had on sheer black tights that had a seam that ran up the back of your curvy legs like something from the 1940s. Your tight skirt cupped your ass and flared out into a ruffle at the bottom. You looked back over your shoulder when you heard me walk in and gave me a smile that shot electricity through my veins. It took everything in my power not to walk up to you bent over like that and sink my teeth right into your full backside. Talk about an image burned in your memory.
I glance at my watch. Cheryl will be calling me if I’m not back to the office soon. I wave Miles over and sign my tab before slipping him a hundred. I push my chair back and stand, heading directly for the exit while making no eye contact. I’m able to get by most of them easily enough, but I’m caught at the door by an old flame, Jennifer Presley.
“Theo, where have you been, darling?” she asks as she grabs ahold of my arm and stops me.
I plaster a fake smile onto my face and turn to greet her. “Hello, Jennifer. How are you?”
She offers up her blinding smile as her blue eyes sparkle. “I’m well, how are you?”
I nod. “As good as ever I suppose.”
“Have you heard of my recent engagement?” she asks, brushing her dark hair away from her face with her left hand. Her giant engagement ring catches the light and nearly blinds me. Naturally it’s the size of the iceberg that sank the damn Titanic. Jennifer was never one for subtlety.