9. Marley

9

MARLEY

“ F eeling better, Miss Green?” Mr. Schuster asks me when I arrive at work the next morning, scaring the absolute shit out of me. I had assumed the man didn’t awake until after ten in the morning. But here he is, perched on the new reception desk as if he roosts there overnight.

“Mr. Schuster,” I say, clutching my Kleenex-filled hand to my chest. “You startled me. But, yes, I’m feeling a little better.” It’s mostly true—after a sinfully delicious meal from Liam, hours of rest, and a decent night sleep filled with steamy Liam-infused dreams, I can feel the fog lifting.

“Glad to hear it.” He hops off the desk and clutches his hands behind him. “I just wanted to see what progress the contractors are making here and, of course, check on you.”

“I appreciate it,” I comment, noticing now that the floors were finished while I was gone the day before. “I think they’re doing a fantastic job. Lightning fast.”

“Ah, well, yes. I made the speed worth their while.”

I don’t know how to respond, so I keep my mouth shut even though I can feel the rise of my eyebrow giving my thoughts away. Who has that kind of money? And why would he throw it at this project? I get that it’s been in his family for a while, but… I brush off my journalistic spidey sense and focus on my boss. “Do you want to see what I have planned so far for the first issue?”

His smile is genuine. “I think you know that I do.”

Smiling, I set my bag on the desk and remove my laptop. I open it to the initial layout. “Keep in mind I’m just trying things out. Anything you don’t like or don’t approve of, I can change in a blink.”

“Not quite like the old letterpress days anymore, is it?”

“Thankfully no, I’d never get anything done,” I comment, stepping out of the way so he can see the screen. My stomach does a nervous flip-flop as he peruses my layout silently and I prepare to blink back tears when he inevitably hates it.

My sense of doom grows as he looks over every inch of what I’ve done, from the graphics to the headings to the page break ornaments. Nothing gets by him.

The disappointed purse of his lips when he finally finishes spikes my anxiety and I grip onto the desk to hold my ground and keep my shit together.

“Miss Green,” he finally says, turning to address me. “I love it. I love how you’ve refreshed the masthead without taking away the old-time charm. And I love the section choices you’ve made so far.”

Oh, thank God . I let out a breath and smile. “I’m just getting started, there will be much more.”

“I have no doubt,” he says, rocking back on his heels. “I knew you were the right person when I read your article on the rising concerns of water quality across rural Wisconsin.”

I blink. I wrote that article for the University of Wisconsin’s newspaper as a Junior there. “You read that?”

“Absolutely. One of your best, I’d say. Followed closely by ‘Why we love to hate these celebrities.’”

I redden and giggle nervously. I was hoping he’d missed the majority of my social media articles, but apparently not. “Hard-hitting journalism for sure.”

“Maybe not the topic, but the writing,” he grins. “Spectacular. Only you could make me care about the best Valentine’s presents to get my boo.”

This time I laugh, grateful that he could see through the topics to what I truly love—writing. “Thank you.”

“No, my dear girl, thank you . I can’t wait to see this place churning again. I want you to make a list of employees you think we might need to get a short run of our first issue out. I’ve already hired an assistant for you that will also act as a receptionist, but I’ll take your recommendations on the rest.”

I nod, my mind already creating a short list.

“Speaking of which, I think she’s here now.”

“Who?” I ask, distracted, following his eyes to where a very expensive car is pulling up to the building, somehow managing to take up three spots.

“My granddaughter and your new assistant.”

“Oh.” I watch, stomach sinking as a tall, thin, model-gorgeous young lady climbs out of her car on sky-high heels that probably cost more than my rent. Her bright pink body-con dress and jewel-encrusted manicure have me forming an opinion about her that, as a journalist, I should ignore. Only, I’m human too and I’m pretty sure she types at about 15 words per minute if I’m lucky. “She’s beautiful.” Is all I can get out.

“Smart as a whip,” he tells me. “Or she would be if she would apply herself to anything other than fashion and make-up. I think she needs direction, a purpose, and I think you can help her find it.”

I give him a wan smile. Great, another task on my growing list of impossible missions. “I will do my best.”

But I can feel my stomach sink further as I watch her struggle to open the door with her phone in one hand and her Gucci clutch in the other.

Once she’s inside, she lifts her oversized sunglasses and looks around the room. When her bright blue eyes land on her grandfather, she smiles. It’s stunning. Like a live Barbie just walked into my job. “Grandpa Charles,” she coos, scooting across the floor as fast as her heels will let her to wrap him in a hug.

He holds her at arm’s length after the embrace. “Finola, darling, you look stunning.”

“You too,” she comments, straightening his pocket square. “Tom Ford looks good on you. I knew it would.”

He chuckles and nods toward me. “Finola, I’d like you to meet your new boss and the head of everything here, Marley Green.”

I hold my breath as Finola’s eyes scan my red, puffy face, my off-the-rack leggings, and my flannel that’s almost entirely hole-free. I hold out my hand to shake hers. “It’s wonderful to meet you.” I offer. “Glad to have you on board.”

“Oh, my goodness, your eyes are gorgeous.” She puts her hand in mind and pumps it up and down. “They’re like green sea glass.”

“Thank you?” Is all I can get out.

“And those freckles,” she shakes her head. “You know people are getting those tattooed now.”

I smirk. “I wish I could tell ten-year-old me that. She hated them.”

Finola laughs, Mr. Schuster laughs, and I laugh because if I don’t, I’ll cry, and my eyes are already puffy enough.

What did I get myself into?