Why Lie? (Love Riddles #2) (32 page)

His problem is he sets his own goals beyond what is expected of him at work. His drive, his ambition is one of the things I love about him. I wish he wasn’t so hard on himself.

I’m the first one at work. I’m a secretary. No, it wasn’t my lifelong aspiration to be one. I just fell into it. There is something about being the only person in the office before anyone else arrives, a peaceful calm before the storm. I flip on the lights before I make my way to my desk, dumping my purse and umbrella into the bottom drawer before I head to the break room with my frozen lunch to make coffee.

I don’t drink coffee every day, and if I do, not in the morning. I’m more of an occasional afternoon pick me up coffee kind of girl. However, I do love the smell of brewing coffee. For this reason, I’m the self-appointed office coffee maker. This way I can sit in the break room and hog all the fresh coffee smell to myself. The sound of movement from the hall surprises me. I peek my head around the corner. No one is ever here this early.

“Hello?” I call out tentatively.

I jump when I see Elliot, another secretary. He looks surprised to see me.

“Hey. You’re here early,” I say in greeting.

“Uh. Yeah.” He looks away. “I wanted to take care of some stuff.”

We aren’t work besties or anything, but he’s acting weird. I suddenly feel bad for not making an effort to get to know him better. I make a mental note to go out of my way to do that. Now is not the time though. I head back to my desk and start my computer. My boss, Mr. Fulson, will be here any minute and he’s meeting with a potential client at nine.

Today my long, blonde hair is pulled into a low ponytail; but no matter how frequently I smooth it back, strands around my face always seem to come loose. My hair has curling tendencies, not enough for my hair to be considered curly, enough for it to frizz when it’s extra humid out. Which is April to October in North Carolina.

“Good morning, Mr. Fulson,” I greet as my boss approaches.

“Morning,” he returns, rushing past my desk.

I stand and trail after him to the door of his office. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

Most mornings he drinks his brew at home with his wife. Mrs. Fulson is great and I can’t help but watch them together, and hope someday that will be Mike and me.

We aren’t high school sweethearts as they were. We met in college and we almost didn’t meet at all. It was our senior year, a month before graduation. I never went to very many parties because I was on an educational scholarship, which didn’t pay room and board. For that reason, when I wasn’t studying, I was working.

Jen, my roommate, talked me into going to a party with her. It wasn’t a crazy, frat party or anything; I never would have gone if it were. Not many people were there. I didn’t intend to stay long; however, once I met Mike that all changed. His gravitation toward sales after we graduated was no surprise. He is a born salesperson. That night he sold himself to me.

I don’t know what about me drew him in. I do know, previously, I had never felt so pursued. I wasn’t naïve or new to dating; but his level of interest from the start just seemed different. Here we are, eight years later, still together. As intent as he was on us becoming a couple, he seems uninterested in getting married.

We’re engaged, have been for three years. Things have happened during that time to explain why we haven’t actually gotten married. Understandable things, I guess. Only, I see or hear about couples all the time who have even more going on but still somehow manage to make it happen. I tell him it doesn’t bother me, but it does. Most of our friends are married now too; it’s hard to go to their weddings and not think about the fact Mike and I have been engaged longer than any of them were.

“Courtney?”

I shake my head and realize I’ve been standing there lost in my own thoughts. “Sorry, Mr. Fulson. I zoned out. Did you want coffee?”

He looks annoyed. “No, I had my coffee at home this morning. I asked you for the Offenheim file.”

I nod, giving him my best professional expression. “Yes, Sir.”

I turn and hurry to my desk. The Offenheims are well known in town, and every business locally has tried to add them to their client lists. The company I work for acts as an asset manager. On staff are estate teams, retirement teams, tax advisors, and growth experts. Mr. Fulson is one of the best relationship managers in the business.

I pass Elliot in the hall and give him a small smile. He looks distracted and avoids my eyes. Maybe I could ask him out to lunch; he seems so stressed. I grab the Offenheim file and bring it back to Mr. Fulson. Most of the records we have are duplicates of stuff he could have easily found on our computer network. My boss is old school; he doesn’t like reading documents electronically. He likes to spread them out on his desk to review them.

Old-fashioned, yes, but it works in his favor. He has a knack at being able to identify what a client seems to be missing. Most of the time, the clients, themselves, have not been able to figure out how to put into words what they need. He can, and when presented correctly, he has won accounts frequently that way. I look up to my boss. He is a good guy and smart.

I have tried to emulate the way he evaluates situations. It wasn’t my dream in life to be a relationship manager. I was a history major. I had hoped to teach; but even though I applied all over, I couldn’t find any openings near where we lived. I thought about subbing, but Mike knew someone who was able to get me an interview here.

“Here is the file.” I reach out to hand it to him.

“Were you able to add the real estate reports yesterday?” he asks, flipping the folder open.

“Yes, they’re right on top.” I smile, hoping he would be happy with all of the work I had done yesterday.

“This looks good, Courtney,” for some reason he seems almost disappointed as he says it. He pauses before continuing, “They should be here in less than thirty minutes. I’ll be meeting with them in the small conference room. Please prepare a beverage tray, and then run to the bakery to pick up a few scones.”

I hurriedly start a new pot of coffee before going down to the bakery located on the first floor of our building. Because the food’s so good, I avoid the place like the plague. I am past the days where I can eat whatever I want without worrying about gaining weight. Mike still looks the same. He is better than I am about working out.

Sometime over the last eight years, I have managed to put on an extra ten, or so, pounds. It wouldn’t be a big deal if I weren’t freaking out that maybe the extra weight is the reason Mike is putting off wedding planning. I need to go to the gym; but I don’t want people to see me working out until I am smaller. How dumb is that? Avoiding the gym because there are in-shape people there.

There’s a small line at the bakery. I glance down at my watch to see how much time I still have before the Offenheims get there. Luckily, when it’s my turn to order, I don’t need them to prepare anything. I only need five scones and I’m back at my desk in no time. I open the small conference room to air out the stale smell in there, while I set up the refreshment tray.

I transfer fresh coffee, cream, and sugar to a small coffee set we have. I also fill up a water pitcher and add ice. Once everything is set up, I roll my shoulders back a couple of times to release the tension gathering there. I’m only at my desk a couple minutes before I get the call from the front desk that the Offenheims are here.

I notify Mr. Fulson before going out to greet them. He will meet us in the small conference room once I have them seated and offer them refreshment. I glance at my reflection in the glass window of an office before going to greet them. I wore my best suit today to make a good impression.

I hate hose; so today, I only wore pants to work to avoid them. My suit is a simple black with thin white pinstripes that I have paired with a cerulean shell. Mr. and Mrs. Offenheim are joined by their eldest son, Grant. Grant Offenheim is something of a local celebrity around these parts. He is a frequent addition to eligible bachelor lists locally, and I think a national magazine one year.

This is the first time I have met him. He is stutter-inducingly beautiful. I plaster my most professional face on and try not to sneak too many glances at him. I don’t think it’s cheating to ogle attractive men. He seems pleasant. I don’t expect him to throw himself at me or be overly cordial; if anything, he seems distracted.

Both Misters Offenheim take coffee, while Mrs. asks for tea. I pass Mr. Fulson on my way to the break room and explain. He looks annoyed I hadn’t thought of tea ahead of time. Maybe I’m assuming he’s annoyed because I’m annoyed with myself for overlooking it. I return to the conference room with the tea in no time.

I have made one cup by itself and have more tea steeping in a pot on a tray. After I add, per her request, milk to her tea I excuse myself. Our office manager is waiting for me when I get back to my desk.

“Courtney, can you please come to my office?”

I give Beth a confused look. “Sure, everything okay?”

She shakes her head and turns, so all I can do is follow her. Once we’re in her office, she closes her door. Why did she close her door?

My palms start sweating and I rub them across the tops of my pant legs to dry them.

“Courtney, after an investigation, we believe you have been misappropriating funds from petty cash. If you are able to replace the amount you have taken, we will not contact the authorities; but in either scenario, your employment is being terminated immediately.”

As if it was the starting line of a horse race, my heart begins to gallop. Soon her voice is a dull distant noise against the rumble of the stampede echoing in my ears.

“What?” I stammer, “I haven’t stolen anything from petty cash. I took ten dollars today to buy scones from downstairs. I have a receipt. I haven’t entered it into the system yet because I was making coffee and tea for Mr. Fulson’s appointment.”

“I’m sorry, Courtney, but this is more than ten dollars.”

“You’re joking.” I nervously laugh because it doesn’t feel like she’s joking. “I swear I didn’t steal anything. Please give me a chance to somehow prove it to you.”

“I will escort you to your desk so you may collect your things. You will need to give me your key at that time. If you are not able to write me a check for the amount missing from petty cash, we will take it from your final check.”

When she stands, I mimic her movements blindly dazed by everything she just said. Something isn’t right. They have to know I wouldn’t ever steal from them. Beth grabs a flattened box on the way out of her office. When we reach my desk, she hands it to me.

They aren’t only firing me; they’re forcing me to make my own box to carry out my stuff. As she watches me, I decide what to take. Although the stapler is technically mine, will she assume I’m stealing it? I grab the framed picture I have of Mike and me.

I look up at her after grabbing my purse. “Does Mr. Fulson know you’re firing me?”

When she nods, I take a deep breath. I had thought to myself, there was no way he would let them do this. Apparently, I was wrong. People are looking and whispering. Eyes of people I have talked to everyday dig into my shoulder blades.

Not one of them says a word to me. I’m not sure I’ve ever been so embarrassed in my entire life. Beth walks me to the main door. Our lobby is empty, almost as though they timed my exit to avoid any clients seeing it.

I’m half way out the door when she says, “Your key?”

I have to set my box on the floor to get my keys out of my purse. I slip the office key from my ring and hand it to her. “This isn’t right.”

She offers me no reply, just takes the key and turns, letting the door close without a backward glance. I have been a good employee. What the hell just happened?

Embarrassment propels me toward the exit. I clumsily shift my box to my hip to open the door. My steps are awkward across the parking lot. My ankles seem to have forgotten how to hold me upright. I stumble and find every imperfection in the asphalt. I make it to my car somehow.

My eyes are misty, but I refuse to cry. Shoving my box into the back seat and slamming the door, I climb into the driver’s side. With shaky hands, I pull my cell phone out to call Mike. He doesn’t answer so I hang up and text him to call me right away.

I’ll break my no phone in the car rule when he does. I start my car. I’m hyper-sensitive to each action I take, hands on the steering wheel at ten and two, turn wheel to the left, blinker on, look right, glance at my cell after each movement. I was just fired. I was just fired. There is no way I did what they said I did. I didn’t steal money.

I’m halfway home when my car jerks to the right. Thankfully, not the left or I would have hit the Ford in the lane next to me. I brake and ease onto the shoulder. I’ve had a blowout. I can see from my rearview mirror the remnants of what was my tire all over the road. I try to call Mike again. No answer.

Can this day get any worse? I groan and unbuckle my belt. I smack my steering wheel a couple times before apologizing to it.

My spare is in the trunk. I peel off my suit jacket and toss it into the passenger seat before timing traffic to get out without having my door hit. I get the lift set before it starts raining. There’s the answer to my ‘can it get worse’ question. Great.

I stop to check my phone, hoping Mike has called, texted, or something, and grumble to myself when I see he hasn’t. The rain has done nothing to kill the heat of the day. It’s as if I’m in an outdoor shower in my clothes. The wayward hairs, which frame my face, have escaped the rubber band and now are plastered to my cheeks.

I want to cry. I want the rain to disguise my tears. Some stubborn piece of me refuses to allow myself that relief. Every car that passes I both hope and worry that they’ll stop. No one does stop though. My wet hands on the crow bar make removing the lug nuts holding the rim of my now destroyed tire a nightmare. My hands slip more often than not.

Squatting there in the rain, a wet mess, I realize it’s not so bad. This is the worst of it. My spare tire is now on. I can get a new tire, and I can get a new job. The new job part might be difficult without a reference, but I can do it. I get back in my car and shake some of the rain from my hair like a dog. I search for the closest mechanic on my phone and find one at the next exit. I slowly make my way to it, hazards on.