Page 3 of Get It In Writing
“Look,” I say, “just get it over with. I know you probably never come down here. Fraternizing with the mail room staff, is that something an executive does? An executive with his name on the building?”
Mr. Harper unfolds his arms and leans against the vending machine, smiling and scratching his chin.
“Get what over with, Rebecca?” he asks. “I’m just down here for the same reason you are. Thought I’d do you a little favor and get you a notebook. You’re going to need it.”
He slips a pad of paper and a pen out of his back pocket and scribbles something down before tossing both on the table.
“I’ve got to get back to work,” he says, making his way toward the door, not looking back at me. “And I suggest you do the same,” he adds, still walking away coolly.
I go over to the table where I’ve left my notepads. Mr. Harper is a little strange, but I guess that most successful entrepreneurs usually are. He’s not just some ordinary guy, so why would he act ordinary?
I’m about to grab his paper and pen and bring it with me back to my desk, but my heart leaps into my throat when I see what he’s written.
Where do you want me to take you? My desk or yours?
Clearly, this is some kind of mistake. This note was not meant for my eyes. He must have left this here by mistake. Now I’mreallygoing to get fired, because I’m snooping around in things that aren’t any of my business.
I rip the first page out of the notebook and fold it up, slipping it into the pocket of my pencil skirt, and gather up my supplies and snacks.
Takeme? Who talks like that? Or, I should say, who writes like that?
Wait, maybe I’m making something out of this that it isn’t. Maybe it means something else, something totally innocent.
I get back to my desk and give Joanna her danish. I try to focus on my work for the next few minutes, but the note is burning a hole in my pocket.
I take it out again and read it. Maybe he really is hitting on me. That wouldn’t be so bad. It’s not like I’d ever act on this. It’s totally unprofessional, completely inappropriate, and so not something I’d ever do.
Sex with the boss, and the only thing he’s concerned about is whether we’d do it out in the open at my desk or in the privacy of his office at his desk.
I should throw the note away. Rip it up and throw it out. Or even better, flush it. Flush the evidence, make it go away for good.
Like in the mob movies, where the bad guys flush the drugs down the toilet.
But I can’t. I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t stop reading it.
Mr. Harper is completely off-limits. He’s the boss, I’m a receptionist. He’s rich and successful, and I’m just starting out. He’s got his name on the building, and I don’t even have a business card. We are on two totally different levels, and there is no way this would ever happen.
Not to mention the ethical and professional violations that an affair with the boss would entail! No. No way, no how. This is not happening.
But...what if it did happen? And he left the choice up to me, whether it would be at my desk or his, didn’t he? Maybe I’d go into his office, close the door behind me, and he’d push all of his papers off his desk and scoop me up, force me onto his desk and push my skirt up around my waist. Maybe he’d….
“What have you got there?” Joanna asks, craning her neck, breaking into my private thoughts.
“Nothing!” I say, crumpling the paper up and shoving it into my pocket. But “nothing” clearly means “something that I can’t show you,” and I just pray that she didn’t see it.
