Page 123 of Collateral Damage
“Three weeks ahead of airing,” Cooper replies with a curt smile. “Enough time to get the word out, but not too long that the excitement wears off.”
I snort. “Oh, there is going to be plenty of excitement, no matter how early we market.”
The conversation gets easier from there.
Nobody brings up Dad or Victoria or the past. We may all be thinking about it—there’s an obvious undercurrent of distrust. It will probably always be present. I just hope we can let go of whatever distrust lingers between me and Cooper.
After dinner, I want to go home with Cooper, but I need to catch up on work. I missed a lot while on Nantucket. So I give Cooper a kiss outside the restaurant and promise to meet up with him later. He doesn’t protest. Like me, he values his work, so he understands why I sometimes slip away on weekends to go to the office.
Laurence International’s New York headquarters is like a second home to me, and the hum of the city follows me into the building, lingering as I push through the glass doors and take the elevator up to my floor. It’s late, and the office is quiet—exactly the way I like it. Planning the October gala looms over my head, and I’ve barely scratched the surface of what needs to be done.
Balancing an emergency coffee in one hand and my purse in the other, I stop short at a faint light spilling out from underneath my office door. Strange. There’s rarely anyone else here on Saturday evenings, and why would they be inmyoffice?
The sound of a keyboard drifts out, and I speed walk to find Jonathan, my assistant, sitting at my desk. His dress shirt is untucked at the sides, and his sleeves are rolled up. There’s a notebook open next to him and as he relays information off my computer. My heart pounds, equal parts irritation and confusion swirling through my chest.
What the hell is he doing at my desk? We set him up with his own cubicle, so there’s no reason for him to be in here.
“Can I help you?” My voice comes out sharper than intended as I barge into my own damn office.
Jonathan Vale looks up, startled. He’s in his mid-twenties, with gel-styled blond hair and wire-rimmed glasses that he adjusts as he stands.
“Oh, Ms. Laurence! Good evening. I didn’t expect you until Monday.” He flashes a snake-oil smile, entirely too comfortable for someone who has no business being in here.
“Why are you at my desk?” I told himnotto touch anything until I could train him properly. If he’s going to be my assistant, then I should be the one to tell him what to do.
“I wanted to get ahead of things,” he says. “The donor call sheets are ready.” He gestures to a neat pile of documents on the corner of the desk. “And the RSVPs for the gala have been updated in the system. Oh, and the seating chart? All done.”
I stare, my coffee growing cold in my hand. The seating chart alone would have taken me hours, but it’s an incredibly important task and something I like to do with Miriam.
“You did all of that?” I raise a brow, pushing down my annoyance. Maybe he was trying to help. Maybe this job is important to him, and he’s a good kid, and I’m unfairly holding his uncle against him.
“Yes, ma’am.” He beams.
“Don’t call me ma’am.” I sigh, and he blanches. Fuck. How do I handle this properly?
Part of me wants to bark at him, tell him it’s not his place to make those decisions without consulting me, let alone infiltrate my office. But another part is begrudgingly impressed he did so much work with so little delegation.
I set my bag and coffee down and circle around to my chair as he steps out of the way.
“When you were hired, did HR not issue you your own computer?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“They did, but I needed the notes you saved in your files, and you were too busy to get back to me—” He quickly backpedals. “I mean… you were on holiday, so I wanted to help.”
I wouldn’t call my two weeks on Nantucket a holiday.
My eyes narrow. “How did you get access to my computer? Everything is password protected. There issensitiveinformation on here.”
Many of the emails I receive aren’t for anyone in the company to read. I have board meeting communications in there.
His eyes widen. “Password protected? I don’t think so.” He motions to the computer. “Here, check for yourself.”
With a huff, I open it, first logging out and then moving my mouse to prompt the login screen. I expect a prompt to enter my password to pop up, but the computer just asks me to hit enter.
“What the hell?” My body prickles with a deep sense of unease. “Someone messed with this.”
“It wasn’t me,” Jonathan says, but do I believe him?
My gut says no.
