wrote back, “So make him NOT like Foster.”
My eyes narrow on the screen. Ryan types back, “Working on it,” and Aaron responds one more time with, “Keep me posted.”
Working on it?
That feeling of dread settles in my gut again as I sit back in my computer chair and stare vacantly at the screen, trying to piece together what I read in a way that doesn’t sound like subterfuge. It can’t be. That would be crazy. For one thing, how could anyone be stupid enough to discuss something like that in their work email? Sure, he’s being vague, but not vague enough if my suspicions are aroused and I’ve only worked here for four days.
Feeling the need to dig a little deeper, I open the Swanson folder to see what he and Ryan have been talking about in their most recent emails.
Ryan’s last response is, “That’s too bad. You know Foster though, such a workaholic. Work smarter not harder, I say! When it comes to my favorite client, there’s always time. I’d love to catch a show with you this weekend if you’re still free.”
I narrow my eyes at the screen, scrolling up and reading the rest of the emails. Apparently, Evan asked Foster to see a Broadway show with him and his boyfriend this weekend, but Foster’s schedule didn’t allow for it. Now Ryan is trying to weasel his way in.
I bet this is part of his “I’m working on it” plan. Sour Evan on Foster and ingratiate himself… but why?
I don’t know exactly what to make of all this, but I know who will.
I guess it’s a good thing Ryan never gives me any real work to do, because it means I have all the time in the world to print off every last email in his “fantasy football” folder and slip each one into a pretty, color-coded file folder to present to Mr. Foster.
Once I have everything I need, I poke my head into Ryan’s office. Shooting him a hopeful smile, I ask, “Everything going okay?”
Nodding impatiently, he says, “Yep.”
“Can I get you anything?”
His gaze drifts lower to my cleavage—which makes him a bit nicer—and he offers back a tired smile. “Another cup of coffee would be amazing.”
With an indulgent giggle, I assure him I can take care of that for him, then I go grab him a cup of coffee to keep him from leaving his office while I’m away. When I come back, I poke my head in and ask if he’d mind if I take an early lunch. I start boring him to tears telling him about my friend Betsy and the terrible time she’s having with her boyfriend, how she needs a little girl time.
Ryan can’t bear to feign interest a moment longer and can’t get me out of there fast enough. I shoot him a grateful smile, tell him, “You’re the best!” and head back to my desk.
Then I gather up my files full of all the incriminating emails, slide my purse strap over my shoulder, and make my way toward Mr. Foster’s office.
It’s my fourth day at Dunbar Foster and this is only the second time I’ve been to his office. The first time Foster brought me himself so there was no gatekeeper, but today when I go to see him, I have to wait for his assistant to let me in. She doesn’t socialize with the other assistants much. There seems to be a clear hierarchy that sets her above the rest of them even though they share the same job title. She’s older and more serious, the kind of woman who looks like she’s been passed over for promotion one time too many and now she’s permanently pissed off.
Personally, I think Foster should have a friendlier assistant. Someone more like me. But maybe on a subconscious level, I also just feel a little jealous that she gets to spend so much time with him each day while I have to settle with glimpses from my desk as he strides through the office with purpose, or meetings where I get to hear that incredible voice of his.
Shaking off my fruitless mooning, I look up as the assistant calls out, “Mr. Foster will see you now.”
Straightening my skirt and clutching the files against my chest, I thank her with a polite smile and make my way into his office. It’s all glass walls so there’s no real privacy, but I’m pretty sure everyone at this company has already written me off as