Ruthless In A Suit (Ruthless In A Suit, Book One) Page 2

“Isn’t everyone?” I reply.

  “Some more than others,” he says.

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Never mind.” He sits up in his chair and begins shuffling papers, his eyes laser focused on the task in front of him. I’m cataloguing his every movement, trying to discern if I might have an advantage or not.

  If he liked me or not. If I’m going to be able to make my student loan payments or not. When he finally looks up at me, his entire face is impassable. “I think this will work out just fine, Ms. Fallon. You’re hired.”

  I can’t help myself. I gasp, my mouth hanging open for a long moment. “Oh my gosh, thank you, Mr. Maxon. You have no idea how much I want this job. I absolutely won’t let you down.”

  He gives a curt nod. “I’m sure you won’t. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to work. If you could make your way back to HR, Ms. Ross will get you all set up. You’ll begin tomorrow, if that will work with your schedule.”

  He says “schedule” like he knows it’s a bit of a joke, but his face remains cold. I try to wipe away the excitement from mine. It’s clear Levi is all-business, and it’s time for me to try and be as well, if I’m going to be his assistant.

  “Thank you, Mr. Maxon. I look forward to our working relationship.”

  His gaze snaps up to me, his green eyes flashing. Then he blinks, and his entire body seems to relax—but only slightly. “As do I, Ms. Fallon.”

  LEVI

  Well this is going to be easier than I thought.

  I’d imagined a young, inexperienced girl desperate for a paycheck, but I hadn’t expected a blushing, doe-eyed girl dressed like an extra in a community theater production of The Sound of Music.

  To be fair, she’s got curves that filled out the clothes quite nicely, so having her around the office will definitely not be a chore—not when I get to watch her ass sway back and forth everyday.

  And those tits…

  Her Little Miss Innocent look paired together with that body makes it difficult to stay focused on the task at hand.

  Which is not sex.

  The task at hand is getting married and keeping the family business where it fucking well belongs.

  Enough fantasizing about Dear Cadence’s ample cleavage, Maxon, and back to thinking like a goddamn CEO.

  What did I learn today? I ask myself. What more did we learn about our quarry?

  It was just as I suspected. She’s poor and my father took pity on her. Which means this is going to be all too easy. I almost feel guilty. That is, until I think about the millions upon millions of dollars and the multiple homes she stands to inherit, not to mention the business that’s worth more than all of it put together.

  I shuffle through the stack of mail on my desk, mostly bills and invoices, but a thick, oversized ivory envelope sticks out. I pick it up and flip it over to find my name in elegant calligraphy.

  “Shit,” I mutter, reaching for my sterling silver letter opener and sliding it beneath the seal. I’ve been expecting this, but part of me was hoping it would just get lost in the mail and I could forget the whole thing was happening.

  There’s a stack of heavy cards all bound up with a pale blue ribbon. I pull out the largest and read the script.

  Mr. and Mrs. Arnold Cabot

  request the honor of your presence

  at the marriage of their daughter

  Julia Elizabeth

  to

  Logan Essex.

  And stuck to the bottom of the card is a neon yellow post-it note reading, “I know you received this already. I’m reserving your seat, though I do wish you’d reply with chicken or fish. You are not requested, you are required.”

  Logan and Julia started dating while we were in boarding school together, and beat the odds to stay together while Logan and I spent four years at Princeton and three years of Law School, and still it had taken them another five years to finally get engaged.

  I’d managed to get out of being the best man and Julia had nixed any kind of wedding party. But try as I might, I couldn’t get out of actually attending the event itself.

  Sure, they’re my friends and I’m happy for them—in a way—but I’ve never been much for weddings.

  I don’t do romance.

  I don’t really even understand relationships.

  What I do understand is getting your needs met—physically—and then moving on and pretending like it never happened.

  It’s much easier for everyone involved, especially me.

  But as I flip to the RSVP card (now weeks overdue), I start to form an idea. Because the wedding is going to be a major event, and likely beautiful enough to be photographed for whatever wedding magazine women clamor for these days.

  And aren’t big weddings the perfect place to soften a woman up? To get her to turn to thoughts of love everlasting? And, well, marriage?

  Suddenly Logan and Julia’s wedding doesn’t seem so much of a burden to be endured as an opportunity to be taken.

  I reach for a pen in the silver cup on my desk and swipe an inky black two into the RSVP line, then write “Levi Maxon and Cadence Fallon” on the thick black line at the bottom. And just to spite Julia (who will probably already be freaking out at the sight of my plus one), I don’t select chicken or fish.

  I stuff the card in the little envelope pre-addressed with loopy calligraphy and a heart stamp. Then I call down for a messenger, one of the tattooed hipster bike dudes who cart our contracts across town.

  “I need this delivered immediately,” I say as I pass him the tiny envelope. He looks at it, then at me, and I can hear him calculating how much I’m paying to have him bike this over to Julia’s parents Beacon Hill mansion.

  But a narrow-eyed glance from me has him keeping his mouth shut.

  Now I just have to figure out what I’m going to tell Cadence to get her to spend a weekend with me on Cape Cod.

  CADENCE

  My dad is already home from work when I get in. He starts his shift at the post office before the sun comes up, so he usually beats me home. Brenda, who works part-time as a receptionist at a salon on Newbury Street, is next to him on the couch as they watch some obnoxious cable news channel.

  “Hi darling,” Dad says from his spot at the end of the couch, his feet up on the ottoman, his postal worker uniform still on.

  “Hi Dad,” I say, carefully ignoring Brenda, who’s more than happy to pretend I’m not there while flipping through the pages of an old copy of Star magazine.

  She and my dad got married my senior year of high school, and I think she was pretty psyched when I moved out to go to college. She was decided less psyched when I moved back home after graduation.

  She’s made no secret of the fact that she’d appreciate it if I’d hurry up and get my life together and move out please and thank you. She’s always making passive aggressive comments about how much food I eat (despite the fact that I contribute to the family grocery shopping excursions when I can) and how much electricity I use.

  Which is why I’m wicked psyched to tell her about my new job.

  “Good news!” I say, and my dad mutes the television, looking up at me with an expectant smile.

  “What about it, Buttercup?” he asks.

  I grin at the child nickname. “I got a job today!”

  “Will you be able to rent an apartment with what they’re going to pay you at Barnes & Noble?” Brenda asks, barely taking her eyes off her magazine.

  “I think I’ll be able to swing something on seventy-five thousand dollars a year,” I reply, unable to keep the smug out of my voice.

  “Good Lord, Cadence, I didn’t realize the publishing industry was doing so well,” Dad exclaims.

  “What kind of job did you really get?” Brenda asks, finally looking up from her magazine and staring at me as if I’ve been hired by some kind of upscale bordello or taken a job with the mafia.

  “I’m going to be an executive assistant at Maxon Law,” I reply. “They have an off
ice in downtown, and I start tomorrow. With full benefits.”

  “That’s wonderful!” Dad says, springing up from the couch to envelope me in a bear hug, which I’m happy to return.

  “That is good news,” Brenda adds, though I’m sure she’s mostly happy because she’s already plotting turning my bedroom into her craft room or some other such nonsense.

  “It’ll be a couple weeks until I can save up to pay a security deposit and first and last, but I should have no problem finding a studio in a decent spot with that salary,” I say to Dad. “Plus I can go to the dentist and get new glasses and see an actual doctor if I get sick.”

  “It’s the American dream!” Dad laughs, and we high five.

  “There’s just one thing I need,” I say, hoping his good will is enough to float me a little cash. Because after seeing the way I looked in my pieced together outfit compared to everyone else at the company, I know I need to step up my fashion game.

  “Can I borrow the credit card to pick up a couple of things? I can pay you back,” I say, then glance over at Brenda. “With interest.”

  “Well gosh, sweetheart, I wish I could, but we cancelled the credit card,” he says, and my mouth drops open.

  “We’re working on being a debt-free family, which really is financially prudent in this economy,” Brenda says with a Cheshire grin, sounding like she’s parroting someone from one of her self-help books she loves so much. “We cut up the credit card a few weeks ago and now we’re working on paying down our ‘debt snowball.’” She hooks her fingers into the requisite quote marks, and now I know for sure that she’s simply parroting someone else’s homespun wisdom.

  “Sorry, Cadence,” Dad says. “But I’m sure you can get creative with the things you have. You always look so nice.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I say. Without any money, I don’t have much choice. I’ll just have to make do until I get my first paycheck.

  The next morning I’m standing in front of the full-length mirror hanging over the back of my bedroom door, surrounded by the contents of my closet and chest of drawers. It looks like a bomb went off, raining multi-colored fabric around the room. After an exhaustive search of my wardrobe, I finally settled on a pair of flare-leg black pants that date back to my time as a waitress at the Crab Trap.

  Unfortunately the matching white button-up was too coated in grease stains (and the one blob of cocktail sauce over the breast pocket I was never able to get out), so instead I’d gone for a gray fitted tee shirt and topped with a purple cardigan.

  On my feet are black leather clogs, also dating back to my waitressing days. The resulting look is definitely more “Sunday School Teacher” than “Corporate Shark,” but it was either this or fit-and-flare dress with sunflowers all over it.

  I wind my hair up into a bun and secure it with a few pins, hoping that at least my hairstyle will pass professional muster. And as a final attempt, I dig out my rarely-used makeup bag from the bottom drawer of my bathroom sink and apply a swipe of mascara, thankful I don’t have any zits since my drugstore concealer is definitely showing its age thanks to the ring of crust around the opening.

  When I arrive back at the Maxon Law offices, I head straight for HR, where I spend the morning getting my photo taken for my building ID (which is thankfully so close-up and pixelated that you can’t see my outfit) and getting a building orientation. It’s not until nearly 10:30 that I finally arrive at Levi Maxon’s office door.

  I take a deep breath, preparing myself for the imposing figure on the other side of the door, before I knock.

  “Come in,” I hear his gruff voice.

  I steel myself, then open the door and step inside.

  “Good morning, Mr. Maxon,” I say. I watch his eyes roam over me, and though I feel a shiver of excitement at his attention, there’s also a twinge of terror, so I quickly move on. “Everything is done with HR, I’ve got my building ID, and I’m ready for you,” I say, then catch myself. “I mean, I’m ready to start work. With you. If you have things for me to do.”

  Shit. I already sound like a ditz. He’s probably regretting his decision to hire me.

  “I was going to have you sit at the desk out there are start work, but it doesn’t appear that you’re dressed for the task,” he snaps. I blink and flinch as if I’ve been slapped. “I supposed I could send you down to the mailroom. You might fit in down there.”

  “Excuse me?” I say, the words escaping before I can filter them.

  “Do you not have anything more polished and appropriate to wear?”

  “I’m very sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Maxon,” I reply. Even though he’s my boss, and I need this job more than words can say, I still feel the righteous indignation rising in my throat. I can barely control my voice as I continue to defend myself. “But considering I just got this job yesterday, there unfortunately wasn’t time for me to purchase a new wardrobe.”

  “One outfit would have been a start,” he replies.

  “And I will do that as soon as I receive my first paycheck and can afford to pay for said outfit,” I retort. “Turns out Nordstrom gets a little testy when you try to hand them an I.O.U.”

  Now it’s his turn to look taken aback. “You don’t have money to go shopping?” He says it like I’ve just told him I don’t have money to buy food or pay my electric bill. Which, in reality, I don’t. There’s a brown paper bag filled with an apple and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the bottom drawer of my desk, because I can’t afford to even get a sandwich from the nearest Panera.

  “That’s why I needed a job,” I say. “Not all of us have money for things like Prada bags and Jimmy Choo heels.”

  He glances down at his desk, tracing his finger over a paper I can’t see, before meeting my eyes again. “We’ll figure it out, then,” he replies.

  For a moment, I swear I detect something like sympathy in his eyes.

  And then he quickly switches back into boss mode, cool and detached as he shows me around the floor. When we get back to my desk, he hands me a thick piece of card stock covered in loopy calligraphy.

  I run my finger over the ink to find that it’s not letterpress or laser printed, but hand-drawn.

  “I need you to book a suite for this event,” he says. “There should be information in the envelope. I’ll arrive on Friday around noon and check out on Sunday. You’ll also need to book travel, so contact the airport and notify the pilot.”

  “I’m sorry, pilot?” I ask, confused. I can’t imagine why anyone would need to notify a pilot for a flight.

  “The information for the private jet is in the travel folder on the server. Everything you need is there, so just do a little searching. Make sure the weekend is taken care of.”

  Of course he flies on a private jet.

  This is truly a different world, and I feel ill prepared for it. For the first time, I’m seriously wondering if I have what it takes to make it at this job.

  And then, without any final instructions, he leaves me standing there with a pile of wedding invitation detritus in my hand.

  I take a seat at my desk and begin shuffling through the invitation cards until I find the information for the hotel. Then I type Radnor Estate into Google. What comes up is a website for the most beautiful Cape Cod bed and breakfast I’ve ever seen.

  Gray cedar shingles, manicured lawns, and gently rolling dunes serving as a barrier to the blue of the Atlantic Ocean.

  I look at the date and see that the wedding is actually this weekend, so I feel it highly unlikely I’ll be able to book a room here, much less a suite. When I pick up the phone and dial, I’m already starting to formulate other plans for accommodations that won’t get me fired on my first day.

  But when I tell the polished woman who answers the phone that I’d like to reserve a suite for Levi Maxon for the Cabot-Essex wedding this weekend, she doesn’t laugh. I don’t even hear the hint of an eye roll.

  “Yes, we have a suite set aside for Mr. Maxon. We were just waiting for confir
mation,” she says.

  Damn, I guess when you’re that rich, RSVP dates don’t apply to you.

  Good to know.

  I spend the rest of the day alphabetizing depositions and combing through financial reports looking for misplaced commas. It’s the first job I’ve ever had that’s involved me sitting at a desk all day, yet when I get home I don’t think I’ve ever been this exhausted. Of course, it’s also after 8pm by the time I finally get off the train and make the six-block walk to my house.

  I let myself in and find that Dad and Brenda have already had dinner and are in the process of doing dishes.

  “Oh, Cadence, we would have saved you a plate, but we didn’t know when you’d be home,” Brenda says.

  Yeah, right, I think.

  “A package came for you.” Dad nods towards the living room, his arms elbow-deep in suds as he scrubs a greasy pan.

  “Thanks,” I reply, wondering what it could be.

  Perched next to the armchair in the living room is an enormous box.

  I take my keys from my purse and use the house key to split open the packing tape. The first thing I see is a layer of navy tissue paper. Beneath that are stacks of garment bags, carefully folded, all navy and bearing the white script of Nordstrom.

  I unzip the first bag and find a black skirt suit, the lapels sharp, and a gray button-up to go with it. Beneath that, a charcoal suit. I keep going through the box, feeling like I’m digging through Mary Poppins’s bag, feeling like I’ll never reach the bottom.

  All told there are five suits, a modest black dress, knee-length with cap sleeves, two pairs of heels (one pair of Jimmy Choo’s that make me smile), and a leather Kate Spade shoulder bag.

  At the very bottom of the box, wrapped in more tissue paper, is a butter yellow dress, knee-length with a slightly flared skirt and a plunging v-neckline. The dress has a delicate lace overlay and is tied with a satin cream sash around the waist.

  It looks fit for Princess Kate, and yet here it sits, in my dusty old childhood home complete with shag carpeting and a La-Z-Boy recliner in the corner.