The x ingredient, p.1
The X Ingredient, page 1
Table Of Contents
Other Books by Roslyn Sinclair
Acknowledgments
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
About Roslyn Sinclair
Other Books from Ylva Publishing
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Other Books by Roslyn Sinclair
The Lily and the Crown
Acknowledgments
Thanks to the peerless Lee Winter, as always, for whipping my words into shape. I couldn’t do it without you, my friend.
Dedication
For Kate, who let me in on the secrets of House Hunters, and so much more.
Chapter 1
Laurie
Some days have too much riding on them, you know? Days when you wake up and think, This is it. I have to nail it. No pressure.
I might, kind of, a little, be having a day like that.
It’s not every day you land an interview to be personal assistant to the city’s top lawyer, after all. Much less when you’re so desperate for a full-time job that you can taste it, a job that will let you balance your schoolwork (to say nothing of your student loans) with something that pays the rent. If I kill it at this interview, then I’ll hardly be rolling in cash, but it’ll be better than the part-time, no-benefits hell pit I’m currently stuck in.
Like I said—no pressure.
The massive heatwave doesn’t help my mood. Why doesn’t Atlanta, Georgia, have the decency to cool off by Labor Day? As I trudge to my destiny—I mean, my destination—my blouse begins to stick to my lower back.
I take a deep breath as I reach the imposing Southstar Building that stretches up into the clear blue sky. I walk past the huge sculptures of naked, muscular women frolicking on their pedestals and head for one of Atlanta’s most prestigious business centers.
Southstar is a fitting home for Parker, Lee & Rusch, one of the most up-and-coming law firms in the Southeast. Though it’s only five years in business, PL&R has another branch in Charlotte. I’ve heard rumors of a third one opening somewhere in Florida. It’s a place for movers and shakers.
I clutch my briefcase tighter. I’ll have to ask about that. It’s one of my prepared post-interview questions. The kind you’re supposed to have ready when a prospective employer says, “So! Do you have anything you’d like to ask us now?” It’s a chance to prove you’ve done your homework and are ready to be part of the team.
I rehearse silently: I do have a few questions, actually! This is such a growing firm, is it true you’re opening a new—
Then I make it through the revolving doors, and all that flies right out of my head.
Photos hadn’t prepared me. This lobby is one of the ritziest places I’ve ever seen—not that there’s much competition. My soon-to-be-former employer rents space in a squat, unprepossessing building in Edgewood. Here, swooping white staircases point up to chandeliers that seem as high overhead as the sun. Abstract sculptures dot the lobby. The couches and chairs look like real leather.
I don’t have time to confirm this. I’m not late, not yet, but the bus was delayed. No way was I going to try and find downtown parking today, and I’m less early than I’d like to be. I shiver; the A/C is turned way up, and it’s chilling the sweat that’s gathered in my armpits and at the small of my back. At the beginning of September, Atlanta’s still hotter than hell, all of us baked alive by the sun reflecting off the asphalt streets. My poly-blend suit does nothing to help me out, but it’s the only suit I’ve got.
I try to keep my head up as I march toward the security desk, ignoring the little voice in my head that whispers, You don’t fit in here. You don’t belong.
I don’t have to belong. This is just temporary, something to steady me until I’m back on my feet. Until then, I just have to fit in…enough.
Judging from the look the guy at the security desk gives me, I’m not doing as well at that as I was hoping.
Still, he’s polite when he says, “Can I help you?”
“Yeah. I mean, yes.” I hoist my briefcase strap higher on my shoulder, all too aware of how its edges are frayed. “I’m Laurie Holcombe. I have an appointment at two at Parker, Lee, & and Rusch?” Why did I frame that like a question—as if I’m not sure about it? I clear my throat. “Uh, I’m meeting Diana Parker.”
If I was hoping Diana Parker’s name would work magic, I’m let down immediately. Maybe it’s my pronounced Southern accent that makes the guard raise his eyebrows in disbelief. Well, why should he be so surprised? This is Atlanta, for goodness’ sake.
That’s the problem, though. This is Atlanta, not Zebulon. You’re supposed to be more cosmopolitan here. Especially when your Southern accent isn’t even the elegant, old-money kind, just the “hick town in Southern Georgia” kind.
What I’m saying is, I’m not off to a great start here. And my single stripe of pink hair probably isn’t helping my case.
“Do you have ID?” the security guard asks, his voice as neutral as his raised eyebrows are not.
I produce my driver’s license and a fake smile while he makes a show of looking at it. Finally, he picks up the phone, pushes some buttons, and tells the person on the other end that “a Laurie Holcombe”—as if there’s more than one—is here to see Diana Parker.
A soft voice speaks on the other end of the line. The guard thanks it, hangs up, and gives me a benign smile. “Fifty-second floor.”
I summon a smile. “Thank you so much.”
He doesn’t look all that friendly in return, but at least I tried.
Four other people are waiting for the next elevator, smartly dressed men and women back from a lunch meeting, carrying boxes of leftovers. I slip in after them and push the button for the fifty-second floor.
At the fourteenth floor, one of the two men in the group glances back at me. “Floor fifty-two, huh? PL&R?”
“Um. Yes.” They’re headed for the thirty-fourth floor. Wonder what that is. “What about y—”
“You suing somebody?” The rest of the group echoes his genial laugh.
“I’m looking for a job,” I say. Keep your head up. Act professional. “As Diana Parker’s personal assistant. It’s my second interview,” I add. Maybe that will head off their disbelief at the pass.
They don’t have to know round one was a phone interview. That can stay my little secret.
There’s no disguising their surprise, but at least it’s not scornful. I should have told the security guard it’s my second interview, too.
“Well, good luck!” the man says. “Better you than me.”
He straightens his necktie and gives me a quick look up and down like he’s just checking out my suit. I know better. After all, the curse of the busty gal is finding a button-up blouse that fits, and I’ve never quite succeeded, so there’s no way this guy is wowed by my tailoring.
My gaze turns into a glare. He seems to take the hint, juts out his jaw, and turns away.
Good Lord, I’m so over men. I’ve heard Diana Parker’s a ballbuster, and right now that sounds fine to me. Anything’s better than a boss who treats me like an airhead even though I keep the office running smooth as silk. At the very least, Ms. Parker probably won’t call me “sweetie.”
Probably.
It’s a relief when they exit the elevator, but the rest of the ride gives me plenty more time to get nervous again. By the time I reach the fifty-second floor, my stomach feels full of snakes. But it looks like I was right about one thing: This isn’t a place where people call each other “sweetie.” This place, as my roommate Kayla would say, is serious af.
I try not to let my knees tremble as I push open the glass doors bearing the logo of Parker, Lee & Rusch. Dark hardwood floors stretch before me, leading me into a foyer filled with more leather furniture, thick-pile rugs, and glass-topped coffee tables. Paintings decorate the walls, more abstract works that I don’t feel qualified to appreciate.
I’m not alone in the foyer, and I’m getting some pretty curious glances from other people. Clients, lawyers, office workers, all that, I reckon. This is a busy place.
“Can I help you?” a woman’s voice says.
I clutch my briefcase strap. The receptionist, a slim black woman about my age, is staring at me from behind her minimalist desk. Like everyone else, she seems to wonder what I’m
I hurry forward. Smile, I tell myself, don’t look terrified, don’t look desperate. It’s just a job.
It isn’t, though.
“Hi!” I say. “Laurie Holcombe. I’m here to interview with Ms. Parker about the personal assistant job.”
“Oh!” The receptionist’s reaction is different than the one I got from Security or from the people in the elevator. She looks relieved. “Thank goodness. Come with me. You’ve just hit the window.”
Accurate, since the sudden sense of urgency has me feeling like a sparrow who smacked into a pane of glass. I look at the clock behind her desk in panic. It’s 1:38. Have I misremembered my interview time?
“I-I thought,” I stammer, “two o’clock—”
The receptionist stands. Her fabulous blouse and pencil skirt make me think she earns more than a PA does.
“If you get this job,” she tells me in a low voice, “you’ll learn that Diana is early for everything, and you will be, too. I was told to bring you to her as soon as you arrived. Please follow me.”
Diana. It ought to sound informal, but somehow the receptionist has made it sound like a royal address.
“What’s your name?” I ask as I follow her down the hallway.
“Monica.” There are no follow-up pleasantries.
Still, I try. “Nice to meet you, Monica.”
“You, too.” She sounds like a woman who doesn’t want to get too attached yet. I gulp.
She leads me past glass-walled offices filled with lawyers in tailored suits or sheath dresses. They’re all on the phone, looking over stacks of paper or leaning toward computer screens. Phones ring everywhere. Down a corridor, a copier hums. Muffled voices make it through the glass walls, all firm and businesslike. Everything seems dialed up to eleven, and while nobody’s panicked or yelling, nobody looks chill either.
The frenetic pace is so different from my sleepy little medical clinic. Nobody here has time to hang out by the water cooler. In fact, I don’t even see a water cooler.
That’s okay. I like to stay busy.
Monica takes a left and leads me down another corridor. This one only has three doors, one on either side and the last at the end of the hallway. No glass walls here. The office doors are huge, and they have plaques next to them.
I check out the plaques as we walk by. The one by the left door reads “Kasim Lee, J.D.” The one opposite reads “Nathan Rusch, J.D.” I’m in the senior partners’ hall of fame.
Which means that the door at the end of the corridor can only lead to one person. Could this set-up be any more intimidating? Is this how inmates feel when they’re marched down death row?
I’m sweating again as we stop before the door that leads to Diana B. Parker, S.J.D. I know what those letters means: Doctor of Juridical Science, a degree awarded for intensive research beyond the usual J.D. The top of the heap.
Monica doesn’t knock on the door before opening it. I’m surprised until I see that the door leads into another, smaller, waiting area with two chairs and a landscape painting on the right wall. An empty desk waits by the door, clearly the territory of the future assistant.
Monica knocks on the second door. After a moment, a voice calls—just loudly enough to be heard through the wood—“It’s open.”
Monica takes a deep breath as if on my behalf. That’s nice of her, since my breaths are coming too shallowly. She mouths, Good luck.
The sympathy in her eyes is unmistakable. I grab hold of it like a life raft and mouth back, Thank you.
She opens the door and steps inside. “Diana? You asked me to bring you the next assistant candidate. She’s here.”
“Send her in,” a cool voice murmurs. Something about it sends a shiver down my spine.
Monica nods, steps back, and gestures for me to enter.
My legs don’t feel steady, but I make it through the door. As soon as I’m in, Monica closes it behind me.
Compared to the other offices, this one looks cavernous. It has hunter-green wallpaper, wine-red curtains half-covering the huge windows, and rich Oriental rugs overlaying more hardwood flooring.
My attention is lured to the reason I’m here: the woman seated behind an imposing mahogany desk. Behind her, built-in shelves burst with books and leather-bound binders. Before her, two armchairs sit on the other side of the desk. They don’t look comfy.
The woman in question doesn’t even look up from whatever she’s reading. “Come in. Have a seat.”
I cross the office. The wooden floors don’t creak even once beneath my feet, as if they don’t dare. Nothing here seems to move or breathe. Finally, I understand what Paul Simon meant by “the sound of silence.”
After what seems like forever, I reach the two chairs. I wait for a second to be told which one to sit in before I snap out of it and choose the one on the right. I manage to sit down instead of collapse, which seems like a win at the moment.
Diana Parker still doesn’t look at me, but I’ve done my homework. I found photos of her online, and I know she usually keeps her black hair pulled back in a bun. She’s slender and never smiles much in the pictures. And she looks younger than her forty-six years. I wonder if she has a hard time being taken seriously, too. If this scary office is meant to compensate.
She looks up at me.
I gasp. Softly, but there’s no way she didn’t hear it. And oh mercy, if that wasn’t the gayest gasp I’ve ever given.
The pictures hadn’t prepared me at all. I can tell right away that Diana Parker doesn’t need a big office to be taken seriously. Her eyes are dark, cool, and penetrating, looking at me like she already knows about me and isn’t too impressed. Her cheekbones are a work of art, even if her nose is a bit long and her mouth is a little thin. Or maybe that’s just the way she has her lips pressed into a line.
Good Lord above, she’s gorgeous. Nobody told me that. I wasn’t ready.
As I try not to let my jaw hang down all over the place, her gaze settles on my hair.
“It’s just temporary!” I blurt out.
She raises her dark, perfectly shaped eyebrows. She must get them done every three weeks like clockwork. She probably never lets anything slip even a smidgen.
“The hair,” I add feebly, touching the pale pink streak—what the box called “rose gold”—that runs all the way to where my hair touches my shoulders. “I’m growing it out. It’s almost gone.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” What a voice. It’s surprisingly deep, coming from such a delicate frame that’s accentuated by a navy blazer. Tasteful diamond stud earrings draw my eyes to her small ears and the slender neck beneath them.
“I’ve had a look at your qualifications,” she says, and I add “authoritative” to my mental list of adjectives about her voice. “You’ve never been a personal assistant before.”
“No, ma’am.” I’m holding my briefcase in my lap. Is that okay? Does it look weird? Would it be weirder to set it down now? “But I don’t know if you read my cover letter—”
“Of course I read it. And my outgoing assistant said you gave a passable performance on the phone. Your current job is an associate office manager at a medical clinic in Edgewood. Why are you seeking a demotion?”
Because I’m about to lose my job and rent doesn’t pay itself. Aloud, I say, “Because I want to go into law.” Which is also true.
“So do a lot of other people. They get experience as interns and paralegals. They rarely come from this kind of background, they rarely seek to become PAs, and they rarely have pink hair.”
I try not to sound defensive. “Most paralegals have degrees. I’m still in college. Uh, just part-time.” I can’t let her think I won’t be committed to the job. “Two classes a semester. I’m almost finished.”
“What school and what degree?” Her exquisite face gives nothing away. They should have put a statue of her in the foyer.
“Sociology. West Georgia’s online program. I’m always here in town, and I’m hoping to graduate this summer if there aren’t any surprises.” At this point, how many surprises are left?
“And then law school? You’d be my assistant for less than a year.”
“Not necessarily!” I say quickly. “In fact, I can imagine not going to law school right away. I’ll need to find a program that’s friendly to part-time students.”
