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smile. Her gaze took in my coat, the same cut and color as

  hers but not as nice, my legs, clad in nude hose, and finaly

  settled on my shoes. They were the only part of me that

  seemed worth her approval, but she raised a brow anyway

  and just tossed off a fake little laugh as she stuffed her mail

  into her Kate Spade bag and turned on her matching

  pumps.

  Bitch.

  Bitch.

  Oh, I knew what discipline meant to me, al right.

  Discipline was what kept me from popping her in the back

  of the head with the heel of my barely-passing-inspection

  shoes. It's what kept my chin high and my mouth fixed in a

  pleasant smile instead of turning down at the corners so the

  tears would stay burning behind my eyes instead of

  slipping out.

  Discipline, or maybe it was pride. Or stubbornness.

  Whatever it was, I had enough to spare.

  I waited until she'd gone before I crossed the lobby and

  pushed through the revolving door. Outside, gray and

  overcast skies echoed my mood, and the breeze brought

  the scent of cigarettes to me. I looked automaticaly,

  wondering if I'd see someone pondering discipline.

  "Ari," I said, surprised. "Hi."

  Miriam's grandson tossed his butt into the sand-filed can

  and shrugged his coat higher around his neck. "Hey,

  Paige."

  "I didn't know you lived here."

  He grinned. "I don't. Just dropped off something for my

  grandma, you know?"

  I didn't know, but I nodded. "Tel her I said helo."

  "Stop by the shop and tel her yourself," he suggested with a sweetly dipping smile.

  It was nice to be flirted with, albeit without much heat. "I'l

  do that. Have a good day."

  "You, too."

  I looked back as I crossed the aley to the parking garage,

  and Ari was stil looking. Maybe there was a little heat,

  after al. And what woman didn't like to be appreciated? I

  had a much bigger smile on my face than I had before, and

  it lasted me al the way to work.

  I wasn't even close to being late, but I might as wel have

  been because by the time I got to my desk, my boss had

  already piled a stack of files on it. It could have been

  worse. He could have been standing over my desk with

  the empty coffeepot in his hand. He did that, sometimes,

  though I knew he was as capable of making coffee as I

  am. More, maybe, since he inhaled the high-octane stuff

  am. More, maybe, since he inhaled the high-octane stuff

  like it was air and I limited myself to a mug once or twice a

  day.

  Spying the empty Starbucks cup in the trash, I knew he'd

  already had his first dose of the day. I was safe a little bit

  longer. I could get the files ordered and put away without

  him breathing down my neck. I decided to put the coffee

  on anyway, though, just in case. There were many days I

  could predict my boss's every move, from the midmorning

  break when the bagel man came around, to his post-lunch

  trip to the bathroom.

  Today wasn't one of those days.

  "Paige. Listen. I need you to get those files taken care of,

  okay?"

  I turned from the smal bar sink, where I'd been filing the

  coffeepot with water. "Right, Paul. Of course."

  Amazing how someone with only a community-colege

  education could stil deduce simple things.

  "Good." Paul nodded and smoothed his tie between his

  thumb and forefinger while he watched me fiddle with the

  thumb and forefinger while he watched me fiddle with the

  coffeemaker.

  I hadn't yet figured out if Paul hovered because he

  expected me to screw up, or if he hoped I would. Either

  way, it didn't bother me the way it would have some of the

  other personal assistants on the floor. Brenda, for

  example, liked to brag how her boss, Rhonda, spent most

  of her time traveling and she barely had to deal with her.

  She also liked to brag that she'd worked for Kely Printing

  longer than that Jenny-come-lately Rhonda anyways, and

  knew what she was doing, so why should she have to run

  everything by someone else when she could get her work

  done faster and better without interference?

  I never told Brenda I found Paul's constant supervision

  more comforting than annoying. After al, if he never

  alowed me the autonomy to make decisions, I couldn't

  exactly be held accountable for anything that went wrong.

  Right? Even when Paul did his share of traveling, he never

  left without making me a sheaf of notes and lists…lists.

  I thought of the cards I'd found. Two, now. Two

  misdelivered notes with explicit, mysterious (to me)

  instructions. I could stil feel the sleek paper under my

  fingertips. I regretted not taking the time to smel the ink.

  fingertips. I regretted not taking the time to smel the ink.

  With the coffee set to brewing, I turned to face Paul.

  "Anything else?"

  "Not right now, thanks." Paul smiled and disappeared

  back into his inner sanctum, leaving me with the cheery

  burble of the coffeepot and a bunch of files to herd.

  This is what I knew about Paul Johnson, my boss. He had

  a chubby, pretty wife named Melissa who sometimes

  forgot to pick up his dry cleaning on time and two

  teenagers too busy with wholesome activities like sports

  and youth group to get into trouble. I knew that because

  I'd seen their photos and overheard his telephone

  conversations. He had an older brother, the unfortunately

  named Peter Johnson, with whom he played golf several

  times a year but not often enough to be good. I knew that

  because he'd asked me to make a reservation for him at

  one of the local golf courses and to cal his brother to

  confirm the date. The request was slightly out of the realm

  of my professional duties, but I'd done it anyway. I also

  knew Paul was forty-seven years old, had earned his

  MBA from Wharton, attended church on Sundays with his

  family and drove a black, but not brand-new, Mercedes

  Benz.

  Benz.

  Those were things I knew.

  This is what I thought about Paul Johnson, my boss. He

  wasn't a tyrant. Just precise. He held himself to the same

  level of perfection he expected from an assistant, and I

  appreciated that. He could be funny, though not often, and

  usualy unexpectedly. He gave every project his ful

  attention and effort because it pained him to do anything

  less. I understood and appreciated that, too.

  I'd worked for him for almost six months. He'd told me to

  cal him Paul, not Mr. Johnson, but we weren't anything

  like friends. That was okay with me. I didn't want my boss

  to be my chum.

  Though sometimes it felt as if al I did was make coffee

  and file, my job did actualy have more responsibility. I had

  documents to proof and send, invoices to fil out and

  appointments to book. I did al this to leave Paul free to do

  whatever it was that he did al day long in his lush, swanky

  office. If hard