Page 30 of Black Ties and White Lies

Ezra and I share a look of humor. I shrug. “Why? Are you scared they’ll think you’re a tourist?”

She scoffs. “I bought this on campus when I attended there, thank you very much.”

I push my hips into her harder, making her body move a few more inches until she’s basically hanging off the side of the seat. People walking by give us curious looks, but none of them stop to say anything. The fact that some people have even noticed us is shocking enough in a city so busy.

“No one is going to see you,” I reassure her.

“You don’t know that,” she argues.

I tilt my head back and forth, pressing my lips into a thin line. “Actually, I do. I’ve made it an unspoken company policy that no one is supposed to come into work on Sundays or holidays. Work life balance and all.”

My words seem to take her off guard. Her head swings my way in shock. “You did?” This disbelief in her voice should offend me.

I nod, nudging her until she finally obeys and climbs out of the car. At the last minute, she almost trips over the curb. Ezra and I both reach out to catch her at the same time.

Once she’s steady on her feet, I finish climbing out of the car, Ezra closing the door behind me. “Typically the only person ever there on the weekends is me. I promise you.”

Her teeth dig into her lip like she has something else to say, but at least for the time being, she keeps it to herself.

No longer putting up a fight, she tilts her head up to look at the building towering over us. “You own this?”

I chuckle, laying my hand on her mid-back to guide her toward the entrance. “No, we rent the top seven floors.”

We leave Ezra back at the car as we walk to the revolving door entrance of the building. Stepping inside, I give Tom a friendly smile as he sits at his desk, looking to be enjoying a calm Sunday here. On a weekday, this floor would be packed full of people coming and going. We share the building with some very well-known companies and law firms. This floor is usually full of people going about their business during and after normal working hours. I’ve learned over the years that Sunday is the safest day to come into work if I want to be around the least amount of people possible. I’ll still share the elevator with the occasional person or small group, but it’s nothing like the typical work days where it takes ten minutes just to catch an elevator.

Any other day I’d walk right past Tom, scanning my badge as I walked through the metal detector, but today I bring Margo and I to a stop in front of it.

“Good afternoon, Tom.” We share a familiar smile. It’s hard not to return his smile. We’ve developed an unlikely friendship, even though he’s old enough to be my father. You’d never know his age because his jokes and spunk remind me more of an eighteen-year-old frat guy. Plus, not being a prick to him like some of the other people who pass through these doors every morning gets me some VIP perks. For example, sometimes he gestures for me to take the employee stairs so I can climb to the second or third floor and catch an elevator that way instead of waiting in line in the lobby.

Tom gives me a knowing smile before he pins his attention whole-heartedly on Margo. I don’t blame him. Even in an old college sweatshirt, her beauty captures anyone’s attention. “Mornin’ Mr. Sinclair.” His voice is gravelly. My guess is from his fondness of getting home from work and smoking a cigar. I’ve given him a few rare cigars over the years, grateful for his familiar smile even when I come into work a brooding dick because some new investor has pissed me off or someone thinks they can take advantage of me.

He gives Margo a wink. “And who is this nice young lady you’ve brought in this morning?”

Margo beams at him, no doubt making Tom’s bad heart beat faster than it’s supposed to. “I’m Margo,” she answers, reaching across the desk to shake his hand. “Margo Moretti,” she finishes.

Tom looks a little shocked that she’s holding her hand out to him, giving him her full attention. He’s used to the pricks and uptight women who work here. None of them spare him a second glance, let alone take the time to shake his hand.

He takes it, his calloused hand enveloping hers. “I’m Tom. Tom Banks.” She stares at him in wonder. If it were anyone but Tom, I’d feel a tad jealous at the huge smile Margo aims in his direction. I do know that Tom has been married for thirty years, and the only thing he loves more than this job are his wife, children, and herd of grandchildren.

Margo laughs. The sound thaws my black frozen heart a little. It wouldn’t take much for me to get used to the sound. “Tom Banks? Like Tom Hanks but with aB.”

He smiles at her triumphantly, eating up the fact that she finds him funny. “Sure is. Except I’m much more handsome.”

“Well, obviously,” she responds, propping her elbows on the counter of his desk.

I clear my throat, moving an inch closer to her. “Miss Moretti here is my new assistant. Could you add her to the system for me and get her a badge? Most mornings she should be coming into work with me, but on occasion she’ll be coming in alone, and she’ll need the clearance so she doesn’t have to get a visitor pass.”

“Sure thing.” He’s quick at printing off a piece of paper, clipping it onto a clipboard and handing it to Margo. “If you could just fill out all of this information for me. Do you have a driver’s license?”

“I do actually,” she answers, pulling out her license and handing it to him. Margo gets busy at filling out the form as Tom works at getting her license scanned in. Most people here don’t have a license. I keep mine updated for when I travel, but I rarely ever drive. Most of the time Ezra drives or I’ll walk if it’s close enough.

Tom finishes up and places her license in front of her. He gives me a questioning glance. “If you don’t mind me asking, what happened to Polly, Mr. Sinclair?”

“You wondering if you’ll no longer be getting your homemade sourdough every Monday morning?” I tease.

Tom looks a little embarrassed as he shakes his head at me. “She’s always been kind to me. I just wanted to check in on her.”

I stop giving him shit. While I’m sure he does enjoy the homemade bread from Polly, I know I do, his intentions do seem pure in asking her status.

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