Page 14 of Spooked

“I can’t.”

“Hot date?”

A snort escaped. “Not unless you count being at Mr. Vale’s beck and call all evening.”

“He’s making you stay here late?”

“No, he’s going to a charity benefit, and I have to—quote—fix any issues that crop up. I need an evening dress, better shoes, and a magic wand. Know any fairy godmothers?”

“Oh, sure, you need to see Teresa.”

“Mr. Vale mentioned her.”

“It’s twisted the way he makes his PAs call him ‘Mr. Vale.’ Nobody else does.”

“Really?”

“Selena figures he has some weirdFifty Shades of Greything going on.” Charlotte tilted her head to one side, appearing to expect an answer even though she hadn’t asked a question.

“No way. I’m not playing that game.”

She laughed, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “I thought you’d say that. If you want my opinion, the ‘mister’ is an instruction from his wife. She’s a bitch.”

I was about to opt for diplomacy, the card I’d been taught to play my whole life, when I reconsidered. Instead, I lowered my voice. The door between my office and Brax’s was solid wood, but a girl couldn’t be too careful.

“She’d need the spirit of an Amazon and the patience of a saint to stay married to a man like that. If she’s a bitch, it’s probably a match made in heaven.”

“Brax isn’t that bad.”

“You think? He’s been through twenty-six assistants. Twenty-six! And he can’t be much older than me.”

“He just turned thirty. At least, I’m almost sure he did. There was no party, but someone delivered balloons and a cake, and the balloons were shaped like a three and a zero. The cake was real good—he only ate one slice and put the rest in the staff kitchen. And the assistant thing isn’t entirely his fault. I mean, it sort of is because he must be terrible at interviewing candidates, but half of the people he hires are psychos. No offence.”

“None taken, I think?”

“Number twenty-two, or it might have been twenty-one, she was, like, this raging feminist. John in legal held the door open for her one time, and she totally chewed him out. Didn’t he realise she was capable of opening a door herself, equality was her right, men like him belonged in the nineteenth century, blah blah blah. The poor guy holds the door open for everyone. It’s polite. Don’t you think it’s polite?”

“Absolutely.”

“And then Brax held a door open for her, and she threw a Mooncup at him.”

“A…Mooncup?”

“You know, one of those—”

“I know what it is,” I added hastily. “Shethrewit at him?”

“Yup. Fished it out of her purse, wound back an arm, andbam. It hit him right on the forehead. And number eighteen crashed his Porsche in the parking garage.”

“Are you joking?”

“She got confused between the gas and the brake. Then there was number twenty-three, who spent the whole day bitching about all the work she wasn’t doing and then quit to become an Instagram influencer.”

Wow. “Has he ever hired a competent assistant?”

“One, I think. She had a heart attack in the basement and left before I started here.”

A heart attack in the basement? I hadn’t even realised therewasa basement. Did they use the space for storage or something?

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